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BLACKWOOD'S

3glitn&ttirgit

MAGAZINE.

VOL. CXXX.

CLfi-

JULY— DECEMBER 1881.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBUKGH ;

AND

37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

1881.

All Rights of Translation and Republication reserved.

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FranslattanA **/ AriicUs irt ihvf Mu*jiiti%nf u rt^^^"^

)

THE STANDARD LIFE ASSURANCE COMPANY.

ESTABLISHED 1825.

RESULTS COMSIUNICATED IN THE LAST BEPOBT.

Amount of Assurances accept(Ml during the yeai' 18S0 (2252 Policies), , £1,436,701 \
Amount of Assurances accepted during the List Five Years, . . . £ 6,193,1 86

Claims paid during the last Five Years, £2,500,000 I

Subsisting Assurances at 15th November 1880, £ 19,378,4 82 ]

Revenue, upwards op Eight Hundred Thousand Pounds Sterling per Annum. I
Accumulated Funds, upwards op Five Millions and a Half Sterling.

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Recommended by Professor Erasmus Wilson, F.R.S.,

In the * Journal of Cutaneous Meilicine,' as

The most refreshing and agreeable of balms for the Skin."

MADAME ADELINA PATTI writes :
/ haue found it matchless for the hands and complexion.

ALL CHEMISTS AND PERFUMERS SELL IT.

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BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. DCCLXXXIX

JULY 188L

Vol. CXXX.

CONTENTS.

Besieged in the Transvaal. The Defence of Standerton, 1

Rexikisobnces of Prison-Life, . .21

The Land of Khbmi, — ..... 36

Part II. — ^Thb Labyrinth and the Lakes.

The Private Secretary. — Part TX., . . .53

A French Lady and her Friends, . . . .70

Kino Bbmba's Point. A West African Story, 91

Recollections a la fourchette, . .106

Tunis, ........ 128

The Late Andrew Wilson, .141

EDINBURGH:
nUAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET,
And 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

To whofn all Communications must be addressed.

BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBUEGH MAGAZINE.

No. DCCLXXXIX.

JULY 1881.

Vol. CXXX.

BESIEGED IN THE TRANSVAAL.

THE DEFENCE OF STANDERTON.

It was Sunday afternoon, the
19th December 1880, and I was
lounging in the verandah of my
hotel in Pietermaritzburg, digesting
the invariable Sunday early dinner
of the colony, when a friend, pas-
sing by, stopped, and asked me if
I had heard the news.

"Have not you heard it yetl"
he asked ; *' why, the Boers have
taken Heidelberg, Joubert is Com-
mander-in-chief, and Paul Kruger
President of the South African
Bepublic, which they have pro-
claimed."

"Well, if it's true, that starts
me," I thought, throwing away
the stump of my cigar, and going
off to the Club to hear the news
confirmed.

Some weeks before this, when
the first symptoms of the Boer re-
bellion began to be heard of, I had
seen the General, Sir G. Colley,
and placed my services at his dis-
posal.

" I don't want to go, sir," I had
said; "of course, I dislike the
Transvaal more than I can say ;

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCLXXXIX.

but if you think there is any neces-
sity for my going, I am ready to
start at an hour's notice."

And indeed, before I was half-
way to the Club, I found that 1
had been taken at my word, — a
short note from the Adjutant-Gen-
eral, asking me if I was prepared
to start by the mail-cart that left
for Newcastle next Tuesday morn-
ing, to take command of the town
and garrison of Standerton on the
Vaal river, some sixty miles within
the Transvaal. Of course I was
ready — soldiers always are ready
for active service — and the next
day had an interview with Sir
George, when I received my in-
structions.

He was seated in his comfortable
study in Government House, the
roomy bay-window looking across
the lawn to a group of semi-tropical
trees; a water-colour picture of a
skirmish in Ashantee over the fire-
place ; a massive oak desk strewn
with papers and well-bound books ;
a cosy arm-chair beside it, in which
he was sitting, and another for my-

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[July

self at its side. Continually the
door would open for a message or
telegram, — now brought by Mac-
Gregor the military secretary, now
by Elwes the aide-de-camp — both
since gone with the rest.

"You will find Standerton an
excellent position for defence," the
General said. " Just get into the
laager there, strengthen it, take
care they don't get at you unawares,
and hold till I come. Troops are
starting already; we have wired to
India for more. By the 20 ch of
next month I shall be there, or
thereabouts, and we shall march
together on Heidelberg. Don't
attack; act on the defensive, and
wait till I come. Get up some
volunteers; set the heliograph in
working order ; and look after the
telegraph line."

" Suppose they come at me, am
I to fire?" I asked.

" Yes : tell them to stop ; and if
they don't, make them ! "

Then we shook hands, and I left
him : he to see others, and arrange
further plans in that comfortable
study; I to pack, wish good-bye,
and bump up-country in a mail-
cart, doubtful if I frhould ever get
beyond Newcastle. Who would
have said that we were never to
meet again 1 who, if that were
granted, would have ventured to
say that, of the two, he was to be
the one taken 9

Travellers by mail-cart in South
Africa carry but a small amount
of baggage, — military men more
than others, their allowance being
40 lb. ; and my 40 lb. was soon
made up. A saddle and bridle
— absolute necessities in the coun-
try — took half at once ; the moiety
was a change of clothes, soap, tooth-
brush, and towel, — the lot to last
through a campaign that* promised
to extend over several months at
least. My sword I managed to
smuggle in unperceived, with a

blanket and rug to sleep under;
and with every pocket full, I climb-
ed into the front seat beside the
driver, and behind six spanking
ponies, gave one last parting wave
to those left behind, and was off
down the dusty street towards the
big hill behind the town, beyond
which lies that terra incofjnita
" up-country."

We were six, including the
driver, a black man from the old
colony ; a young lady held on
somewhat tenderly by a tall, black-
whiskered parson, who introduced
himself as the chaplain to the new
Bishop of Zululand; and a couple of
storekeepers also bound up-country.

How we did roll, and sway, and
bump, and tumble ! " Bumps ! "
cried the black driver ; and bumps
it was, landing me as often as not
on the foot-board, and the young
lady, pleasantly enough, to judge
by his face, on the parson's broad
knees. Mail-cart travelling in Na-
tal must be endured to be enjoyed ;
and it must be a strange, strong
man who can enjoy it even then.

We passed strings of waggons
hopelessly stuck in the deep mud ;
straggling lines of soldiers march-
ing on towards the front ; the two
7-pounders afterwards heard of in
such terrible straits in the battles
that were to come, the fat black
horses only too good a mark for

Boer rifles, and Charlie P in

command trotting cheerily by their
side. At night we put up at the
so-called hotels by the roadside,
timing our journey so as to reach
one by nightfall, and starting in
the cold grey ef the following morn-
ing. Wretched little drinking-
shops were these hotels, where we
ate things indescribable, and turned
in between blankets, in clothes,
boots and all, glad to put honest
cloth between our bodies and the
brown crust which age and previous
travellers had kid upon the bed-

1S81.]

The Defence of Standerton.

clothes. A cap of coffee at five
o'clock, the driver sloping in to
bag another glass of schnapps;
''All aboard'' from the same, and
'* Bamps " again for the next dozen
hoars.

Thursday morning early — it was
the 23i — we reached Newcastle,
having been just 46 hours in doing
180 miles, and we found on inquiry
that the mail- cart on to Pretoria
had ceased to run ; for the last two
days it had not come in, being
detained by the Boers.

Here was what I had feared. I
had still eighty miles before me,
and the last telegram said that
Standerton was expected hourly to
be attacked. Let that once come
off, and all hope of getting into the
pkce was at an end.

I could hardly ride it, even if I
had horses fit for the journey ; and
a soldier without his sword is half-
way towards a civilian, while to
carry one full -speed for eighty
miles on a horse, means to let it
go. At last I found a man who
had a " spider," which he was will-
ing to let out for the trip ; and as
lack would have it — all through
life I have always been a lucky
fellow — ^the owner of the post- cart
was in Newcastle, his horses still
along the road, and he willing to
run me through. In half an hour
the " spider " was hired. Murray,
the post-cart owner, had bought a
new whip, and had gone out to
drive in his first team ; while I was
hard at work putting down break-
fast, the last it might be for some
time, and I consequently made a
good one.

I was still busy eating when
Murray came in to say the road
was infested with Boer patrols,
who stopped every vehicle, and
had already taken two officers
prisoners ; the houses where we
should change horses might be ex-
pected to be full of the same, and

it would be as well if I could dis-
guise myself a trifle. An officer to
a Boer was specially obnoxious : even
if they let me pass, they would be
sure to insult me, perhaps worse.

Now I found how hard it is to
put off the British officer at will.
The moustache, the cropped hair,
the cut of one's clothes, turn up as
evidence against you. By regula-
tion an officer may not shave his
moustache, and this gave mine a
respite, perhaps only too gladly;
close-cropped hair won't grow in a
day ; slop-clothes can be purchased,
it is true, but there is an affection
innate in every man's heart for his
own raiment. There was, more-
over, the sword, helmet, and re-
volver, all indispensable. I bought
a wide-brimmed slouch-hat of the
kind much affected by the Dutch,
took off collar and necktie, rubbed
up my hair, forgot to wash my
face, and called in on the manager
of the bank to ask for a letter
describing me as a young man sent
up to the branch at Heidelberg
to arrange business. This, after
certain compunctions, he gave me,
and I was ready to start. My
sword was crammed under the seat;
the helmet got in behind under
the saddle ; revolvers — Murray
had his as well as I had mine —
were laid at our feet without an
attempt to conceal them, both
loaded, — it was no time for cere-
mony; and so we started.

Across the river, then swollen
with the late rains, past Fort
Amiel nestling on the hill beyond,
and then up the face of the Dra-
kensberg, mile after mile, always
up and always steep. At the "out-
spans," where the tin stables of the
relays were kept, we found the
Kaffir boys away, and the horses
straying far abroad on the hills ;
and it took both time and patience
to fetch them in.

So we drove up the now histori-

Begged in the Transvaal :

[July

cal *' Slanting Heights ; '' across the
Ingogo). past Savory and Bates's
store, the Amajuba frowning on our
left ; and at last, as dusk began to
settle over it, climbed " The Nek."
A few waggons, coming down with
families "on the trek" from the
threatening war in front, were all
we met: the road was deserted,
and we were glad to pull up at
Walker's neat cottage at Cold-
stream, and sit down to tea poured
out by his pleasant-faced English
wife, and have a romp with the
children before starting.

It was now 9 p.m., and very
dark. The stream which is the
boundary of the Transvaal ran at
the bottom of the garden ; beyond
lay a long fifteen miles of bog and
morass, across which in daylight it
took good pilotage to drive. Now
it was pitchy dark, hardly a star in
the sky ; and the croakers, as usual,
prophesied the worst if we attempt-
ed it. So we heard them out in
silence, and then Murray asked me
if I would try it.

"Can you do it, Murray]" I
asked.

" Yes," was the answer, Murray
not being very talkative.

" Then we'll be off at once j " and
by the light of a lantern, we got the
ponies in, and "Walker showed us
down to the " drift," and wished us
a hearty good-bye — ** and look out
for the road, for it's precious bad."

And very bad it was, and very
dark. I remember well on our left
was the sky-line quite close to us.
We were driving along the bottom
of a small valley, and the clouds,
which were thick and fleecy above
this sky-line, looked like clumps
of trees, spreading elms, just such
as stand about in parks at home.
Now and again we crossed this sky-
line, and drove into, as it seemed,
these trees, and I involuntarily felt
myself putting up my arm to ward
off the branches.

Once ^lurray stopped dead after
driving slowly for some time, and
broke the dead silence —

" We're off the road ; take the
reins, and I'll look for it."

So he got down, the " spider "
following across slushy pits and
boulders; roads everywhere in the
ghastly light, and Murray just
visible in front with his face to
the ground.

All at once — we had scouted
about for a good half -hour — he
came up, —

" All right ; here's !Meek's fence."
And I could make out a dim line
of posts, with wire stretched be-
tween, on our right. Then he
climbed in and we drove on : and
by-and-by a light shone out ahead,
and the light showed something
black beliind it; and turning to-
wards it, we were in front of a
long low building, known far and
near as "Meek's store."

An elderly man was Meek, well
known on the roads which met here.
He wanted us to come in ; but we
had been warned against his house
as a likely rendezvous for Boers, so
we took the usual drain of " square-
face," and set out again, with his
parting words in our ears —

" Take care how you drive — the
road's mortal rutty ; they've been
mending it just now, and the Boers
have stopped them. You'll pass
Van der Schyff's ten mile on ; you'd
best keep close, he's bad against
the British, and there's a lot of
the same kind living with him."

The road lay along a stony val-
ley perhaps half a mile in width,
with low hills on either side. Now
and then at intervals were vieys,
marshes knee-deep in water, and
often overhead in treacherous
mud ; and across these, drains had
been cut to take the water off.
Where the road crossed these
vlei/8 the water was deep and
still, shining ghastly white across

1881.J

The Defence of Standerton,

it, warning ns away. So with a
plunge and a snort the horses
wheeled round, and we went up
the hill on our right till the stream
muBt have narrowed, when we
turned, and took it with a dash,
the light trap jerking across, down
one hank and up the other, with a
shock that sent me down where the
revolvers lay more than once.

"That's Yan der SchyflTs,'' said
Murray, as we passed a dark thing
OQ our left ; and he didn't crack his
whip for a mile or more. The man
had heen appointed general of the
district by the Boers, and was put-
ting up their patrols, which we
know by day infested the roads.

All this time night was wearing
on, and Sand Spruit, the next stage,
seemed never nearer.

" I hope we'll find the horses at
' Wool Wash,' " said Murray; "'if
they have trekked, the hordes will
be gone too, and it's another fifteen
miles to Paade Kop where the next
are: it will be a bit hard on the
brutes.''

" Wool Wash " is the local name
for an establishment for sheep- wash-
ing which a couple of enterprising
Englishmen had set up on the small
river called Sand Spruit — a bad
place at the best to cross, and one
which, with tired horses, if the
others did not turn up, would be
almost impossible.

Just at midnight we saw a small
tin house, a tent, and an unfinished
building peer out ahead.

" That's * Wool Wash,' and there's
a Hght, so they are not off yet,"
remarked Murray, breaking another
long silence as we drove up and
stopped, while a shirt- clad figure
shading a candle in a flat candle-
stick came out to greet us.

"Who's that? Murray? OhiaU
right j thought it was a Boer sent
to ^commandeer' us. Get down.
Who's that with youl" were the
observations we met, and in less

time than it takes to teU, we were
sitting inside the little tent, with
the * Wool Wash,' two big fellows
in their shirts, evidently roused out
of bed, sitting on it opposite, calling
for coffee, and asking us the news.

"Walker's not trekked yet?
They're all off from hereabouts, and
we start to-morrow : it's fighting,
and no mistake. Van der Schyff
has 200 at his farm. Didn't they
stop you? There are lots they did.
I don't think you'll got through,
with ah officer too. Barrett's news
is bad, isn't it ? "

" No ! what is that?" we asked.

" He's just come down from Mid-
dleburg, and would have been here,
only the patrol chased him back.
Bad news too : the 94th cut up, 202
killed and wounded, 48 prisoners.
They left two waggons and ten men
to bury the dead, and took all the
rest. The colonel's shot and eight
others, and one of the women. Bar-
rett told them the Boers intended
to attack, but the colonel didn't be-
lieve it, and now they're all dead.
Barrett's face was awful. I think he
saw the whole thing. The Boers
put up a white flag, and shot them
down before they could shoot back."

And this was how I heard of the
massacre of my poor regiment.

The tent was hot and stuffy, and
I was glad to get out and walk
about in the dark cool air, and try
to think that it was not true. The
friends of the last twenty years
murdered, and I going on to meet,
perhaps, the same fate. It was a
bitter thought, and I paced up and
down, and took the coffee they
brought me, like a daft man, and
walked again, and thought, and
thought, and still only thought.
It was one of those moments that
can only come to a man once in his
life, and I thank God that mine
has come to me, and passed, and
cannot come again.

Above was the dull, cloudy night;

Besieged in the Tramvadl :

[July

close by the sullen river, just speak-
ing over the rocks to tell me it was
waiting for me presently ; across the
veldt a group of natives jabbering,
and trying to drive in our horses ;
and at my elbow the " Wool Wash,"
kindly pressing me to drink more
coffee, and stringing tales together
of how the Boers were all about us.
We got away at last, and dashed
into the river, the water over the
seat of the "spider," the opposite
bank like a wall, and the horses,
only two of them fresh ones, look-
ing as if every moment they would
topple backwards over us. But
I seemed to care but little; my
thoughts were all with that sad
day, and the awful sight which met
me everywhere in the darkness.

At 4 A.M. we got down under a
low flat-topped hill, Paade Kop, at
the door of a small inn, and after
much calling roused up the pro-
prietor, also in his shirt, who asked
us Id, and lit a candle, and pressed
us to eat of the remains of supper
still on the table — half a boiled
fowl, some bread and lumps of but-
ter, the dirty plates standing about,
spilled salt, bread-crumbs, and slops
of "square-face;" not a tempting
meal, and one I neither ate nor
wanted. One feeling only was pre-
sent, to get on and be with my
men before it was too late.

Dawn was already breaking as
we set out, never less welcome than
on that morning; and dozing off by
starts, waking with some queer
dream across my brain, I watched
the red glow creeping across the
grey, and thought it never came so
fast before. Then the long level
road grew out, and we stretched
our necks, looking out for any
figure riding down it, and caught
each other glancing at the revolvers
at our feet, and felt about as un-
comfortable as most men can feel.

There was still a drive of good
twenty miles before us, and there

was no knowing but what Stander-
ton had been attacked — it might
have fallen. Every farm about held
men who hated us, and the country
was so open we could be seen for
miles.

Once a speck in front grew out
of the horizon, and we watched it
coming nearer, and at last saw that
it was a man riding to meet us.
We never took our eyes off him ; one
was as bad as fifty — he could give
the alarm, and we should never
reach our journey's end; and it
was unspeakable relief when he
turned out to be only a native, and
one of Murray's servants.

However, we were fated to be in
luck, and the little town came into
sight, Stander's Kop on its left, a
hill to be well known throughout
the siege ; and I saw the tents
standing up below it, and the men
walking about between them as if
no Boers were near; and then we
dashed into the river, and half
wading, half swimming, got across
and into the town, and in another
minute I was in the middle of old
friends, shaking hands, and answer-
ing their puzzled questions as to
how I got through so safely.

Everything was naturally in the
wildest confusion. In the fore-
ground stood a second "spider," on
the point of starting for Heidelberg
with the Bishop of Pretoria, who,
nothing daunted by the certainty
of capture, resolved to get through,
trusting to his cloth to enable him
to do so in safety. Near him was a
stout man, dressed as an English-
man, who by his well-shaved chin
and ruddy cheeks might have been
either English or Dutch. This was
the Landdrost, the chief civil magis-
trate of the town and district, and
a man I had soon, as matters
turned out, constant work with.
Most prompt and willing I found
him, indispensable in his accurate
knowledge of the people, almost the

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton,

one man with whom, through all
the loDg thiee mouths to come^
I could sit down to a tete-a-tite
certain that I should learn some-
thing from his conversation.

In the centre of the little town,
which consisted of some fifty tin-
roofed — some tin altogether —
houses, was a substantial stone
hailding, the court-house, Land-
drost's oflfice, and jail. The win-
dows had been pulled out, the doors
unhung, and in their place bags
piled up full of earth, small holes
being left for the rifles. Bustling
in and about this were numbers
of soldiers in shirt-sleeves carrying
in more bags, planks, barrels for
water-supply, provisions, ammuni-
tion, and other things necessary
in a siege. A little further off
was a second house, also in the
same state, with more soldiers hurry-
ing about ; and away again on the
road towards Heidelberg was the
hotel, now doing a limited busi-
ness on its own account, while
more soldiers were doing the same
work by it as had been done to the
other houses. Taking the Land-
droet aside, I found that he had
heard some indefinite rumours of
the disaster to the 94th ; and these
coming from Another source than
that from which my information
had come, I got him to show me
into the telegraph office to tell the
tale below.

The telegraph office was in a
room in the court-house, and I had
first to squeeze myself between two
piles of mealie-bags that closed the
main entrance, then in through a
room full of soldiers hammering,
and 80 into the small office, its
windows also blocked up, dimly
lighted in consequence, its • floor
scittered with debris, telegraph
forms lying about under foot, the
only sign of civilisation left being
the tiny instrument on the table,
clicking its news, and the clerk

taking down the words as they un-
wound themselves on the endless roll
of paper coming from it. The wire
had been cut daily, and it was all
but hopeless to try to send a mes-
sage, and I was lucky to find the
line open. Later on in the day I
went in again and received the
answer to mine of the morning,
the last I was destined to get, and
one I was just too late to reply to,
the line failing at that instant.
Next day T sent down it, and found
it cut in twenty places, the wire
chopped into short lengths a yard
long, the poles thrown down by
threes and fours.

The message with its news, the last
we heard for ninety-two days, was :
" Your action approved by General ;
artillery will push on to Newcastle,
but not a man is to proceed beyond
that station without special orders
from Headquarters." So we knew
that a concentration of troops at
the frontier town was in progress.
The next message I received three
months after the first, by hand from
Newcastle, where it had lain ever
since its arrival shortly after the
despatch of the other, its cheering
words unheard by us till the hand
that wrote it lay with the rest under
the turf of the Drakensberg. The
message said —

"Z>ec. 2Uh. — General highly ap-
proves of your prompt action, and
hopes you will give a good account of
Boers if attacked. Send messenger
to Boer camp to ask after wounded
and offer services of a surgeon, and
try to get them sent in to our lines."
Cheering words to us poor be-
leaguered ones they would have
been, and breathing the well-loved
spirit of him who sent them iu
every line. Murray, who had
driven me, was starting back. He
was safe enough, well known on
the road, and without a hated red-
coat as a paseenger, was sure to get
through. So I got into a small

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[July

back room ia the hotel and scrib-
bled off a few hasty lines to the
dear ones at home — the last they
too would get throughout weary
months of waiting.

It was a thought that came up
often enough during that time, that
if we shut-up ones had the danger
and the bullets for our share, those
at home had far worse — the anxiety
of dead silence about those they
loved, the dread of what tidings
the news might bring when it
came ; and, as usual in the world,
the stronger had the less to bear.

The letter written, I drove up to
the fort — a mile away, on rising
ground to the south of the town
— and found things quieter there.
The fort — or laager, as it was then
called — was a low earthwork with a
ditch round it, at one part deep,
for the rest only a mere scratch.
Through the centre ran a thick
wall, with a tin roof sloping on one
side — the place forming an open
shed, once a stable. E very where the
earthen parapets had fallen down,
leaving great breaches which ihad
been partially filled in with mealie-
bags of mould ; piles of stones fal-
len from the walls lay about. In-
side all was dirt and muddle. It
had been used since construction
as a commissariat store, and was
littered with boxes, bags, tents, and
all kinds of stores, in admirable
confusion. Tents, pitched anyhow,
tripped you up with their ropes;
a troop of curs loafed about on the
look-out for garbage; and a pony
was picketed to a tent-peg, and
munched away contentedly in a
circle of filth, which showed that
the spot had been his stable for
some time past.

These were matters which, as the
siege went on, mended themselves.
Horses could not pass the entrance
if they had wished it — ^it was too
narrow. Dogs were rigidly exclud-
ed : a somewhat dilapidated old
soldier, standing at the gate^ with

such terrible orders against the
whole canine race, that one day,
on a sneaking cur getting past him,
he was seen, capless and breathless,
pursuing the brute through the fort,
with whirling stick, and yells almost
Eed Indian in their ferocity, till
both he and the cur fell into the
ditch outside, and had to be picked
out carefully.

The fort inspected, we did a bit
of the old Zulu game, and " manned
the laager," to show the men their
places— a game in which our previ-
ous experience, when marching on
Ulundi, stood in good stead. Every
man got round the walls as if by
nature born to a loophole, and the
array of glittering points sticking
out gave our laager a most formid-
able look when seen from an attack-
ing point of view. One thing had
struck me on arrival — that the town
was practically open to any one who
liked to come in and inspect our
defences, — one avowed rebel hav-
ing already been shown round the
court-house, and a second driving
up as near as he dared to the laager
to look at a place which he was
the first to fire at a few days later.
To put an end to this inquisitive-
ness, I established a strong party
to stop every person arriving or
going out, with orders to examine
them, and, if necessary, to confine
them, till I was communicated
with; and I found the plan work
admirably. One small man, some
five feet in stature, a lawyer's agent,
held in great esteem by the Boers
as one of their best advocates, was
among the first to be arrested when
attempting to leave, being then and
there put under a sentry. This
same prisoner afterwards became
one of my leading volunteers, and
towards the end acted as the store-
keeper when I seized all the pro-
visions in the town and put the
inhabitants on a reduced scale of
rations.

Now he was inclined to bluster ;

1881.]

77ie Defence of Standerion,

and after Eeveral attempts to get at
me, he succeeded^ and asked me what
I meant by arresting him. I assured
him that I did not want to bother
him more than I was obh'ged ; but
just now all who were not for me
were against me ; and I ended by
advising him to keep quiet and not
bother me; "for," I added, "I
seem a very quiet man, but I
can be very nasty if I like ; and if
I find you bother me I might shoot
you!" My manner was horribly
cool ; but he saw that I meant it,
and went off under escort to see
his wifa A little later he returned
and asked me if he took the oath of
allegiance and joined the volunteers
should he be free again. He was
walked ofT to the Landdrost, who
administered the oath on the spot,
was drafted into the volunteers, and
shouldered his rifle throughout the
siege as well as any other man. He
was, moreover, a fisherman, and
often sent me some excellent fish —
a treat indeed in a beleaguered
town: so there are worse ways of
getting round a man than by offer-
ing to shoot him.

After this I held a meeting of the
inhabitants, when the Landdrost
read the last telegram from Sir G.
Colley, saying that relief would
come on 20th January, up to
which date he expected us to be
able to hold out; and I made
some mild speeches to the efiect
that they must help to defend them-
selves, calling on them to come for-
ward as volunteers, foot or horse,
letting them choose their own offi-
cers^ arming and drilling them my-
self And so was formed the nu-
cleus of our volunteer corps, which
numbered seventy -five men, and
did excellent service, as will be
seen hereafter.

A committee to provide for the
safety of the women and children
was formed, of which I was presi-
dent; and after some deliberation
we picked out a large wool-store in

the centre of the town, blocked up
the windows with mealie-bags, and
put all women and children into
it of nights under care of the
parson — an arrangement the fair
creatures stuck to for a limited
time, eventually leaving it for their
houses, preferring to risk a stray
bullet to encountering the horrors
of its mixed population, amongst
which might be counted as not the
least numerous those insects from
which it came to be known as " The
Flea Laager."

By this time it was growing
dark, and we sat down to a wretch-
ed dinner of bad beef and dry
bread, washed down by a case
of champagne given us by a con-
siderate storekeeper for the occa-
sion. The mess-room was a little
stone cottage, very rough, much too
small for our party, and extremely
dirty. Two barrack-tables held the
cracked plates and dishes we fed
from; boxes for seats were more
plentiful than chairs; our food
came through a hole in the wall ;
our wine-cellar was a second room
opening from our first, its prin-
cipal occupants a litter of nine
puppies who sucked and snoied
most vigorously ; our servants,
soldiers somewhat exhilarated, for
it was Christmas Eve ; our conver-
sation, the expected attack and our
means of meeting it.

We had got half-way through
the tough beef when a man ran
in to say the Dutch were on us,
and the men in the laager to resist
them ; so we had to run up too,
finding the tents struck and the
men standing to their loopholes.
But no sign of the Dutch came
out. One rather credulous youth
declared he heard revolvers going
off in town, but they turned out
to have been crackers let off by
boys in honour of the day — it was
Christmas Eve — and magnified by
a slightly heated imagination into
firearms. So we sloped back to

Besieged in the Transvaal:

[July

our dinner, the beef still standing
in a pool of stagnant fat, once
gravy, and were glad to wash down
our first scare with the champagne,
getting off to our tents soon after.

And that was how we spent our
Christmas Eve.

Our garrison con«>isted of 350
men — three companies 94th and
one 58th Regiments. These, with
the exception of a single company of
the 9'1-th, had but just arrived under
circumstances of considerable dif-
ficulty, always in danger of an at-
tack, when the disaster of Bronker's
Spruit might have been repeated.
The 94th were met at the border
by a brother of Joubert's, an under-
sized man with dirty nails, who
delivered a letter to the officer in
command, in which he was ordered
to halt under peril of an attack.
The 58th received a similar letter,
amusing enough to copy here. It
ran as follows : —

"South African Republic,
Heidelberg, December 20, 1880.

** To the Commander-in-chief of

her Majesty^ 8 troops on the

road to Pretoria,

" Sir, — We have the honour to in-
form you that the Government of the
South African Republic have taken up
their residence at Heidelberg.

" That a diplomatic commissioner
has been sent by them with de-
spatches to his Excellency Sir W.
Owen Lanyon.

** That until the arrival of his Ex-
cellency's answer we do not know
whether we are in a state of war or not.

" That consequently we cannot al-
low any movement of troops in our
country from your side, and wish you
to stop where you are.

" We not being in war with her
Majesty the Queen, nor with the peo-
ple of England, who we are sure to be
on our side if they were acquainted
with the position, but only recovering
the independence of our country, we
do not wish to take to arms, and there-
fore inform you that any movement
of troops from your side will be taken
by us as a declaration of war, the re-
sponsibility whereof we put on your

shoulders, as we will know what we will
have to do. — We are, sir, your obedient
servants,

"P. Krugeh.
H. Pretorius.

P. J. JOUBERT.

'*A BoK,

Secretary to the South African

Oovemment,"

^Neither of these orders was
obeyed, the troops of course hur-
rying on, and arriving safely at
Standerton by a forced march. I
had thus about 300 effective men,
eleven of them officers, and a pop-
ulation of 450 civilians, a large
proportion blacks, besides women
and children.

Supplies were my first thought :
cattle, fortunately, were plentiful,
biscuit ample for present wants,
and a good supply of lime-juice
made me independent of vegetables.
The town, too, appeared fairly
stocked, although the Dutch had
lately made a practice of taking away
flour to a large extent. Gunpowder
had entirely gone the same way,
one storekeeper having sold six
barrels within a few months, while
another gave 1000 rounds of West-
ley-Richards cartridges to a Boer,
the leader of one of the attacks on
Standerton, and avowedly disaf-
fected, that being the quantity he
was allowed to purchase each year,
the Landdrost giving him the " per-
mit " within a few days of the pro-
clamation of the Republic — so well
were matters managed by the Gov-
ernment at Pretoria.

In the morning I called the men
together and told them the tale of
the massacre of their regiment, in-
terrupted by low remarks, muttered
comments, and at the mention of
the officers who had fallen, by still
louder ones. When I came to the
colonel's reported death, the whole
broke out into a strange chorus of
ejaculations, almost sobs from many,
followed by a cry for revenge abso-
lutely savage in its intensity. At
the tale of the white flag, and the

1881.]

The Defence of Standerion,

treachery thai came close on its
display, with my warning against
its repetition, a whisper went round
like wildfire ; the words I told them
seemed like an order, and white
flags jnst then would have fared
badly at the hands of those stem-
faced men round me clutching their
rifles. Later on came an instance
of the disrepute into which these
flags had fallen. A party of scouts
rode into camp with a herd of
cattle aud goats which they had
captured. '^They were in charge
of a Dutchman and two natives/'
raid the sergeant who hrought
them in ; " and when he saw us he
waved his flag, a white one, and
we let drive at him ; and didn't he
go off quickly ! though we didn't
hit him, more's the p:ty." The
Dutchman turned out to be a loy-
al native who affected European
clothes, and was the court inter-
preter, and who came on under his
white flig, nothing doubting, when
h^ was greeted with a volley, and
c'eared out faster than he came.
And towards the close of the siege,
when the white flag with news of
the first armistice came down the
opposite hill, the marksman on
duty came to report it as usual,
saluting and asking in the most
matter-of-fact way, "Shall I take
him now, air, or wait till he comes
nearer f" It never entered his
head that anything but a volley
was the proper reception for the
flag ; and as I went down the line
of men behind the shelters towards
the drift to which the flag was
coming, I found every man with
his sight up and his rifle pointed in
eadiness to fire ; and they seemed
think me a queer fellow to tell
hem what these flags had done to
OS, and then to stop them giving it
Wk again. That day came on one
)f the thunderstorms of the coun-
try, bad enough in peace time;
now, with the Boer scouts riding
about outside, and all the buzz of

preparation going on within, pecu-
liarly awful. First increasing dark-
ness till the tents were scarcely
visible, and the men had to strike
off work ; then a flash, and a roll
of thunder coming nearer ; a second
flash more blinding than before,
followed at a shorter interval
by a louder roll, the air still as
death : we remained in great ex-
pectancy, — no breath, no sound,
except the crashes, culminating in
one that shook one's very frame,
and made us turn round involun-
tarily to see which of us were hit.
Close by two horses lay stone-dead,
without a mark upon them ; a man
near the tent we sat in, stretched
out, fortunately only stunned ; and
a corporal inside the tent beside
him grinning, half in terror and a
little bit in sheer amusement, with
a big hole burnt in his coat-sleeve,
still smoking. We were lucky to
escape so easily. The strange thing
in these storms is that they always
wind up with one big crash. After
that the thunder rolls and rumbles
quietly away as if in a hurry to be
off after doing the worst it can do.

As we sat round our poor table
that evening, getting through a re-
petition of yesterday's dinner, we
talked of home a bit and of the
merry evenings that our friends
were passing that Christmas night ;
yet, as we came to know afterwards,
they were not so merry in many
homes, the telegram telling our sad
news having arrived that same
Christmas- day. Then we did not
know that, and we munched our
tough beef, and washed it down
with the champagne left from yes-
terday's present, and thought of
them at home, and wished that we
were with them.

That night, at ten o'clock, I was
roused by a mysterious man, who
confided in a whisper that some of
the townspeople had subscribed to
buy some dynamite ; that it could
be got at a store forty miles off; and

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[July

that he was wDling to ride and
fetch it, his object being to pat it in
a mine under one of the threatened
houses. The mysterious one rode
for it without success, the store-
keeper not liking to sell it with
the Boers all about; but he sent
us word of the concentration at
Laing's Nek — information I was
able to send down to the General
through the Free State ; so the
dynamite turned up for a better
use than was intended.

The more tragical events of the
siege began earlier than was ex-
pected — indeed, before it was en-
tirely declared. Our scouts had
found three men stowed away in a
house beyond the camp who could
give no satisfactory account of
themselves. Two of them, black
men, were remanded for further
inquiry ; the third, a half-caste,
dressed as a European, said he was
willing to join the volunteers — and
something being known of his pre-
vious history, he was forthwith
taken on as a trooper. When ex-
amined by the Landdrost, he gave
some fairly useful information about
the enemy, and altogether promised
to be an acquisition. The one
thing against him was his face —
low -browed, sensual, with puffy
cheeks, and a hang-dog expression
really repulsive ; otherwise, he was
inoffensive enough. That night he
slept in an empty house in the
town ; next morning his body was
found in it, the skull driven in
with a pickaxe, the throat tightly
wound round with a strip of bul-
lock's hide, the face shamefully
lacerated, the murderers having
dragged him through a window by
which he had probably tried to
escape. No clue could be found to
the murderers; but four Makatees,
natives of the lowest type, were
arrested on suspicion, of whom
more anon.

The excitement in town, which
had been on the increase ever since

my arrival, appeared to culminate
in this murder. People looked at
each other, and whispered below
the breath that the Dutch liad done
it to punish the man for telling what
he had told ; and neighbour looked
at neighbour half in doubt that the
other was not in the secret. Volun-
teers came in but slowly — each one
had pressing business that pre-
vented him from joining. The
Landdrost, his office barricaded, his
clerk shouldering a rifle, and the
townsfolk pestering him for infor-
mation which he had not, was in
despair. So I determined to take
the matter into my own hands — at
least I was strong enough to en-
force authority, and one head, how-
ever small, is better than none at
all. Directing the Landdrost to
convene a meeting of all the civil-
ians, I got up as martial an appear-
ance as possible, called one or two
senior officers to back me up, and,
walking up before the assemblage,
proclaimed martial law. " In the
name of her Most Gracious Majes-
ty Queen Victoria, whose commis-
sion I bear, and by virtue of the
power intrusted to me by Sir G.
Pomeroy CoUey, the Governor of
this province, I proclaim the town
and the district of Standerton to be
under martial law. This, gentle-
men," I continued, "gives me ab-
solute power to enforce my orders,
and I shall do so. K necessary, I
shall imprison — if occasion requires
it, I shall shoot — any one disobey-
ing me." Here a rather unfortun-
ate climax to my heroics ensued :
one of the crowd, somewhat the
worse for liquor, took a step to the
front, clapped his hands togethe.
feebly, as if to back me up, and sang
out in a voice maudlin and shaky,
** Bravo, major I I say bravo I
Give it to them; and quite right too."
However, they saw that I was in
earnest, and before an hour was
over, every able-bodied man had
signed the roll of volunteers, and I

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton,

had the satisfaction of seeing the
moody faces clear, and a more hope-
ful spirit growing up. They felt, at
least, they had some one to look up
to in difficulties^ and during the
three months martial law reigned
in Standerton, only one case calling
for exception^ rigour occurred.

Hardly had the martial law ques-
tion heen settled when one of in-
ternational law cropped up in the
person of a German explorer and
traveUer, who sent me a note de-
manding an interview. I found
him in bed in the soda-water
manufactory of the town, evidently
very seedy — ^a fine-looking, intelli-
gent man, but much disturbed in
mind. He wished to proceed on
his way ; he was laid up by tem-
porary indisposition ; he had been
obliged to leave his hotel by the
troops who now held it ; he was a
German, and as such he protested
against such treatment — it was
against international law, and he
should lay it before the tribunal
of nations. I said I hoped he
would, and would summon me to
attend, as that would take me out
of the Transvaal ; but at present
that was impossible, as the Dutch
would not let us start from the
town ; but if he would do a little
doctoring for me among the troops
in case of many being wounded, I
should take it as a great favour,
being rather short of medical men.
So we talked it out, till in the end
we parted the best of friends ; bow,
I do not quite understand, for I do
not think he took in more than
half I said. However, the knotty
point was aniicably settled, and he
remained with me throughout the
siege without another complaint;
in fact, when he left on peace being
proclaimed, he was most profuse in
lus offers to take down messages or
parcels to my friends.

Every now and then a mounted
man would gallop in with news of
the Boer advance. ]^ow a meeting

was being held three miles away,
to discuss the attack ; now their
vanguard was approaching, and
would be on us before we knew it.
Again, a couple of vedettes had
been captured, and only escaped
through the persuasions of an old
man who knew them. A farmer
who had come in from his farm,
came up and whispered that his
men were going to the Free State,
and would take a letter for me.
So the letter was written, and
given with much secrecy to the
farmer, who sewed it up in the
boy's coat, to turn up, as I heard
long after, all right ; as indeed the
Boers heard too, and threatened
my farmer's wife for having sent
it. And that was the last we got
through for nearly two months.

And still came the messengers,
speaking of the menaced attack —
very trying, and only to be borne
by reason of the amount of work on
hand to meet it when it came. And
done the work was, the men toiling
with a will : no red coats now —
shirt-sleeves and wideawakes, any
costume; any time for meals ; filling
bags with earth, piling them into
their place; sappers cutting holes
in the roofs of the defended houses,
for the smoke to escape by if the
firing grew hot ; «toring water and
provisions ; banking up the breaches
always falling through in our
earthen pit; and between whiles
more messengers with news of the
attack. This waiting for it was
far worse than all which followed.

At luncheon, however, on the
29 th December, a report came in that
some hundreds of Boers had collect-
ed in a valley three miles away, and
showed signs of coming on. So I
got out my mounted men, some
twenty-five strong — they had only
just been formed, and numbered
twice that before long — and sent
them out to reconnoitre. They
looked a serviceable little knot of
men as they crossed the "drift"

Besieged in the Transvaal i

[Jul,-

and rode along the road towards
Newcastle, their centre led by a
fine soldier, not many years before
a sergeant - major in the 16th
Lancers; ahead a couple riding
slowly; on either flank "lookout"
men, perhaps 400 yards away.
The small party rode steadily along,
keeping their distances as on par-
ade, slanting up the sward towards
the sky-line, nothing right or left
of them, all open veldt for miles
and miles, till they were mere dots
against the green. In camp all
was still; the men had finished
their work, and were lying down ;
of the officers a couple had ridden
to the town, two more were a mile
away picking peaches in a deserted
garden, — when of a sudden — and
my heart gave a great beat— out of
a fold of ground that lay behind
them, and on their left, grew out
all at once a great cloud of horse-
men, galloping, coming towards us
as it seemed. Then they caught
sight of the scout on the left, not
far away, and changed their course
a little, making for him, he gallop-
ing for dear life, not towards the
*' drift," where were friends and
safety, but right ahead, slanting
towards his right, waving his car-
bine and shouting, — we could hear
it faintly, — to warn them of their
danger. Another minute and they
heard him and turned, and with
backs bent, and faces towards the
" drift," galloped their hardest, just
a race for life. It was touch and
go. The Boera were nearer to the
river, but their mass told against
them, and our men gained a trifle,
a few well mounted of the Dutch
showing ahead, and threatening to
cut them off. Then those puffs of
smoke we got to know so well, and
distant shots, and shouts growing
more and more distinct — that awful
race for life seemed to last for hours,
when indeed it was all over with-
in ten minutes, and I was almost
powerless to help.

We got our men into a hop-
piSf the point nearest to the
"drift" which they were making
for, and cleared a space of half a
mile round it with our rifles — once
within that circle and they were
safe. The Boers held back when
they heard our bullets; and our
fellows rode in, heads drooping,
horses done up completely, and
five of their number on the groand.
Then, balked of the rest, the Boers
jumped off and opened a long line
of fire, replied to gallantly, the tall
man leading them dismounting,
and on his knee delivering fire,
when the Boer firing at him flung
back and shot no more. Two
wounded men of ours lay by the
" drift," holding their arms np for
help and feebly crying to ns, and it
was a weary time to wait ere we
could cross and bring them in.

The noble fellow who had gone
to warn the troop lay dead beyond.
For months we hoped that he bad
been taken prisoner; but when the
ground was cleared and we got out
across that fatal field, we found a
skeleton in a shallow grave on the
hillside, a skull at one end, two
stockinged feet protruding from the
other ; a horse beside the grave
shot through the head, and another
facing it a hundred yards farther
on ; and close to the turfs that cov-
ered up the bones a coat, edged
with red, faded now, the badge of
our volunteers, and one we knew
was his — all that was left of a
brave soldier.

We buried him in the church-
yard among the rest lying in that
poor spot, a fort frowning close
above, and half a-dozen mounds to
mark where others lay — his bones
followed by every man, soldier or
civilian, in the place — and fired our
volleys over them, presenting arms,
and sounding one last salute upon
the bugles : as the townsfolk said
when they came back,- " It was a
splendid sight."

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton,

The BoerSy some 400 of tbem,
missing the moaoted men, rode on
towards us, and dismounting under
a ridge across the river, about 700
yards distant, opened a furious
fire. How the bullets did whiz and
fly! I had come back from the
koppie, now no longer wanted, and
stood on a little plateau facing the
Dutch, with the fort in rear, from
which the men, running to their
places, began to fire.

"Ping" came the bullets hurt-
ling through the air, plugging the
earth and sending up smiJl clouds
of dost ; overhead whistling, sing-
ing, as thej passed in their great
harry ; the hillside opposite white
with smoke, dotted with dark
things — Dutchmen lying down.
My bugler close behind me, waiting
ia readiness to sound ; a bullet
dropped into his boot quite at the
toe — "Glad that wasn't you, sir,"
was all he coolly said. But it was
hot, a little hot. Although there is
something not unpleasant in a bul-
let fired in anger, when the blood
is up : they don't sound so viciously
as at other timea But still it was
too hot.

So I got as many men as could
be spared and led them at the
Boers, creeping and running, tak-
ing what cover there was. I re-
member some of the men got in
behind a tent now lying flat — a fold
of linen to stop a bullet ; but then
the British soldier is very credu-
lous. And we crept down still
nearer, and found a wall, part of
the old cattle laager, and pointing
over it, let the Dutch have it mer-
rily. " Fire a bit higher, lads :
you're underneath them ; can't you
see them striking the bank?" — and
they fired a bit higher, and we saw
it caused some slight commotion,
and one of our friends here and
there pulled in his horse and
mounted him, and galloped off;
and then more followed, and here
and there one gave a funny wave,

both hands at once, lying down
again quite flat, only he did not fire
any more. Sometimes a horse lay
kicking, and the Boers about him
got farther back and did not come
again, till one by one, by twos and
threes, by big black lots, the cloud
of them melted away, leaving only
a dot here and there with its puff
of smoke. But these died out at
last, and looking at our watch we
found that we had been listening
to the bullets for an hour; it was
just that time since they had
missed our mounted men, and it
had not seemed ten minutes. Time
does fly so fast when occupied —
pleasantly or otherwise.

After the siege was over they
told us they had intended to filler
across the river and attack the town
bodily; but finding our mounted
men between them, they .had to
ride for them — and so the town
was saved, and we got very little
damage.

It was four o'clock in the after-
noon, and every one turned up.
The peach -gatherers, hearing the
firing, left them and came in first ;
the volunteers in hot haste ; a crowd
of blacks, quite a hundred of them,
crawling on their stomachs, and
making a rush past the sentries
into the fort, where they hid be-
hind boxes, and were not to be got
out by threats or entreaties tiU the
firing was over.

Thinking a fresh attempt was to
follow, we got in some cold beef
and a few bottles of beer, and ate
a hasty dinner inside, the volunteers
accepting an offer to finish the frag-
ments most willingly, and doing so
to the last crumb.

But the Dutch contented them-
selves with occupying a kopjne
above us, across the river, and pelt-
ing us with a few stray shots, while
they established their patrols all
round us like the leaden horses in
the race-game of children.

Night fell at last, and with it

(

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[July

fresh anxiety. Half the men were
put on the walls till midnight, the
other half in relief till three in the
early morning, when all turned out
in readiness for our enemies — and
that was kept up for eighty-eight
days. An extract from the diary
I kept during the siege will show
better than anything how things
went with us during the time.
There was little to vary the entries
from day to day, except that to-
wards the end of February the fire
from the Dutch became much more
slack, owing either to want of am-
munition, or to the discovery that
it was only so much waste against
such obstinate fellows.

"/)ec. 304^. — At daybreak, parties
observed on koppies across the river
tracing and marking out something,
apparently a fort. 7 A.M.— -Vedettes
fired on by rebels crossing the ' drift *
below the camp. A party of Boers
occupied Stander's Kop, and another
large body was reported advancing on
the Heidelberg road. Brought in Vol-
unteer Anderson wounded yesterday,
and occupied the * drift' in strength.
8 a.m. — 200 advancing against the town,
but passed, and went behind koppie
north of it. 10.30 a.m. — Sent patrol out
south to find what force was holding
ground in that direction — supported
them with skirmishers ; returned, hav-
ing seen nothing. 1 p.m. — Party 60
strong advanced from koppie down
donga, and opened fire, bullets foiling
over laager ; we returned it with 'sharp-
shooters,' and soon silenced it. 2 p.m.
— Body 60 strong advancing on west of
town, turned ofi" and passed to Standers
Kop. Continual fire from stony kojypie
and donga ; two mules shot ; returned
fire with * sharpshooters,' and silenced
it. 6 P.M. — Enemy opened fire from
koppie south of Stander's Kop, the
bullets striking huts and ricocheting
over laager ; sent out some skirmishers
and silenced it. One man hit in the
face with splinter ; myself on the back
of right thigh with nearly spent ball.
Midnight. Volley fired into laager
from south, answered by us and soon
silenced ; three mules shot."

And 80 on for the next three

months. 'No wonder that we got
tired of it, or that I had to punish
the men at times for unduly expos-
ing themselves to fire; in three
months one gets wonderfully callous
to a bullet.

On the 4th January I made my
first essay against an enemy in the
open. There was a rocky hill,
Stander's Kop, a little over a mile
from the fort which the Dutch had
occupied, and from which their fire
began to be somewhat galling; so I
resolved to have a turn at it, and
show them two could play at that
game.

On the night before, I called for
volunteers, and got together thirty,
all to be ready at 3 a.h. next morning.
It was my firot attempt in command
against the enemy, and I confess
that I felt a bit anxious; failure
meant disaster, and I did not know
but what my head might desert me
at the critical moment It is easy
enough to go out under orders, but
to be yourself the head and tail
means more than people think ; and
I did think, but nothing would
have turned me from my purpose
now I had determined to attempt it.

That night went slowly, and I
slept but little; indeed at two
o'clock, when a man came in to call
me, four of us lay on hospital stretch-
ers in an open shed in the fort. I
was only too glad to find the time
had come.

It was a cold, damp morning,
fairly dark, and my thirty volun-
teers of last night were none too
smart in turning out. It looked
better business then than now, but
I got them fallen in outside after
some delay. Then I found every
sergeant in the garrison had fallen in
too, and at the last moment I had to
send them back, keeping only two,
— rather an unpleasant task. Then
I explained to the men what I was
about. W^e were to advance in
column for a certain distance, when
all would silently extend on a given

1831.]

Defence of Standerton.

aignal, and do the rest of the dis-
tance in skirmishing order, gaining
a wall whicli I intended to line,
and wliich lay close under the hill.
What followed would be dictated
by circumstances.

Meanwhile mj mounted men,
now thirty strong, were to ascend
the hill on its right, and, riding
along the top, clear it of any lurking
Boers under cover of my fire, when
I could follow myself and occupy
the hill In front of the wall we
were bound for was a farmhouse,
known to be the sleepiug-place of
the Boer picket which held the
heights; and we intended to surprise
this party in the house, to prevent
them giving the alarm to the main
body.

We set out across the soppy
veldf, the grass often up to our
knees. The noise our feet made was
really astounding, causing me to
break out at intervals at the men
for insisting on marching in step.
Poor fellows ! all their service they
had been taught the old way to
walk— "right, left, right, left"—
and now they were told not to do
it, and habit was too strong for
them. It was now that I recog-
nised the enormous difficulty in
making a night attack : the plain
we were crossing by daylight had
seemed absolutely level, now it was
fall of holes, drains, and pitfalls ;
big stones caught us on the toes,
and tripped us up with many a
smothered cry, each loud enough
to t^ll the enemy we were coming,
so it seemed. -Every place looked
changed, and but for Stander's Kop
in houty whither we were bound,
looming big and black against the
sky, we should have wandered hope-
lessly.

Everything depended on our
reaching the wall unperceived.
There were patrols about, possibly
sentries ; all was uuknown to us ;
and the men's feet made such a

VOL. ozxx. — ^NO. nCCLXZXIZ,

noise, I was on tenter-hooks lest
wo should be heard. One of them
with a cough was sent back sharp
to camp, looses were allowed to
remain unattended to. When half-
way, the time came to extend ; and,
on raising my hand, the two bodies
opened outwards, and formed into
a line of skirmishers as neatly as if
it were broad daylight and we were
on parade at Aldershot. Whisper-
ing a word of commaud to a line of
men two hundred yards in length is
not so easy; but the men did all
they could, and passed it along till
they moved on, keeping excellent
distance and direction. Presently a
black hill showed up in front quite
unexpectedly, and I halted the line
and went on to see what it was,
for it had not been there yesterday.
I had not gone fifty yajrds when
the hill turned into a wall, the
object of our march — a good high
wall, capable of sheltering my men
from any fire. So I went back and
brought them up, letting them lie
down just six feet apart. By peer-
ing over I could distinguish the
house in which the Boer guard
was lying, about a hundred yards
in front; behind it the hillside,
steep and frowning. It was just
half-past three; at four it would
be getting light enough to attack
the house. No sentries could be
seen ; all was stiU as death. The
men lay in the long, dank grass
which fringed the wall, and hardly
moved ; while I kept my bare head
just above it to watch for any sign
of the enemy. Every minute I ex-
pected to see my mounted men on
the top, barely another hundred
yards beyond the house. This,
again, was quite quiet ; two small
windows on either side of the door,
all closed with green shutters; a
second building a little apart, and
the garden between us and them,
grey with oats; then the wall,
strongly built with piled-up stones,

Besieged in the Traruvaal :

[Jdy

and under it those loDg dark things,
half hidden in the grass, beside each
a rifle, shining cold and hard — all
so very quiet, yet all low-breathing
— ^pent-up life and action waiting
my word to rise and line that wall
with fire.

However, that was not to be.
We had waited an hour, and the
night was going out, objects around
growing distinct in shape, less
ghostly than they had been, when
there came a sound of galloping,
the first sound since leaving camp ;
a great rush of horses, out of sight,
yet near enough to let us hear
their hoofs stnking the ground.
One minute and I thought it was
the Boers, and felt I had them,
The sound was on our right, and
the way they had to come lay
across my rear towards my left :
if they only came that road, we
should catch them beautifully.
This was but for a few minutes.
Then amid the galloping I heard
a voice shouting in English, and
I knew it was my own men in full
retreat.

And what from? If from the
Boers, what was I to do? I did
not like to go back at once after
getting so near them, yet I could
not afford to lose my men ; and for
a bit I had an anxious time of it.

About five minutes we waited in
suspense. The galloping died out
belund us ; no Boer picket showed
up from the house; all was very
still, when a single horseman rode
cautiously into sight, coming to-'
wards where we lay from the right.
It was just light enough to see that
he was in civilian clothes, wearing
a broad-brimmed hat such as the
Boers affect, and in his hand held
a carbine ready. Was he friend or
Boer? the advance - scout of the
Dutch who had sent our men back ?
He still rode on very cautiously,
peering about, his carbine, as it
seemed, always half-way to his
shoulder, his horse piling his

steps, his head bent forwards, look-
ing out ; and the men on my right
where the wall ended could see
him too, and clutched their rifles,
and only waited for a word.

Still he rode on, inclining to-
wards the house, and I could see
now he was dark-faced, almost
black ; a little more, and I recog-
nised him as one of my own men
with a rag of red round his hat;
and I stood up and beckoned to
him, and he rode down, holding up
his carbine in token he was a friend.
He little knew how near death he
had been. He was sent to tell us
that the mounted men had retreated
before a large force of Dutch who
were coming on behind the hill.
There was nothing for it but to go
too. My mounted men, just half
my force, were in full retreat; close
above me was the big hill, which,
if once occupied, commanded my
line of retreat for a full mile. All
I knew was that a large force was
coming on ; that might mean any-
thing, and I had only thirty men.
So I gave the word, and we turned
back, leaving the wall we had won
so well, and moved towards>the fort.
We had gone about eighty yards,
and opened the neck of land lying
between the big hill we had faced
and a second one lying on its left,
when the Boers rode into it in a
black crowd, perhaps two hundred
yards away.

I think we saw each other at the
same moment; from which side
came the first shots I am not ^ure.
I faced my men half round and
took up the fire as soon as I saw
them, and the sudden sight of
thirty rifles puffing in the grass
checked them effectually. How
those Dutchmen galloped ! — just a
whiff of smoke here and there when
one dismounted, fired, and was off
again. How the rifles flashed out,
bright and sharp, our own bullets
racing past me as I stood directing
them, answered by the thud of

1881.]

Defence of Sianderion.

those that sought ns out vpoif the
turf!

The Boers made for the second
hfll, where was good cover in the
kraals of the long-since- departed
Makatees, ahont four hundred yards
from us, and dismounting, opened
a hot fire from hehind the stones.
How their hnllets did tear the grass
up, casting up little clouds of dust
in the men's faces kneeling down
to fire hack ! Kot a man winced ;
tbey knelt and fired as cool as if at
exercise, putting up their sights
quite cheerily when I told them the
distance. I had to shout to them
to make them keep on retiring:
they quite enjoyed the fun.

This lasted ahout ten minutes,
and then a line of fire on my right
opened, and I felt that we had
come within our own lines again.
The 58th had orders to come out
and protect my flank if it was at-
tacked, and the brave fellows were
there, lining the further slope be-
tween us and the Dutch, and keep-
ing down their fire. And this was
furious for five minutes more, and
formed a pretty sight for the towns-
people roused out of bed by the
incessant shots, and safe a mile or
more away, as they told us after-
wards. We were on a hillside
above them, and they could see the
little figures skirmishing, dotted
with puffs of smoke, like dolls out
playing; and beyond that again the
hill, and the Dutch on it amid a
bla» of fire and shrouding smoke.

After a bit the Boer fire slack-
ened as it had done before, and we
got their range and turned them
out; not easily, only by threes
and fours, making gaps in their
line from which no &*e came^ each
widening till the hill was quiet
once again, and in the distance
a tiny -looking crowd galloping
Away. A short half -hour, and
we were safe in the fort, taking
the cup of coffee waiting for us,
and receiving the congratulations

of the friends we left behind us
at our safe return ; happier still to
count our men and find that thirty
went and the same came back again
untouched. And that was our first
turn in the open against the Dutch
who were inyesting us.

Up to this time our wounded
men had been in a sort of hospital
in the fort formed out of a tin store
which had been pulled down to
meet the military exigencies of the
time, the roof remaining only ; but
it was exposed to the fire of the
rebels, and was hot and confined.
So in place of it I took possession
of the Dutch church in town, a
spacious stone building, which,
when the benches and reading-desk
were removed, was capable of hold-
ing two rows of beds, fifteen in
each, with ease.

The Dutch who still remained
in the town tried to get up a small
demonstration about the misappro-
priation of their church by the
root hafjeesy but after a bit
calmed down at the sight of the
sad faces that soon occupied it.

The prayer and hymn books, all
in Dutch, fared worse than the
benches, as a couple of soldiers,
seeing them in the deserted build-
ing, calmly took them away, for
what reason never appeared, the
books being utterly unsaleable, and
the British soldier not given to
studying hymns, especially when
written in a language of which he
cannot understand one word.

One of the difficulties of the
siege was to check robberies by
the men and volunteers ; and if
ever temptation to steal existed, it
was during the siege of Standerton.
Many houses had been deserted by
their owners, and left with doors
and windows open, the families
having set off full speed for the
Free State on the commencement
of the war. Later on, when fuel
ran short, I had to go through these
houses in search of wood, and was

Besieged in tlie, Transvaal,

[July

surprised to find how much furni-
ture and effects were in them, and
how little had heen touched under
the circumstances. Eooms stood
just as they had been left, — the
chairs round the table, the clock
on the mantelpiece, the beds un-
made as the good people last slept
in them, even the cooking- pots in
the kitchen. Liquor of course had
disappeared, as was natural, but
little eke.

A newspaper, 'The Standerton
Times,' was started by some of the
civilians, and lasted for the first
month, when it fell through, partly
from want of time on the part of
the editor — who, as a volunteer, was
wanted more than he expected on
the defences — and mostly, I fancy,
from the difficulty of finding new
and interesting matter in a small
community shut off from all com-
munication with the outside world.
Advertisements were its strong
point — those breathing much fire
and smoke predominating. So we
read of the baker and confectioner
who '' turned out the finest chain-
shot pies ever supplied in Stander-
ton. Artillerymen supplied gratis."
The butcher being of a hopeful
turn, tells his customers that "every-
body can't have under -cut, as he
has smelt out the column." While
Spasmus and Co., well-known Boer
malcontents fighting against us, an-
nounce that ''they are selling off
their entire stock of Dutch courage
and Dutch pluck at greatly reduced
prices, to make room for a large stock
of English lead shortly expected."

The local and general column
was open to funny bits such as
this, headed "A Long Shot:"
"We hear that a gallant Swash-
buckler potted a Boer lately at
1416 yards. This shows that our
mounted comrades have some capi-
tal shots among them ; but we must

remind .them that the deceased
leaves a grandmother, a child, and
fourteen small wives to mourn their
loss. We suggest they start a sub-
scription-list." While a Mr Pol-
glase remarks that "as starvation
is imminent he has. raised the price
of * * * and bacon " — ^the stars
standing for " three-star brandy," a
common form of nourishment with
thirsty colonists. <

"Our paper" could be in earn-
est also, the editor writing: "We
opine that the curious would have
to search well the pages of history
to find a parallel for the state of
feeling in Standerton during the
present siege. A visitor dropping
down in our midst would scarcely
be able to realise the fact that the
town is completely invested by a
band of ruthless rebels. Civilians
and military men, and women and
children, appear, now that the grim
reality of the position has come
home to them, to have determined
to be self-sacrificing and cheerful.
When these troublous times are
past, those who here with us have
taken part in them will be able to
look back with feelings of pride to
the parts they have played in the
drama. It was touching to note
at our musical gathering how the
pathos of the songs of home chime
in with the sterner sounds of the
war-strains ; and it is encouraging to
note the cordiality existing between
officers and men, between soldier
and volunteer. Of the behaviour
of the women we need say nothing.
Courage, which is especially sup-
posed to be the attribute of man, is
found here, as at Lucknow, Paris,
and Eichmond, to be blended in
the women with that other noble
quality, patience. We trust this
state of feeling will continue, for it
is calculated to stand us in good
stead."

(To he continued.)

1881.]

Reminiscences of Prison-Life,

REMINISCENCES OF PRISON -LIFE.

In the days of our grandfathers
the prison was built according to
the wisdom of the local magnates
of the district, guided by an archi-
tect who was as ready to plan a
house or a church as a place of
detention and punishment. The
triomphs of science and uniformity
have, however, now reached this
gloomy region of architectural skill.
A group of ground-plans, on the
last accepted model, would show us
buildings radiating from centres,
like so many great wheels. The
officers in charge are armyed in the
uniform of honour, the prisoners in
the uniform of shame. Where the
regulation is perfect, it is held that
in every cell everything should
occupy the same place, from the
sleeping -bed or hammock to the
towel and the piece of soap. It is
said that this uniformity of con-
ditions, great and small, not only
neutralises the prisoner's plea of
mistake in the commission of any
petty irregularity, but at once puts
the new officer at home when he is
drafted from one prison to another.
It may be noted, as of some histor-
ical interest, that the same idea
once prevailed in a nobler sphere.
Uniformity was an avowed object
in the Roman system of castrameta-
tion, so that the soldier transferred
from Spain or Italy to Britain,
could find his proper place in the
intrenched camp even if he reached
it during night.

Among the uniform features of
the conventional prison of the day,
is the circular airing- yard. This
arrangement has had a moral in-
fluence in exemplifying the mar-
vellous power of discipline. The
stranger is often seen visibly to
start when a door opens, and he is

led into a high-waUed yard, where
a hundred ruffians are taking their
exercise under the government of
four or five officers. This exercise
is taken by rapid walking round
and round on circular pavements.
The number trained at exercise on
each of these stone circles corres-
ponds with a circle of pegs. If any
tendency towards association is
noticed — if any are seen advancing
towards those in front, or loitering
so as to be joined by companions in
the rear, there is a call of ** Halt I "
and then each convict must stop
at the peg immediately in front
of him.

This phenomenon, like many
others peculiar to prison-life, ex*
emplifies and illustrates one of the
strange mysteries in the criminal
character. Much of course is done
by sheer force or terror to subdue
the prisoner to the exigencies of
his lot ; but much, too, is accom-
plished by the facilities — the ami-
able facilities they might be called
— of the criminal nature. An
officer in the service, addicted to
cynical remarks, used to maintain
that his birds y and others of the
same iplass, were the only perfect
human beings to be found in the
world. In sobriety and the other
cardinal virtues they were models.
Regularity, method, tidiness, punc-
tuality, and all the petty accom-
plishments and restraints that go
to make up the virtuous and worthy
member of society, they practised
to perfection. And there was one
peculiarly charming attribute of
their daily conduct in life, that one
always found them at home when
calling on them.

There is something, however,
deeper than such trifling peculiari-

Rsminiseeneea of PruonrLife.

[July

ties and the jests that may be pass-
ed on them, in the ready acquies-
cence of the criminal with inevitable
conditions. This part of his nature
includes a signal exemption from
irritability or angry excitement,
and a bland courtesy of obedience
that has a strange similarity to a
high tone of Christian resignation.
So long as he remains free from
prison bonds, he of course adopts
every alternative for the protection
of his freedom. He hides himself;
he flees before his enemy the officer
of justice; he knocks down his
pursuer if that is apparently the
sole alternative for the retention of
his freedom. But once in prison
bonds, all is changed in the direc-
tion of gentle submission. It is
like the occurrences so often ex-
emplified in books of sensational
religion, where the wicked, un-
scrupulous, dissipated man, having
experienced a "call," is at once
converted into the meek forgiving
saint. What makes the amiability
of prison-life so perplexing a phe-
nomenon is, that we know the evil
passions to be in existence beneath
the gentle exterior. The pheno-
menon is not mere acting. It has
a root much deeper. The passions
of hatred and revenge are somehow
for the time suspended, and Chris-
tian amiability reigns in their stead.
There are general conclusions known
to all of us that point to the ab-
scence of vindictiveness in the
criminal nature. Judges, jurymen,
prosecutors, and prison officers have
all been their enemies in bringing
them under conditions of suffering
and grief. Tet it never crosses the
thought of such official persons
that society is filled with people of
a degraded, unscrupulous nature,
who have had occasion to be roused
against them by a sense of injury.
The litigant who is the suffering
party in a civil suit submits of

course to his fate with a grumble ;
but his religious and moral training
will at once assure him that he
must not attribute evil motives to
the hostile judga We may be
assured that reasoning like this
never pierces to the mind of the
convict His patient acquiescence
— ^his exemption from all hatred,
malice, or uncharitableness to those
who have been his persecutors,
make a phenomenon not to be thus
accounted for by the moral influ-
ences that reign throughout the un-
criminal part of the community. It
seems to be a result following on a
certain torpidity which we sball,
ere much more is said, find to be a
phenomenon of the criminal nature,
and a phenomenon as yet In its
sources unsolved.

One peculiar, and it may be said
interesting, form of this phenomenon
in the criminal world, is the abject
subjugation of the female to the
male. To one happily unacquaint-
ed with the inner life of the crim-
inal world there will be a ready
cause for this in the brutal and
unscrupulous nature of the male
offender, subduing and coercing to
his will the weaker partner in wick-
edness. But those who have bad
opportunities for the accurate study
of the dhminal nature will not be
content with this solution. The
phenomenon is, along with others
in the same dreary region of hu-
man experience, merely to be recog-
nised as a distinct fact, supported
by abundant and indubitable evi-
dence, ^or can it be solved on
the theory that a united career in
crime will give opportunity for
enhancing the power naturally ex-
ercised by the stronger over th
weaker nature. Sometimes, n
doubt, it has occurred that th.
corrupt wife has been the tutor c
the husband in the ways of crime
but there can be no question tha

1881.]

Reminiscences of Prison-Life,

sack an incident is rare in com-
paiiBon with its converse, in the
husband being the leader in the
road to rain. A prison officer,
who had arranged many inter-
views between husband and wife,
the one being a prisoner and the
other free, was known to give
this utterance of his experience in
such affairs — that he had known
many instances where the man had
upbraided his wife as the cause of
his career in wickedness, but had
neyer known a single instance of
the wife casting such a charge on
her husband.

The author of these casual and
fagitive notices does not profess to
be a philosopher with a perfect
system of prison discipline in his
brain, ready to be communicated to
the world whenever the world de-
sires to see it He will be satisfied
if he affords a few morsels of
amusement to the casual reader ;
and in offering them, he does not
desire to reveal the conditions
under which his experience in
prison discipline was obtained. It
is, then, in a merely expositive and
not a critical spirit that he says
what he has to say. He means
neither laudation nor blame in no-
ticing that the conditions of inter-
view with a criminal husband are
hard on a virtuous wife. They are
placed, as it were, in two cages
where they can speak to but not
touch each other. A warder sits
in the space between them, and
the poor woman has seldom the
happiness of knowing how dead
every word passing between them
toudies his well-practised ear. One
intellectual function he must exer-
cise — a vigilant skill directed to-
wards the defeating of any attempt
at secret communication. What-
ever be his skill in defeating, it may
have to meet its match in a skill
for trickery, educated up to an al-

most miraculous point. The officer's
skill is aided by general regula-
tions, and one is, that no specific
thing, however innocent, is to be
transferred from the one to the
other. Take an example of the
necessity for this strictness. The
woman, plunged in deep and son-
orous grief, dandles an infant in
her arms. Becoming excited, she
swings the infant wildly about. It
has an apple in its hand, and that
apple, by a skilful sweep, the in-
fant brings within the reach of its
father, and it passes into his hand.
The warder instantly seizes it, and
finds that it is stuffed with a letter
to the prisoner-father. It may be
noted that people are much mis-
taken when they adopt the notion
that the visit from wife or daughter
is always acceptable. That this
idea is entertained is testified by
the suspension of such visits being
inflicted as a punishment for mis-
conduct in prison. It is believed
that criminals often misconduct
themselves to gain an end in this
form of punishment. On the other
hand, if there be in the criminal
any remnant of suseeptibility to
gentle or virtuous impressions, the
visit from mother, wife, or daughter
is often the means of giving life
to it

There was a passing intention of
conferring on these erratic glean-
ings, the title '* Lights and Shadows
of Prison-Life." It occurred, how-
ever, as an admonitory objection,
that the association of light with
prison -life would appear, in its
unexplained simplicity, something
incongruous, and that it might be
well to reserve it for a place where
some explanation could be given of
the nature of such lights. Their
nature is embodied not so much in
brightness as in serenity. Even
this requires explanation, and here
it comes. It may not be said that

Reminiaeencea of Prison-Life.

[July

to any one there is positive happi-
ness in prison-life, but to the hab-
itual criminal it is frequently the
portion of his life that has least un-
happiness in it — the unhappiness
caused by terrors that seldom cease
to haunt, and by occasional yisita-
tions of starvation and other physi-
cal forms of hardships. Long as
they may for freedom, there is to
this class an obvious serenity in
prison-life. The terrible responsi-
bilities that may follow on some
mistake in the policy of a life full
of schemes and dangerous projects,
are unknown for a time. The de-
teriorating influence of orgies de-
structive to the vital powers is sus-
pended. The food is simple and
wholesome, and after a time the
prison-bird feeds on it with satis-
faction. The dinner is seized and
devoured with so much avidity that
the warder in charge of it feels that
it would be personally dangerous to
withdraw or delay it : there is a
feeling in the class that a convict
would commit murder to secure his
dinner if it were in danger. It is
true that there is a depressing influ-
ence in long sentences, but this is
counteracted by abundant and nour-
ishing diet ; so that the accidental
onlooker from the outer world is
scandalised by the sight of the petty
offender feeding on porridge, while
the great criminal enjoys an ample
meal of butcher-meat.

There is something very solemn
in a large convict-prison at mid-
night. A faint sound of healthy
slumber comes from the cells where
the convicts sleep. Perhaps there
are a thousand, perhaps only five
hundred, undergoing punishment;
but whatever may be the number,
one is conscious that nowhere else
save in a convict-prison could so
many human beings sleep with so
little to interrupt the sense of calm
repose. In the same number of

people taken from the ordinary
world, there would be sligbt sounds
arising from nightmare following
on indigestion — ^perhaps from some
reminiscence troubling the con-
science on the question whether
the strong steps taken for payment
of that bill were not in the cir-
cumstances slightly harsh, or some
other disturbing recollection ; there
might also be uneasy thoughts and
dreams creative of restlessness.
None of these troubles disturb the
sleep of the habitual criminaL This
is not because his conscience lies
easy on him, but because he does
not possess the article known to
the rest of the world as a con-
science. Hence he neither enjoys
the satisfaction of its healthy and
genial condition, nor the troubles
attending on its inflictions, and it
is with him essentially that the
" Prayer for Indifference," by Gre-
ville, as it may be found in the
old 'Elegant Extracts,' is granted.

"Oh haste to shed the sacred balm —
My shattered nerves new string ;

And for my guest serenely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring.

At her approach see hope, see fear.

See expectation fly,
And disappointment in the rear

That blasts the promised joy.

The tear which pity tanght to flow

The eye shall then disown ;
The heart that melts for others* woe

Shall then scarce feel its own.

The wounds which now each moment
bleed.

Each moment then shall close,
And tranquil days shall still succeed

To nights of calm repose."

It is only to the hardened and
habitual offender, however, that
there is serenity in prison -life.
To the man whose weak Apparatus
of moral restraint has been insuffi-
cient to overcome the temptations
of gain, and who has been detected

1881.]

Reminiscences of Prison-Life.

in a forgery or some other fraud,
the entrance at the prison- gate is
an announcement to him in terrible
and appalling reality of the warning
of Dante, that all hope is left be-
hind — that for him in this world it
is dead and buried. And here we
touch one of the points where there
arises a sense of the extreme dif-
ficulty of measuring punishment
against the weight of crime, and
are reminded that we are gener-
ally driven to the alternative of
inflicting not what is abstractly
JQst, bnt what is most likely to
protect the world from fraud and
injury.

Yet there are some considerations
inclining to the alternative that the
panishment of the man who has
lapsed from virtue and respecta-
bility should, if nominally light,
he more heavily upon him than
that of the habitual offender hard-
ened to prison -life. Let us see
how in the general case he comes
to be what he is. Pedigree is re-
puted to be an attribute of aristo-
cratic position ; but if it is not the
mere ordering of stars and garters,
but the stamp of certain qualities
on races of living beings, we must
go to the races of the lower crimi-
nals to find its fullest development.
As intermediate between these two
classes of pedigree, comes to the
person familiar with prison popula-
tions, the pedigree of crime ; and it
may perhaps some day be seen that
note is taken of the descendants of
thieves, and of the qualities devel-
oped by them, as we follow the
descendants of the lower animals
in «The Short-homed Book/ and
other manuals of that kind of
lore.

There is no attempt here to de-
velop acny philosophy of criminal
descent by pedigree, but the fact
of its existence is well known to
everjr one whose lot it has been to

come in contact with criminals.
Beyond the bare fact, nothing seems
as yet to be seen that would lead
to a closer knowledge of the whole
afifairas a psychological phenomenon.
And indeed incidents have occurred
suggesting that the hereditary taint
may be latent in a race not notorious
for crime. Even in those unex-
pected instances already referred
to, where a man has stepped out of
respectability to inhabit a felon's
prison, the curiosity of the inquir-
ing world, excited by the strange-
ness of the event, is gratified by
the discovery of ancestral stains of
criminality. There was recently
an instance of a lapse into crime
on the part of a gentle, kindly,
inoffensive man whose immediate
relations were clergymen, or mem-
bers of the other decorous profes-
sions; yet it was found that he
had a grand-uncle who had been
hanged.

There was another curious little
incident of coincidence in the case
of this man connecting him with
perhaps the best account to be
found in print of the experiences
of one who has lapsed from the re-
spectable into the criminal classes :
* Five Years' Penal Servitude. By
One who has Endured It.' The
author of this book begins by
stating —

" It matters little to the public
what it was that brought me within
the grip of my country's laws : suflSce
it to say, after over twenty years of
commercial life in more than one
large English city, I found myself, in
the year 186-, drawn into the meshes
of a man who was too clever for me
and for the law, and jvho, crossing the
seas to a place of safety, left me to
meet a charge to which, in his absence,
I had really no defence." — P. 3.

The persons who thus lapse from
external respectability into crime
have generally something like an

Reminiscences of Prtsoii-Life.

[July

apology to state, — the habitual
criminal knows that to be useless.
It happened that in the instance
above referred to, the apology cor-
responded precisely with that of
the author of *Five Years' Penal
Servitude.' It was hence inferred
that he must have been the author
of that book, but that was contra-
dicted by the fact that he had not
to pass through tlie prisons so well
described by the author of the
* Five Years.'

There is something characteristic
in the excuse or apology set forth
by the five years' man in this, that
it does not assert absolute inno-
cence ; and this calls up to recollec-
tion the conduct of habitual crim-
inals in their intercourse with
inspectors and other persons super-
intending the administration of
prison discipline. The ears of
these officers are open to any
complaints that may be made to
them, but it is notorious that
they rarely if ever are told by
the convict that he is innocent of
the crime for which he is under-
going punishment. K a reason is
given by him why sentence should
not have been passed on him, it is
founded on some legal technicality
which his ingenuity has suggested
to him. ^0 better reason can be
given for this than the supposition
in the criminal mind, that the
official mind will listen to a story
about a technical error, but not to
an assertion of innocence.

It has been noted that serenity
and a sense of relief in a prison
is more likely to be the lot of its
habitual than of its casual inmates.
But it may be, and in fact is, occa-
sionally known to occur, that the
person who has lapsed from a posi-
tion among his neighbours, recog-
nised as respectable, into punish-
able crime, may also enjoy with the
habitual criminal a sense of peace

and gloomy repose when he takes
his place in the cells for convicted
prisoners. His life may have been
for any number of years a succession
of dexterous and narrow escapes
from the grip of the criminal law.
The most familiar to us among
cases of this kind is in a succession
of forged bills, each retired by the
discounting of its successor. It has
been whispered in certain of these
instances that some of the knowing
persons through whose hands the
forged documents passed in the
banks knew what they were, and
kept silence. Money was circa-
lated, and trade encouraged, while
there was ever the comforting as-
surance, '* Thou canst not say I did
it." But, on the other hand, the
supposition that such things may
be is probably a calumny. All who,
under any circumstances, spend
their time within the walls of a
prison, undergo a process of assim-
ilation towards a scepticism as to
the capacity of poor human nature
for real goodness.

Before losing sight of the heredi-
tary character of crime, it is proper
to say that it has been recognised,
examined, and commented on, not
only by ethical philosophers, but
by men of practical understanding,
holding high administrative offices.
But all has been fruitless, so fiBur as
definite practical conclusions go.
Let us here, as in so many other
human difficulties, hope to see a bet-
ter day dawning on us as the result
of earnest and candid inquiry. The
following passage from a writer
whose opportunities of acquiring
knowledge on the point may be of
interest, if merely from the haze
of mystery that envelops all clear
insight into causes and effects, ac-
companied with the consciousness
that there is mischief of a formid-
able kind at work, for which a
remedy is surely possible : —

1881.]

Reminiscencea of Prison-Life,

'^ Among dogs, we have a modifica-
tion of structure and function made
fixed and permanent, and more or less
hereditary. Habits got by training
are transmitted to the offspring of cer-
tain breeds of dogs as their very na-
ture. It is so in the wolf-dog and the
hound. The pointer, ako, from original
teaching, shows as the pup, while yet
in the farmyard, a tendency to point
at every fowl or bird it sees before it
has ever been afield. The shepherd
dogs — perhaps above all others —
show inherent sagacity of an extraor-
dinary kind from transmitted habits
by training. It is the same in certain
castes and races and communities of
the human family ; and is the trans-
mission of thieving and other criminal
habits to form an exception to other
analogies ?

" One of the most remarkable exam-
ples of a criminal family I know of is
as follows : ' Three brothers had fam-
ines amounting to fifteen members in
all. Of these, fourteen were utterers
of base coin. The fifteenth appeared
to be exceptional, but was at length
detected setting fire to his house after
insuring it for four times its value.'
The importance of checking, if possi-
ble by legal restrictions, such criminal
tendencies, is brought out in this case,
when it is calculated that thousands of
offences might have been prevented by
these three brothers being permanently
imprisoned before they became fathers
of families, and thereby perpetuated
crime by heritage."

After some further general re-
marks, the author, whose opinions
are thus expressed, sets forth some
statements of a more specific kind
as to inmates of the prisons under
bis own medical charge : —

' ''At the same time, one hundred
prisoners were known to be in the
same prison out of fifty familiea Of
one family eight were known — often
two or three — at the same time. The
father had been several tiipes under

long sentences ; and since 1843 this
family had been chiefly supported at
the public expense in prisons. The
relations I found in prison were : the
father, two sons, three daughters, one
daughter-in-law, and a sister-in-law.
DoiiDtless other connections not dis-
covered were there also. When these
notes were taken there were in this
prison three cousins (two being sisters),
two aunts, and two uncles of the same
family. Of two families, six were in
prison about the same time — viz., four
Drothers and two sisters. Of three
families, there were three prisoners
from each family, chiefly brothers and
sisters ; also several mothers and their
daughters at the same time. From
four families, two brothers belonging
to each family. From eight families
a brother and a sister. From ten fam-
ilies two sistei-s." ♦

This is a gloomy statement.
Where are we to find materials
for weighing against it hereditary
groups of poets, artists, metaphysi-
cians, and mathematicians) It is
but a morsel gathered from an over-
whelming mass of testimony, prov-
ing that the human animal is most
prolifically hereditary in the class
of accomplishments that ought if
possible to be extirpated. The
facts stated by the writer just quot-
ed are to be depended on, for he
was an honest man and an inde-
fatigable investigator. There is no
doubt, too, a sort of truth in the
sweeping conclusion that a deal of
crime and mischief would have been
obviated had the three fatal brothers
referred to been committed to per-
manent imprisonment before they
became fathers of families. But
how is such a feat as this imprison-
ment to be accomplished in a coun-
try like ours, where the law keeps
jealous watch on the liberty of the
subject, and will be reluctant to

• The Hereditary Nature of Crime. By J. B. Thomson, F.R.C.S., Resident Sur-
geon, General Prison for Scotland at Perth. Pp. 8, 9.

Reminiscences of Prison-Life,

[July

take it on the word of any man^
that some other man is sure to be
the sire of a race of housebreakers
and pickpockets ? A time was^ in-
deed, when there seemed to be a
pleasant prospect of such a practi-
cal realisation of philosophical posi-
tivism. The phrenologists would
have done the world the service of
identifying the proper objects of
restraint by manipulation of the
bumps of the skull. But the day
and influence of these adepts has
passed away, and the world is not
even conscious of the calamity it
has endured in the privation.

The criminal classes are extremely
dexterous in catching and appro-
priating any popular cry likely to
be of service to them. In recent
years they have evidently been
lending an attentive ear to the
loud wailings of a portion of the
community against the jovial habits
of another portion. ** Drink did
it all— that weary drinks" "If it
hadn't been for the drink we never
would have been here/' are assur-
ances often repeated by the jail-
bird. The doctrine is a consolatory
one to them, as it in a manner
brings in as the accomplices, and,
indeed, in some respects as the
instigators of their crimes, all who
commit themselves as ** participa-
tors" by the pot of porter or the
pint of wine taken at dinner-time.
If we take this in the sense of some
jolly bout having been the cause
that drove or tempted the partaker
in it to the commission of some
predatory crime, no alliance of
cause and effect can be more pre-
posterous. No group of human
beings is likely to be more abso-
lutely untouched by the influence
of any intoxicant than the com-
panions who have arranged a heavy
** cracksman's" or housebreaker's
job ; and the experienced hand
who goes on a special pickpocket

expedition near the door of a church
or theatre will be as uncontamin-
ated in his sobriety aa the adept
who is striving after the solution
of a difficulty in the higher ma-
thematics. There is a belief that
criminals are apt to indulge in a
jolly fit after a good take. Such
an incident has been told aa that
a crew of housebreakers having
found liquor with the other rewards
of their skill and industry, have
been prompted to partake too
rashly of it on the 'premises, and
in their excitement and exuber-
ance to revel in excesses that have
betrayed them to their capture.
But drinking is not so markedly
the vice of the habitual criminal
as of some less offensive members
of society. There seems to be
something in the excitement of
criminal work that is sufficient in
itself and needs no aid. The expert
pocket-picker is shy of anything
that would tend to injure the
nicety of his fingering.

On the other hand, the partaker
whose excesses have carried him
so far beyond the bounds of self-
control as to bring him into the
class called '^ habitual dfunkards,"
sometimes comes within the walls
of the prison under conditions ter-
rible and tragical. He has com-
mitted some great act of violence —
generally the greatest of all —
murder, and it often happens that
the victim is some member of his
own family whom he had been
known in the days of his sanity to
cherish and protect from all harm.
The usual arrangement for dealing
with such tragedies is to find the
perpetrator to have been insane at
the time of committing the act, and
decreeing that he shall be put at
the disposal of the sovereign. By
this arrangement an addition is
made to the class treated as *' crim-
inal lunatics." Then comes a difli-

1881.]

Reminiscences of Prison-Life.

cnlty in dealing ^ith sncb cases
vhen the man who has brought
himself to lunacy by his eyil habits
is restored to the condition of sanity
by treatment in the prison or the
hospital. There are causes exciting
to furious and criminal lunacy other
than excess ; but these, and the treat-
ment of the poor creatures affected
by them, belong to a science beyond
the acquisition of those who merely
deal with the criminal in possession
of his senses. Perhaps the adepts
in it know something in the nature
of cause and effect as attending on
the treatment they administer to
its Yictims ; but the unlearned on-
looker, however closely he may look,
being under the same roof with the
mysteriously afflicted, finds it a
Tain task to endeayour to solve the
mystery. One clear result, how-
ever, is perceptible among the mys-
teries and difficulties, and though it
may go to the aid of those who are
apt to be intolerant in their con-
clusions and vociferous in support-
ing them, they are entitled to
possess it. The result points very
clearly to the irreclaimability of the
habitual drunkard. There has been
for some time at work an arrange-
ment, by which persons detained as
criminal lunatics have been set at
large, or rather removed from the
prison or asylum, under conditions
of supervision or espionage, so that
they may be immediately restored
to seclusion in case of an outbreak
of the old insane malady. Among
these the dipsomaniacs as a class
were found less curable than the
others, and of course more apt to
find their way bask to the old re-
treat. Tears of untainted absti-
nence passed over some of them
abiding in respectability and peace,
when, as if by some caprice of des-
tiny, the fatal primary drop was
swaUowed and followed by a wild
of orgies, proclaiming aloud

that no time must be lost in rein-
stating them in safety.

A dialogue was once overheard
between one of these " Queen's luna-
tics," as they are often called, and a
person in authority over the prison
where he was in custody. He had
been for years in possession of his
senses, and they were the senses of
a man who had received a good
education to qualify manners nat-
urally inoffensive and gentle. He
represented the hardship, to a cul-
tivated man like himself, of restric-
tion to the society of the loathsome
lunatics around him. It was pleaded
in vindication : "Ah! but you know
when you are at large you are apt to
play such tricks. " The latest of these
tricks that had occurred was, that he
had been caught in Paris rushing
along a street with a bloody knife in
his hand. Eestraint brought him
to composure, and it was thought a
safe and judicious arrangement to
send him to his grandmother, resid-
ing in a quiet village. He was
much attached to her, yet, never-
theless, in one of his grim revels he
cut her throat. After some years
of treatment the arrangement for
liberation under supervision was
tried in his case ; but he tasted
the fatal first drop, and had to be
hustled back into close custody.

At this point of his story it hap-
pened to the writer of it to dip into
a book called * Buried Alive; or.
Ten Years of Penal Servitude in
Siberia, by Fed or Dostoyeffsky,
translated from the Eussian by
Marie von Thilo.' The tone of the
book he found utterly antagonistic
to all experience of convict-life in
Britain. For instance, " My First
Impressions " : —

"I distinctly remember being very
much struck at first to find that my
new life was, after all, not so very differ-
ent from my old one. I seemed to
have known all about it beforehand.

Reminiseenees of Prison-Life.

[Jaly

When on my way to Siberia I tried to
guess what my ILfe would be like. It
was not till I had spent some time in
the convict-prison that 1 fully realised
what an exceptional and unnatural ex-
istence I was to lead henceforth, and I
could never make up my mind to bear
it patiently. My nrst impression on
entering the pnson was a feeling of
intense depression ; yet, strange to say,
the life of a convict seemed to me less
hard than I had pictured it upon the
road. The convicts were in chains,
but still they were free to go about in
the prison, to smoke, to swear at each
other, sing whatever son^s they liked ;
a few even drank brandy, and some
had regular card-parties every night.
Neither did the work appear to me
very difficult, and it was not till
later on that I began to realise that it
was rendered irksome and unbear-
able through being imposed as a task
which had to be finished by a certain
time for fear of punishment Many a

Eoor labourer wno is free works per-
aps harder than a convict, and even
spends sometimes a part of the night
working out of doors — especially in
the summer-time. But he works for
himself only ; and this thought, and
the knowleage that he will profit by
his labour, is enough to reward him,
while the convict is obliged to work
at something which can never be of
the slightest use to him."— Pp. 28,
29.

It 18 scarcely necessary to say
that the portion of this sketch of
prison-life, dealing with brandy and
card-parties, has no parallel — or any-
thing approaching to a parallel —
in our British prisons. The other
part of the picture, representing the
distastefulness of labour bringing
no gain to the labourer, admits of
some explanations that may be
found instructive as well as curious.
Perhaps the reader has heard of
the " mark system," yet if he has
not come in personal intercourse
with it, his impression of it may
be vague and indistinct. When it
was first suggested, it gained little
respect from the old Lands, whether

a mong prisoners or their keepers.
Its fint announcement came in the
midst of a crowd of ingenions sag-
gestions, devised by distingoiah^
pandits in prison discipline, as infal-
lible remedies for all the mischiefs
of crime, and potent instruments for
the regeneration of the human race.
There was something, howeyery
about this suggestion of marks thiifc
recommended it to the practical
mind ; and it gradually took a form
capable of overcoming many of the
difficulties in the way of bribing
prisoners under punishment into
the pursuit of industry.

The first danger was that, giving
the prison-bird certain beneJits for
good conduct, the system could only
be worked by the officers of the
prison, and would be open to abuse
from the difficulty of bringing home
responsibility for fair-dealing to
them. To meet this came a com*
plicated system of records or diaries,
where the conduct of the prisoner,
being recorded from day to day, it
would not be in the power of the
officer, if he quarrelled with the
prisoner, to alter the record to his
prejudice; while, on the other hand,
if the record were damaging, he
would not have an opportunity, if,
through bribery or otherwise, he
desired to benefit the prisoner, to
effect his purpose. Hence it came
to be an understanding that marks
were to be earned for industry
solely. Thus they were payment
for specific work, and the charac-
ter and value of the work being in
existence and produceable, its price
became credited in marks.

Still conduct called for considera-
tion, and hence for specifi.c acts of
misconduct marks came to be for-
feited. Of course there might be a
possibility of false evidence in the
reasons for forfeiture, but the pro-
cess would have the distinctness of
any other punishment, as by a fine.

1881.]

Reminiscences of Prison-Life.

ftnd would not leave the same open-
ings to the exercise of partiality or
enmity in the prison officers, as the
method, no douht simpler, of con-
ferring the marks according to the
character and conduct of the pris-
onen as these wwe appreciated hy
the officers.

Dissipation and dirt within the
walls of a prison are now in this
eonntiy traditions of the far past,
bat scantily finding any place in
the memory of living men. It has
been in some respect calamitous to
a district to be forward in the race
of improyement, since it may have
happened that a prison has been
erected for it, not eqnal to the
demands of these declining years of
the nineteenth century, yet too good
to be sacrificed. Of the prison that,
with a enrious baronial picturesque-
ness crowns the Caltou Hill of Edin-
burgh, this may be said. An acute
recorder of the events of his time
thus commemorates its coming into
existence : —

" The year 1808 saw the commence-
ment of our new i ail on the Calton
Hill. It was a piece of undoubted
bad taste to give so glorious an emi-
nence to a prison. It was one of our
noblest sites, and would have been
jriven by Pericles to one of his finest
edifices."

Fortunately the writer of this brief
announcement was acquainted with
the old building, celebrated by Scott
in the great romance of the ' Heart
of Mid-Lothian,' and has given this
potent description of it : —

"The completion of the new jail
mplied the removal of the old one :
ma accordingly, in a few years after
his, the * Heart of Mid-Lothian' ceased
^ heat. A most atrocious jail it was,
he very breath of which almost struck
own any stranger who entered its

dismal door ; and as ill placed as pos-
sible, without an inch of groimd be-
yond its black and horrid walls. And
these walls were very small ; the entire
hole being filled with little dark cells ;
heavy manacles the only security ;
airless, waterless, drainless ; a living
grave. One week of that dirty, fetid,
cruel torture-house was a severer pun-
ishment than a year of our worst
modem prison — more dreadful in its
sufferings — more certain in its corrup-
tion ; overwhelming the innocent with
a more tremendous sense of despair —
provoking the guilty to more audacious
defiance.*' ♦

The structural character of the
more recent prisons, as well as the
purifications in the whole system
of arrangement, have done service
to the officers in extinguishing one
of the old traditional plagues of
their existence in the dealing with
gentlemen criminals. There may
be little doubt that the man of
education and social position, who
has yielded himself to crime, may
be fairly considered a more guilty
mortal than the race of habitual
criminals cursed with the nature
that is found in them. But this
will not prevent the exceptional
inmate from grumbling at the sor-
didness of conditions not so acutely
felt by his neighbour the rough,
and the official staff of a prison is
not unlikely to sympathise with
such grumblings. They may in
these days, however, be substan-
tially met. For that essential that
is said to be next to godliness,
there is perhaps scarce a gentle-
man's house in the empire quite so
cleanly kept as the large convict-
prisons. The diet is with careful
skill adapted to the ends of whole-
someness and nutrition. The med-
ical authorities are supreme in the
enforcement of these qualities ; and
it would be neither beneficial to

* Cockbum's Memorials of his own Time.

Reminiitences of Prison-Life,

[July

the ends of justice nor to the
prisoner's health and happiness
that he should indulge in such
luxurious superfluities as he may
have addicted himself to in the
days of his freedom. The stop-
page of his wine is of course a
serious element in his punishment,
and so is the wearing of the con-
vict uniform. But it is clean, like
everything else ahout him; and
the consideration of exempting him
from any rules of prison discipline
must be considered in its influence
on his fellow-prisoners of humbler
condition.

Liberal efforta have been made
in recent times to distribute clergy-
men and lay teachers through our
prisons. It is one of those works
to which people bid God -speed
without too closely criticising the
extent of its efficiency. The toler-
ant and pliant nature of the habit-
ual criminal prompts him to mani-
festations of acceptance apt to mis-
lead the teacher — especially the
religious teacher — as to the prac-
tical extent of his services. It is,
unfortunately, a notion familiar to
all to whom prison life is familiar,
that a fresh chaplain is delighted
to find that the spiritual harvest to
be reaped is now spread before him.
He will not perhaps announce the
blasting of his hopes \ but it is
a common opinion among those ac-
quainted with prison interiors, that
there is perhaps no officer within
the walls more thoroughly sceptical
of any moral or religious good hav-
ing been effected among the flock
than the prison chaplain. The
members of his congregation will
remember the words uttered by
him, and will perhaps repeat them
to others in a manner not tend-
ing to edification ; as where an emi-
nent statesman questioning a pri-
soner about to be released as to
his intentions for the future, was

answered, ''I am to sell all I have
and give unto the poor." Still it
would be a dreary conclusion to
reach that no good results come
from the costly efforts to plant
teachers of religion among the in-
mates of prisons, and it must at
least be believed that it is good to
bring them into contact with people
of earnestly religious views and
high culture.

In the way of other methods of
bringing such influences to operate
on the criminal nature there are
difficulties. A prison is a place
where precision and order are the
rule. All exciting novelties are a
source of intense anxiety and great
trouble to the discipline officers,
whose services, even when they are
supported and encouraged, are not
of a kind to be cheerful or enjoy-
able. Yet it would not be wise, or
consistent with British notions of
the sacred ness of personal liberty,
that none but the officers of a prison
should have access to it, and oppor-
tunity of communication with its
criminal inhabitants. Reference
has been made to that instinct of
the jail-bird that warns him against
any attempt to plead innocence of
the offence attributed to him, and
induces him to found his complaint
of the injustice done to him on
some technical irregularity. But
this weakness loses its restraint in
the presence of the benevolent
stranger, who is often perplexed
and vexed by the heavy burden
laid upon him in the distinct and
fervent declaration of perfect in-
nocence made by every inmate of a
prison who has had an opportunity
of appealing to him.

Chaplains and teachers are, to
a certain extent, a wholesome ele-
ment of influence on the pedantries
and conventionalities of the officers
trained to monotonous daUy duties ;
and other visitors are received un-

1881.]

Heminiscences of Prkon-IAfe.

der certain conditions in conform-
ity with the eRtablished routine
of discipline. If they generally
conform with these, and consent
to visit the establishment, not as
a show, but as a sphere of useful
labour, they do an eminent service
to the pnbUc.

There has been of late years a
gradual but wholesome pressure
against the practice of making any
inmate of a prison a public show on
account of the atrocity or some
other exciting quality in the crime
for which the imprisonment has
been inflicted. The lore of fame
is powerfully at work in the crim-
inal mind; and it is not an en-
tirely preposterous conclusion, on
the part of people who have had
opportunities for observation, that
the homage of curiosity paid by
the foolish public to the martyr
undei^oing punishment for some
flagrant crime has been an element
of temptation to others to attempt
the accomplishment of the like. A
certain ^^^ of rank, in fact, in
the criminal world, is conceded to
the perpetrators of crimes of a high
and startling character. Yidocq,
the illustrious French policeman,
gives more distinction to this pecu-
liarity than it is perhaps entitled
to claim with us ; and among the
inmates of a prison he gives a lively
account of the miseries of a poor
creature, whose crime was limited
to the theft of certain cabbages,
under the sneers of a high-class
convict, whose plunderings had
been among diamonds and other
precious articles. It seemed, how-
ever, to persons experienced in
rison-work, an unexpected novelty
hen a body of men, under sen-
nces of penal servitude, com-
lained of the humiliation of oc-
lyying the same premises with
p ty offenders sentenced to short
riods of imprisonment. They

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCLXXXIX.

claimed for themselves, as the
"Secretary of State's convicts,"
something like a position of ex-
clusive dignity.

Convicts are signally susceptible
to those emotions that are some-
times spoken of as the amiable
defects of human nature. A pro-
minent place among these is vanity.
Personal vanity is naturally more
conspicuous among the women than
on the male side. Some of them
will appropriate and adorn them-
selves with any strip of ribbon, silk,
or even tinfoil, that may happen to
be found ; and there is an unaccount-
able oddity in the exercise of the
passion, since it must be done in
secret, and especially since it is pre-
cluded from attracting the attention
of any male admirer.

The susceptibility of the criminal
to the influence of vanity some-
times takes a troublesome shape in
efforts to deceive or mystify his
custodiers. The steady persever-
ance and long endurance of misery
often expended in the gratification
of this passion, is one of the stand-
ing marvels of prison-life. "Mal-
ingering," or feigning sickness, is
the most ordinary form taken by
the passion, and, with the other
vanities, it prevails on the female
side. Instances could be recalled
of women keeping themselves bed-
ridden for years to this end. In
one instance the poor patient was
enabled, by a peculiar muscular
power, to create the external symp-
toms of a dangerous structural
disease. A surgeon celebrated
for successful operations on such
maladies was called in. His first act
was to administer chloroform, and
this deprived the malingerer of the
physical capacity to create the
phenomenon. This woman was an
instance of the elements of profuse
health and strength, often the gift
of criminals. After having lain

Reminiscences of Prison-Life,

[July

for several years an abject wasted
wretch, when restored to the dis-
cipline and hard work of the
healthy, she gained weight and
coloar, and all the elements of an
excellent constitution.

In another instance* the coavict
betrayed herself by an imprudent
exercise of the vbtue of cleanliness.
Criminals, while in their own hands,
are generally dirty in their habits ;
and the personal cleanliness enforced
under good prison discipline is one
of its most effective hardships. In
this instance, however, there was
the innate love of cleanness peculiar
to the respectable Englishwoman.
The keeping of this woman's cell
in order had to be performed by
some one of her comrades in afflic-
tion. It was observed, however,
that it was always in a more per-
fectly clean condition in the morn-
ing, before the assistant had access
to it, than at any other time. It
seemed like the result of visits
from the " drudging goblin," whose
capacity was tested —

**"When in one night ere glimpse of

morn,
His shadowy flail had thrashed the

corn."

But the source of the phenomenon
in the eyes of the attendants was
simple and obvious. The convict
had risen in the night to the work,
and given a precedent for setting
her to work at regulation hours.
An instance occurred when a clever
officer suggested the pitting of per-
sonal vanity against the vanity of
mystification. The convict was
paralysed. She was proof against
all attempts to surprise her out of
her malingering by physical means,
but she could not resist the temp-
tation of a pair of new shoes, and
presented her feet promptly to be
invested with them. V

The question of the possible

reformation of the habitual crim-
inal has evidently given much un-
easy concern to those who have
undertaken it We are told that
in Ireland the feat has been accom-
plished, and the assertion is sup-
ported by a crowd of insta^yces
where fiends have been converted
into angels of light; but Ireland
is always producing some pheno-
menon flagrantly contradictory to
our experience in other parts of
the empire. An official man con-
nected with the administration of
justice elsewhere having visited
Ireland for the purpose of practi-
cally examining the whole matter,
brought back some curious items
of information. He had had the
good fortune to enjoy the hospi-
tality of an ardent admirer of the
system — so ardent that he had
selected all his servants from jail-
birds ; and his table was served by
ticket-of-leavemen. The presiding
female genius of the house gave
practical confirmation to the success
of the scheme, saying, that since she
had been served by ex-convicts she
had nevet thought it necessary to
lock up her plate and jewels. In
people who find their way to condu-
-sions of this kind there must be a
store of sunny happiness much to
be envied by people less fortunate.
How much they must enjoy, for in-
stance, of all that is denied to persons
like a sceptical old prison officerwho,
in the course of some practical dis-
cussions on the Irish convict mil-
lennium, remarked that '' there are
no thieves in Ireland because there
is nothing there to steal"! But
there is a partial meaning in the
abrupt conclusion. It is not by
the wealth of the inmates of palaces
and caatles that the thief is sup-
ported, but by the abundant sums
of money and articles of value dis-
tributed in other parts of ^ the
empire among multitudes inoivid-

1881.]

Reminiscences of Prison-Life.

uallj possessed of modeiate means.
The coQveiiience and value of this
stock-in-trade gives the English
thief a piejudice against Scotland,
where the ready cash of the farmer
or shopkeeper is despiteful! y de-
posited in a bank, or, if retained,
is kept in the form of traceable
bank-notes, instead of the stocking
full of gold pieces so welcome in
England.

As appropriate to the exemption
of Irelmd from the depredations of
the accomplished thief, it may be
noted that few natives of Ireland
£nd their way into the prisons on
this side of the water. On the
other hand, names indicating un-
doubted Irish descent abound in
them, so as sometimes to distin-
guish nearly half the population
within the walls of some of the
larger prisons. Hence it is to be
inferred that Milesian descent does
not exclude its possessor from the
acquisition of the furtive propen-
sities of his neighbour living in
the richer country. The native
Irishman is, of course, distinguish-
able from him who, born elsewhere.

has inherited the Irish name from
his grandfather, by the brogue, or
other peculiarity of speech. It may
be desirable that we should have
closer information on such points
as these, and on many others con-
nected with the pedigree of crimi-
nals. Earnest attempts have been
made to collect and arrange statis-
tics embodying the pedigree, the
place of birth, and the places they
have frequented since birth, of
all persons who come under the
lash of the criminal law. But there
is a fatal obstacle at the outset of
such inquiries. Criminals — thieves
especially — are found to be people
of a modest and retiiing disposition.
As to their past career, however
they may luxuriate in conceit and
vanity, they exhibit reticence to
those having charge of them for the
time. To any questions about the
past their instinct ever is to give
a lying answer. The only thing
one can feel assured of, therefore,
in the statistics so collected is,
that the truth in each instance
lies somewhere else than in their
record.

TJie Land of Khemu

[July

THE LAND OF KHEMI.

PART II. — THE LABYRINTH AND THE LAKES.

The most striking object which
meets the eye from the summit of
the highest mound of ruin of the
ancient city of Arsinoe, is the Pyra-
mid of Howara, distant about five
miles as the crow flies from the
modem town of Medinet el Fay-
oum, but considerably farther by
the road, — if the narrow paths
which traverse the fields can be
called roads, — for the country is so
intersected by canals^ that one is
frequently obliged, in riding, to
make long detours in search of a
bridge. As our capacity for endur-
ing fatigue was somewhat limited,
we determined, under these circum-
stances, to make the expedition in
a boat — a mode of locomotion not
usually employed in the Fayoum.
There are, indeed, only about four-
teen miles of navigable river, the
sluices at lUahoon barring all far-
ther progress eastwards, and the
subdivision of the Bahr Youssef
at Medinet into numerous minor
canals blocking it by dams and
water-wheels in all directions. I
held converse with the head of the
boating fraternity on the feasibility
of my project, and found that ten
heavy barges and two small boats
composed the entire carrying ca-
pacity of the river. The barges
are used for conveying manure to
the fields adjoining the canal, and
bringing their produce to the town.
I inspected the small boats, and
having selected the one which was
least old and leaky, had her cleaned,
and an awning put up in the stern.
I am thus particular in describing
the boating resources of the canal,
because I was misled by the glow-

ing description of Monsieur Lenoir,*
in an account which he gives of a
hurried visit to the Fayoum, and its
chief town, of the general accuracy
of which his description of its com-
merce may serve as an illustration :

"Boats and immense barges," he
says, "are moored as far as the eye
can reach along its brick quays, which
come hither to obtain grain and straw,
the produce of the last har\'e8t. Num-
berless caravans compete with this
navigation transport, and serve to con-
nect Medinet with Cairo."

Out of the twelve boats and
barges which exist, I never saw
more than two fastened to the river-
bank at one time. " The brick quays
along which they are moored as far
the eye can reach," exist entirely
in the writer's imagination ; and it
is evident, as the canal is only
navigable for about fourteen miles
in an exactly opposite direction to
that of Cairo, which is about seventy
miles distant, that the ^'numberless
caravans " have not much reason to
fear competition. It is true that in
former years, during the inundation,
boats came up from the Nile by the
£1 Magnoun canal to lUahoon,
where produce was transferred from
the barges from Medinet ; but this
route has long been discontinued,
and there is now no connection
between Illahoon and Cairo, ex-
cepting by following the tortuous
course of the Bahr Youssef up to
Siout, which would involve a circuit
of nearly 500 miles. As a matter
of fact, the produce of the Fayoum
goes to Cairo neither by camel nor
boat, but by railway. Sails are not
used by this magnificent fleet of

* Le Fayoum, Sinai, et Petra, par Paul Lenoir.

1881.]

Pari II, — The Labyrinth and the Lakes.

boats and barges, and masts are
only erected for towing purposes.

It was on a warm lovely morn-
ing in February that we spread
ourselres on the carpet at the stem
of the boat, and, towed by two
sturdy feUdJiirij made our way
against the current at the rate of
about three miles an hour. As
there is no regular towing-path,
our progress is constantly imped-
ed by overhanging trees, by pro-
jecting sakki/aSy by the walls of
mud - villages, which occasionally
rise straight out of the water; and
our trackers are sometimes wading
waist-deep, sometimes running far
into the ' bean - fields to turn the
comers of creeks — sometimes one
side becomes impossible, and we
have to take them on board and
transfer them to the opposite bank ;
but in spite of all this, they push
along with so much energy that
we pass rapidly one or two old
barges laden to the water's edge
with manure -dust, but which are
an extremely picturesque feature
in the landscape — though, in so far
as age and shape are concerned,
they might advantageously figure
in a museum of Egyptian anti-
quities. The banks are just too
high to prevent our seeing much
of the country over them, but they
furnish us with glimpses of peasant
life as we glide past the little mud-
villages on their margin, where the
women are engaged in their per-
petual occupation of washing and
filling their water -jat^, or, squat-
ted opposite the dead wall of a
house, are jerking to and fro a
goat-skin bag containing milk, with
a view in this primitive fashion
of converting it into butter, and
where half-naked men are stand-
ing in rows opposite each other as
if they were going to dance Sir
Roger de Coverley, when suddenly
they fall to with ponderous flails,
and thrash out the corn, accom-

panying their blows with a mea-
sured and not unmusical chant.
Buffaloes, blindfolded in order that
they may be spared a conscious-
ness of the monotonous nature of
their occupation, as they tramp
slowly round in a circle, are grind-
ing it> after it has been thrashed,
in creaking mills, above which
flocks of pigeons flutter round their
quaint conical towers. Water is
being dipped out of the canal by
men in pairs working the double-
lever shadoofs^ who laboriously
swing up and down the long
bars weighted with mud at one
end and with a basket - work
bucket at the other. Kaked chil^
dren of the tenderest years are
paddling in the mud, or scream-
ing with a virulence and pertina-
city peculiar to the Arab infant.
Amid these sights and sounds
we glide gently through the rich
country; and when we land, it is
to look over an interminable ex-
panse of wheat, beans, lentils, and
clover, with here and there dark
groves of date-trees clustered round
villages on distant mounds. The
whole country is lulled into a
luxury of repose, which the low-
ing of cattle, the wail of the water-
wheels, and the hum of distant
voices seem rather to enhance
than to disturb ; and our noiseless
mode of travel is in keeping with
the universal calm. In fact there
is a sort of Sunday feeling in the
very air of Egypt, which the sleepy
agricultural operations of the peas-
antry are too placid to destroy.
After we had proceeded thus for
about an hour and a half, we landed
to inspect a massive embankment
which had been erected by the
ancients, but had been renewed in
more modern times to prevent the
Eahr Youssef in seasons of inunda-
tion from bursting into the broad
ravine of the Bahr - bela - ma, or
"river without water" — most ap-

The Land of KhemL

[July

propriatelj bo called, for it was a
wide dry toady about a hundred
yards across, with precipitous
banks thirty feet high — which
cuts through the whole length of
the Fayoum, winding away by the
ragged bed the floods have cut for
it in the course of the overflows
of ages to the north-west, till it
reaches the village of Tamiyeh,
where it is dammed up into a small
lake or reservoir, which discharges
its superfluous waters into the Bir-
ket el Kuriln. In ancient times it
is probable that this ravine, as well
as another as gigantic, the Bahr
Nazlet, which runs to the south-
west, was used to carry off the
waters of Lake Mceris. These two
ioadfes, with villages perched on
the cliffs which form their banks,
form a striking feature in the
scenery of the Fayoum.

So long as the Bahr Youssef re-
mains in the valley of the Nile,
skirting the base of the Libyan
hills, it inundates the country like
its parent stream ; but when it has
passed the sluices of Illahoon and
entered the Fayoum, it is brought
under control, and only allowed
to flow into the numerous loadies
which are dry at other seasons.
Sometimes, however, it bursts its
restraining banks, and rushes into
a new channel, scooping out the
mud and forming the bed of a
broad river. This had been the
case with the Bahr-bela-ma, though
at what date the embankment had
been last renewed the boatmen
were unable to tell me. At all
events, its invasion upon that oc-
casion involved a dike of great
length and solidity, and must have
been a work of great expense.

Soon after this the current be-
came swifter, and the dolce far
niente we had ei^'oyed to such per-
fection was rudely interrupted;
a sakkya projecting into the river
where it was unusually narrow.

forced it into quite a little rapid, the
tow-rope got entangled with the
water-wheel, and the mast gave way
and came down with the run, break-
ing the rotten thwarts of the boat
as she broached to the current,
which swept us down sideways
till we stuck on a friendly bank.
There was an immense amount of
shouting and wading before we
repaired damages and got under
way again, but the Bahr Youssef
had become a lively stream, and
our "progress was slow : we were, in
fact, ascending to the level of the
highest plateau of the Fayoum,
and before long we came to a worse
rapid than the last, where our men,
unwarned by the previous disaster,
allowed the same thing to happen
to us. Fortunately we were not
far from the village of Howara,
the sheikh of which had been
notified of our arrival the day
before ; and he appeared just at
this juncture, accompanied by a
large proportion of the male popula-
tion of the village, and the donkeys
upon which we were to ride to the
Pyramid. We therefore determined
to leave the boat to find its way up
the next rapid without us, till it
reached the spot nearest the Pyra-
mid, where we intended to re-
embark, while we started off along
the banks on donkey-back. We
now soon began to observe evidences
of antiquity; and these were of
especial interest when we reached
the ten-arched bridge of Kanatir
el Agami. This spans a dry culti-
vated wady, in which is a grove of
date-trees ; but in ancient times it
was the main channel by which the
waters of the Bahr Youssef were
conducted into Lake Moeris. Th<
ancient buttresses of the bridg<
rest on foundations of massive
stone ; and the embankment whict
now prevents the river from flow-
ing into its old channel is very
solid, and bears the marks of ex

1881.]

Part If. — The Lahyrinih and the Lakes*

tieme age. We rode along it until
we reached the Katasanta struc-
tare^ which consists of a terrace of
six carefnlly-jointed steps of large
aod well-hewn blocks, but bears no
inscription whatever: it no doubt
• formed part of the artificial limits
of Lake Moeris. Then we crossed
the Bahr Wardani, a deep stream
flowing out of the Bahr Youssef,
also an ancient channel of the
river, into the lake, and called by
the Arabs the Bahr es Sherki, or
" River of the East." We turned
sharply after crossing it, and fol-
lowed its left bank ; then travers-
ing a hot little bit of desert, we
reached our destination, after a
journey of three hours and a half
from Medinet. The first view of
the Lahyrinih was eminently dis-
appointing, and consisted of noth-
ing bat mounds of ruins. How-
ever, in the midst of these we came
upon the traces of what probably
was once a temple of some magnifi-
cence, though all that now remains
of it are some large blocks of granite
and limestone, and the shaft and
capital of a papyrus column with
traces of sculpture. Some blocks
here have been disinterred, which are
now covered with sand, bearing the
name of Amenemhat IIL Travers-
ing this waste of ruin, we reached
the base of the Pyramid of Howara,
and found a cool spot in its shade
in which to lunch, prior to a more
minnte examination of the sur-
rounding objects. We began al-
ready to feel, however, that our
imaginations had been unduly ex-
cited by the descriptions of the
writers of antiquity by whom they
d been visited.

I venture to quote the accounts
ren by Herodotus and Strabo of
9 interesting spot upon which
\ now found ourselves; for al-
ough comparatively so little met
e eye, it is impossible not to feel
UTinced that the sand - hills

which we were investigating con-
ceal substantial remains, yet to be
discovered, of one of the most mar-
vellous monuments of ancient gran-
deur and ingenuity of which we
have any record. Herodotus writes :

" I have seen this monument ; and
I believe that if one were to unite all
the buildings and all the works of
the Greeks, they would yet be inferior
to this edifice, both in labour and
expense, although the Temples of
Ephesus and Samos are justly cele-
brated. Even the Pyramids are cer-
tainly monuments which surpass
their expectation, and each one of
them may be compared with the
greatest productions of the Greeks.
Nevertheless, the Labyrinth is greater
still. We find in its interior twelve
roofed auL<B, the doors of which are
alternately opposite each other. Six
of these auUz face to the north, and
six to the south : they are contiguous
to one another, and encircled by an
enceinte f formed by an exterior wall.
The chambers that the buildings of
the Labyrinth contain are all double,
one underground and the -other built
above it. They number 3000, 1500
in each level. We traversed those
that are above ground, and we speak
of what we have seen ; but for
those which are below, we can only
say what we were told, for on no ac-
count whatever would the guardians
consent to show them to us. They
say that they contain the tombs
of the kings who in ancient times
built the Labyrinth, and those of the
sacred crocodiles, so that we can only
report on these chambers what we
have heard. As to those of the upper
storey, we have seen nothing greater
among the works of man. The in-
finite variety of the corridors and the
galleries which communicate with one
another, and which one traverses be-
fore arriving at the atUce, overwhelm
with surprise those who visit these
places, and who pass now from one of
the aulm into the chambers which
surround it, now from one of these
chambers into the porticoes, or again
from the porticoes into the other auUe,
The ceilings are everywhere of stone,
like the walls, and these walls are
covered with numberless figures en-

I%e Land of Kbemi.

[July

graved in the stone. Each one of
these aui(B is ornamented with a peri-
style executed in white stone, per-
fectly fitted. At the angle where the
Labyrinth terminates tliere is a pyra-
mid 240 feet in height, decorated with
large figures sculptured in relief.
There is an undei^ound passage of
communication with this pyramid."

Strabo, who visited the Laby-
rinth hundreds of years later, was
no less struck with the magnifi-
cence and design of this wonderful
structure.

" There is also," he says, " the Laby-
rinth here, a work as important as the
Pyramids, adjoining which is the tomb
of the king who built the Labyrinth.
After advancing about thii-ty or forty
stadia beyond the first entrance of the
canal, there is a table-shaped surface
on which rise a small tower and a vast
palace, consisting of as many royal
dwellings as there were formerly
nomes. There is also an equal num-
ber of halls bordered with columns
and adjoining each other, all being in
the same row and forming one build-
ing, like a long wall having the halls
in front of it. The entrances to the
halls are opposite the wall. In front
of the entrances are long and nu-
merous passages, which have winding
paths nmning through them, so tliat
the ingress and egress to each hall is
not practicable to a stranger without
a guide. It is a marvellous fact that
each of the ceilings of the chambers
consists of a single stone, and also that
the passages are covered in the same
way with single slabs of extraordinary
size, neither wood nor other building
material having been employed. On
ascending the roof, the height of which
is inconsiderable, as there is only one
storey, we observe a vast plain of stone
slabs. Descending again, and looking
into the halls, we may observe the
whole series borne by twenty-seven
monolithic columns : the walls also are
constructed of stone of similar size.
At the end of this structure, which is
more than a stadium in length, is the
tomb, consisting of a scjuare pyramid,
each side of which is four plethra 1^400
feet] in length, and of equal height.
The deceased who is buried here is
called Israandes. It is also asserted

that so many palaces were built be-
cause it was the custom for all Uie
nomes, represented by their magnates,
with their priests and victims, to as-
semble here to offer sacrifices and
gifts to the gods, and to deliberate on
the most important concerns."

This is what we learn from an-
cient sources of the Labyrinth. It
will now bo interesting to turn to
the only serious attempt which has
been made in later years to explore
its mysteries. This was undertaken
by the Prussian expedition under
Lepsius, about forty years ago,
when the identification of its site
had first been made by Linant Bey.
They had a hundred men at work
for nearly a month, and this was
the result : —

" Where the French expedition had
vainly sought for chambers, we liter-
ally at once found hundreds of them,
both next to and above one another,
small, often diminutive ones, besides
greater ones, and large ones supported
by small columns, with thresholds, and
niches in the walls, with remains of
columns and single casing stones, con-
nected by corridors, so that the descrip-
tions of Herodotus and Strabo in this
respect are fully justified. The whole
is so arranged that three immense
masses of buildings 300 feet broad en-
close a square place which is 600 feet
long and 5(X) feet wide. The fourth
side, one of the narrow ones, is bound-
ed by the Pyramid which lies behind it
— it is 300 feet sqiiare, and therefore
does not quite reach the side wings of
the above-mentioned masses of build-
ings. , . . We found no inscrip-
tions in the ruins of the great masses
of chambers which surround the cen-
tral space. It may easily be proved
by future excavations that this whole
building, and probably also the dis-
position of the twelve courts, belon"
only, in fact, to the twenty -sixt
dynasty of Manetho, so that the or
ginal temple of Anienemhat forme<
merely part of this gigantic architec
tural enclosure."

It is most earnestly to be hopec
that these excavations anticipatec

1881.]

Part IL^-TIie Labyrinth and the Lakes.

by Lepaias will some day be made,
as, when we compare his account
with those of Herodotus and Strabo,
it falls far short of what we should
have been led to expect ; and there
can be little doubt that these
mounds of sand, which cover the
surface of a far greater area than he
dealt with, conceal treasure which
would richly reward further exam-
ination. Unfortunately his exca-
vations have since been buried by
the sand.

Our first proceeding after lunch-
eon was to scramble to the top of
the Pyramid so as to get a bird's-
eye view of the ruins. Strabo ap-
parently overestimated its dimen-
sions. When perfect, the base was
fifty feet less each way than he
gives it; and Herodotus, who puts
the height at 240 feet, was more
nearly right than Strabo, who esti-
mates it at 400. It is by no means
an imposing structure, and is one of
four built of crude brick mixed with
straw, one being at Illahoon, and
two at Sakkara. If it was built,
as Strabo tells us, by Ismandes,
who is identical with Semempses,
the fifth king of the first dynasty,
then it is the oldest pyramid ex-
isting in Egypt It has been sug-
gested that it was built by Asy-
ehis, the fourth king of the third
dynasty; but even in that case it
most rank immediately after Mei-
chon and Dashour, which become
the oldest. The ground for this
hypothesis is, that Herodotus teUs
us that, accoi^ding to the priests, a
king named Asychis, desirous of
eclipsing all his predecessors, left
a pyramid of brick as a monument
)f his reign, with the following in-
wription engraved on the stone : —

"Despise me not in comparison
nth the stone pyramids, for I 6ur[)ass
hem all, as mach as Zeus surpasses
he other gods. A pole was plunged
nto the lake, and the mud which clave
liercto was gathered, and bricks

were made of the mud, and so I was
formed."

The proximity of the lake may ac-
count for this allusion, and it has
been ascertained that the nucleus
is a natural mass of rock, thirty-nine
feet high, which may be "the
stone '* upon which the inscription
was cut. Its present appearance
would certainly disappoint the
king's expectations, for the sides
have crumbled so much away that
I have since regretted that I did
not achieve the proud distinction of
riding on my donkey to the top of
the oldest pyramid in the world.
It appears originally to have been
built in stages, and from its
summit we could obtain an idea
of the shape of the Labyrinth,
which was of a horse-shoe form,
and of the position and size of
the Temple, the remains of which
were mapped out at our feet. On
the opposite side of the £ahr es
Sherki we overlooked a congeries
of crude brick-built chambers, all
roofless. To the north was a long
line of small chambers, with the
crumbling walls of others scattered
here and there. The form of Lake
Moeris, on the margin of which
this pyramid was built, might also
be detected by the aid of a strong
imagination ; and, about eight miles
off, the Pyramid of Illahoon stood
out sharply against the distant line
of the hills beyond the jNile. To
the southward a long grove of date-
trees marked the limit of the oasis;
and to the westward the town of
Medinet, surrounded by gardens
and palm-trees, formed an attrac-
tive feature in the landscape. To
the eastward, all was desert, bound-
ed by sand-hills. A closer inspec-
tion of the ruins, after we had de-
scended from the Pyramid, on the
left bank of the Bahr es Sherki,
disclosed little of interest beyond
a curious sort of double underground
passage, formed by flags of lime-

The Land ofKhemi.

[July

stone. The upper passage seemed
to have been roofed in on a level
ivith the surface of the soil, and
below this again there was a second
one, which, however, was so choked
with sand that it was impossible
to follow it. As I was examining
it I put up a jackal, which darted
away across the desert, startled at
the sudden intrusion upon his soli-
tude. There were some mummied
bones about, and I wondered whe-
ther flesh which had undergone the
drying process of ages could afford
satisfactory gnawing material for
these scavengers of the wilds. I
suppose a human leg three thou-
sand years old, if it does not con-
XaixL much nourishment, must have
a taste of some sort.

There can be no doubt that we
owe the modem word "labyrinth " to
the strange accumulation of cham-
bers and tortuous passages which
once existed on the shores of Lake
Mceris. According to- Manethon,
the Labyrinth derived its name
from King Labarys, its founder,
also known as Amenemhat III. ;
but another derivation has been
suggested, which possesses the com-
bined merit of extreme antiquity
and originality. It seems that the
old Egyptian word for the mouth
of a reservoir, which Lake Moeris
undoubtedly was, is ra-hunt or la-
hunt Hence one of the names of
the lake was " Hunt." The temple
of the mouth of the reservoir would
be ra-pe-ro-hunt, or lape-lo-hunt
From laperohunt we get to laper-
int, and then, by easy stages, to
** labyrinth." It is more likely, how-
ever, to have been the combination
from which lUahoon is derived —
the terminations lo-hunt and la-hunt
not being very dissimilar, the addi-
tion of the Arabic particle el form-
ing the word. In allusion to Lake
Mceris, over which we were now
looking, Herodotus says : " Wonder-
ful as is the Labyrinth, the work

called the Lake of Mceris, which is
close by the Labyrinth, is stiU more
astonishing."

Strabo says of it, —

" Owing to its size and depth, it is
capable of receiving the superabund-
ance of water during the inimdation
without overflowing the habitations
and crops ; but later, when the water
subsides, and after the lake has given
up its excess through one of its two
mouths, both it and the canal retain
water enough for purposes of irriga-
tion. This is accomplished by natural
means, but at both ends of the canal
there are also lock-gates by means of
which the engineers can regulate the
influx and efllux of the water."

These lock-gates — which, according
to Diodorus, cost £11,250 every
time they were opened — are, no
doubt, the great stone dikes and
sluices mentioned later by Abool-
feda at Illahoon, which regulated
the quantity admitted into the
Fayoum ; and it seems not improb-
able that the modern Illahoon^ with
its pyramid, was the site of the
ancient town of Ftolemais.

The Greeks believed that Lake
Moeris was constructed by a king
of the same name ; but it is proved
that no such king existed, and
that they invented the king from
the Egyptian word " mere," which
exactly corresponds to our word
"mere." Until within a compar-
atively recent period, the Birket
el Kurtin was popularly supposed
to have been the ancient Lake
Moeris ; but as we know that the
great object of Lake Moeris was to
act as a reservoir for the waters
which fertilised the Fayoum,. and
that it was constructed as a triumph
of engineering skill by Amenem-
hat III, it becomes absolutely
impossible to identify it with th<
Lake of the Horn, which is twc
hundred feet below the level ol
Lake Moeris and the country it wa
intended to irrigate, and is evi
dently a natural sheet of water fee

1881.]

Part IL — The Labyrinth and the Lakes,

by springs : but eyen if it were
not, it is at all events a natural
depression, which it would require
no genius to fill with water. More-
over, Herodotus, speaking of the
Labyrinth, says : '* It was a little
above Lake Moeris, opposite Croco-
dilopolis." Now the site of Croco-
dilopolis is fifteen miles from the
Lake of the Horn, but the dikes
which testify to the existence of
some vast ancient reservoir are in
its immediate vicinity. According
to the estimate of Linant Bey, to
whom is due the discovery of the
site of the Labyrinth and the posi-
tion of Lake Moeris, the latter must
haye been a sheet of water about
sixty miles in circumference, and
with an average depth of twenty
feet Pomponius Mela says that
it was navigated by large vessels
which conveyed the produce of the
Fajoom to other parts of Egypt.
The Pyramid and Labyrinth were
situated at the point where the
liver entered it, and the vast ex-
panse of green over which the eye
wanders between the Pyramid and
Medinet was formerly covered by
its waters. Wherever the natural
formation of the country did not
isstndn them, immense dikes were
' bailt, which must have been in
some places thirty feet high, and
which, to judge by the traces which
exist on the north and west sides,
must have been about thirty miles
long, with an average breadth of
one hundred and fifty feet — a work
on a scale which would have ap-
I palled engineers not accustomed to
I build pyramids. Linant Bey calcu-
I lates that this reservoir must have
rigated a superficies of 600,000
Tes, as, besides feeding the Fay-
im, he believes that its waters
ire carried down into the pro-
^ce of Gizeh, and so ultimately
.0 the old Canopic branch of the
le at Mariout. Kor can one
mder that an artificial lake of

such great extent should have
seemed a prodigy of engineering
skill to the ancients. In addition
to its great utility as a fertilising
agent, it was invested with a char-
acter of sanctity which gave it a
wide celebrity. The sacred croco-
dile, which was carefully tended
and petted in its waters, was an
object of the deepest veneration to
the inhabitants of the Arsinoite
iN'ome, who treated it with the most
marked respect, and kept it at con-
siderable expense, while a most
elaborate cuisine provided it with
dainties. ^' Geese, fish, and various
fresh meats," says Sir Gardner
Wilkinson, "were dressed pur-
posely for it ; they ornamented its
head with ear-rings, its feet with
bracelets, and its neck with neck-
laces of gold and artificial stones ;
it was rendered perfectly tame by
kind treatment, and after death its
body was embalmed in a most
sumptuous manner."

It was rather unfortunate for the
crocodile and his worshippers that
the inhabitants of the adjoining
Heracleopolitan Nome worshipped
the ichneumon, the bitter enemy
of the crocodile, which, it is report-
ed, waged war upon him by the ori-
ginal device of crawling down his
throat when he was asleep, and
feeding upon his intestines. The
antipathy between the crocodile
and the ichneumon, in consequence
of this unfair mode of proceeding,
seems to have extended to the wor-
shippers of the two animals, which
led, during the reign of the Romans,
to disputes that terminated in blood-
shed, and made the contending
parties forget the respect due to
the sacred monuments of their ad-
versaries to such an extent that
the destruction of the Labyrinth
by the Heracleopolitans was the
final result. It is difi&cult to re-
concile psychologically a worship
so full of trivialities with a religion

The Land of Khemi.

[July

80 replete witli lofty moral concep-
tioiis, and with the high intellec-
tual capacity which created a Lake
Moeris, reared huge pyramids, con-
structed the stupendous work of
art which was celebrated through-
out the then civUised world as the
Labyrinth, and called into existence,
out of a tract of desert, the fertile
province which for many centuries
derived its name as the Crocodilo-
politan Kome, from the animal thus
venerated.

When we had exhausted our ex-
amination of the left bank of the
Bahr es Sherki, we announced our
intention to the crowd of attendant
Arabs who had accompanied us
from the village, of crossing over
to see the network of chambers on
the other side. To our dismay they
pronounced the stream unfordable,
and told us we should have to make
a circuit of two miles by a bridge.
This I resolutely declined, and some
of the Arabs accordingly stripped to
try and find a ford. The channel
was so narrow that it might easily
have been jumped with the aid of
a leaping-pole ; but the men had
some difficulty in finding a spot
where the water only came up to
their armpits. This was the depth
even close to the bank ; but by per-
forming a sort of circus feat, and
each of us sitting astride the heads
of two men, we got carried across,
while our donkeys were sent round.
It was not a very gracefu], perform-
ance for a lady ; but in the absence
of any other spectators than the
sons of the desert, it did not so
much matter. The chambers were
a disappointing collection of tiny
apartments, with thick waUs of
crude brick — possibly over a hun-
dred in number — their floors strewn
with pottery, rags, and bones. TVe
picked up a bead, some good speci-
mens of blue and green glazed terra
cotta, and fragments of glass. In one
room alone I observed five human

skulls, and there werenumerousbones
to which the dried flesh still adher-
ed under the wrappings of mummy-
cloth. Altogether, the vestiges of
these ruins conveyed as much the
idea of a necropolis as of an. assem-
blage of council -chambers, and it
is not unlikely that its primitive de>
sign was simply to serve as a vast
sepulchre like that at Sakkara.
There 'can be little doubt that
pyramids invariably form the centres
of such burial-places — indeed Hero-
dotus tells us that he was informed
by his guides that the lower cham-
bers were used for funeral purposes ;
and Amenemhat may have selected
this spot on the shores of the lake
he had created, as his own resting-
place and that of the chief men of
his reign. From the records upon
the inscriptions where his name has
been found, it is almost beyond a
doubt that he is buried here, al*
though not within the Pyramid;
and the mode of sepulture among
the ancient Egyptians renders it, in
the opinion of some Egyptologists,
extremely likely that this vast con-
geries of apartments, which at a later
period were converted into coun-
cil-halls, were originally mortuary
chambers, but upon a scale of such
magnificence and vastness that the
subsequent dynasties considered
them available for other purposes.
Indeed we have no recoid of the
Labyrinth being used for great im-
perial assemblies until the period
immediately preceding the Fsam-
tikides of the twenty-sixth dynas-
ty, or about 1900 years after the
time of Amenemhat, its construc-
tor. At the same time, it is not
impossible that the Labyrinth wa
used for other purposes as we! .
as those of sepulture, even firon
the earliest period ; for the assem-
blage of twelve palaces or aulcBj as
described by Herodotus, must have
had some reference to the twelve
nomes into which Egypt was di-

1881.]

Part IL — The Labyrinth and the Lakes.

Tided before the number was in-
creased by Eameses II. to thirty-
six. And we may be safe in saying
that if we carry oar imaginations
back 3500 years, or even more,
the spot upon which we were now
standing presented an aspect of
scenic beauty, of architectural mag-
nificence, and was inyested with
a character of political and re-
ligious importance, unrivalled in the
world, which it retained for nearly
2000 years. It was evidently
selected, from its central position
on the boundary - line which
divided Upper from Lower Egypt,
for the great regal, political, and
sacerdotal rites which were cele-
brated here. Standing on the
shores of a beautiful lake, the.
waters of which reflected the mag-
nificent city of Crocodilopolis Ar-
sinoc immediately opposite, and
which was navigated by number-
less craft, and surrounded by palm-
groves and those gardens of fruits
and flowers for which the province
was celebrated, the Labyrinth oc-
cupied a position of great scenic
heauty, and. of political significance.
It was the great council-hall of Egypt.
Hither flocked the representatives
of the different nomes to the great
assembly of the nation; here con-
gregated the high priests to cele-
brate those great religious ceremo-
nies which, demanded the united
homage of the people. Here prob-
ably kings were crowned, laws were
made, great public works decided
upon, questions of war or peace
settle, — in a word, in this con-
geries of palaces, under the shadow
of the Pyramid, on the banks of
this vast artificial lake, which had
been adorned and beautified by the
taste and resources of successive
centuries, all the highest interests
of the nation were discussed in as-
semblies composed of the great
powers of the State — the king, the
priesthood, and the army. It is im-

possible to associate in one's mind
the crude brick rooms which are
still standing, or even the discoveries
of Lepsius, now covered with sand,
with all this splendour and magni-
ficence, vestiges of which must still
remain to reward the labours of the
explorer.

We returned to the village of
Howara by another road, approach-
ing the bluff upon the edge of
which it is built like a fortress,
through a grove of date-trees, and re-
embarked at a spot where an Arab
was working a most primitive ferry-
boat. It presented the appearance
of a straw raft with sides, and was
constructed entirely of bundles of
reeds ; one bundle being placed up-
right in the bows, round which the
rope was passed by means of which
it was worked, and which stretched
across from one bank to the other.
We floated back over the placid
waters of the Bahr Youssef in the
glow of the brilliant sunset, the
men keeping time to the lazy plash
of their oars with boat-songs, —
their choruses now measured and
dreamy, as though unable to resist
the somnolent influences which per-
vaded all nature — now wild and
fitful, as they put on a spurt, pro-
bably under the jtill more potent
inspiration of empty stomachs and
a pot of lentils in prospect.

The railway, which has its ter-
minus at Medinet el Fayoum for
regular traffic, is continued to the
Government sugar-factory at Abouk-
ser as an agricultural line; and
twice a-week during the cane-cut-
ting season, a waggon — it can scarce-
ly be called a carriage — is attached
for the conveyance of passengers. I
was glad to join a party consisting
of the Governor and two or three
native officials on a trip to the
factory, which is situated in the
vicinity of the Birket el Kurtln, or
"Lake of the Horn." It is not
much more than ten miles, as the

The Land of Kliemi.

[July

crow flies, to Aboukser ; but as the
difiference of level between the
plateau on which Medinet is situ-
ated and the lake is about 170
feet, and the descent becomes more
abrupt towards the end of the
plateau, the line takes a loug curve,
partly for the sake of an easier
gradient, and partly because it thus
traverses a wider extent of cane-
field — ^its whole length being thus
over fifteen miles. The train at
starting consisted only of the engine
and waggon, which might have
been a baggage - van with four
windows cut in it, and a divan
placed all round; but before we had
gone very far, we came upon a
couple of trucks filled with cane
standing on the line in the middle
of a cane-field. They were mere
iron cradles, their walls consisting
of long stalks of sugar-cane woven
into the iron so as to hold the cane,
which was cut into lengths from
two to three feet long. They
were attached in front of the
engine, which then moved slowly
along till we came to another batch.
These were almost empty ; but the
cane was piled on each side of the
line, and gangs of Arabs rapidly
loaded them, while we took ad-
vantage of the ^elay to water the
engine. This was performed in the
most primitive fashion by a couple
of sakkas, or water-carriers, who,
having placed a notched section of
a date-tree between the engine and
the ground to serve as a ladder,
laboriously filled the goatskins,
which are swung on their backs,
at a ditch by the side of the track,
climbed up the tree -ladder on to
the engine, and emptied their goat-
skins into the boiler : by the time
it was full the trucks were loaded,
and we went on again, pushing
about a dozen of them before us.
This operation was performed several
times, until at last there were at
least thirty loaded trucks ahead of
the engine. As may be imagined.

under these circumstances we never
attained a very high rate of speed ;
but we were not in a hurry, and
I was not sorry to traverse an en-
tirely new tract of country thus
leisurely, as it enabled me the
better to appreciate its rich luxu-
riance and still undeveloped capa-
bilities. The Fayoum contains, at
a rough estimate, about 250,000
acres of land, of which half belongs
to the Grovernment, and the remain-
der to the peasants and native pro-
prietors. Among these latter some
are very rich ; and one of my fellow-
passengers on this occasion had an
estate of about a thousand aeree,
on which he had built a handsome
country-house. He pointed it out to
me as we passed it about a mile
from the track, and invited me to
pay him a visit, an invitation which
I regretted I was unable to accept.
From all that I could learn, a well-
managed farm in the Fayoum may
be made a most profitable under-
taking. If the cultivation of the
sugar, cotton, and indigo, for which
it is eminently adapted, have not
proved so successful as they might
be, the causes are not far to seek.

There are no regular stations on
this line, but we stop ^* apropos
accordingly," as my coachman need
to say, wherever sugar-cane hap-
pens to be lying about We passed,
nevertheless, many thriving vil-
lages, most of them picturesquelj
situated on mounds, or on the edge
of one of the precipitous tcadies
which intersect the country, and
which form in places pretty wooded
glens through which brawl running
streams, while heavy palm-groves
throw their shade over alL Aft
leaving Siueru, which is a lar
village, with gardens of prick
pear, and a little grove of opnni
trees, the country begins to slo]
more rapidly towards the lake, at
the railway takes a wide curve pai
the villages of Agamieh, Kazle
and Bisheh, all lying to the le

1881.]

Part IL — The Labyrinth and the Lakes.

of the line, and connected with
each other hy dense groves of date-
trees. Of these, !Nazlet is the most
picturesquely situated on the Bahr
Nazlet, which in former times was
one of the outlets of the Lake
Moeris, and is now a ravine 250
yards hroad from bank to bank,
and 100 feet deep, which forms
quite a romantic and imposing
feature in the landscape. Near
Bisheh the line crosses the exten-
sive mounds of an ancient town,
covered, like those at Arsinoe, with
firagments of pottery, glass, bones,
brickbats, &c. ; but, unfortunately,
there was no sugar-cane at the spot^
so the train did not stop to enable
me to get out and examine it. In-
deed we had picked up all the
loaded trucks by this time, and
were rumbling along at the rate of
about ten miles an hour, followed by
a racing, scrambling crowd of boys
and girls, who rush out of the adjoin-
ing villages when the train passes,
to pick up the scatterings of Sugar-
cane which fall from the trucks.
For at least a couple of miles we
were thus pursued, old men and
women occasionally joining in the
race, and in their eagerness to
clutch the cane, rolling over each
other on the track. By this time
we have reached our lowest level:
to the left^ about five miles distant,
beyond a fiat, and in places marshy,
tract, the blue waters of the lake
glisten in the afternoon sun, and
rising abruptly from their western
margin are the Libyan hills, beyond
which stretches an unexplored and
desolate tract of the Sahara. In
strong contrast' with the wildness
Buid beauty of the scene, a row of
tall iron funnels or chimneys right
n front of us indicate our destina-
ion, and we pull up between more
iiles of sugar-cane, in an atmosphere
itiongly flavoured with the all-
pervading odour of molasses. On a
)lTiff about a mile to the right is
bhe village of Aboukser, while the

flat tract which intervenes between
us and the lake is an expanse of
cane-fields, through which radiate
branches of the agricultural railway
in all directions.

Unfortunately I was not well
enough to encounter the fatigue of
a ride to the lake and back, and
the boating and fishing expedition
on its waters which had been the
main object of my trip. Indeed I
had hoped to be able to visit the
ruins of Kasr Karoon, which are
situated at its south-western ex-
tremity, as well as those of Kasr
Kimroud just opposite, on the sum-
mit of the desert clifl^ and the ruined
walls of -which could be distin-
guished from Aboukser with a spy-
glass. There are no villages worthy
the name on the margin of the lake.
The fishing population are mostly
Bedouin Arabs, who live in tents or
hovels, and whose open undecked
boats are of a primitive unwieldy
description, without masts or sails,
redolent of decayed fish, and afl'ord-
ing, as I wa.s informed, a maximum
of discomfort in every way. I
afterwards met an old resident in
Egypt, and a distinguished Egyp-
tologist, who had camped for eight
days at the ruins of Kasr Nimroud,
and who described them as consist-
ing of gigantic mud -brick walls,
evidently those of an ancient fort-
ress, situated on a high plateau of
natural rock, an hour distant from
the margin of the lake, the road
leading to which was paved with
immense flags of stones on which
were visible ruts as of chariot-
wheels. But, curiously enough,
neither he nor any person at Abouk-
ser of whom I made inquiry, had
ever heard of Dimeh,. with its street
400 yards long embellished with
lions, and its ruined temple. Lep-
sius says it was marked on his map
as Medinet Nimroud, but he could
only hear of it by the name of
Dimeh, an experience which illus-
trates how easy it is for travellers

The Land of Kkemi.

[July

in these parts to be misled in
regard to nomenclature : it is sup-
posed to be the site of the ancient
Bacchis.

The ruins of Kasr Karoon are
much better known than those of
Dimeh or Kasr Nimroud ; but even
they would certainly repay further
investigation. Five miles beyond
Aboukser, on the same side of the
lake, is the village of Senhur, which
is situated on mounds indicating
the site of an ancient city of some
extent. Indeed there is every rea-
son to suppose that in former times
the edge of this plateau overlooking
the lake was crowned with a series
of towns inhabited by a large popu-
lation. In point of position and
surroundings, all the modern vil-
lages have a sort of family resem-
blance, and of these Aboukser may
be taken as a type. At the base of
the bluff was an extensive grove
of fine palm-trees, beneath which
sugar-cane had been planted; and
as I passed through it, the whole
population were out cutting it.
Men, women, children, camels, and
buffaloes were picturesquely grouped
under the shade of the tall feather-
ing trees in the cane-field, all noisily
at work; while through it curved
a canal abundantly supplied with
water that found its way to the
lower level by an artificial cascade
about forty feet high, which foamed
over a high dike that in former
times retained its waters in a lake.
After sketching so unusual an
object in Egypt as a waterfall, I
made my way to the top of it with
the view of examining the ancient
structure. The lake was now dry,
and its bottom served as the vege-
table garden for the vUlage; but
there was no question as to the
extreme antiquity of the solid ma-
sonry, which might easily be re-
paired if it was considered worth
while to reconstruct the reservoir.
Above it to the right rose the high
mound upon which the modem

village, looking almost like a fort-
ress, is built ; in rear of it are cac-
tus-gardens, and the usual waste of
brickbats and pottery, while here
and there the mud -brick walls
of an old house crop out, among
which I found a few fragments of
blue and green glaze, interesting
enough to carry away. From the
highest mound of debris a magnifi-
cent view is obtained over the lake,
with a rocky island in the mid-
dle, and the plain stretching away
north-east and south-west far as
the eye can reach. The Birket el
Kurfin is steadily stealing away
the good land from the country,
either submerging it altogether, or
impregnating it so abundantly with
salt as to destroy its value for all
purposes of cultivation. This arises
from the fact that owing to an ab-
sense of a proper surveillance of
irrigation in the Fayoum, about
three times more water is allowed
to run into the lake than the evapo-
ration can carry ofi^, as, owing to its
depression below the level of the
sea, it has no outlet. This water
might be advantageously employed
in irrigating land now unproduc-
tive for the lack of it. Instead
of its superabundance being thus
utilised, it is allowed to submerge
land which would otherwise be
available for cultivation ; and thus,
so far from being a benefit to the
country, it becomes an injury to it,
— besides which, whenever water is
allowed to stagnate in Egypt, it in-
filtrates for some distance beyond
its margin, and the effect is to cause
the saline qualities in the soil to
rise to the surface. Owing to this
double process of submergence an
infiltration, it is calculated tbi
about 10,000 acres which wouL
otherwise have been available fo
sugar, belonging to the Dair:
Sanieh alone, are practically lost
There can be no doubt that ai
immense tract of land could b<
reclaimed from the lake without

1881.]

Pui*t 11. — T7ie Labyrinth and the Lakes.

Yerjmach difficulty, which would
in ihe first instance be available for
rice, and by degrees become fit
for cane. More cane- land is much
wanted; for as it is, the sugar-
f^toiy can scarcely be made to pay
its expenses, owing to the want of a
sufficient quantity of cane, and in
some years it works at a loss. At
Masserah Edouddah, about three
hoars from Aboukser, there is a
large sugar- factory which is per-
manently closed owing to this
cause. Altogether, there are 76,000
seres of land in the Fayoum belong-
ing to the Daira Sanieh, which
might he largely improved by a
more careful rotation of crops, and
increased by reclaiming land from
the lake, and which no doubt is
capable of being made a magnifi-
cent and profitable property. Be-
sides the sugar-mill already alluded
to at Masserah, there is a fine cotton-
oil mill and gin at £dsa, not far
from Medinet el Fayoum, which has
not worked for two years ; and also
one at Tamyeh, on the north- east-
em margin of the province, which
is also standing idle. I^o doubt,
nnder the improved system which
is being introduced by the Com-
mission that now administers the
Daira Sinieb, the productive ca-
pacity of the property in the
Fayoum will be largely increased.
There are also 46,000 acres belong-
ing to the department of the Dom-
aines ; so that altogether there are
122,000 acres of Government land
in this province alone, the revenues
of which are hypothecated to for-
eign creditors.

About half a mile from the fac-
tory, towards the lake, is a grove
of date-trees overshadowing a house
of unusual pretensions for this part
of the country. I was introduced
to the proprietor of it, and found to
my surprise that he was the head
sheikh of all the Bedouin Arabs
on both sides of the lake. The

VOL. CXXX. ^NO. DOOLXXXIX.

idea of a Bedouin sheikh living
like a civilised being in a large
whitewashed two - storeyed house
was entirely new to me. He had
fortunately not yet adopted a white
waistcoat and lavender - coloured
gloves, but retained his native garb
in all its picturesqueness, which,
however, was composed of the most
costly material. His handsome
Arab horse was gorgeously capari-
soned, the bridle mounted with
solid silver ; and his groom carried
an old-fashioned rifle richly inlaid.
Though a man evidently mindful
of the effect of external show, and
somewhat of a ** buck " in his per-
sonal attire, he retained under all
circumstances an attitude of the
most calm and dignified politeness;
and it was impossible to judge
from the imperturbable repose of
his handsome features what was
passing in his mind. He was a
man about fifty years old, exercised
a controlling influence over the
Arab tribes for many miles round,
and was possessed of great wealth,
not merely in flocks and herd?, but
in land. The object of his visit to
the factory on the occasion when
I saw him was to be present at a
dispute between some Arabs and
some fellahiny the nature of which
also helps to illustrate how rapidly
the introduction of the appliances
of civilisation tends to change the
habits of the wild sons of the
desert. The whole party came up
and argued their case in the pres-
ence of the Moufettish, whose guest
I had become, for the Governor had
returned to Medinet. On the one
side were a group oi fellahin, the
bloody shirt of one suggesting that
he had got the worst of a recent
scuffle ; on the other, in marked con-
trast to these, with their haughty
and defiant demeanour, stood four
minor Arab sheikhs, all strikingly
handsome men, with flowing abeih
and creamy-white hcram^,
n

The Ltnd of Khemi.

[July

Between these angry disputants
was seated the Moufettish, and at
his side the chief sheikh, whose
rich apparel and impassive demean-
our I have already descrihed. The
villagers, it appeared, had contracted
with the Moufettish to cut a certain
amount of sugar-cane in a given
time, and had engaged a numher
of Bedouins to supply camels, and
otherwise assist in carrying out the
operation, — ^making, in fact, a suh-
contract with them, to which it
was complained that they had not
adhered, and had even heaten those
who ventured to expostulate. The
quarrel turned upon the amount
and nature of the work which prac-
tically had heen divided hetween
them, and I failed to follow its
intricacies sufficiently to know who
were in the right — probahly the
feUahiHy — hut certainly, when Be-
douin Arahs enter into contracts for
harvesting cane for a steam sugar-
factory, a change is coming over the
spirit of their dream. To watch
the eager and almost ferocious ex-
pression of their countenances as
they argued their case with "heast-
ly bellowings," and wild gesticula-
tions, it was evident that it would
take a long course of peaceful avo-
cations before the change went
beyond the spirit of the dream to
the spirit of the man. I afterwards
visited one of their encampments,
where the usual tents were supple-
mented with huts and enclosures
made of straw and cane-leaves ; but
they retained, nevertheless, their
general gipsy and nomadic aspect.

On my return journey to Medinet
the following day, I had the divaned
waggon all to myself, and we re-
versed the operation of our former
experience. Starting with a long
train of empty cane- trucks, we
stopped at intervals and dropped
them by twos and threes wherever
the cane had been piled, to be picked
up when the train went back the
next day.

We tried, one afternoon, an ex-
perimental ride on camels, with a
view of testing the merits of some
saddles from the Soudan, which,
we were assured, were especially
comfortable. The object of our
trip was to examine a prostrate
obelisk, distant about three miles.
The weather so far had been de-
lightful, the thermometer seldom
falling below 65° ; and the gardens
beneath our windows were redolent
with the perfume of roses — for
which the Fayoum was formerly
so celebrated — ^in full bloom. On
this afternoon, however, we had
scarcely started when the weather
changed, and before we reached our
destination, a cold wind set in,
accompanied by smart showers of
rain, which made the poor camels
shiver and tremble with anxiety
as they staggered slowly over the
smooth slippery mud. The ex-
perience was by no means agree-
able to the riders, as the prospect
of coming down headlong, camel
and all, is quite a different sen-
sation from that which one feels
under like conditions on horseback.
It seems scarcely possible to fall
from such a height withont the
certainty of breaking one's bones.
When at last we reached the village
of Biggig, we found our camel-men
did not know the way, and we had
to ask for a guide — a request which
resulted in the greater proportion
of the male population volunteering
their services and accompanying ns.
We had quite a difficult ride across
fields where there were no paths, and
numerous ditches had to be crossed,
before we found, half embedded in
mud and water, the two huge fraj
ments of this great monolith, or
of which measures 26^ feet, an
the other 16 feet 3 inches lon^
The face of the lower half, whicl
is covered with hieroglyphics, mea
sures 6 feet 9 inches at its lowe
end, and the sides are about 4 fee
in width. At the upper part o

1831.]

Part IL — The Labyrinth and the Lakes,

the face are five compartment9, one
over the other, in each of which
are figures of King Orsitarsen,
also known as Amenemhat I.,
offering to two deities. This obe-
lisk, which is of red porphyry, is
contemporaneous with the one at
Heliopolis, and was erected by the
same king, the second of the twelfth
dynasty, who reigned about 2440
years rc, and about 140 years,
therefore, before Amenemhat III.,
to whom I have already referred
as the creator of the Labyrinth
and the lake. It is evident,
however, from the existence of this
great monument, that the province
was highly esteemed before his
time; and the historical tradition
is probably correct which attributes
the reclaiming and conversion of
the Fayoum to Phiops, the Moeris
of the Greeks and Eomans, who
was the fourth king of the sixth
dynasty, and lived about 3000 B.C.
It is difficult to account for the
isolated position of this obelisk.
There is not a vestige of a ruin
nearer than Arsinoe ; and it must
either have been dropped here on
its way to that city, or posnibly
was an ornament to gardens which
were a place of resort. Had there
been a temple in the immediate
vicinity, it could scarcely have dis-
appeared without leaving a trace.
As it IB, the flat surface of the
black soQ is unbroken by any
mound or tumulus; nor are there
any fragments of granite or stone
in the neighbourhood. It differs
from other obelisks inasmuch as its
snmmit is rounded, and not pointed,
i^i in the breadth of its faces and
I es being so dissimilar. A groove
1 1 been cut in its apex, doubtless
t hold an ornament like that at
1 ;liopoli8. In the hieroglyphics
c the sides, the king is said to be
\ 3ved of Ptah and Mandoo, who,
i is snpposed, were the principal
( inities of the place. Whatever
I ^ be its origin and meaning.

there is something solemn and sug-
gestive in the aspect of this great
fractured block of history, traced
with the records of extreme an-
tiquity, and lying here neglected in
a bean-field, a mile from any human
habitation, an object of mystery
and awe to the ignorant peasantry,
and of speculation to ourselves,
which will probably never be satis-
fied. It, at all events, disposes
finally of a popular theory, that all
the pyramids were on one side of
the Nile and all the obelisks on
the other.

As we were neither of us in a
condition, so far as strength was
concerned, to walk back through
the mud and rain, our return jour-
ney on our lofty animals was not a
little perilous, the more especially
as darkness came on before we
reached home. Our way for the
most part was along the slippery
edge of a gully which cut through
soft country. Sometimes we took
refuge in the young wheat-fields, to
the intense indignation of the pro-
prietors, who shouted angry remon-
strances; sometimes we scrambled
down into the bed of the wady,
hoping to find safer travelling-
ground. At last, wet and tired,
after being four hours in the saddle,
instead of two, as we expected,
we reached the town just as our
anxious friends had sent out their
servants to look for us. After this
experience we were obliged to give
up our triptoBiahmu, a village about
four miles to the north of Medinet,
where the remains of two ancient
monuments exist, the nature of which
I was anxious to try and verify, as
it is still a matter of dispute.
Linant considers them the remains
of the pyramids upon which were
the statues of King Moeris and his
consort, which Herodotus indicates
as being in the middle of the lake.
Lepsius describes them as built out
of great massive blocks, the nucleus
of each of which is still standing,

Tlie Land o/Khemf.

[July

bat not in the centre of the almost
square rectangle which, by their
appearance, they seem to have ori-
ginally occupied. While Linant
makes these outside enclosures
"square," and Lepsius "almost
square," Murray's 'Guide* makes
them measure sixty -five feet by
forty-five. Lepsius believes that
their height was never greater than
it is now — viz., twenty-three feet —
to which must be added a peculiar
and somewhat projecting base of
seven feet. The foundations were
on Nile mud, and the inclination
of their angle 64", which is steeper
than that of ordinary pyramids,
and hence he concludes against
Linant Bey's hypothesis. On the
other hand, the lower stones bear
the traces of water — the Nile mud
may have been Lake Moeris mud.
There are no other remains within
the area of the lake, and the remains
of the dams would go to show that
they stood in its extreme north east
angle. The fact that they were not
ordinary pyramids, but rather pyr-
amidal pedestals for statues, may
account for the steeper inclination
of their angles. At all events, the
point is an interesting one, which a
more thorough investigation would
probably decide.

We should gladly have lingered
longer in the Fayoum had it been
in our power to take our tents and
camels and wander about in search
of the antique and the picturesque.
Unfortunately, our experience of
camel-riding had proved too fatigu-
ing, and we were obliged to substi-
tute another project, which, how-
ever, proved scarcely less agreeable.
We could not leave the Fayoum
without wondering at the neglect
of the tourist who has done Thebes,
and Luxor, and the Second Cataract.,
and is looking for more worlds
to conquer — of a region with so
many attractions, and so accessible.
The sportsman, the artist, and

the archaeologist will all find
their tastes gratified in this charm-
ing oasis. The Birket el Kar&n
ofTers, probably, better sport to the
angler than he would find else-
where in Egypt. In the thickets
in some of the ravines are to be
found wild boar; while lynxes,
wolves, jackals, ichneumons, and
hares are more or less abundant.
Pelicans, wild geese, ducks, t«al,
and water-fowl of different varieties,
frequent the marshy shores of the
lake. The antiquarian would find
Arsinoo, the Labyrinth, the Temple
of Kasr Raroon, and the ruins on
the western shores of the lake, foil,
not merely of interest, but of poa-
sible discoveries. At Senooris there
are the graves of the early Chris-
tians who are said to have been
martyred, and the peasantry have
no scruple in exhuming them to sa-
tisfy the curiosity of the anthropolo-
gist who desires to have a specimen
of an early Christian's skull, or the
curious coffins in which their corpses
were placed ; while the fortress-like
village of Tamiyeh, the thicket-dad
gorge of Fidimin, and the broad
precipitous trady at Nadet, would
offer subjects for the artist of a char-
acter not to be found elsewhere in
Egypt. It is true that modem no
less than ancient writers have in
some respects exaggerated the lax>
uriance of the Fayoum. One writes
of " a virgin forest," and of " orange-
trees as big as oaks ; " and another
of ''a plantation of opuntia, the
growth of which is so gigantic as
almost to resemble a forest," which
I happened to see, and which cer-
tainly fell far short of this descrip-
tion : but in spite of all this, the
can be no doubt that the Fayov
possesses a charm denied to ai
other section of the country, and i
brawling streams and verdant r
cesses will well repay the travel!
in search of " fresh fields and pa
tures new."

1881.]

The Private Secretary.— Fart IX.

THE PRIVATE SECRETARY. — PART IX.

CHAPTER XXIX

Hilda waited for a minute, not
to appear in a hurry, and to recover
from the agitation into which the
message had thrown her, and then
passiDg out of the office, walked
down the little passage towards
Clifford's room. As she did so,
Jane passed out by the outer door
with her bonnet and scarf on, as
if bound on an errand. Mrs Sim-
monds Hilda had not seen that
mormng,

Clifford rose from his chair as
she entered his room, and advanc-
ing, offered his hand, but without
betraying any excitement in his
manner, and, indeed, turning away
his eyes to avoid her glances. His
"Good morning, Hilda; pray take
a seat," was spoken in his ordinary
way, without any sign of emotion.
Hilda, for her part, felt calmer than
she had expected to be, and her
composure returned entirely when
he began to talk about her brother's
departurei inquiring with a friendly
interest into all the particulars.

And yet it was evident that Clif-
ford was not quite at his ease. His
calmness was simulated; he was
trying to lead the conversation
into another direction. At last he
changed it abruptly.

"What do you think of my
cousin, Hilda T'

He spoke as if in jest, but yet
watched her face eagerly to see how
she would take it.

'' Is that a fair question to ask 1 "
8 I replied. The tone of her voice
1 t a little scornful, but expressed
a « reproach and entreaty.

Hilda," he continued, rising and
t ing his stand before the fire-
{ %, the position he had occupied
( the day of her first visiti while

she was now just before him in the
chair, sitting in which she had writ-
ten her introductory essay — a day
separated from the present by a
few weeks only, yet which now
seemed a very long way off, —
''Hilda, I have something to tell
you which you ought to know. It
is not what you expect to hear, —
at least," he added in confusion at
his clumsiness, "I should say it
mainly concerns my cousin and my-
self. Hilda, the world believes nie
to be rich, and thinks me a fortu-
nate fellow; and, as you know, I
have been spending money freely
without let or hindrance. But I
am little better than an impostor,
so far at least as I have been im-
posing — on you. I have not even
a life -interest in my fortune. I
have only a temporary use of it,
subject to a certain condition, the
time for fulhlling which is now fast
approaching, and if I refuse to ac-
cept it, why, then, I am released
from my golden fetters, but I be-
come a beggar. Hilda, cannot you
guess what that condition is ] "

Hilda sat with folded hands and
eyes turned away from him, looking
straight in front of her, but a gleam
of joy passed across her face. She
understood what the condition was,
and could not doubt that he was
going to refuse it ; and for the mo-
ment the thought of the conse-
quences to him was hidden by the
sweet consciousness that the sacri-
fice would be made for her sake.

"Although this necessity," he
continued, " has always been before
me, ever since I first came into pos-
session of my income, it was pres-
ent only in a faint, indefinite sort
of way. The years passed on. I

The Private Secretary. — Part IX.

[July

heard nothing of my relatives, ex-
cept by report. Blanche's father
was reputed to be very rich; he
does not care to secure my money
for her, I thought ; my fortune ap-
pears insignificant to him; he is
not going to hold me to the bar-
gain ; we shall both be free. The
time approached when his part of
the conditions had to be acted on ;
when either they must come and
seek me out, or else in six mouths
more I should be free and my own
roaster. But I heard nothing of
them, and had hardly taken count of
the time that was so near at hand,
when suddenly — on that day you
must remember, the day you first
graced this room with your sweet
presence — I got the fatal news.
Blanche and her mother had ar-
rived in London.

"I could not doubt what their
purpose was. I remembered now
that there were just the six months
remaining before the completion of
the time specified in the will, which
were to be allowed me for making
my cousin's acquaintance. She and
her mother had come to seek me
out, according to the clause which
required them to do so. The other
side intended to fulfil their part of
the compact; I was challenged to
fulfil mine."

Still his listener made no answer,
but her face assumed a graver as-
pect.

"At one time," continued the
speaker, looking down, and speak-
ing in a low voice, " the condition
did not seem so very difficult. I
was heart-whole then. I tried hard
to fancy myself in love with my
cousin — you know how beautiful
she is — and I might perhaps have
succeeded, although I should never
have been so infatuated as to be-
lieve that she would return the
feeling ; but something came in the
way: you know what I mean. I
would not marry my cousin now,

supposing she would still care to
take me, even were I in despair at
not being able to gain what my
heart is set upon. Hilda, I don't
want to make much of the sacrifice,
such as it is. After all, there is not
much sacrifice involved in giving
up what costs too much to keep.
Biesides, it is only stripping myself
of what is adventitious about my-
self, that I can find out whether I
have gained that which alone I
prize, to be loved for my own sake.
Hilda," he continued, in a voice
hoarse with emotion, his words
coming with difficulty, "beggared
as I am, and with nothing but my-
self to offer, I shall deem myself
still rich beyond count if I have
gained that which I seek."

Still she did not speak. But he
needed no answer in words. Her
face was now turned upwards to-
wards his, and the frank loving
glance she gave him told him all.
It seemed to say that his sacrifice
should be repaid. This sweet and
tender creature, whose virtues and
graces he had come to know so
well, had given him her heart in
return for hie.

He longed to seize her in his
arms, to allow himself one lovei^s
embrace, but was kept back by the
knowledge that even yet she might
turn from him with horror. He
had not yet told her all. She
should not have cause to feel sul-
lied by even one kiss, till she gave
it of her own free will, knowing
all.

"But do you realise all that is
implied in this?" he continued, in
a low earnest voice, looking at her
fondly, but still standing in his < 'd
place. " It means absolute b< ;-
gary. I have not saved a shillir ^.
What an idiot I have been, to »e
sure, not to have put by my incoi le
while it was mine ! I should ha 'e
saved quite enough by this time i >r
my simple wants. But I went c 3,

1881.]

The Private Secretary.^ Part IX.

liying in a fool's paradise of vacu-
ity. Becaase my cousin and her
femily were abroad, I put off look-
ing my fate in the face. Something,
I thought, when I thought about it
at all, might turn up to alter the
coarse of things, something has
turned up. And now, haying drawn
a bill on futurity, it has to be met,
and I have not saved a shilling,
and am quite incapable of earning
my livelihood. Am I too to be
supported by your exertions ? And
where will you bestow themf
Where will you find another em-
ployer, when I am no longer able
to employ you myself) A pretty
pass I have brought things to, truly,
by my indolence and folly !'*

Hilda sat still, save for the nerv-
ous movement of her folded hands.
Her face was now turned away,
and she looked wearily before her.
The transient feeling of delight had
passed away — her heart was full of
love and pity and despair. She
could not say that he must not
make the sacrifice. She could not
counsel him to save his fortune by
the only way open to him ; yet the
announcement of his ruin crushed
out of her the joy of having gained
his love. Hilda was no longer a
romantic girl The stern ordeal
she had undergone had laid bare
only too clearly the grim hardships
of poverty. She could not say to
him, — Take me, and together we
will face the world. She knew by
bitter experience all the degrada-
tion and the mean shifts involved
in trying to live without means.
Poverty for gentlefolks, she knew,
meant duns and insolence to en-
>unter, and want of proper food
id clothing. She could not let
m burden himself with her.
ren her own means of living
smed crumbling away. And
mpared with the ills of actual
Terty, how small appeared the
mbles caused by mere family

jars! Her present home, once so
distasteful, looked like a haven of
perfect happiness compared with
the drear prospect now dimly
facing her. As these thoughts
coursed through her mind, she
could not find words of comfort or
consolation for her lover or herself.

Clifford still remained standing
silent and apart. Presently he said,
" There is yet one way of escape."

Hilda started and looked up at
him. Her bright glance gave him
hope.

" I have not told you all," he
said, " or rather, you have not yet
been able to infer all that is implied
in the position. Hilda, if you marry
me, you marry a beggar. And yet
that I should marry the one woman
who alone could avert beggary is
more than ever impossible, after
what I have learnt of your heart.
Now I am pledged to you for ever.
And oh, Hilda, dearest, think how
much is implied in this ! What a
change your presence here has made
in my life! Before you came to
light up the house, all was dull and
gloomy. I busied myself in a way,
but my life was really flat and in-
sipid — how much so I never fully
understood till now. I did my
day's task ; but it was a task. But
your coming here changed every-
thing. It was not the first day, or
the second, that the change came
about. Have I not said that till
lately my thoughts were turned
another way 1 But latterly I have
been wholly loyal to you as you
gradually took possession of me.
Do you know how I have listened
day by day for the sound of your
footstep on the stairs, as you came
to lighten up my gloomy house?
Every minute passed with you has
been happiness, as I came to know
you better and better. A husband,
I think, could not know his wife
better than I know you, and I have
dared to hope that the time might

The Private Secretary. — Purt IX.

[July

come when, instead of seeing yoa
for a few minutes in the day, and
making all these pretexts and pre-
tences for being with you, you
would not have to come and go,
but you would be here always,
mine by day and night — all reserve
between us removed : you mine
in everything, and I yours, to be
scolded and ordered about in your
own pretty way, and no question
of salary or gratitude between us.
Gratitude ! tlie gratitude would be
all mine. And then, perhaps,
while I grew fonder and fonder of
you — for my love would always in-
crease and never tire — you might
come to give me the same sort of
warm love in return. To think of
all this happiness, and yet to feel
that I am painting a picture of what
can never happen, unless **

Hilda rose by a sudden impulse,
and placing her hands on his shoul-
ders, rested her head against his
face.

" Can it be," thought the enrap-
tured lover, as he^ folded her in his
arms, *' that she really gives herself
to mel But there must be no
misunderstanding or mistake. Per-
haps even now, in her innocence,
she does not understand me. Lis-
ten, my dearest," he said, releasing
her and then taking her hands in
his, while he looked at her with
ardent glances, *' I have still some-
thing to say ; I have not told you
all. If I marry any one but my
cousin, every shilling I have goes
to her; but if I do not marry, I
have still something left, not very
much, but still something — enough
to live upon, — more than sufficient
for my modest wants.''

Hilda, whose face had been
averted while he was opeaking,
looked up at him now with a glance
in which joy and grief were blended.
** Then you are saved ! " she cried.
" Oh, Mr CUfford ! oh, Robert, I
am so glad, so very glad — for you."

Then she looked down again,
away from him.

'■' For me, Hilda ! Why for mo
only) Have you nothing to say
for yourself 1"

" I could not wish you to marry
your — where your heart is not
given," she answered, speaking
with difficulty, her modest eyes
still averted. '^ I am selfish enough
not to wish to see you married to
another woman — at least not just
now. But you are saved from ac-
tual poverty, and I know what a
dreadful thing that is. You will
live to get over your feeling for
me," she added, withdrawing the
hands which he had still been
clasping. "And for myself," she
continued, looking round at him
and trying to smile, " I must try
and be brave. I believe," said
poor Hilda, ^*I was not made to
be happy."

" But is there no other alterna-
tive 1" he cried, and his voice was
thick and hoarse with passion and
excitement. " We love each other;
we are both free ; we are both lonely ;
and you know me well enough to
trust me. HUda, darling, may we
not be united in heart and feeling,
and every real bond save the for-
mal one 1 Why should we be apart
when we might live together in
mutual trust and confidence f I
can know no happiness without
you, were I to live for ever."

Clififord had rightly guessed that
this proposal would not arouse in
his companion any outburst of in-
dignation. She must know him
well enough to be sure that he
would never subject her to any
outward degradation, and that
she gave herself to him there nee
be no loss of self-respect beyon-
what was inevitable in such a coj
nection. Still he could not 1
certain how the proposal would I
received, and as he finished speak
ing he looked eagerly towards he?

I88h]

The Private Secretary.-— Puiir IX.

to see what had been the effect
of his words.

Hilda's answer was given bj the
expression of her face. She did
not look at him, or speak, she only
shook her head sadly.

" Hilda, I implore you," he cried
passionately, " don't refose to listen
to me ; anything bat that. I have
frightened you, perhaps ; I have
heen too quick ; but I don't want
to harry you. I am too much in
earnest to care that you should
decide all at once. Take time over
it. Only don't say * no ' at once.
By heavens, Hilda ! " he cried, as
she made a gesture of dissent, '^ you
shall not refuse me. The happiness
of both of us requires that you
should listen to my prayer. The
sacrifice ia all on your side, I know ;
hut still, my great love must count
for something. By heavens, Hilda !
yoa must and shall yield to it," and
he rushed forward to seize her in
his arms.

But Hilda retreated a step back-
vaids, and stopped him with out-
stretched hands. *' Ko, Robert,
dear," she said tenderly, and with-
out expressing the fear she felt,
*'do not be unjust to yourself.
Remember that I am in your house,
and under your protection. Do
not be nnlike yourself."

"You are right, Hilda, as you
always are," he answered, dropping

his arms as she released them, and
standing ashamed and penitent
before her : " I feel that I am in
a false position in pleading before
you here. I wish I could have
spoken anywhere else, in some place
where we might be as equals.
Equals ! We can never be equals !
You will always be my superior.
You are as good and wise as you
aie beautiful. But you cannot sur-
pass me in the power of loving.
What can I say more to make you
hearken to mel"

Just then the sound of the hall-
door opening made them both turn
and look that way. It was one of
the servants coming in. The door
was shut again, and she could be
heard passing into the kitchen.

''There is no time to say more
now, Hilda," continued Clififord,
after a pause, ''but I won't take
your denial in this way, there is too
much involved in it. You shall
not commit yourself by saying any-
thing now."

But Hilda gave him a sorrowful
look, and opening the door, passed
swiftly out and sought her own
room. Clifford remained stand-
ing where she had left him for a
short time only, and then rushed
out of the house to find in exer-
cise an outlet for his pent - up
feelings. When he returned, Hilda
had gone.

CHAPTER XXX.

Hilda had time to regain her
composure before she set out home-
wards. And the prosaic scene of
le railway station served as an
Tectoal antidote to the emotion she
id just gone through. Indeed, as
e sat, one of several passengers in
e railway carriage, in the after-
K)n train down to Eainham, she
und it difficult to realise the
ene she had just gone through,

still less to take in the full import
of the change which had suddenly
been wrought in her life. But
feeling instinctively that there
would be plenty of time before her
to think over the past as well as
the future, she strove, and to a
certain extent effectually, to put
the present aside, and to keep her
thoughts closed to it Of one
thing she was very conscious : she

The Private Secretary. — Part JX.

[July

had always felt that the st range
situation in which she had found
herself was too unreal and artificial
to last. But now that the bubhle
had burst, she would at least live
on for a few hours with senses
dulled before indulging in the lux-
ury of grief, or applying herself
to the practical business of facing
the future.

She found no one at home but
Martha the maid. And now as
she sat down to rest awhile after
her walk from the station, there
was nothing to occupy her atten-
tion, or prevent her mind from
reverting to the events of the morn-
ing. But no ! If her thoughts
turned to Clifford, there would be
the danger of dwelling on the
sacrifice which he had made for her
sake. She must never allow her-
self to admit the possibility of
even considering his proposition.
She must strive for the present
to maintain her condition of men-
tal stupor, and rising, she went
down-stairs to help Martha to get
ready the evening meaL And
suffering Martha's tongue to run
on as the two worked together in
the little kitchen — an opportunity
which the honest maid took full
advantage of — she was able to keep
her own attention from dwelling on
herself.

The evening wore on, and still
her father did not come home. He
had gone up by the next train after
Hilda's, Martha said ; he told her
that he had an important appoint-
ment to keep in town. He was
looking quite smart, with a hand-
bag, and a beautiful bouquet of
flowers which the young man from
the flower-shop brought just as he
was starting. The young man
carried the bag for him to the
station. Just now Hilda missed
him more than she might otherwise
have done ; although she was sen-
sible of the comfort of being alone,

and that her father had of late been
less of a companion than every his
presence would have given her a
sense of protection of which in the
present state of her nerves she felt
the need greatly. She would not,
however, delay the serving of the
simple evening meal, knowing that
her father usually had plenty of
refreshment when making excur-
sions with his new friend. But
although she sent Martha to bed at
the usual hour, after the house had
been locked up for the night, sLe
sat up herself till after the last train
from town had come in without
bringing him.

Sound is the sleep of youth and
health, even when sorrow and care
sit on the pillow, ready to ob-
trude themselves when the sleeper
awakes. But it was not immed iate-
ly on waking that the events of the
previous day came back to Hilda's
recollection, and that she remem-
bered, too, that her father had not
come home. Then there retnined
to her the dull feeling that a great
calamity had to be faced, — that the
life which had of late been so
sweet was now ended, and the
future all drear and uncertain.
But for a little longer, at any rate,
would she put off facing the inevi-
table problem. It was Sunday;
for this day at least would she
keep herself from thinking how she
was to get food and clothing for
herself and her father, and what
must be done for little Arthur.
The sun was high in the heavens
when she awoke, and the morning
bright and warm, the fine summer
weather still holding on; and as
Hilda looked at herself in the glas^
she was fain to admit that cai
had not yet dimmed her eyes, o
robbed her cheek of its bloom. " I
it true," she thought, " that I ai
really as pretty as he says I am
But no ! that thought must be pv
away altogether. He has made i

1881.]

The Private 8ecretanj.--Part IX.

impossible for me to allow myself
to think about bim."

She was still at her toilet when
Martha came up, bringing a letter
which she said she thought was in
master's handwriting. It was ; and
HQda with a natural feeling of
anxiety, and divining by instinct
that it contained some important
announcement, sat down on the
edge of the bed to read it.

"My dear Hilda," it began,
" although extremely busy, I write
a hurried line to announce to you
my marriage this morning to the
lady who, you are aware, has lately
been engaging a large share of my
attention. I have been sensible for
some time that my children did not
value their father's society; they
can hardly be surprised that he
should seek for sympathy from the
gentle and appreciative disposition
of one who values him for his own
sake. Reasons which I will not
now go into rendered it expedient
to make the marriage a private on<>,
and to carry it out as speedily as
possible, to relieve Mrs Baker — as
my dear Mary Ann was called till
this morning — from the embarras-
sing situation in which she found
herself, and from the insidious ad-
dresses of designing persons, which
could be effectually repelled only
by a husband's protection. We
start this afternoon for Boulogne,
as Mary Ann has always bad a
great desire — hitherto ungratified
— to see foreign countries. And
our stay abroad will be a little un-
certain ; but I need not say that I
shall look forward to the earliest
opportunity of introducing my re-
maining children to their new
namma, and I am sure they will
^ve her a fitting welcome, as much
'>ii my account as on her own.
IToar step - mother is no longer
foang, and would not perhaps ap-
pear clever to you who have had

such advantages in the way of edu-
cation ; but she has an affectionate
and sympathising disposition, and
is most favourably disposed to-
wards you. I will just add that
our speedy nuptials having ren-
dered regular marriage settlements
impossible, I have not attempted to
control my Mary Ann's own dis-
position of her quarterly jointure ;
but I am sure you will feel with
me that there would be an obvious
indelicacy in suggesting an imme-
diate application to her purse, as
it has already had a heavy call ftr
the special licence. I am obliged,
therefore, to leave my little account
with you undischarged, but this I
am in hopes will not cause incon-
venience. After all, it is merely a
very remunerative investment of a
little capital. Should you be in
any temporary difficulty, I am sure
your generous employer would make
you an advance of salary. — In great
haste, ever your affectionate father,
"William Keid.
"P./8f.— I think of letting the
cottage, as the extreme quiet of
Rainham would never suit my
dear Mary Ann, who is fond of
excitement and cheerful society.
But of course you need not be in
any hurry about turning out."

Although the announcement sur-
prised her, coming so soon and so
suddenly, Hilda had not been able
to avoid the suspicion that her
father was meditating something
of the kind ; and it would be only
in accordance with his weak dis-
position that he should commit
himself privately in this way. Kor
was she blind to other points in his
character ; but the mingled feeble-
ness and heartlessness of the letter
came to lacerate anew a heart still
sore and craving for sympathy.
True, her father would have been
a burden and not a support, and
would have added to the difficulty

TJie Private Secretary, — Part IX,

[July

of bei penniless position; still it
would have been a real comfort in
her present forlorn condition to
have some one who knew her at
hand ; not to be so thoroughly
alone in the world as she now
seemed to be. Then unbidden
would come up the thought that
she need not be alone if she chose.
But no ! that thought mu&t be
sternly put aside. She must not
at any cost admit the possibility of
consenting to the proposal her lover
had made. Crushed and weary,
Hilda descended to the little par-
lour to her solitary breakfast. She
had not the heart, in reply to
Martha's inquiries what was the
news from master, to tell her the
whole truth ; she merely said that
he had gone to Fiance for a few
days, and it was not quite certain
when he would be back. But the
maid could see from Hilda's manner
that something was amiss.

^Now came the long day, and
Hilda afterwards remembered but
dimly how she got through it. The
bells were ringing for church, but
Hilda knew no consolation in that
direction. When living abroad
with her aunt and uncle they had
seldom attended any service?, and
at home there was the same neglect.
Hilda's family and Hilda herself
differed from a great many of her
own class merely in not making
any pretence of having any reli-
[;ion ; whereas the religious pro-
fession of such people is limited to
going to church once a-week, with-
out even pretending to pi ay when
there, as if their attendance was
rather a concession to public opin-
ion than of any efficacy in itself,
Hilda and the rest of the house-
hold, except Martha, with whom it
was the one holiday and excitement
of the week, never went at all.
Hilda could not find any consola-
tion in believing that she was
singled out for misfortune by the

goodness of Providence ; she conld
not fall back on any higher feeling
than a sense of duty. Just now she
felt unfit for any mental process:
she sat in the little drawing-room
looking out idly into the garden.

The day wore on, and, first time
for many days, became overcast.
The dull overshadowed afternoon
seemed to reflect her own condi-
tion, deserted as she was by all
her family. Harry would now be
nearly out of the ChanneL Even
Arthur had left her, and for the
moment the thought of the child's
happiness, contrasted with her own
desolation, struck her with a sense
of bitterness. But a healthier feel-
ing soon succeeded. Poor little
Arthur, his good fortune would be
but short-lived ! let him at least be
happy for a time. For him, too,
like herself, a change of life was
impending. Then, her thoughts
having turned to her little brother,
she began to feel a longing to see
him again. The sight of his loving
face would be some consolation in
her desolate condition. And why
should she not go and see him]
There would be a train to Rich-
mond in about an hour, and one
to bring her back in the evening.
Yes; anything would be better
than sitting here, and she was ris-
ing from her chair, when a sound
suddenly arrested her movement,
and she sank down helpless. It
was the sound of a footstep, heard
. plainly in the still summer after-
noon — a step she would have re-
cognised anywhere, ifow it stops
at the gate, and as Clifford entering
the garden, walked up the path,
Hilda, so firm yesterday, sits as f
paralysed, unable to stir.

Clifford saw her as he advanced
and that she was alone. It wai
merely a step from the garden int<
the room by the open window.
Another, and he was standing be
fore her.

1881.]

The Private Secretary. --Part IX.

She could not refuse the hand of
greeting which he held out, and
something in his manner reassured
her. He had recovered his com-
posure, and it was plain that he
was desirous of effacing the im-
pression created hy his conduct of
ihe previous day. Clifford, indeed,
had come resolved to place a strong
control over himself, and strove
hard to efface all appearance of the
lover. He hardly touched the
fingers which she gave him, and
did not even confront her eyes
with his, as he seated himself
opposite to her, and striving to
appear unembarrassed in manner,
asked if her father were at home.
Hilda replied that he was away,
hardly^ — she scarcely knew why —
liking to make the avowal. ''I
am come," he said presently, "to
find out something about which I
am uneasy. I have been a little
anxious lest you should not return
to yonr duties to-morrow, but I
would not wait till to-morrow to
l^'am your intention. How is iti
You did mean that, I see. Well,
then, it is best to have the matter
out with you. You know, of course,
that you are not at liberty to break
off without due notice, and equally,
of course, that I should not place
the matter on that ground. But I
want you to consider what is right
and proper, apart from considera-
tions of my convenience, although,
of course, it would be extremely in-
convenient to be without the ser-
vices of my secretary."

He said this in something like
his old playful tone, which re-
assured her still more. "I shall
* very sorry indeed to put you
3 inconvenience," she replied ; " I
Duld do anything rather than
lat — that is, anything possible."
Tere she stopped, in confusion.
bis was not at all how she ought
have received him.
"Never mind my conveni»'nce,''

he replied. I want you to con-
sider the thing from a business
point of view, although I should
never forgive myself if I drove
you to lose or give up your situa-
tion. You are clever enough for
anything, of course ; but you know
how difficult it is to find suitable
employment, and you have not
only yourself to consider, there is
your father."

" My father is provided for," she
said, sorrowfully; "he was married
this morning." She had the letter
in her hand, and held it up as she
spoke by an involuntary movement,
of which she at once repented, as
well as of her speech, when she
saw the eager and triumphant ex-
pression of his face. It was mo-
mentary, however. Clifford recov-
ered his composure at once.

"This is surely unexpected?"
he asked. " Come, Hilda, tell me
something about it ; I can see that
the news has been a surprise."
And Hilda in a few words made
him acquainted with the facts.
She could not help this, although
she felt instinctively that she ought
not to make a confidant of him,
he was so full of interest and
aympathy ; and her manner of tell-
ing the brief tale, betrayed the pain
caused by her father's conduct.

"He has not treated you well,
certainly," Clifford observed ; " but
I cannot see that it is a bad thing
on the whole;" — to him, indeed,
the news was delightful — "one
heavy burden is removed from you ;
but you have still to support your-
self, if you are quite resolved about
leaving your present employment.
Have you thought how this is to
be done 1"

"I suppose I shall go out as a
governess. I ought not to have
much difficulty in finding a sit-
uation."

"True," replied Cliff'ord; and
his heart sank as he recognised the

The Private Secrdari/.—Purt IX,

[July

feasibility of this. "But what
will you do wiih Arthur? You
have him. still on your hands 1"

Both of them by tacit agreement
seemed to put on one side the sup-
position that Captain Reid would for
the present provide for any one but
himself.

"No, you have not," he con-
tinued. "I am only joking, of
course ; you know me well enough
to be sure that I am not likely to
want to forego the responsibility
I have undertaken for him. You
can't want your little brother to
suffer on your account; you must
be satisfied to let him continue to
be my charge. Nor can you help
my continuing to pay you your
salary until you are able to support
yourself. Now, surely, you will
not be satisfied to hold this posi-
tion? If our old relations are to
be broken off, let us at least con-
sider how we stand as a matter of
business. Remember that you are
still my secretary till the engage-

ment is formally concluded. Come,
Hilda," he continued, noticing the
effect of his words, "you see that
I am my sober self again, and you
are a woman of sense if ever there
was one ; come and take a walk,
and let us discuss the thing in a
business-like way. You have not
been out to-day, I see; a walk
will do you good."

Hilda caught gladly at this ; she
would feel freer and safer in the
open air; and rising from her chair,
she went up-stairs to get her hat.
No other preparation was required
on this sultry day, and she came
down directly. "But you had
better bring an umbrella/' he said,
as they were passing out of the
little hall, "for it looks like rain ;
let me carry this one for yon.
This is the Captain's, I suppose;
he has had so much to think of
he has forgotten to take it with
him." Hilda smiled; it was the
first smile she had given him, re-
minding him of her old self.

CHAPTER XXXI.

They passed down the lane to
the river, and then took the tow-
path by the bank. There were a
good many people strolling along
it, dressed in their Sunday clothes,
and several boats on the water.

The bells of Eainham church
began to ring for afternoon ser-
vice.

"Hilda," observed Clifford, "you
never go to church ; you are like
me in that respect. You have been
baptised, no doubt, but you are not
practically a Christian. Only there
is this difference between us ; I am
an unbeliever because I can't help
myself; you are one, just as so
many others are, because you have
never thought about the matter
one way or the other."

Hilda looked up at him to see

what he meant, without replyinj,
and he went on —

" I don't scoff at Christianity, be
it observed ; I wish I could believe
in it, I should be happier and bet-
ter. And I am not in the least
proud of my unbelief; I sim ply-
feel an incapacity for belief — that
is, for dogmatic Christianity as
generally accepted. And very sony
I should be to see the rest of my
countrymen sharing my opinions.
It would be an evil day for Eng-
land if ever that came to pass ; fo
whether Christianity be true o
not, I am sure it makes the world
better and happier. The workinj
classes, it is true, have most oj
them no religion to speak of, but
they get the benefit of the reflected
Christianity of other people ; and

1881.]

Tlie Private Secretary. ^Part IX,

that, and the arm of the law, keep
them in order, otherwise we should
be in had case. My friends the
Bryants are jast like yon, except
that they go to church on Sunday
mornings, when it is fine, as a sort
of fetich, and to avoid scandalisicg
their neighhours; otherwise they
are perfect heathens, and never
give religion a thought from one
week's end to the other. But they,
too, get the benefit of other people's
Christianity : the rector dines with
them frequently, and the curate
comes to lawn- tennis almost every
afternoon. The girls are very nice,
bat they would be nicer still if
their condact was guided by some-
thing higher than mere custom
and convention. So that, you see,
HUda, feeling for you as you know
I do— I shall not frighten you by
saying so much — I should admire
you still more if you were a re-
L'gioos woman, and I should be
glad to see you different in this
respect, under ordinary circum-
stances. Just now I am selfish

enough ^"

He stopped speaking here, as
they were just passing a man and
his wife sauntering {Jong with a
family of children, the man carry-
ing a baby. After they had passed
this party, their attention was
diverted by a steam-launch coming
np the river at a great pace, and
making a great wash. It was just
passing a man in a skiff. Some-
body called out that the skiff
wocdd be swamped, and they stop-
ped involuntarily to see the result.
The skiff escaped, and thoy con-
tinued their walk. Then he began
^in.

"Have you ever thought how
iriously the marriage ceremony
iries in different countries and
aong different peoples ? "
"Robert," said Hilda, with down-
st eyes, speaking for the first
me, and hurrying her steps in-

stinctively, " to what purpose is all
thisl"

" Why, surely, my meaning must
be plain. In all and each of these
cases the ceremony is nothing in
itself. It is of importance only as
it gives the wife and husband cer-
tain rights, and prevents the hus-
band from ill-using or deserting the
wife. In many countries there is
nothing solemn, still less sacred,
about the institution in itself. The
religious part of the ceremony is a
mere tag to the legal contract, and
doesn't render it at all more bind-
ing. The religious sanction has
value only for the religious. The
marriages best observed, as those
of the patriarchs, were not cele-
brated by any formalities at all.
The tie in that case was one of
simple confidence. And nothing
can be more matter-of-fact than an
English marriage before a registrar.
If all men were good and kind and
honest, there would be no need to
bind them by legal ties — the bond
of love and honesty would be suflS-
cient. Such a man would not need
a legal bond to make him true and
faithful to the woman who had
given him her confidence."

"There is a storm coming," in-
terrupted Hilda, looking up; "I
think we had better be turning."

Clifford, too, looked round him.
The sky had grown blacker, and
just then a flash of lightning and
the roll of thunder proclaimed the
approach of the storm. . Hilda
turned, and he was fain to turn
too, and they began to walk home-
wards.

"Because you make me cut short
what I have to say, Hilda," he said
presently, " it is, I hope, that you
understand my meaning, and will
listen to my prayer 1"

" Oh, Eobert," she replied, in a
tone of distress, and again hasten-
ing her steps, "why speak any
more of what can never be?"

The Prioate Secretary. — Port IX.

[July

Clifford did not answer her at
once. They were again overtaking
the family they had passed before,
and were themselves overtaken by
others hurrying home: they were
not sufficiently alone for him to
pour out the fulness of his heart.
Now they came to the lane which
led up from the river to Hilda's
cottage, unoccupied, as they turned
into it, by any save themselves.
He stopped, and taking her hand,
made her stop too.

"Hear me out, Hilda dear," he
said, in a low yet earnest voice.
*' My happiness is so bound up in
you that I cannot let you go till
you have heard my whole case."

"Dear Robert," said Hilda,
pleadingly, " why go on this way 1
Why set your heart on what you
ought to know is impossible 1 ''

"But why is it impossible? If
you were surrounded with friends
and relations, who would take the
conventional view, and deem you
disgraced by coming to share my
fortunes, do you think I do not
love you too well to ask you to
do what would lower you in their
eyes? It is because you are alone
in the world, like myself, and worse
than alone, with worthless relatives
from whom you should be glad to
escape, and having only yourself to
think of, that I ask you to make
me happy, and yourself happy too.
For I believe you love me a little,
though not as I love you. Come,
Hilda, it is not such a dreadful fate."

Hilda, with averted eyes, shook
her head sadly.

" Then perhaps it is that you do
not love me after alii And I have
befooled myself and persecuted you
for nothing 1 "

Hilda looked at him gently and
sorrowfully. "You know it is not
that, Robert: you have my whole
heart; why not be satisfied with
that, and let me go, thinking the
best of mel"

"There it is. I want to think
the best of you ; to think of you as
gentle, and loving, and trustful."

"But you would despise me,
nevertheless ; not just now per-
haps, but by -and -by, when your
fancy "

" Fancy ! Hilda, is this the way
you jest with my love? You can-
not be in earnest to speak like tba^
You know that I am not light and
fickle. If I thought it possible
that the time should ever come
when I should love and cherish
and respect you a whit less than
if you were my wedded wife, why
then, dearly as I love you, I would
not ask for you. But you know
there is no fear of this ; you know
that you can trust me. You know
in your heart that I should show
my sense of your sacrifice by greater
and fuller respect."

" But I could not respect myself.
Please let me go, Robert," she
added, trying to withdraw her
hands.

"There you are again," he cried
eagerly, and still holding her, "with
your conventional notions. A wo-
man sells herself to a man she is
indifferent to, or even despises, and
because the sale of her person is
legalised, and made the subject of
a religious ceremony, forsootli, per-
formed over the contract, it is hon-
ourable and respectable. This, if
you like, is a mere concession to
the requirements of society — some-
thing to be ashamed of — legalised
dishonour, which goes on every day.
If my cousin had sold herself to me,
as she was minded to, and I had
bought her, there would indeed
have been real loss of self-resper ;.
Marriage without love must alwa s
be immodest and disgraceful, if y< a
look at the thing rightly ; but tbe^ e
will be nothing to feel shame f r
in such a union as ours, based c i
mutual love and confidence."

The lightning flashed round thei i,

1881.]

The Private Secretary. — Part IX,

And the peals of thander came nearer
and louder. Hilda looked round,
anxious and scared.

"Ifay," said he, releasing her
hand, ^*if you fear the storm, Hilda,
I will not detain you ; but you are
close at home; there is time to gain
shelter if the rain comes. But oh,
Hilda, do not cast me off rashly !
Think how much is at stake for
both of us ! I will not persecute
you or come again. I will take my
answer now ; but oh, pray, be wise
and kind — do not crush all hope
out of me ! We should be so happy
together ; we shall be so miserable
apart! Again, I say, I know and
appreciate the sacrifice I ask you to
make j but if you love me as I love
yoQ, you will not esteem the sacri-
fice too great."

''But I am not alone," pleaded
Hilda, "there is my brother; think
how he would despise me when he
grows up."

"What would he know about
it?" said her lover eagerly, her
hesitation raising an ecstatic throb
of hope in his breast ; '' we should
he as man and wife in his eyes,
as we should be before the world.
Who would know our secret ? We
should not stay here, of course ; we
would go away abroad, to America,
anywhere, so long as we were to-
gether : but we would take Arthur
with us; the boy would look on
me as a brother."

"But have you thought," said
Hilda, blushing, ''that there may
be others whose disgrace would

follow from — from their ".

" Their mother ? Hilda, darling,
do you think that I have not
chought with rapture that you might
be the mother of my children]
fou speak of disgrace ; but where
Tould they be worse than their
atherl Hilda, is it possible you
lo not know that I am an illcgiti-
nate son myself] But ah! how
lifferent was my case ! Eeally

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCLXXXIX.

born in shame; the mother kept
away and visited in secret, the son
never publicly acknowledged, and
brought up under an assumed name !
Why, then, should I care for the
conventions of society ? With you
it is different ; and yet the sacrifice
is not all on one side. I still keep
part of my fortune although re-
nouncing my cousin; that is, so
long as I do not marry before her,
I am legally entitled to it. But do
you not see that in proposing such
a union with you as I have dared
to build my happiness upon, I feel
myself to be taking advantage of
a mere quibble? I should be in
my own eye retaining everything I
could wish for, yet practically evad-
ing the conditions of the will. I
say nothing of the sacrifice of the
bulk of my fortune, and with it the
abandonment of all my schemes of
life, because, even if I had never
met you, I think the condition of
marrying my cousin would have
been too great a price to pay for
keeping it ; but it is something for
a man who is perhaps a little sen-
sitive on such points to feel for the
rest of his life that he is holding
the property which he does retain
on terms which do not appear
honourable to himself."

Hilda turned her face towards
him for an instant. He thought
he could detect a look of uncertainty
and hesitation. Could it be that
he had convinced her at last, and
that she was yielding ]

There was silence for a minute
while he stood eagerly scanning the
expression of her now averted face.
It was first broken by Hilda,

Her reply, undeceiving him,
dashed away his hopes. " You
speak of sacrifices," she said, sadly ;
" I cannot vie with you in nobility
of aim, but think at least of what
I am sacrificing too for what you
must know to be right. I say
nothing of myself, and what I am

The Private Secretary.— Part IX.

[July

giving up, and no doubt I shall be
able to earn a living in some way ;
but is it nothing to have deprived
my poor little brother of so good a
friend r'

" But you have not deprived
him," cried Clifford. " Do you sup-
pose for a moment that I would
allow any consideration of your
material comfort to affect your de-
cision? that I would tempt you
with the prospect of a life of ease
combined with what you persist in
thinking to be vice on the one side,
contrasted with a life of want and
hardship combined with virtue on
the other ? Vice and virtue indeed !
I did think that you would rise
superior to such conventions. No,
Hilda, whether you take me or not,
half my remaining small fortune is
yours in any case ; and a part goes
on to your little brother Arthur if
you die before he is grown up and
started in life. So much is settled
in any case. The deed is not
actually drawn, but the lawyers
have got my instructions. So you
cannot escape out of the difficulty
in that way, consoling yourself with
the belief that you have purchased
the unhappiness of both of us by a
great sacrifice. There is only one
sacrifice asked of you, or possible for
you, such as it is, to me a priceless
bounty — the gift of your own sweet
self. Hilda, dearest, surely you
will never refuse me this 1 "

As he finished speaking, the dark
clouds above them were suddenly
loosened, and poured down a deluge
of rain. Hilda stood irresolute for
an instant and then ttirned towards
the house.

" Yes, that will be best," he said,
hastily; "you must not stay here
to get wet. Here, come under this
shelter," and he opened the umbrella
and held it over her.

A few steps brought them to th»
garden-gate. He opened it for her,
and she passed in, and then turned
round towards him as he was about
to follow.

" No," he said, as if divining her
intention to stop him. "I don't
want to come farther with you to-
day. Give me only one little word
of comfort, Hilda, and I will leave
you and hurry off to make ready
for taking you away to new and
happier scenes. Only one little
word, Hilda darling," he added,
but in a less hopeful voice, notic-
ing with alarm the set expression
of her face.

"Oh, Kobert," she said, sadly,
"I thought before you came that
I could not be more unhappy than
I was j but you have made me far
more wretched now. You will be
angry with me now, and think me
hard and cruel ; but in time to come,
perhaps, you will judge me more
kindly, and say that I have done
right."

"I see what it is," he cried,
bitterly, " I have been mistaken in
you ; you do not really care for me
as I do for you. It is easy to take
this high tone where the heart is
not in question."

"Eobert, Eobert,'^ pleaded the
poor girl, "why say such cruel
things]"

"Cruel! It is you who are
cruel. What sort of love is this
which wants all the sacrifice to
be on one side? Farewell then,
Hilda, since farewell it must be.
I thought you to be soft and sweet
and loving, but I have been carried
away by my own fancies. You are
really hard and selfish. You requir
everything from me and will giv
nothing in return." And he strode
away in the storm, and turning the
corner of the lane, was lost to view.

1881.]

The Private Secretary.— Part IX,

CHAPTER XXXII.

" And I let him go," was her first
thought, "without taking the urn-
hrella, and he will have to sit in
the train all the way to town,
drenched to the skin ! So delicate
as his chest is too ! AVell might
he call me selfish;" and even in
her distress Hilda could not help
smiling at the turn her thoughts
had taken. But soon there came
hack in aU its bitterness the recollec-
tion of what had passed. She had
parted for ever from her one true
friend, — her faithful, devoted, un-
selfish lover, who had sacrificed
wealth, and habits and pursuits,
and cherished aims, all for her.
And she would give him nothing
in return ! And she went over and
over i^in the particulars of the
long meeting. Of course she had
done right. But she could now
measure the full extent of what it
had cost her. Yet after all, what
was the loss of happiness to her
compared with his loss? She had
won his heart and wrecked his
fortunes. If she had not crossed
his path, this blight would not have
fallen on him. Then she thought
what a noble nature her lover pos-
seted, although he was unreason-
able in this one respect — on the
mixture of simplicity and shrewd-
ness in his character; his playful
ways and his serious aims; his
true politeness, and, better still, his
generous, sympathetic heart. He
had been the benefactor of her
family, their saviour from want.
He had lifted one brother out of
khe mire and set him on a clean
^ay ; the other he would preserve
rom going astray, and bring up to
n honest and happy Ufe. Of her
le asked only one thing in return,
md that she would not give him.
)he would shipwreck his happiness
o save her own. No, not her own ;

there could be no more happiness
for her; she must in any case be
miserable. And yet he wanted to
continue his kindness to her and
her brother. That, of course, was
impossible. She could not accept
any further favour from him, not
even on Arthur's account. But
will it be right to refuse it for the
child? Is Aithur, too, to be sacri-
ficed for me % Kobert and Arthur
— both to be sacrificed to my
scruples ! He says his life will
have been shipwrecked by my re-
fusal; his fortunes have been al-
ready. In any case the greater
sacrifice is on his side. Poor
Eobert ! How can I prove my
gratitude and devotion ! He would
not respect me any longer, of course,
if I do what he asks, although he
thinks otherwise now. I should
be degraded in his eyes as well as
in my own, and he would soon
come to feel this himself. But
then this would be all the greater
sacrifice. And is it not the woman's
part to sacrifice herself for those
she loves 1 Have not I been doing
this ever since I came home 1 Has
not my self-respect been lowered
already, through no fault of my
own 1 It will be merely one step
lower from what I used to be. How
changed I must be already ! Poor
Bobert ! And this, he says, would
make him happy. Am I truly as
heartless and selfish as he says?

In self- communings and retro-
spections of this sort she passed
the sleepless night, to get up hag-
gard and weary in the morning.
" If I go on changing at this rate,"
thought the poor girl, smiling
sadly, as she looked at herself in
the glass, " Robert would not care
to press his suit for long. Poor
Robert ! he, too, looked changed.
He was not like himself to speak

(

The Private Secretary, — Part IX,

[July

80 harshly — and I am the cause.
He haa done everything for me and
mine, and I do nothing for him.
I must ruin him, or let myself be
ruined."

That afternoon Hilda paid a visit
to Miss Pasco's school The boys
were gone out with the governesses
and the sergeant to play cricket in
the park, the servant said — Miss
Pasco was at home; but Hilda,
shrinking from a meeting with her,
left word that she would call again
later, and went off in search of
Arthur. The party was soon
found, the noise made by the little
fellows being a ready guide to the
spot where they were assembled.
AH were in high spirits, and all
talking together at the top of their
shrill voices. A game of cricket
was going on under the superin-
teiidence of the sergeant, but the
fielders were not very steady, and
the younger children were playing
apart, near to where the two gover-
nesses were sitting at needlework
on a bench. Hilda was close upon
Arthur before he saw her. His
delight at her coming was as great
as on the occasion of her first visit
to Slaye. But there was no shed-
ding of tears now — ^no pent-up feel-
ings now burst out at the sight of
the dear sister. Arthur was full
of talk about the school and his
school-fellows, and Miss Pasco, and
Miss Playfair, and Miss Palmer,
and, his first shyness having worn
off, was full of childish praise about
everything connected with the
place. And Hilda, with a keen
recollection of the dismal appear-
ance the little fellow had presented
at his last school, watched his happy
face with mingled feelings of pride
and self-abasement.

The two had been taking a walk
together, and were now approach-
ing the house. " So, Arthur, dear,"
said his sister, stopping before the

gate, " you would not like to leave
Miss Pasco, who is so kind to you,
and to go back to school at Slaye 1 "

Arthur did not answer in words,
but his face changed, and he gripped
his sister's hand convulsively, by
way of answer.

" But suppose, Arthur dear, that
I could not find the money to go on
paying for you here, without being
dishonest ) "

" Do you pay for my schooling)"
he asked, looking up inquiringly at
her. '^ Miss Pasco said the gentle-
man who brought me here paid for
me, and that it was evident he was
very sweet on somebody. I heard
Miss Pasco tell Miss Palmer so.
Who is he sweet upon! Miss
Pasco said she was a very lacky
girl. What girl did she meant"
pursued Arthur, innocently.

"Yes, dear. It is quite true
that the gentleman pays for your
schooling now. He saw that you
were unhappy at Mr Brake's, and
so, being very kind and noble-
hearted, he took you away and
brought you here where you are
so happy and well cared for. Bat
supposing, Arthur dear, that your
staying here required that I should
do something very wrong — some-
thing that would make respectable
persons like Miss Pasco thiiik ill of
me, and turn away from me ; yon
would not wish to stay here if you
had to be ashamed of your sister,
would you, dear ? "

Arthur looked at her with a
frightened air, her manner was so
serious. " Are you going to take
me back to Mr Brake's again?" he
asked, and burst into tears.

Hilda had some ado in getting
him to stop crying. The terror o\
what he had undergone at Slaye
was still fresh on him, and it re>
quired repeated assurances from his
sister that he should not be taken
there again before he was com-
forted.

1881.]

The Private Secretary, — Paii: IX.

"You would not forgive poor
Hilda, then, Arthur, if she were to
be the means of your going away
from this nice school again % "

" I should like to go home with
you still better than being here, of
course," replied the child; "but
the holidays will be here very
soon."

" But I may not have a home to
take you to. Papa has gone away,
and his coming back is uncertain ;
and I don't think he will be able
to have you with him when he does
come back ; and I may not be able
to keep up the house by myself.
But Miss Pasco will make you very
happy if you should have to stay
for the holidays, I am sure. She
tells me she has three or four little
boys from India, who spend all
their holidays with her. It will be
very nice having some other boys
to play with, won't it ? At home,
you know, you have no compan-
ions."

Arthur did not dissent from
these propositions, but his face tes-
tified to the higher appreciation he
set on life at home, even without
playmates of his own age.

" And now good-bye, dear," con-
tinued his sister, stooping down to
embrace him. " And, Arthur dar-
ling, if, by-and-by, when you grow
up to be a man, you should hear
people say that your sister was not
as good as you thought her to be,
will you promise to remember that
what she did wrong was done partly
for your sake, that you might get

good schooling, and grow up wise,
and good, and clever? You will
promise to love her still, won't you,
and not to look coldly on her or
forsake her ? "

The child made no answer in
words. He could not understand
his sister's mood, that she, to whom
he was accustomed to look up as
the embodiment of all that was
good, and kind, and powerful, should
be asking his pardon and depre-
cating his scorn. All he could
understand was that she was going
away now, and that perhaps he
would be left at school for the
holidays ; and that she was unlike
her usual self, and unhappy about
something. His sister's tearful
eyes, too, were contagious : he lifted
up his voice and wept as Hilda,
giving him one more embrace, rose
from her knees, and bidding him
tell Miss Pasco that she would not
be able to return to call on her
as she had promised, opened the
garden-gate for him to enter and
passed quickly away.

Next day, as Clifford was sitting
disconsolate in his study after
breakfast, among the letters brought
in to him from one of the morning
deliveries was a small one addressed
in the well-known handwriting. It
contained merely these words : —

" Come back, and you shall no
longer have cause to reproach me
me with being hard and selfish.

H."

A French Lady and her Friends.

[Jnly

A FRENCH LADY AND HER FRIENDS.

A MBLANCHOLT cry has been
raised in France, **Le3 salons se
meurent — les salons sont morts;"
and as with their decay " Tesprit
s'en va," as with them many of
the pleasant ways of the sociable
French monde must disappear,
regrets are loud and deep over
their loss; and the few that are
still left are spoken of tenderly,
reverently almost, as we speak with
bated breath of one expiring 'midst
gracious and loving memories.

A little book,* published in the
beginning of the year, gives the
simple and unaffected description
of the elements of one of those
charming sanctuaries of the old
" esprit gaulois " of the " art de
causer," — one of the last retreats
where literature, poetry, music,
painting — where, in a word, talent
of every kind flourished under
the sympathetic reign and rule of
a miniature queen, known to her
subjects under various friendly ap-
pellations, such as **La F^e" to
some, to Musset as "La Marraine,"
and to the general public as
Madame Jaubert, the wife of a
Conseiller k la Cour de Cassation.

The small — very small — fair, and
fragile hostess who gathered around
her, in closest intimacy, such men
as Heine, Musset, Delacroix, Ber-
ryer, Rossini, Bellini, and Mario,
possessed those special and mag-
netic qualities of attractiveness and
charm which, more than beauty and
powerful intellect, are needed to
wield the sceptre of government in
a salon.

The Chevalier d'Aydie compared
Madame du Defifand's esprit to
the nature of a well -trained dog

which is always sure to raise plenty
of game ; and this, a friend of ours
has said or written, ever seems the
most appropriate definition of a
good maitresse de maison. For the
hostess should not herself shine
so brilliantly as to put out any
lesser lights surrounding her, her
task and pleasure being to show
them off according to their respec-
tive powers and merits ; moreover,
she should be endowed with a gift
of foresight and prophetic judg-
ment, enabling her early to discern
the qualities, and to cultivate the
friendship, of such celebrities as
those who illumined Madame Jaa-
bert's circle, and who gave her, till
their life's close, the homage '' d'un
culte passionn^ment amiccd."

Years have now passed since the
palmy days of Madame Jaubert's
salon ; and most of those who met
there, and whose delicate reparties
and intimate communings have
been discriminatingly confided to
us in the " Souvenirs," have suc-
cessively dropped off" — called by
death to meet the judgment of
posterity ; whilst she — born almost
on the threshold of this century —
remains to tell us what manner of
men these were who warmed it
with the fire of their eloquence,
charmed it with the power of their
melodies, or ravished it with the
magic of their verse, — she remains !
and we who have the privilege of
knowing her, fully endorse the
descriptive terms in which Paul
de Musset wrote of her some few-
years ago only, " To uj ours p^tillante
d'entrain d'esprit et d'originalit^ —
les ann^es ne Tont pas ^teinte."

Age and infirmities have respect-

* * Souvenirs de Mme. C. Jaubert.
editions in as many days.

Paris, 1881 : Hetzel.' Went through three

1881.]

A French Lady and her Friends.

ed the little " Marraine : " the '* bel
ange aux^yeux noirs" of De Musset's
yeises "A Ninon," — those black
eyes that coutrafited so piquantly
with her fair hair, are still bright
and sparkling ; her face is still
fresh and smiling. Years have in
no wise dulled her brightness or
her cheeriness ; she has even kept
her whole delightful freshness of
interest in the lives and doings of
others — doubtless ever one of the
most winning qualities of this
sprightly little hostess.

Most of all, her charm of aecueil,
and the vivacity of her conver-
satioD, are unchanged; and these
attract to her still all who are fa-
voured by being permitted to enjoy
her well-told reminiscences : so that
early and late her salofi is full of
men and women of note, who gather
round her to listen, and store up
interesting and valuable memories.
These " Souvenirs" open by plac-
mg Berryer before us in the frame
of his country-seat,* and in the
laisser aller of the intimacies that
he there gathered round him. Our '
author scarcely condescends to
paint the portrait of the great
orator, as being too well known to
the general public — the man with
the powerful frame, fine head, the
sonorous and vibrating tones that
lent so much force to the politioal
speaker. She prefers delineating
the winning host, known but to a
chosen few, with his special gift
for obtaining confidences without
ever betraying his own, who was
secretive by nature, though in no
way mysterious, and who gave
•mple compensation for what he
sstained from telling, by the rich
ores he so generously drew from
is marvellously stocked memory.
The influence of woman played
' inconsiderable part in Berry er*s
.e. Madame Jaubert says : " Ber-

ryer cared solely for women's com-
panionship — his very manner of
listening to them inspired them
with all necessary esprit; and he
was, in this respect, the living
proof that an expert speaker can
elicit from his partner in conversa-
tion, as much as a great artist from
the poorest instrument. Open to
the seduction of the most opposite
charms, he was singularly liable to
those amours fractionnes which
made him so pleasant when stim-
ulated and drawn out by the
presence of the loved one." She
also relates an amusing opinion
on the host and his mil e tre ex-
pressed by one of the Augerville
intimes, who, being rather put out
at the number of beauties worship-
ping at the great man's shrine, main-
tained Berry er's inferiority as a lover
as compared with the perfection of
his sentiments de mezzo caractcre.
He went on to show the superior-
ity of Mirabeau in similar circum-
stances, and upheld this opinion
notwithstanding the indignant pro-
test of the whole feminine assem-
bled element — ** for love," said this
critic, " is a devouring fire, concen-
trated and exclusive. Believe me,
if Berryer had not muddled away
his gold in small change, few
amongst the best of women might
boast having resisted the entraine-
ment of such penetrating and pas-
sionate eloquence." Madame Jau-
bert's comment on this is, " that
there was much ajyparent justice in
this remark; but," she shrewdly
adds, '* how large is the unknown
share in the heart and life even of
those with whom we are supposed
to be most thoroughly acquainted ! "
Another trait of Berry er's character
that she dwells on was his genial
adaptation to the role of country
gentleman and host at his well-
beloved Augerville, where Madame

• Augerville, near Paris.

A French Lady and her Friends.

[Julj

Jaubert was accustomed to make
long sojourns, which furnish her
with matter for many entertaining
and humorous observations on her
host and his Efjerie du moment;
on the hostess, with her placid yet
clairvoyant knowledge of all that
was going on around her; on
the Legitimist party's efforts and
visits ; and on the numerous re-
markable men who formed the
nucleus of the society at Auger-
ville. She gives interesting details
of the great man's love of his
country life and his plantations ;
his whole - heartedness in small
things — never allowing politics, or
speeches, or lawsuits, or plead-
ing, or any of the multifarious
^at calls and duties of his exist-
ence, to interfere with the simple
pleasures of his country life; his
power of being toutcl-vousy not
even permitting to love — so im-
portant a factor in his life — the
power of withdrawing any of his
time or attention from the pleasures
of friendship — "Ce gaspillage de
temps devenait un veritable luxe,
une prodigalitc."

The fact that will probably
strike English readers as most
peculiar is the strangely amiable
acquiescence of Madame Berryer
in all arrangements that brought
to Augerville those admired fair
ones that doubtless ihade up the
hataillon dee amours fractionnes
to which allusion has already been
made. Madame Jaubert relates on
this score a curious conversation
she held with her hostess respect-
ing one of these particularly courted
stars, who was making, simultane-
ously with our authoress, a stay with
the Berryers. Unable to decide on
the nature of the feelings that drew
her host towards the Comtesse de
T., she was told by Madame Ber-

ryer, who had known of her cogi-
tations, that she would be wrong
in supposing the tie between them
more or other than a tender and
mutual admiration — " un pur plato-
nisme, assaisonne de coquetterie ; "
adding, in authoritative tones, '* my
husband is unable to keep any
secrets from me." This remark
drew forth the smiling retort, that
it would be hardly credible that a
man of so delicate taste as Ber-
ryer should choose his wife for such
peculiar confidences ; whereupon
Madame Berryer asserted that she
possessed an astonishing means for
obtaining any knowledge she re-
quired from her husband: when he
seemed to sleep uneasily, she took
him by the hand and questioned
him. ** And is he aware of this 1 "
" Yes, he knows it ; but what
matters? Ke also knows I am his
best friend, and incapable of put-
ting his confidences to a wrong use.
We were married at the age of
nineteen, both of us; and a solid
affection, of which trust forms the
groundwork, succeeded to love.
You will observe that I say trusty
and not confidences.* Certain sub-
jects dwell unexpressed, though
tacitly understood, between us,
— those we hardly ever touch
upon."

.Our writer, further on, tells us
how she got the proof some days
later, during her stay at Augerville,
of the truth of Madame Berryer's
judgment as to the nature of the
feelings which existed between the
host and his fair one, with whom
in the meanwhile Madame Jaubert
had grown intimate, and who gave
up to Madame Jaubert for perusn
the ardent letters she had receive
from the great orator. Of thef
the most recent in date was th^
invitation for that very visit t

* The French words lend themselves better to tlie distinction intended-
Jia)icej et non confidences/*

1881.]

A French Lady and her Friends,

Angerville; and being characteristic
in its edline fondness, we give it : —

"Dear (for having no illusions,

I suppress the possessive pronoun), —
Everything here is in flower, and the
breeze is perfumed ! Will you not
come to US ? They are such glad days
those, that let me see you walking in
your liberty. Nothing is more charm-
ing to look upon, nor more inducive
to love. If you do not come at once,
give me alms by sending me a friendly
line. You are amongst the few with
whom my fondest thoughts seek to
people my solitude, and converse,
whilst I watch the water running by,
or listen to the rustling of the wind in
the trees. Send me some pleasant
words to mix with those my tnoughts
lend you. Show me that neither are
my dreams false nor your promises.
Adieu ! you that I love separately and
through all other fancies, all passions,
all joys, all allurements of my life —
object of my regrets, vexation, con-
tent, admiration, and chai*ro. To all
I envy yon, and yet am not jealous.
My happiness is to have you appre-
ciated, and yet would have it that I
alone were yours for ever.

" Berryer.

" August, AUGERVI LLB. ' '

^ladame Jaubert found it hard
to find a name for this intimacy,
which she judges as more than a
flirtation — '' un sentiment, una
esp^rance 61ey^ k sa plus haute
puissance." And hopes are some-
times realised — et ajjrhs ?

Interesting and amusing as are

these insights into the inner life of

the great Legitimist champion and

oiator, we would not dwell on them

too long, but hasten towards the

rich soucenira our author dedicates

to Alfred de Musset, with whom

ST friendship was long and close.

he letters that she gives of this

spiesentative poet of his time and

eneiation form by far the most

iteiesting portion of the volume.

hey are marvels of French esprity

Toking by a single familiar word

expression a whole series of un-

translatable impressions. And yet
the ^' Marraine " has but gleaned in
the rich harvest which his close
correspondence yielded her. She
has a certain casket full of letters,
that we have been permitted to
look into, the most interesting of
which, from, motives of discreet
reserve, are destined to remain un-
known to the many who worship
at his shrine.

Musset was eoccesaif in love — it
is his own appreciation. Love was
not, with him, as it is so often in
our days, a light and *' spirituelle
com^die a deux personnages,'' en-
acted to wile away dSsmuvremenfy
and born of opportunity, but sel-
dom a drama of passion. For
what man most often seeks in
woman is " love in idleness," or
the satisfaction of unwholesome
curiosity, or the gratification of
triumphant vanity. If artistes
en amour, difiiculty is sufficient to
attract men; and seldom is it the
woman man seeks in women.
What De Musset sought for in her
was love — more love, love ever —
with an undying, unquenchable
thirst! Woman to him was but
the vase that held the costly oint-
ment which his wounded and sick
soul needed. The precious balm that
he sued for from all his danger-
euses aimees — Sand, Malibran,
Rachel, and so many besides — could
not satisfy his immense need ; he
ever reached forward towards that
something more he felt, he knew
must be, and with an anguished
heart pressed after that love, com-
plete and perfect, that had ever
failed him, *^ et qui dans ses bras
de feu Temportat au tombeau.*'

In this respect, De Musset,
** Tenfant du si^cle," is the poet who
has left his mark most powerfully
on his land and generation; for
in this he was the embodiment of
the love-anguish which was a dis-
tinguishing feature of his times.

A French Lady and her Friends.

[Jnly

Chenavard, questioned by Madame
Jaubert as to what would be the
representative idea which should
in future ages consecrate the poet's
name, answered, '' A tout jamais,
madame, Alfred de Musset sera la
personnification de la jeunesse et
de Tamour." This judgment from
so competent a man would have re-
joiced De Musset had he known of
it j for when taken to task for his
non - productiveness in his latter
days, his retort was that a man's
superiority in no wise depended
upon the quantity of work he had
done, but was to be measured by
the depth of the impression he had
produced.

But it is not of the exquisite
poet of the "Nuit d'Octobre,'' of
the " Saule," the " Souvenir," and
of the many volumes of marvellous
verse, that we have now to speak,
for under that aspect he has too
long been every man's property
to need commendation j it is of the
fantastic Will-o'-the-wisp prose-
writer, who during years of his life
dashed off a treasure of sparkling
letters to the "Marraine,"* in
which he paints himself without
disguise or flattery, and lets us into
the secrets of his heart-springs.

The first letter that Madame Jau-
bert publishes is one of the most
interesting — for in it De Musset,
in answer to a reproof that the
"Marraine" had gently written him
on the unpleasantness of his man-
ner, which often deterred favour-
ably inclined friends from further
rapports with him, has given us
the key to these outward rough-
nesses. The letter is undated — in-
deed all his letters are ; but this

one was evidently written daring
the early stage of his acquaintance
with Madame Jaubert, before his
feelings had ripened into the soHd
friendship which marked the after-
period of their intimacy, and his
letter is made up of plaisanterie and
galanterie, mixed with a strong
feeling of trust in her judgment
and opinions. He writes : —

" Madam, — You have found the true
name for the sentiment that unites us
when you christen it un sentiment sam
710771 ; without antithesis, your expres-
sion is true and full of charm. It re-
calls another to me, a droll one (you
kuow you and 1 have that also in
common, that we mix up droll and
serious matters). It was said by a
friend of mine — to his wife, I think —
' We are on the chemin vicinal to love
and friendship.' What say you of the
comparison ? * I have a real interest,'
says Monsieur le Conseiller de la Ver-
dullette,t * in your not becoming too
much of a mauvais sujet. No ; but
seriously, you know,' he adds. But
seriously, I answer in turn, am I be-
coming such a good-for-nothinjj 1 Have
I not told you that I am holding my-
self back with both hands ? Is it to
be a mauvais sujet to find a row of
pearls, white, and wish to touch them
with one's finger-tips ? * I really care
about him,' you say. Well, that*s a
fine reason ! If people love what you
love, madam, it's proof of good taste, in
the first place ; and secondly, that even
when with others, one needs a little
of you. Unfortunately, Mr Le Con-
seiller is aware that, white though they
be, the said pearls are much too green J
for his very humble servant You
never asked me how I passed my sum-
mer. *No.' *Andwhynot?' 'Because
I none the less thank you for your tales
— that is to say, I thank you all the
more.' La tromp?tte dans la prestance
is excellent ; but wherefore your har^
sayings against men? *Our powei '

• Madame Jaubert had given playful nicknames to all her intimet, and Alfred c
Musset had in consequence given her in his turn the friendly appellation which :
now the title by which posterity will best know her.

t A playful designation for Madame Jaubert.

:;: The French saying, ** Les raisins sont trop verts," alluding to the grapes out
reach.

mi]

A French Lady and her Friends.

Tou say, ' is shown by our weaknesses.*
babbish ! We do not sound louder
than you either the onset or the vic-
tory. As a general rule women are
more feds * tnan men, and more in-
discreet— /a<« before and indiscreet
after.

"If what I say makes your hair
stand on end, be sure, madam, that I
say it to you only. Here have I been
led into and have arrived at an accu-
sation of fatuiti and impertinence.
Let us, then, talk somewhat of these.
I will not insipidly thank you for
repeating to me all the evil spoken
of me, but must say that, above all
things, I like your gentle, kindly, and
yet sincere manner of conveying a re-
proach, which brings it home to me
without wounding. It is the most
precious science, friend, that you are
m possession of. It comes to you
naturally ; and as long as you know
how to apply it, do not wonder if folk
love you. Let us talk reason. Every-
body is agreed as to the unpleasant-
ness of my manner in a room. I not
only agree with everybody on this
point, but this unpleasantness is more
unpleasant to me than to anybody.
Whence does it proceed ? From two
first causes — pride and timidity. These
are the amiable principles with which
I have to get along here below. One
cannot change one's nature ; one must
make the best of it. I have been
trying to do so for some time past.
You render me that justice. To these
two first causes should be added a
result difScult to be overcome. There
are certain days on which I rise (it
may seem ridiculous, but it is true) in
a nervous condition. I may strive to
j^jtodesire, to try — impossible! . . .
Stupid enough, is it not ? but what's
to be done i Prendre sur soi. Very
trae ; but how take where there is
nothing ? You tell me of people who
wonld willingly let me know the pleas-
ure I mav have given them. I give you
m wonf that, out of ten compliments
ni are unbearable to me. I don't
n that they wound me, nor that I
h jve them false, — simply that they
gi me the wish to nm away : an-
al ' that if you can. Know and be-

lieve, at least, that at such times I
hate myself. It is not my real self nor
nature. As a child I was quite dif-
ferent. I used to recite fables in the
middle of the drawing-room, and after-
wards would kiss the whole assembled
company. Would to God I were still
as then ! In your letter there is a
most true and just saying — and ah,
what a sad one ! — * You alienate men
of intellect and of heart, who would
otherwise be drawn towards you.' Yes,
true enough; and do you think I do not
see it, and that sometimes I do not re-
gret it 1 But then, why so ? I do not
care to follow out the reason. Men
are indifferent to me. I will not ask
myself whether I hate them, for fear
that might be at the bottom of it :
however that may be, they in no wise
make me suffer, and therefore it is but
fair they should not give me any en-
joyment. Therein, friend, and there-
in alone, lies the serious side of the
question. In the matter of manners,
bows, and shake-hands, the longer I
live the more I trust I shall gain pol-
ish ; that is a matter of mere polite-
ness and of pure duty. I will force
myself the most I can ; and yours will
be most of the merit. As to that which
concerns sympathy, even all fitful and
lightly expressed sympathy, as from
man to man, that's another matter.
Forgive my old experience, if it does
not allow of my boldly deciding such
a question. Your letter, madam, made
me reflect at length, and conscientious-
ly, on it : you only intended preaching
politeness to me ; you led me on to
ponder on friendship. I looked at my-
self, and asked myself whetlier, beneath
my stiff, cross, impertinent, and un-
sympathetic-looking exterior (what-
ever the fair, small Milanese may say
to the contrary), — if beneath all that,
I say, there may not have been primi-
tively something passionate and en-
thusiastic, d la manihe de Rousseau.
It is quite possible. I attempted once
only to give myself up to friendship.
It IS a strange sentiment, unheard-of
with me — an excitement, stronger per-
haps than love desires, for its trans-
forts are never allayed. From what
know of it, it must be a terrible

* A word for which * * ostentatious " is a poor substitute.

A French Lady and her Friends.

[J«ly

feelin<», — ^^'ery dangerous, ver}' sweet,
Ciipable of making the happiness or
iiuhappiness of a whole life ; and I
undersUmd Rousseau, who became
lialf mad from the perturbation that
this passion occasioned him. There-
fore, most decidedly I will none of it :
love-troubles are quite sufficient to
receive at vour hands, mesdames.
Moreover, I have not time for it.

" Here is a mass of seriousness for a
light remonstrance ; but with you my
heart dilates, as by the side of others
it contracts. Forgive me, therefore,
this dissertation ; and if you think it
over a little, you will understand me
better. I am not tcndre, but excessif.
This is my defect, and it drives me
frantic. Be sure that extreme polish
is ever at the expense of much depth,
and I don't say this to excuse myself.

" Your letter was a real causerie, you
said ; mine, you see, is nothing else.
I send you this quire of paper (better
filled than yours). In so doing I have
done more than pass an evening with
you ; I have pa<seil an hour in bed
with you. You had no notion of that,
had you, madam? A hientdt done,
as we are agreed. I trust the disserta-
tion upon friendship has naught in
common with the sentiment sans noni,

"A. DE MUSSET."

In Madame Jaubert's salon, Al-
fred de Musset used to meet a
certain Princess de Belgiojoso, who
played no small role in the poet's
life. His letters are full of her;
and the " Marraine " gives us the
following portrait of this fair iti-
time : —

"Princess Christine possessed all
the gifts with which fairy godmothers
usually endow the child tliey favour.
Born Marquise de Trivulee, and mis-
tress at sixteen years of age of a large
fortune, she married the young and
handsome Prince de Belgiojoso, who
was a Milanese, as she was herself.
She was singularly and rarely beauti-
ful ; and to a noble and graceful car-
riage was added the charm of an en-
chanting sound of voice. . . . The
Princess had, moreover, a hundred
other claims to special homage, — a
rare intellect, a passionate and domi-

nating mind, a glance full of power,
most remarkable courage and coolness,
and, above all, the art of pleasing —
that most essential counterpart to the
thirst for adoration. It is clear that
in this intellect, united to such beauty,
there lay for De Musset a most powerful
attraction ; indeed, rarely is it given
to woman to possess in so eminent a
degree such magnetic gifts. . . . Never-
theless," Madame Jaubert goes on to
say, '^ these two natures did not suit
or understand each other, the whilst
they attracted and desired each other.
In the Princess's eyes, men formed a
single vast category, divided into three
amorous series — * il Test, le flit, on le
doit etre.' She used to say, * I cannot
imagine what interest can be taken in
life, when eyes can look u[K>n us with-
out loving.* As to De Musset, who might
well have hoped to please, even with-
out his claims as a celebrity (acquired
at the age of twenty), he declined sub-
mitting to the r6g%me igalitaire, and
being treated as toiU U monde ; his
ardent nature revolted, as well as his
delicate, sensitive, and over-susceptible
mind. . . . Fortunately an extreme
mobility of impressions defended hini
against himself."

And as proof of this quality of the
poet's, Madame Jaubert gives a let-
ter to illustrate the secret and mo-
bile nature of the poet's feelings : —

**My dear Marr.4Ixe, — I went
twice to-day chez vous, but found only
your maid. After losing five games
of chess, I went to bed in despair.
The most amiable and unexpected
toothache ^thanks to God, and the
wind that is blowing) wakes me with
a start at five in the morning. I get
up and write to you — in the first place,
to cease from suffering ; in the second,
to make you acquainted with that
which I should have told you had
I met you. This is the lamentable
thing that will infallibly choke U] ;.

" Heaven had inspired me with 1 le
happy thought of going out this mo: n-
ing in weather too bad to put ^n
umbrella out of doors. First a id
foremost, I translated myself to y< ur
door. I have already told you wl at
I foimd there. Thereupon 1 went to
the Rue de la Michodiere, where I

1881.]

A French Lady and her Friends.

foand Desdemona* in a dressing-
gown, I hasten to say that she was
most amiable, and that the thing went
off very well — in iutti fiochi, in a
wokL But I had been feverish the
night before ; and if I tell you this,
madam, it is not that you may repeat
it to my mother. HaVing, therewre,
been feverish, I had clothed myself
in fur — a certain fur \i*ith which you
are perhaps acquainted ; and as it was
very hot at Desdemona's, I naturally
grew still hotter. The heat was doing
me good ; there is no harm in that ;
but probably it showed in my looks.
Now there was present a Mr Osborne,
who is, I believe, a pianist, but cer-
tainly an Englishman. Enveloped in
the most complimentary of compli-
ments, some words of that 'devilish
language' were exchanged between
Desdemona and the islander. They
imagined t could not understand
them. Moreover, I was talking with
the mamma. Now just imagine what
I believe — ^y es, archi — believe I caught
flying ! Two atrocious words (which
nothmg would ever induce me to re-
peat), in the way of a joke on the fur
and the heat. I did not let on I
understood ; and no one had the right
to say to me, as to Mithridate, ' Seig-
neur, vous changez de visage ; ' but
only fancy such a thing ! Can you
conceive the whole reverse of this
mSdailletf Whether I was right or
wrong in my supposition, do you
realise the salt of this plaisanterie

flayed on me by my old enemy, fate ?
f I was not mistaken (and I feel
q^uite sure I was not mistaken), you
will understand all the good I derived
from these two words without decency,
nor pity (of my feverishness), ana
which were almost coarsely savage !
If I am mistaken, there is no way of
ascertaining it — none ! And you
know me ! I am now convinced.
Ai to the sorrow it may have caused
vt^y I had already forgotten it this
f i!ing after dinner ; but I shall
I 'er be face to lace with the de-
1 Iselle without ... the devil take
i strange tongues !

This is my tale. Om/ /

I am continuing to polish off my

nauvelle, which is unending, and
wearies me, — there are no words
either in English or French to sjiy
how much. Disappointed compli-
ments. A. DE MUSSET."

His wrath at this ill treatment
was not, however, of long duration.
Pauline Garcia's talent and charm
easily triumphed afresh over his
malleable heart. Soon his Paolita's
souvenir is mixed up again in its
turn with the recurrent domination
of the Princess, and the next letter
given betrays the fluctuations of
this dual state of mind. It was ad-
dressed to Madame Jaubert at Ver-
sailles, where she had gone to spend
a few days with her friend the Prin-
cess de Belgiojoso, and is as fol-
lows ; —

"I had begun a letter to you as
follows : * Madam, I have absolutely
nothing new to tell you, but I write
merely because it shall not be said
that you gave me your address, and
that 1 have not profited by it,' when
I learnt through the channel of my
family that you were to return on
Sunday, and perceived that I was
rather too late, as this was on Satur-
day. A hundred and one thanks, in
the first place, for your kind envoi.
I shall never be able to tell you the
pleasure I feel when I see a letter of
yours arrive, at breaking open the seal
and reading it with the certainty of
finding therein a word or two of real
friendship and some good news. When
in the midst of my foolish life I read
a letter of yours, I must somewhat re-
semble a man poisoned by asphalt and
tobacco-smoke, who suddenly entering
a garden, should receive into his nostril
a puff of wind full of the odour of
roses !

" And so she returns, and you also.
Consequently folk will be able to re-
sume life in some measure.

"I should like to be able to say
something in answer to your pretty
note on apparitions, but the light
blows dealt by your little hand are so

Pauline Garcia, one of Musset's iloiles filaiites.
" Le revers de la m^aille " is a French sayiug for the unpleasant side of things.

A French Lady and her Friends.

[July

pleasant to receive that I feel bound
to confess I think they will hardly
correct any one. However that may
be, leam that your godson is working.

"How pretty she was the other
evening running about the garden
with my slippers on, and a little knitted
cap in red and black worsted ! I felt,
nevertheless — and it is true — I am no
longer good for anything. I am no
longer mad when in love. * And you ?
And if one is that no longer, of what
value is the rest? To talk nonsense
seriously, therein lies the great busi-
ness of life. When one no longer
dares to be preposterous, one must
either blow one's brains out or
marry.

" What think you of the three fol-
lowing lines ? —

Lorsqiie nia bien aimee entr*ouvre sa

])aui)i6re,
Sombre comme la iiuit, pur comme la

lumiere,
Sur I'email do scs yeux brillc un dia-

maut noir.

I much want to know if you like
that. Two good things helped me to
write them— a line ifrom you and
Paolita's souvenir. I warn you that
the verses have been found bold ; but
is it certain that boldness is a fault ?
A question. Why do souvenirs of
Paolita occur to mo constantly when

in the presence of ? Talk of

rights of presence ! Another question.
If Paolita, when singing * Le Saule,' *
should take the fancy of turning
slightly to one side (and being au haU
con), so as to render your most Mont-
morenci-like godson quite madly in
love, what, then, would signify the
proverb about the two hares ? t This is
a philosophical and j)rovidential ques-
tion. Third question. Might it not so
happen that I find myself between two
stools? Oh fie! A hist question.
Why should the smell of patchouli
render me melancholy, and that of
iris joyous ? That^s a rehns !

"I give your left foot, madam, a
shake of the hand. The three lines
are in the idyl of ' Kodolphe.'

" A. DE MUBSET."

The letter that followed this one
is all given up to the Princess.

" Your advice was good, dear Mar-
raine : proceeding from you, it was
bound to be so ; but followed out by
me, I was in great fear of it.

" With a beating heart I got into a
carriage this morning — nevertheless I
showed much force of character going
down the hill of Viroflay on foot ;
and did you but know all the courage
I mustered to ring at the door, you
would give me the croix (Thonneur.
Not Pietro's honest face itself, nor

Mr M 's friendly salute, sufficed to

reassure me. It was only when the
star rose, half asleep, veiled in a few
clouds, but perfectly charming and
gentle, shedaing the purest rays
around, that I felt rather more cheer-
ful ; and thu-s after being burnt up by
the sun on the road, I set to playing
chess au clair de la luiie, (This meta-
phor is slightly romantic.) Be that

as it may, the dreaded lady was

Heavens, how dull wortls are ! I be-
lieve that on my side I did my duty,
not having grumbled, and having
swallowed four glasses of wine and
water. I felt so lamb-like that on
getting home I took a Bavaroise an
lait in conse(iuence, * O milk and
water ! ' says Byron somewhere. But
tell me this, Marraine — why is it that
I was ever so much more furious the
other day than I am satisfied this
evening i * What ferociousness, what
cruelty,' said I to myself the last
time, * what a shame I ' whereas to-
night, when rolling back with the
Abbe Stefani, I but whispered to my-
self, * What a charm is hers ! what a
lovely and good child ! * And I re-
peat it. I am not as pleased as I
was angry, and this is a nasty feeling.
What is the cause i Perhaps you will
say it is because last time I was angrj'
without motive, whereas to-day I had
good reason for being satisfied ; and
therein you recognise the adroit ai .
happy brains of your most deplorab ;
godson.

*' But that would be a calumn .
Yes ! I dare to affirm that I am ;
grateful as 1 am cross, so find anoth :

* The song in " Otello," *' a pife d'un salice."

t French saying — '* On ne doit pas courir deux lidvres & la fois."

1881.]

A French Lady and Tier Friends.

explanation — I address the question
to your wisdom. Were I to venture
on hazarding an opinion, I should be
inclined to think that whereas her
ferocity was as complete as possible,
and left me nothing further to wish
for, her sweetness was . . . but I
hope you will communicate your
opinion to me on the subject.

" Good night, Marraine ; amongst
the flies at Versailles look at your
small foot and remember there is a
merle blane* who is pecking around
it — Yours, A. de Musset.

" P.S. — Pray tell me what you think
of the following sentence : * He found
in it ' (it is Origen who is spoken of)
' that passing preference for material
things over the pleasures of the mind,
so precious when it is unaccustomed,
and so sweet to him who causes it.'
1 do not quote quite correctly per-
haps, but it s something like that. Is
it not well put and well felt ? With-
out any pretence to resembling Ori-
gen, my sick stomach has kept the
remembrance of this.

"Alfred de Musset."

But this "lamb-lik« condition"
was not of long duration. Ma-
dame Jaubert relates that during
the numerous reunions that afford-
ed so many occasions for meeting
to the poet and his Princess, one
evening at the Marraine's, having
been defied by his fair one to draw
her likeness e7i caricature, a few
rapid strokes of his pencil pro-
duced a three-quarter face, with an
immense eye placed full face, giv-
ing, with exaggeration, her thinness
and long neck, and making up a
whole which was strikingly and
intolerably like. The Princess had
the good taste to acquiesce in the
general admission of resemblance
made smilingly by all present, but
was nevertheless hurt at the result.
Probably, too, De Musset was
soon made aware of the conse-
quences, for a very few days after-

wards the Marraine received the
following : —

" Godmother, your godson is worst-
ed ! What do you suppose the poor
stupid did ? He wrote all his full
heart openly — as a basket — keeping
back nothing, embellishing nothing,
humouring naught, mincing naught.
No, naught of aught ! He has been
soundly trounced for his pains. Such
an answer has been sent him, O god-
mother ! such an answer ... a print-
able one !

"Yes, Madam Y— E— S— , this
answer might, and ought perhaps to be
put into type. It contains the noblest
pride, 80 degrees (not centigrade)
above freezing-point, and the most ex-
quisite calm, 120 degrees below it —
which is the equivalent of 200 horse-
power, or of something like that.

" And what do you think that poor
stupid first did on receiving this im-
perishable answer — or rather this
answer worthy of being immortalised ?
He (that's me) began by crying like
a whipped child during a good half-
hour. Yes, godmother ! hot tears,
as in my best days, my head in my
hands, my two elbows on my bed, my
two feet on my neck- tie, mv knees on
my new dress-coat ; and thus I sob-
bed liked a child being scrubbed, and
moreover suft'ering like a hound being
sewn up (hunting metaphor).

" Then I found myself, as you can
readily believe, in such a huge vexa-
tion, that I swam in it ; my room was
verily an * ocean of bitterness,' as
good people say, and in it I plunged
over and over again. Vli — vlan — llan
— pagn, &c. After this exercise I
got into a tremendous passion, — ^with
whom 1 It would be quite impossible
to say ; but I was in a great passion,
which certainly lasted two full hours.
God be thanked, I smashed nothing !
Aftenvards I began to feel weary, and
recommenced crying, but not much,
only for refreshment's sake.

" Afterwards I ate four eggs . . .
they were poached.

"After which all I felt fatigued—
(after which means at present). I
have suffered so much that 1 am tired

• A saying which means an exceptional creature, a " black swan."

A French Lady and her Friends.

[July

out, and that is why I talk nonsense
to you.

"If you could see my face you
would die of laughing : my hair is all
standing on end, the left eye swelled
almost out of my head, the right one
still whimpering half closed and
bunged up, my nose fiery red, and my
face lengthened, as a gingerbread one
on a rainy day at the fair. Such are
thy jests, O love ! The devil take the
jests of love ! they are worse than those
of chance.*

" Zounds, godmother, such little

1'okes do hurt ! Seriously, from
lenceforth I will abstain from all
correspondence or intercourse what-
ever with her Serene Highness — un-
der no pretence whatever I will any
of it.

" Moreover, I formally authorise
you, Madame Jaubert, dwelling in
such a street wherein is your house,
aged as many springs as the lilacs of
next season, small of size, but sound
of judgment (which is fortunate for
you), — I authorise you, I repeat, to
say as follows to Monsieur le Docteur: t
*You found fault to my godson*s
telling ypu a few days ago, "5* ne
fait pas mon compte ; " to-day he has
the honour to say to you, " fa fait
mon compte." ' Alp. pe Musset."

The poet sooa after fled to the
country to recover from this blow,
and Madame Jaubert having joked
him on this vigorous resolution, re-
ceived the following answer : —

"Godmother, you have certainl}'
oft^jn blown into a bladder with a
quill, and seen it pass from the con-
dition of parchment to that of a
melon, and if you continued blowing —
Pouf! That's the eflect produced on
me by your words, *The serpent did
not go to Nonnandie to look for
apples.'

"I defy you to have more esprit,
even you, than in that sentence. You
must allow its prettiness yourself.

"What a pity 'tis to spend one's
days saying 'what a pity ! * One thing
whicli strikes me as strangely odd, is

that you should have allowed yourself
to be so entirely won over by the big
cruel eyes of that beautiful Mandarine
disguised en princesse, as to be in-
oculated with the taste for sermon-
ising.

" As for me, this is my whole opin-
ion on the matter."

(Here two blank pages in the sheets
of letter-paper.)

" I hope you will admit that, after
what I have thus told you, you have no
further observations to address to me.
I think nothing could be added to so
eloquent a pleading, and I beg you will
make no joke at my expense — for the
other day, at thirty paces, I cut a
butterfly in two. . . . It is certain
I am dreadfully in love; but with
whom, I no longer know — perhaps
it's with you, and I don't feel sure
how to address this letter. Supposing
I put ' k Madame la prinJaucesse bert
de Bel rue Taitgiojoso bout.** Do you
think my letter would go to St Ger-
main ?

"You say that you love me d tort
et d traverSjX and I you d droit et d
raison, Le Fieux."

This letter was followed imme-
diately by another, equally from the
country : —

" Well, madam, you would not be-
lieve I would do it. What do you
say now ? Am I oflf or not ] eh ?
Aha ! I am but too truly off. In all
conscience, do you know what I have
been and done ? — the wisest and the
stupidest thing in the world. Reason
with me a little and say, * No good
.would ever liave come of it; there
was danger of souring, as you yourself
foresaw — item, causes for suffering, and
for very serious suffering, though I
joke about it,' &c. Therefore I acted
for the best in leaving ; for travelling
diverts the thoughts, absence brings
forgetfnlness, a decision taken brings
back one's mng-froid, &c., — in slic"'^
mischief might have come of it ; a
now, unless the devil interferes, no
will happen.

" But godmother, but madam, pr

* Referring to a vaudeville entitled "Les jeux de rainoiir and du hasard."

t The Princess de Belgiojoso.

t An expression often used by the Roi Vertgalant in ending a letter.

1881.]

A French Lady and Tier Friends,

listen ! Happiness might have come
of it, by vhich 1 only mean (being no
longer a coxcomb) that, between a cer-
tain person and myself there might
baTe arisen a tie, an affection, which,
with time and growth, might have
become a very pretty thing, sans mime
toucher tout d fait ensemble, but only
under the same roof; whereas now,
speaking quite seriously, and knowing
myself thoroughly as I do, all is ab-
solutely broken off between us. It is
a second edition of my story with
Bachel, whom I broke with out of
temper, and for no sufficient reason.
The said Rachel was piqued — tried to
make out that she had been the first
to break off. They said I got red-hot
angry — letters were ezchangod — fuss !
complaints ! — and, finally, the devil of
a row.

" This is in some measure what
has again overtaken me on account
of a certain beautiful southerner. I
break a pot, already knocked down,
as you said the other day. * G^est ex-
actly true.' No one is weaker, more
changeable, and shows more the white
feather than your incorrigible godson ;
but once the bridge is crossed, hon soir
la rivQre, It is not courage that
drives me on, but a need of getting
farther, as a horse being broken in;
once over the bar, I do not go back.
C. is now as one dead to me. Com-
parison: Fancy an egg being thrown
up in one's hand ; it is very fiail, very
slight, but still very good for cooking
and for general use as long as un-
broken ; but once fallen on the ground
and broken, there is no spoon, no any-
thing, that can reinstate the yolk and
remake it an egg, — there remains but
a shell in bits and a little mess. Such
is now the condition of my amiable
heart. Well, godmother, I take the
liberty of saying — and the devil take
me if I have not the right to say it !
even should you judge me overweening
— these women who play the prudes,
who ill-treat and slight me, paining me
to their heart's content, and, finally,
make me hate them, — I will write
them down at full length, Sillies ! It
is neither their interest nor instinct to
act thus. It is nought but humbug,
which doesn't deceive me. What do
you suppose is the meaning of Marco's
writing from the heights of her big
VOL, CXXX. — NO. DCCLXXXIX.

eyes, *that the only good result of
over-facile triumphs was to prevent
obstinacy in seeking to achieve im-
possible ones ' ? What does she mean
by * facile triumphs ' ? Certainly noth -
ing was less facile than certain stLcch
{'miB.t a horrid expression !) which my
memory recalls, and nothing less * im-
possible ' than Mle. What is this way
of treating as a mere boy, or as a
libertin us^, a man younger than her-
self, who at bottom is as good as she
is, and who lets himself be driven, out
of weakness, or, as our fathers used to
say, par mignardise. but who has it in
him to rouse up if his tail is trodden
on 1 It is utter foolishness, godmother,
and vanity, which overreaches itself
and misses its target. 'What ought
she to have done?' you will ask, per-
haps ; * to have yielded ] Is she bound
to yield lest she incur the august
wrath of Monsieur ? ' No, godmother ;
but she should understand, not make
believe to think, and make others
think, that, after a few years of world-
ly life, she is a Prhidente de Tourvel ;
and she should not profit by this at-
tempt at making herself unrecognis-
able, to refuse to recognise others. She
should speak, in a word, as if aware to
whom she was speaking, and strive to
acquire the half only of the good sense,
delicacy, and frankness of one of her
friends who knows the difference be-
tween the hoiuf and the bouvier.

" There, I have had my say out. I
am stiff, and my knees ache, because I
have been running after a roe, who
took it as a good joke, and who was
right enough. It is my turn to snap
my fingers at the creature, now that 1
have changed my clothes and boots.
This is no metaphor. I have really
just returned from hunting with a
quite sufficient number of leagues to
my back. And I can certify you that
the celebrated poet Horace knew not
what he was talking about when he
wrote that grief mounted and rode be-
hind the horseman. Grief falls away
on horseback with every gallop. I am
writing to you with a liberated heart, a
quiet conscience, and hands (a thousand
pardons) that smell of the stables.

"Good-bye, godmother. Few folk
do I love as I love the good little fairy
who stands upright on your little feet.
—Yours, A. DE M."

A French Lady and her Friends.

[July

In the next letter, whicli contains
tlie humorous relation of a journey
made under difficulties, his inex-
orable decision as to his Princess
is expressed with less bitterness,
for he ends thus : " As for ' EUe/
now that I have made up my mind
never to see her again, I may
frankly give you my opinion, Je
Vaime, je Vaimfi, je Vaime beaucoup,
and you also — it's a pity, but not
my fault/* Nevertheless, it was
soon after this that he committed a
fault against good taste and feeling,
by venting his sentiments towards
her in some verses that appeared in
1842 in the * Kevue des Deux
Mondes,' entitled, '' Sur une
Morte," and which he so much
regretted afterwards that during his
lifetime they were never reprinted,
and only appeared in the posthum-
ous edition of his works. Madame
Jaubert gives a letter in which he
deplores, not so much the having
thought and written them, as their
publication. He had been ill — the
godmother had remained unan-
swered because "the godson had
been six days in bed with fever,"
unable either to eat, or sleep, or to
do "aught of aught, the fruits of
his wisdom ; " which would seem to
show that it was not without a bad
effect upon his general health that
the sensitive poet came to his " in-
exorable decision." He playfully
tells how " Mr 7non frhre profited
by the occasion to throw lumps of
moral reasoning at my head, which
demonstrated that it was entirely
my own fault if I had been thus in
my bed, soaking there like a sponge
and with my head all to bits. I
quite entered into the spirit of his
reasoning, but should have pre-
ferred Sister Marceline." . . .
He sent to the convent for her,
but, in her absence, got another
sister in her place, who nursed him
well, but ennuyed him. " Ah !
how rare are the Sister Marcelines !

How few, how very few are they in
the world who know how to give
more than a cup of tisarie when
one is suffering! How few who
know how simultaneously to heal
and to console ! When Sister Mar-
celine used to come to my bedside,
her little cup in hand, and lay her
hand on my forehead, saying in her
childlike voice, ' What a terrible
knot you are making for us here ! '
(by which she meant, poor dear
soul, that I was frowning,) she
would have smoothed away the
wrinkles from Leopard! himself
in the very midst of a conspiration,
or a lost game of chess." Then De
Musset goes on to dispute with his
Marraine, who would admit of no
merits in "la Grisi," the rival at
that time of Pauline Garcia, married
and transformed into Pauline Yiar-
dot. He does not deny the talent
of his ex-flame Pauline. " I throw
no one overboard," he says, " but
she had barely sufficient power, and
now she has lost much. . . . Grisi
is intolerably vulgar and common,
— granted; but she is often very
fine, and she is audible, whereas
Pauline was not audible. Que
diahle t what though your inten-
tions be of the best, if I cannot
hear you, hon soir I " His kindli-
ness of heart shows in the next
paragraph, when, having drawn
rather a ludicrous picture of the
costume and appearance of Madame
Viardot Garcia in "Arsace," he checks
himself. " Poor Paulinette ! whilst
I am thus dressing her up, her little
portrait is there just in front of me,
looking out at me with a slightly
sulky yet good -child look. After
all, you are right ; I am no longe?
good for anything — she is charm
ing, full of soul, with a hundred
times more blood in her than aL
the other roarers. But then, oi
the other hand, what an idea, to g<
and get married 1 enfin / . . . '
And this gentleness of mood leadt

1881.]

A French Lady a fid her Friends.

him on to confess remorse as to the
Princess, and he writes : —

"Apropos of my worthlessness, do
Tou know one thing I have discovered,
that fever, diet, violet syrup, and the
sight of a nun praying to God, are
excellent remedies against ferocity ?
Yes, godmother, and I come to you
with my confession. Whilst I was
laid flat and stiff as a poker, perspiring
hig drops under my fourteen quilts,
and coughing fit to crack the window-
panes, the memory of my last verses
came to my mind, and I sincerely re-
gretted them. It was wrong and ab-
surd in me; not the having written
them, but to have published them.
'In that I recognise my simpleton,'
you will say — * it is nearly time now
for regrets ; ' and you will compare me
to that prudent soul, who, having
wagered he would cross a certain ez-
panse of frozen water barefoot, and
having accomplished one half of the
distance, finding it too cold, turned
back instead of continuing ! Well,
no ; honour bright, I no longer love
her ; or at any rate, the thought of her
causes me not a ha'p'orth of suffer-
ing. I have no sort of wish to patch
matters up with her; but I am dis-
satisfied with myself, and could wish
for some means to mend matters.
You must discover some for me : put
your chin in your hand, lean your
elbow on your garter, roast the tip of
your foot, and thereupon give me your
advice ! Positively no one here has
yet imagined the verses were address-
ed to Uranie. Neither my brother
nor I have heard any living soul ap-
ply them to her. The trumpet Bon-
naire would certainly have done so
had he been able. Reflect, therefore,
somewhat, being certain of one thing,
that I seek no reconciliation, nor any
bringing ns together again in any
way. Now that it's over and done
with, I have had enough of it ; only I
feel I have overstepped the bounds,
md would be glad to efface the im-
pression I have produced."

The next few letters all turn
nore or less on the new situation
md troubles that his verses " Sur

une Morte " created for him ; for his
tardy compunction was unavailing,
and the personal application they
contained, to his surprise, was very
easily made out by most ; whereas
he had supposed that the Princess
alone would have penetrated their
inner meaning, and had hoped that
a fui'ia amcyrosa would in her eyes
have been his excuse. But the ill
will of many meddlers embroiled
the situation, and the defence and
quarrel of the lady were taken up
by divers busy-bodies. The traces
of the agitation these caused De
Musset are to be found in the fol-
lowing letters : —

" Have we quarrelled also, god-
mother? Have you quite gone over
to the enemy ? or is it that touchiness
is contagious, and that you have let
yourself be piqued by a jest — you
who are eood sense and indulgence

Eersoni fied ? Can the force of example
e so great ? I wish to inform you
that I am much better than when I
was less well, and that my heart is
beginning to stand up and shake itself.
I won't say whether I am right or
wrong, for at this present you are too
much of a Lombard.* I merely wish
to assert a fact, asking your leave to
congratulate myself thereupon in de-
fault of others. The fact is I suffered
horribly, and that's the reason I de-
serve pardon, for one should forgive
those who suffer greatly. Soundly to
thrash one, and yet bear ill will, is,
you know, too womanly a proceeding.
I admit, however, that as I broke the
crockery, it is but fair I should pay :
and this I do, and say nothing. Prin-
cess Turandot (I am not Kalaf) little
knows all the harm she did me, else
had she been less fierce. She could
never understand that simplest fact in
the world, which is that the very real,
very material, and serious cares I was
fall of, greatly exasperated my state
of mind on her account ; for I may say
I defy any one to have even an equable
temper under the circumstances in
which I was placed. You will under-
stand why I could not confide to her

*• Princess de Belgiqjoso was a Lombard by birth.

A French Lady and her Friends.

[July

aflfairs which were not niine only.
But it seems to me she might have
felt there were times in one's earthly
career when a man's temper is vari-
able, will he, nil he ; and if he is,
moreover, endowed with the advantage
of being a bom growler, he may be-
come yet more so. Thus this lovely
Turandot took me at my word for
every crossnejss said ; but on the other
hand, never took into account any of
my good impulses. I spoke to her
with my whole and undisguised heart
— foolishly and awkwardly if you will,
but frankly; she answered me with
the calm and gravity of a mandarin.
. . . There is less difference than
is generally supposed between a phy-
sical action and a moral one. I main-
tain that it is, to say the least of it,
whimsical to pity a man if he has a

gain in his stomach, but to half kill
im if it is his heart that suffers. I
repeat again, Marraine, that I don't
pretend to be right, and that I look
upon you as completely bought over
by the powers that be ! All I want
to know is, whether we are at enmity.
As for me, too well you know me for
a thorough-bred godson, who would
sooner be lifted by the skin of his
neck without howling, like a bull-dog,
than give up loving his godmother,
quand mSnie, on foot and on horse-
back. A. DE MUSSET."

And then comes a whimsical re*
fusal on his part to believe that
the Princess had left unperused the
incriminated verses : —

*^ Friday, October.
" Indeed ! So Uranie really has not
read the review. I hope you do not
believe that I believe that you be-
lieve that I shall believe this ! This
kind of jest is strange to me, and my
beautiful little godmother is too well
acquainted with her godson's feelings
to imagine he will swallow such a
Jlam. He who won't admit of neu-
ralgia, or only as in connection with
a hollow tooth, a thing I am ac-
quainted with and respect, because it
hurts like the very devil ; but as for
having a pamphlet lying before one's
very eyes, dove di vol si favella, and
yet not open it. No, my dear lady,
I don't believe it !

" You are perhaps capable---{I don't
feel sure of i^ but you nave it in you)
— you are aipable of believing in this
fine trait of a noble pride tnat you
have told me of. For, jesting apisui:,
with all your esprit^ which is univer-
sally recognised as most exquisite, you
are at times so wondrously innocent !
But again, no ! What a fool I am !
You are at least as nmch of a woman
as I am, and not more than myself
can you place any faith in what you
wrote me.

" At any rate I shall never believe
it, albeit it be yourself that tell it
me ! Never ! and in no wise — jws
viSme qxuxnd vi^me ! Be that as it
may, for a long time past I have been
wishing to write a tale which shall
be called " See-Saw," widely outlined
thus : If you don't care for me, I care
for you ; I draw back if you come
forward, &c., — adorned with some de-
tails from life. This would help to
augment by some fifty pages the small
Tom Jones (tome jaune) beginning
at the staircase, not without resting
on the first step, and from thence into
the palace, and even further. What
do you say to that ? On the way, as
says Odry, you ai*e ever at liberty to
lose your way ! The idea pleases me,
and will you allow me to say some-
thing in which all my modesty will
shine ? If she doesn't read it . . .
Well ? — well, then, many others will.
And note this, Marraine, it is next to
impossible for any one to be as much
as every one. " But, Jieux, that will
not be nice of you — a gentleman whose
boots and clothes Pietro or Peter ha^^
blacked or brushed, should not lug a
chatelaine into the * Revue,' nor have
her bound in yellow paper ; and if ever
you do such a thing, Pierre, Pietro, or
Peter will nevermore black your )x>ota
nor brush aught of yours again." True,
Marraine, I must renounce the pleas-
ure of the presence of your small but
charming self when swallowing maca-
roni aux tomates, and that also of
looking at the small orange flower-
buds, set in crimson satin, which serve
as teeth to the beautiful person oi
whom you are — I know not why — ^the
mother. I must give up Leo'pardi'e
nose, and B.'s hump, M. V.'s whiskers,
. . . and — ^many other things. But then,
you see, I have been driven wild. You

1881.]

A French Lady and her Friends,

do not know, godmother. No, you
cannot know to what a degree I have
been killed, destroyed, ruined. How I
was led on and encouraged ! — what
profound, perverse, and pernicious
coquetry was displayed in cold blood
i^ainst a poor devil who loves with all
his heart, who vields himself up like
a dolt, who used to go away quietly to
cry hot tears half an hour before din-
ner-time, and who hardly dared to
speak in a whisper of it when giving
his arm to take her in to dinner, but
who wakes up sooner or later, never
mind why, and who knows what to
understand ! " . . .

The next letter being character-
istic, we also give some portions.
It is as follows : —

" Monday.

" I must be terribly fond of you,
madam, to foi*give you for fathoming
me, and coming to tell me to my face
exactly what I think. In your turn,
YOU must admit that we men are often
better than you women ; for never did
I hear it told that a woman had for-
given in similar circumstances, still
less that she had given in, whereas I
forgive and surrender. See how bon
prince 1 am, yet you dare to call me
Prince Grognon. I own, therefore,
that I never had any real intention of
writing the tale I spoke of — for that
was impossible. There might be a
way of doing the thing, presenting it
as a joke, without entering into any
very notable details, and showing
these in a favourable light. It must
stand till another time, whatever may
come of that. It's rather too bad that
a person of your stature should not be
frightened when a gentleman of mine
is in a passion. Per Bacco ! I take
aim with my gun, and a wren flies off
laughing in my face. I forgive you,
but I will pay you out.

"As for my verses, I hardly know
whether or not to regret them. As
/on said, madam, they were but a
]Hyrtrait de circonstance. Here no one
recognised the likeness. Some, as
isual, thought it was meant for that
poor Mme. Sand — d mopos de qiioi, at
this time of day, I beg of you ; and
mly fancy, Bonnaire has just left me,
laying that the said verses should be
»Titt«i — where do you suppose 1 — on

Rachers tomb! 'But,' said I, 'do
you really believe that I meant her ? '
* I don't aflirm anything,' he answered,
with the air of the 'Misanthrope ; '

but still ' 'The dear public is

certainly very spiteful, but I hold it
to be yet far more stupid,' was my
modest and gentle rejoinder, and our
conversation went no further.

" On one point I will not give in to
you, because therein I am right ; and
as I am wrong on so many, you may
surely grant me this. You are mis-
taken in comparing Miss Cbaworth to
Lady Byron. You are wrong : only
reflect how many thousands of senti-
ments there are between these two
extremes I Lady B. had lier husband's
secretaire broken open, and an inquest
made in order that he might be shut
up as a madman. Mary Chaworth, it
is true, taunted him with his lameness
— a mean thing enough to do — but
otherwise treated him pretty gently.
Anyhow, M. Chaworth loved another,
and in that gists the whole matter.
In my maddest days of passion I
never dreamt of bearing ill will to a
woman who told me she cared for an-
other. I may even boast that, under
such circumstances, I showed courage
and resignation. There is not much
to glory over in the fact ; it is merely
my way of feeling. As for a woman
who had simply told me that she did
not in the least care for me, I should
have said nothing, but to this I never
exposed myself ; but I have letters of
Uranie in which she says, ' I believed
that my friendship might be useful to
you;' where she also says, 'You would
have sufi'ered by my side, but not
without alleviation.' I have held her
hand, and kissed it for a minute at
a time, she abandoning it to me. I
have told her a hundred times that it
was no bontie fortune I sought with
her ; that my vanity was in no wise in
play ; that I sued only for a word of
friendship to make me happy for a
whole day. She both saw it and be-
lieved it ; yet she kept me a whole
week in her house, affecting every
moment to avoid any occasion of
speaking to me, treating me as a
stranger. . . . Now this is wicked and
hateful. I have more than a dozen
letters of hers, speaking of her friend-
ship, — does friendship consist in tak-

A French Lady and her Friends.

[July

ing an arm into dinner? What a
joke ! , . . Be sure of this, she led me
on, out of disosuvrement, to get some
amusement out of me, and make me
play the rdUf purely and simply, of a
jMtito. You know in what that con-
sists. I would not. Then came her
ill treatment As for me, I sincerely
believed in her make-believe friend-
ship, which was but a comedy, a mere
mssetemps, and which stopped short
as soon as she saw me give in and
surrender. . . . Forgive me this long
story, Marraine ; as you have some
friendship for me (and in yours I be-
lieve), you must bear the penalty.
I am still horribly dull, malgr^ tout,
and I cannot help chattering when I
know I am speaking to one who can
and will understand me. Let's speak
no more of it. . . . Good-bye, Mar-
raine ; when you open your window
in the morning to smoke a cigar, look
towards the bridge of Le Pecq, and
say to yourself, *My godson is very
silly, but whilst here they deride him,
over there he suffers.'

"A.DEM."

The Marraine helped to bring
matters to a pacific ending between
the Princess and her once lover-poet,
so that we find the last letters given
us by Madame Jaubert contain
hardly any direct mention of her,
time and absence having in some
measure healed the wound, whoso
smarting is, however, still betrayed
by many a sad allusion, as in this
letter, for instance : —

" A note soumled by you, my blond
and small Marraine, is, and will be
ever, at my diapason ; we have in all
things and so often given each other
our la, as to be certain of remaining
in tune, our instrument being good.
Your poppy touched me, the i)oor
thing. You should have sent me a
leaf of it, and compared me to it, —
shifting, ever whirling, untidy, it is
my very image ! But alas ! and ahis !
no longer is it the breath of passion
that makes me whirl and go nuid. I
am no longer even a poppy. My old
heart, which remains stationary at
fifteen years of age, is so well aware
of its own folly that it dares not wish

even for Goquelicoquettes. . . . You
are a long way oflf yet, little Marraine,
from the frightful becalming to which
I am resignetl, but vou will grow to it
infaUibly."

Following this one, a letter is
given which was received at the
time with much pleasure by Ma-
dame Jaubert, for it manifested a
wish to resume work, and contained
evidence of the process of poetical
fermentation being already begun
in De Musset's brain.

" Madam, I have just returned from
my guard duty, and Apropos of some
rubbish in a newspaper I am furious, in-
dignant, and holding forth at breakfast
Would you do me an act of charity ?
My heart and hand are full to over-
flowing. If you feel better, take a pea
one of these evenings, and just as you
feel — at haphazard, but very down-
rightly — write me reproach on re-
proach on the score of my idleness.
This seems an odd proposition, yet I
pray you have the courage to accept
it. I wish to answer that letter by
verses (without any name, &urn entetidu)^
but I require the shuttlecock to be
tlirown at me by a battledore, and you
only can strike it up to me. I must,
if I speak at all, speak in conscience,
and am incapable of imagining aught.
Begin hy laughing at this nonsense, e
poi send me a beat of your heart ; I will
return it you. A. de M."

This is the last bright badinaf/e
from the great poet Madame Jaubert
gives. Though all the letters are
undated, we know that this brings
us to the close of 1853; and the
following year the Marraine re-
marked the frequent alternatives of
ill health, which reacted painfully
on his mind, producing very con-
stant low spirits. The heart-dis-
ease which was finally to carry hir
off, became more and more violen
The overstrained heart worked it
vengeance on the poet who ha<
made such undue calls on it
powers and pastimes !

Poor De :Musset ! like Thekla h
had tasted — nay, more than tastec^

1881.]

A Frencft Lady and Tier Friends.

he had drained — the cup of earth's

supreme joy,

'he had lived and

loved." Love had martyred him,
but his faithful poet votary never
denied him. In his worst pangs
he dies out in verses of unrivalled
beauty —

" . . . Ce ftLt sans donte une horrible

mis^re.
. . . £h bien ! qn'importe encore ?

nature ! O ma m^re !
£n ai-je moins aime T

La foudre maintenant peat tomber sor

ma tdte.
Jamais ce sonvenir ne pent m*etre ar-

rache ;
Comme le matelot brise par la tempeto
Je m'y tiens attache !

Je ne yenx rien savoirl Ni si les

champs flenrissent,
Ni ce quHl adviendra dn simnlacre

hnmain
Ni si cea vastes cieux eclaireront demain
Ce qa*il9 en se velissent !

Je me dis senlement. A cette henre,
en ce lien,

Un ionr je fas aime, j'aimais, elle
etait belle.

J'enfonis ce tresor dans mon &me im-
mortelle,

Et je Temporte & Dien !

Prom De Musset to Heine the
transition is indeed slight, for
both men were simultaneously the
representative poets of their re-
spective countries in this century ;
and, like De Musset, Heine was
the poet of youth and love. We
therefore pass those sentences in
which Madame Jaubert speaks of
Pierre Lanfrey, the historian and
political writer, to stop at the more
interesting pages dedicated to her
reminiBcences of Heine, and the
letters she received from him.

She made his acquaintance at a
ball in the beginning of 1835. He
then looked younger than his age
[thirty-five), which he used to state
laughingly, by affirming he was the

first man of his century. He spoke
French with some slight difficulty,
giving to his thoughts, nevertheless,
a piquant form and dress. An
animated conversation commenced,
in which Heine expressed his dis-
approval of and impatience at the
hackneyed admiration of the French
for such idols as Goethe and Byron,
when they had un poete par excel-
lence of their own, such as De Mus-
set, whose writings were almost un-
known; and this was in fact the
case at that date.^ The interest of
the conversation was doubtless not
all on one side, and was such as led
the poet to wish for further know-
ledge of the spirituelle little lady.
The result was the beginning of
their long correspondence and in-
timacy, which lasted till his life's
close. The prelude was the fol-
lowing letter, and the envoi of one
of Heine's works : —

" I have the honour, madam, to
send you herewith my book on Ger-
many. I invite you to read the Part
6th. I speak in it of ondines, sala-
manders, gnomes, and sylphs. I am
well aware that my information on
these is very incomplete, albeit I have
read in their original tongues the
works of the great Aureolua, Theo-
phrastus, Paracelsus, Bombastus de
Hohenheim. But when 1 wrote my
book, I had never seen any of these
elementary spirits. I even doubted
their being aught else than the crea-
tions of our own imaginations, haunt-
ing rather men's dreams than dwelling
in the elements. . . . Since the day
before yesterday, however, I believe
in the reality of their existence. I
saw a foot tne day before yesterday
which can belong only to one of these
beings of fantasy of whom 1 have
spoken in my book ; but is it an
ondine's ? I fancy it must glide like
water, and mij^ht very well dance on
the waves. Or does it belong to a
salamander? *It is not cold,' saysf

• M. G^nisez, professeur de litt^rature H la Soibonne, about this time brought De
Musset to the notice of his auditors as '* une etoile qui se l^ve."
t Quoted from Andr^ by Geoi^es Sand.

A FrencJi Lady and her Friends.

[July

Joseph Marteau to Genevieve when
the lair fleuriste^s foot sets fire to his
imagination. Perhaps it is the foot
of a gnome ; it is small, pretty, and
high-bred enough for that. Or maybe
it is the foot of a sylph ? She to
whom it belongs is indeed so aerial,
so fairy-like. ... Is she a good or a
wicked fairy ? I know not ; and the
doubt worries me, makes me anxious,
and weighs upon me. It's true. I
am not jesting.

"Whereby you will perceive, ma-
dam, that I am not sufficiently an
adept in occult science — ^that I am no
great conjuror, but only your very
humble and obedient servant,

" Henri Heine.

''AprU 22, IS35."

The doubt which Heine thus ex-
pressed as to kindness being per-
haps wanting in Madame Jaubert
was identical, oddly enough, with
a feeling she harboured against him,
and which long prevented her from
entering fully and freely into friend-
ship with him. His sharp sayings
produced on her from the first an
unpleasant impression, which all
his charm of wit and imagination
even had much to do to counter-
balance. Yet he was invaluable,
she tells us, in her salon, where he
animated all and everything with
his shining mind, which was, as
it were, spangled. The drawback
to this precious element in her
circle was his incisive and unfailing
irony, which found victims he re-
lentlessly showed up ; and that,
with characteristical German persist-
ency, he unremittingly pursued, to
the dismay of the hostess. Her
whole and devoted friendship,
united to her admiration, was ob-
tained later on, at the sight of his
intolerable sufferings, borne with the
noblest fortitude. Every successive
and aggravated ill that befell him
was accepted bravely, gaily indeed,

with a jest that rendered it difficult
for bis friends to treat seriously
what he took himself so lightly.
When the hideous creeping paraly-
sis, which was finally to make a
living corpse of his poor frame,
had robbed him of sight, he onlj
said, " Je perds la vie, mais comme
le rossignol, je n'en chanterai que
mieux."

Writing to congratulate Madame
Jaubert on her daughter's conval-
escence, he says : —

" IZth April 1847.

"I have lived through a terrible
winter, and am astonished at not hav-
ing succumbed. It will be for another
time.

" I am delighted at the news you
give me of your daughter ; she ia
youn^, and will be soon strong again.
1 shall come to see you ere long, l^ng
curious to see Madame de Grignan**
in the character of reconvalescent.
She must be much pulled down, and
thinness lends her doubtless a new
charm. Flesh after all but hides the
lines of beauty, which is not revealed
in its whole ideal splendour till after
illness has animated our form. As for
me, I have thus adonis^ jvsqyUau. tqutlet-
tisme ! The pretty women in the street
turn back to stare at me when I pass.
My closed eyes (only the eighth part
of my right eye remains uncovered),
my hollow cheeks, my delirious beard,
my tottering gait, all give me a look
of the last agony, which wonderfully
suits my style. I have a real succcsa
at the present time as vMrihond. I
devour liearts, only I cannot digest
them. I am actually a very killing
person, and you will see that the Mar-
([uise Christine Trivulzio will fall in
love with me. I am quite the grave*
yard bone that she requires.

" Adieu, best and fairest ! God
keep you from embellishing after my
fashion. To His safe and holy keep-
ing I commend you. H. H."

The tender pity provoked at the
sight of this cruel martyrdom, thai

* A name he freauently bestows on the Marquise de la Grange, Madame Jaubert':
daughter, in playful allusion to the closeness of the bond between the mother ant'
daughter.

1881.]

A French Lady and her Friends.

he bore with such heroic resigna^
tion, is told in many interestiog
pages, which space denies our dwell-
ing on. Madame Jaubert gives us
also many facts aa to his taste in
music, painting, and sculpture. She
tells of the attraction that pale
beauties, with regular features and
a spectral sort of charm, had for
him. She dwells on the extraor-
dinary and fatal fascination that
his last love — his wife — exerted
over him to the very end. A
round, full-faced woman, with large
black eyes, a smiling mouth filled
with whitest teeth, and fully de-
veloped figure. Her voice in par-
ticular was a perpetual delight to
Heine — his praises of it were con-
stant ; and he told Madame Jaubert
that, during his long agony, that
Toice had recalled his spirit " at
the very moment when decidedly
it was taking flight towards the un-
known futurity." Her magnetic
power over him was, he said, irre-
sistible. One night that he was
shaken by a murderous spasm of
so terrific a nature as to seem the
sure prelude of death itself, his
wife took his cold hand, chafed and
warmed it, and he heard her say
amidst her sobs, " No, Henri, no !
you shall not die ; you must have
pity on me ! My parrot died this
morning, and if I were to lose you
I should be too wretched." Heine's
quaint comment was, " It was an
order, and I obeyed and kept alive,
when such good reasons are given,
you know."

The naif form of speech of his

unsophisticated wife was always a

pleasure to him ; and his tender

•rotecting care of her was such, up

o the last, as to render not only

olerable, but pleasant, the igno-

ance and inexperience that would

otherwise have been insufferable.

She has never read a line of my

/ritings," he merrily confided to

Madame Jaubert, and does not
even know what a poet is ! "

Notwithstanding his desperate
condition, he took upon himself all
the many worrying cases of their
household, the paying of bills, &c.,
leaving her free to mind her parrot
and her flowers. He was most scru-
pulous in balancing the accounts
of his expenditure ; and we own to
having been touched to the quick
at Madame Jaubert's account of the
hiind and paralysed poet paying
the maid the slight sum she re-
quired from a small bag that he
would draw from under his pillow,
fumbling at it till he had opened
it, and taken thence the requisite
amount. Madame Jaubert tells
also of the generosity of his nature,
and of the ingenious delicacy he
would show in oflering appropriate
gifts and souvenirs to his friends
on the authorised occasions of birth-
days and fSte days ; but above all,
and over and over again, does she
tell of the fearful torture borne
without any loss of self-possession.
In the spring of 1848 some slight
hopes had been raised by an im-
provement in his symptoms, due
to a new doctor and his treatment:
he had recovered the use of his
hands and the power of taste. One
eyelid had also reacquired the
power of being slightly raised ; but
these anticipations of recovery were
not of long duration.

He dictated the following letter
on the 19th of September 1848 to
Madame Jaubert, of which only the
signature was in his hand : —

" Little Fairy (for by this name, of
Madame Heine's bestowal, are you
known in our home), — I have yet to
thank you for your first amiable letter,
written when starting for Les Roches
or for Madame de Grignan*s, I know
not which. This morning I got your
second letter, the affection and piety
of which do me good, though the news
it brings is hardly matter for rejoicing ;

A French Lady and her Friends.

[July

but to tell the truth, I am so stuimed
by physical pain that this ill news, of
the failure at the Foreign OflSce, hardly
touches me : it is as a pin-pribk to a
man stretched on the red-hot coals of
torture. ... I write to-day to let
you know that to-morrow you will no
longer find me in my Villa Dolorosa at
Passy, which I am leaving for Paris. . . .
Since I last had the comfort of seeing
you, my ills have augmented, and cer-
tain alarming symptoms have decided
my return to Paris. I do not wish to
be buried at Passy — the graveyards
there must be very dull. I want to
get nearer to that of Montmartre,
which I have long since chosen for
my last abode.

" My cramps have been without in-
termission, — they have invaded the
whole spinal column, and reach up to
the brain, where they may have effect-
ed greater damage than I am myself
tit to ascertain. Religious thoughts
come to the surface.

" Good-bye, Little Fairy. May God
forgive you your enchantments, and
take you under His holy and safe
keeping. Henri Heine."

Madame Jaubert saw the poet for
the last time four days before his

death. He was in full possession
of all bis powers of mind and con-
versation, and aware that his end
was very near at hand. On her
taking leave he kept his friend's
little hand for some time in his
own, and murmured, '' It will he
prudent not to delay long if you
wish to see me again." On the
night of the 16th February 1856
he died. He had questioned his
physician, and learnt that his de-
liverance was at hand ; and death,
that he met so calmly, and awaited
so bravely, gave him no harsh treat-
ment, but set a strange seal of beauty
on the worn, emaciated, and dis-
figured frame of the tortured poet,
who lay transfigured on his death-
bed in a return to youth and beauty.
And with his end, end also Ma-
dame Jaubert's " Souvenirs." They
are a graceful monument to the
friendship of these famous men, in
whose intimacy her life had been
lived, " whose bodies are buried
in peace, but whose name liveth
evermore."

1881.J

King Bemba*8 Point : A West African Story,

KING BEMBA'S POINT.

A WEST AFRICAN STORY.

We were for the moat part a
queer lot ont on that desolate soath-
ireet African coast^ in charge of the
Tarions trading stations that were
Bcatteied along the coast, from the
Graboon river, past the mouth of the
mightyCongo,to the Portuguese city
of St Paul de Loanda. A mixture
of all sorts, especially of had sorts —
broken-down clerks, men who could
not succeed anywhere else, sailors,
youths, and some whose characters
would not have borne any investi-
gation ; and we very nearly all drank
hard, and those who didn't drink
hard, took more than was good for
ihem.

I don't know exactly what in-"
duced me to go out there. I was
young for one thing, the country
was unknown, the berth was vacant,
and the conditions of it easy.

Imagine a high rocky point or
headland, stretching out sideways
into the sea, and at its base a small
river winding into a country that
was seemingly a blank in regard to
inhabitants or cultivation — a land
continuing for miles and miles, as
far as the eye could see, one expanse
of long yellow grass, dotted here and
there with groups of bastard palms.
In front of the headland rolled
the lonely South Atlantic ; and, as
if such conditions were not dispirit-
ing enough to existence upon the
Point, there was yet another feature
which at times gave the place a
till more ghastly look. A long
ray o£P the shore, the heaving sur-
ace of the ocean began, in anything
ike bad weather, to break upon the
ihoals of the coast. Viewed from
•be top of thjB rock, the sea at such
imes looked, for at least two miles
rat, as if it were scored over with

lines of white foam ; but lower
down, near the beach, each roller
could he distinctly seen, and each
roller had a curve of many feet,
and was an enormous mass of water
that hurled itself shorewards until
it curled and broke.

"When I first arrived on the Point
there was, I may say, only one
house upon it, and that belonged to
Messrs Flint Brothel's of Liverpool.
It was occupied by one solitary
man named Jackson : he had had an
assistant, but the assistant had died
of fever, and I was sent to replace
him. Jackson was a man of fifty at
least, who had been a sailor before
he had become an African trader.
His face bore testimony to the
winds and weather it had encoun-
tered, and wore habitually a grave
if not melancholy expression. He
was rough but kind to me, and
though strict was just, which was
no common feature in an old Afri-
can hand to one who had just ar-
rived on the coast.

He kept the factory — we called
all houses on the coast factories —
as neat and clean as if it had been
a ship. He had the floor of the
portion we dwelt in holystoned every
week ; and numberless little racks
and shelves were fitted up all over
the house. The outside walls glit-
tered with paint, and the yard was
swept clean every morning ; and
every Sunday, at eight o'clock and
sunset, the ensign was hoisted and
lowered, and an old cannon fired at
the word of command. Order and
rule were with Jackson observed
from habit, and were strictly en-
forced by him on all the natives
employed in the factory.

Although I have said the coun-

King Bembda Point : A West African Story.

[July

try looked as if uninhabited, there
were numerous villages hidden away
in the long grass and brushwood,
invisible at a distance, being huts
of thatch or mud, and not so high
as the grass among which they were
placed. From these villages came
most of our servants, and also the
middlemen, who acted as brokers
between us, the white men, and the
negroes who brought ivory, and
gum, and india-rubber from the far
interior for sale. Our trade was prin-
cipally in ivory, and when an un-
usually large number of elephants'
tusks arrived upon the Point for sale
it would be crowded with bushmen,
straDge and uucouth, and hideously
ugly, and armed, and then we would
be very busy; for sometimes as many
as two hundred tusks would be
brought to us at the same time, and
each of these had to be bargained
for and paid for by exchange of
cotton cloths, gims, knives, powder,
and a host of small wares.

For some time after my arrival,
our factory, along with the others on
the coast belonging to Messrs Flint
Brothers, was very well supplied by
them with goods for the trade ; but
by degrees their shipments became
less frequent, and small when they
did come. In spite of repeated
letters we could gain no reason from
the firm for this fact, nor could the
other factories, and gradually we
found ourselves with an empty
storehouse, and nearly all our goods
gone. Then followed a weary inter-
val, during which we had nothing
whatever to do, and day succeeded
day through the long hot season. It
was now that I began to feel that
Jackson had become of late more
silent and reserved with me than ever
he had been. I noticed, too, that he
had contracted a habit of wandering
out to the extreme end of the Point,
where he would sit for hours gazing
upon the ocean before him. In ad-
dition to this he grew morose and

uncertain in his temper towards the
natives, and sometimes he would
fall asleep in the evenings on a sofe,
and talk to himself at such a rate
while asfeep that I would grow fright-
ened, and wake him, when he would
stare about him for a little until he
gathered consciousness, and then
he would stagger ofip to bed to fall
asleep again almost immediately.
Also his hands trembled much, and
he began to lose flesh. All this
troubled me, for his own sake as
well as my own, and I resolved to
ask him to see the doctor of the
next mail-steamer that came. With
this idea I went one day to the end
of the Point, and found him in his
usual attitude, seated on the long
grass, looking seaward. He did
not hear me approach, and when
I spoke he started to his feet, and
demanded fiercely why I disturbed
him. I replied, as mildly as I
could, for I was rather afraid of the
glittering look that was in his eyes,
that I wished to ask him if he did
not feel ilL

He regarded me with a steady
but softened glance for a little, and
then said —

" My lad, I thank you for your
trouble ; but I want bo doctor. Do
you think I'm looking iU ? "

** Indeed you are," I answered,
" ill and thin ; and, do you know, I
hear you talk to yourself in your
sleep nearly every night."

"What do I say?" he asked,
eagerly.

**That I cannot tell," I replied.
'* It is all rambling talk — the same
things over and over again, and
nearly all about one person — Lucy."

" Boy 1 " he cried out, as if :
pain, or as if something had tone
ed him to the quick, "sit yc
down, and I'll tell you why I thin
of her — she was my wife."

He moved nearer to the edge <
the cliff, and we sat down, almos
over the restless sea beneath us.

1881.]

King Bemba*8 Point : A West African Stoi-y.

" She lives in my memory," he
continued, speaking more to him-
self than to me, and looking far out
to the horizon heneath which the
setting sun had hegun to sibk, ^* in
spite of all I can do or think of to
make her appear base in my eyes.
For she left me to go with another
man — a scoundrel. This was how
it was," he added, quickly : ** I mar-
ried her, and thought her as pure
as a flower ; but I could not take
her to sea with me because I was
only the mate of a vessel, so I left
her among her own friends, in the
village where she was born. In a
little cottage by herself I settled
her, comfortable and happy as I
thought. God! how she hung
round my neck and sobbed when
I went away the first time ! and yet
— ^yet — within a year she left me."
And he stopped for several minutes,
resting his head upon his hands.
"At first I could get no trace of
her," he resumed. "Her friends
knew nothing more of her than that
she had left the village suddenly.
Gradually I found out the name
of the scoundrel who had seduced
her away. He had bribed her
friends so that they were silent; but
I over -bribed them with the last
money that I had, and I followed
him and my wife on foot. I never
found them, nor did I ever know
why she had deserted me for him.
If I had only known the reason ;
if I could have been told of my
fault; if she had only written to
say that she was tired of me ; that
I was too old, too rough for her
soft ways, — I think I could have
borne the heavy stroke the villain
id dealt me better. The end of
ly search was that I dropped
i>wn in the streets of Liverpool,
hither I thought I had tracked
leno, and was carried to the hos-
ital with brain fever upon me.
wo months afterwards I came out
ired, and the sense of my loss

was deadened within me, so that I
could go to sea again, which I did,
before the mast, under the name of
Jackson, in a barque that traded
to this coast here." And the old
sailor rose to his feet and turned
abruptly away, leaving me sitting
alone.

I saw that he did not wish to be
followed, so I stayed where I was
and watched the grey twilight
creep over the face of the sea, and
the night quickly succeed to it.
]^ot a cloud had been in the sky
all the day long, and as the dark-
ness increased the stars came out,
until the whole heavens were stud-
ded with glittering gems.

Suddenly, low down, close to
the sea, a point of light flickered
and disappeared, shone again for a
moment, wavered and went out,
only to reappear and shine steadily.
'^A steamer's mast-head light," I
thought, and ran to the house to
give the news ; but Jackson had
already seen the light, and pro-
nounced it to be that of a mail-
steamer, and shortly we saw her
side-lights, and the sound of a gun
announced that she had anchored
until the morning. At daybreak
there she was, dipping her sides to
the swell of the sea as it rolled be-
neath her. It was my duty to go
off to her in one of the surf-boats
belonging to the factory; and so
I scrambled down the cliff to the
little strip of smooth beach that
served us for a landing-place.

When I arrived there I found
that the white-crested breakers were
heavier than I had thought they
would be. However, there was the
boat lying on the beach with its prow
towards the waves, and round it were
the boat-boys with their loin-cloths
girded, ready to start ; so I clam-
bered into the stem, or rather — for
the boat was shaped alike at stem
and stern — the end from which the
steersman, or patrao^ used his long

King Bemba^s Point : A West African Story,

[Jnly

oar. With a shout the boys laid
hold of the sides of the boat, and
the next moment it was dancing on
the spent waves next to the beach.
The patrao kept its head steady,
and the boys jumped in and seized
the oars, and began pulling with a
will, standing up to their stroke.
Slowly the heavy craft gathered
way, and approached a dark and
unbroken roller that hastened to-
wards the beach. Then the patrao
shouted to the crew, and they lay
on their oars, and the wave with
a roar burst right in front of the
boat, sending the spray of its
crest high above our heads.

" Bema I rema for^a / " (row
strongly,) now shouted the patrao,
speaking Portuguese, as mostly all
African coast natives do, — and the
crew gave way. The next roller
we had to meet in its strength;
and save for the steady force of the
2?atrao^8 oar, I believe it would have
tossed us aside and we would have
been swept under its curving wall
of water. As it was, the good boat
gave a mighty bound as it felt its
force, and its stem pitched high
into the air as it slid down its
broad back into the deep.

Another and yet another wave
were passed, and we could now see
them breaking behind us, shutting
out the beach from view. Then
the last roller was overcome, and
there was nothing but the long
heave of the deep sea to contend
against. Presently we arrived at
the steamer, whose side towered
above us, an iron walL

A shout came. to me, pitching
and lurching with the boat far
below, " Come on board at once."
But to come on board was only
to be done by watching a chance
as the boat rose on the top of a
roller. Taking such a one, I seized
the side-ropes, swung a moment in
mid-air, and the next was on the
steamer's clean white deck. Be-

fore me stood a tall man with
black hair and whiskers, and dark
piercing eyes, who asked me if X
was the agent for Flint Brothers.
I answered that the agent was
on shore, and that I was his as-
sistant Whereupon he informed
me that he had been appointed
by the firm to liquidate all their
stations and businesses on the
coast, and ^'he would be obliged
by my getting his luggage into
the boat." This was said in a
peremptory sort of way, as if he
had spoken to a servant ; and very
much against the grain I obeyed
his orders.

That the man was new to the
coast was evident, and my conso>
lation was that he would be very
soon sick of it and pretty well
frightened before he even got on
shore, for the weather was fresh-
ening rapidly, a fact of which he
appeared to take no heed. Not so
the boat-boys, who were anxious to
be off. At last we started, and I
soon had my revenge. As we dre'w
near the shore the rollers rolled
higher and higher, and I perceived
that my gentleman clutched the
gunwale of the boat very tightly,
and when the first wave that
showed signs of breaking overtook
us, he grew very white in the face
until it had passed.

The next one or two breakers
were small, much to his relief I
could see, though he said nothing.
Before he had well recovered his
equanimity, however, a tremendous
wave approached us somewhat sud-
denly. Appalled by its threatening
aspect, he sprang from his seat and
seized the arm of the patrao, vrh
roughly shook him off.

" My God 1 " he cried, " we a
swamped ! " and for the momex
it really looked like it ; but th
patrao, with a dexterous sweep i
his long oar, turned the boat's hea
towards the roller. It broke ju'

mi.]

King BenMs Point : A West African Story.

iA it Teached us and gave us the
benefit of its crest, which came in
over the top sides of the boat as
it passed bj, and deluged every
one of us.

I laughed, although it was no
laughing matter, at the plight the
liquidator was now in. He was
changed in a moment from a spruce
and natty personage into a miser-
able and draggled being. From
every part of him the salt water
was streaming, and the curl was
completely taken out of his whis-
kers. He could not speak from
terror, which the boat -boys soon
saw, for none are quicker than
negroes to detect signs of fear in
those whom they are accustomed
to consider superior to themselves.
Familiar with the surf, and full
of mischievous fun, they began to
shout and gesticulate with the set-
tled purpose of making matters ap-
pear worse than they were, and of
enjoying the white man's discom-
fiture, — all but the patrao^ who
was an old hand, and on whom
depended the safety of us all.
He kept a steady look-out sea-
ward, and stood upright and firm,
grasping his oar with both hands.
With him it was a point of honour
to bring the white men intrusted
to his care safely through the surf.
We waited for more than half an
hoar, bow on, meeting each roller
as it came to us ; and by the end
of that time the unfortunate liqui-
dator had evidently given up all
hope of ever reaching the shore.
Luckily, the worst was soon to
pass. After one last tremendous
wave there was a lull for a few
I ments, and the patrao, who had
^ \ched for such a chance, swiftly
t ned the boat round, and giv-
i the word to the crew, they
] [led lustily towards the shore.
] a few minutes we were again
i safety. The boat grounded on
1 beach ; the oars were tossed

into the sea ; the crew sprang over-
board, some of them seized the new
ariival; I clambered on the back
of the patrao ; a crowd of negroes,
who had been waiting on the
beach, laid hold of the tow-rope of
the boat, and it and we were landed
simultaneously on the dry sand.

Once on shore Mr Bransome, for
that was the new man's name,
rapidly recovered his presence of
mind and manner, and, by way of
covering his past confusion, re-
marked that he supposed the surf
was seldom so bad as it then was.
I replied in an off-hand way,
meaning to make fun of him, that
what he had passed through was
nothing, and appealed to the patrao
to confirm what I had said. That
negro, seeing the joke, grinned all
over his black face ; and Mr Bran-
some, perceiving that he was being
laughed at, snatched a good -sized
stick from a native standing near,
and struck the patrao repeatedly
over the back.

In vain Sooka, for that was the
patrao's name, protested, and de-
manded to know what wrong thing
he had done. The agent was
furious, and showered his blows
upon the black. Equally in vain
I shouted that Sooka had done well
by us, and that he, Mr Bransome,
was making an enemy of a man
who would have him now and then
in his power. At length Sooka
took to his heels, and, sure enough,
when he had got a little way ofi^, he
began to threaten vengeance for
what he had received. I sympa-
thised with him, for I knew what
a loss to his dignity it was to be
beaten without cause before his
fellows, and I feared that Mr Bran-
some would indeed be sorry, sooner
or later, for what he had done.

I now suggested to him, by way
of diverting his thoughts from poor
Sooka, that standing on the beach
in wet clothes was the very way to

King Bemba's Point : A West African Story.

[July

catch the coast fever straight off,
and he instantly suffered himself
to he carried up to the factory.
There Jackson received him in a
sort of "who on earth are youl"
manner; and Mr Bransome, clear-
ing his throat, announced himself
and his authority, adding that he
intended to make the factory a
point of departure to all the others
on the coast ; then, very ahruptly,
he requested Jackson to prepare
quarters for him without delay.

The change that came over Jack-
son's face as he learnt the quality
of the stranger and his requests
was great. The old salt, who had
heen king of his house and of the
Point for so long a time, had evi-
dently never even thought of the
prohahility of such an intrusion as
was now presented to him, and he
was amazed at what he considered
to he the unwarrantahle assurance
of the stranger. However, he re-
covered himself smartly and asked
the new man if he had any written
credentials.

"Certainly," replied he, pulling
out a document all wet with salt
water. "Here is a letter from
Messrs Flint Brothers, of which,
no douht, you will have a copy in
your mail-bag."

Jackson took the letter and
opened it, and seemed to read it
slowly to himself. All at once he
started, looked at the new agent,
advanced a step or two towards
him, muttering, "Bransome, Bran-
some," then stopped and asked him
in a strange constrained voice, " Is
your name Bransome 1 "

" Yes," replied the latter, aston-
ished at the old man's question.

" I knew a Bransome once," said
Jackson, steadily, "and he was a
scoundrel."

For a moment the two men
looked at each other — Jackson with
a gleam of hatred in his eyes, while
Bransome had a curiously fright-

ened expression on his fuse, which
blanched slightly. But he quickij
resumed his composure and per-
emptory way, and said, "Show
me a room ; I must get these wet
things off me."

As, however, he addressed him-
self this time to me rather than to
Jackson — who, indeed, regarded
him no longer, but stood with the
letter loose in his hand, looking at
the floor of the room, as if in deep
meditation — I showed him into my
own room, where I ordered his
trunks to be hrought. These, of
course, were wet ; but he found
some things in the middle of them
that were not more than slightly
damp, and with the help of a pair
of old canvas trousers of mine he
managed to make his appearance
at dinner-time.

Jackson was not at the meaL
He had left the house shortly after
his interview with the new agent,
and had, I fancied, gone on one of
his solitary rambles. At any rate
he did not return until late that
night.

I thought Mr Bransome seemed
to be somewhat relieved when be
saw that the old man was not
coming ; and he became more
affable than I had expected him to
be, and relinquished his arrogant
style altogether when he hegan to
question me about Jackson — ^who
he was) what had he been) how
long he had lived on the coast 1
To all which questions I returned
cautious answers, remembering that
I was under a promise to the old
man not to repeat his story.

By the next morning, to my sur-
prise, Jackson appeared to ha
hecome reconciled to the fact tl
he had been superseded by a m
who knew nothing of the coa
and of his own accord he offered
tell Mr Bransome the clues to t
letter -locks on the doors of t
various store-rooms ; for we on 1

1881.]

King Be^nbd*s Point : A West African Story.

coast nsed none bat letter-locks,
wbicli are locks that do not require
a key to open them. But Mr
Bransome expressed, most politely,
a wish that Jackson should con-
sider himself still in charge of the
factory, at any rate nntU the whole
estate of the unfortunate Flint
Brothers could be wound up; and
he trusted that his presence would
make no difference to him.

This was a change, on the part
of both men, from the manners of
the previous day ; and yet I could
not help thinking that each but
ill concealed his aversion to the
other.

Months now slipped away, and
Mr Bransome was occupied in going
up and down the coast in a little
steamer, shutting up factory after
factory, transferring their goods to
OUTS, and getting himself much dis-
liked by all the Europeans under
him, and hated by the natives,
especially by the boat-boys, who
were a race or tribe by themselves,
coming from one particular part of
the coast. He had of course been
obliged to order the dismissal of
many of them, and this was one
reason why they hated him; but
the chief cause was his treatment
of Sooka, the patrao. That man
never forgave Mr Bransome for
beating him so unjustly; and the
news of the deed had travelled
very quickly, as news does in sav-
age countries, so that I think nearly
all Sooka's countrymen knew of the
act and resented it.

Mr Bransome was quite unaware
of the antipathy he had thus
created toward himself, except so
far as Sooka was concerned; and
him he never employed when he
had to go off to vessels or land
from them, but always went in the
other boat belonging to the fac-
tory, which was steered by a much
younger negro. In addition to
humbling Sooka in this way, Bran-

VOL. CXXZ. — ^NO. DCCLXXXIX.

some took the opportunity of dis-
gracing him whenever he could do
so. Therefore, one day when two
pieces of cloth from the cargo-room
were found in the boatmen's huts,
it was no surprise to me that Sooka
was at once fastened upon by Mr
Bransome as the thief who had
stolen them, and that he was tied
to the flogging-post in the middle
of the yard, and sentenced to receive
fifty lashes with the cat that was
kept for such a purpose, and all
without any inquiry being made.
In vain did the unfortunate man
protest his innocence. A swarthy
Krootboy from Cape Coast laid the
cat on his brown shoulders right
willingly, for he also was an enemy
of Sooka's ; and in a few minutes
the poor fellow's flesh was cut and
scored as if by a knife.

After the flogging was over, Mr
Bransome amused himself by get-
ting out his rifle and firing fancy
shots at Sooka, still tied to the
post — that IB, he tried to put the
bullets as close to the poor wretch
as he could without actually wound-
ing him. To a negro, with his
dread of firearms, this was little
short of absolute torture, and at
each discharge Sooka writhed and
crouched as close to the ground as
he could, while his wide -opened
eyes and mouth, and face of almost
a slate colour, showed how terribly
frightened he was. To Mr Bran-
some it appeared to be fine sport,
for he fired at least twenty shots
at the man before he shouldered
his rifle and went indoors. Jack-
son said nothing to this stupid
exhibition of temper, but as soon
as it was over he had Sooka re-
leased ; and I knew he attended to
his wounds himself, and poured
friar's -balsam into them, and cov-
ered his back with a soft shirt —
for all which, no doubt, the negro
was afterwards grateful. Whether
Mr Bransome got to know of this,
a

King Bemba's Point : A West African Story.

[July

and was offended at it, I do not
. know, but shortly afterwards he
ceased to live with us.

There was between the factory
and the sea, and a little to the
right of the former, a small wooden
cottage which had been allowed to
fall into a dilapidated state from
want of some one to live in it This
Mr Bransome gave orders to the
native carpenters to repair and
make weather - tight ; and when
they had done so, he caused a quan-
tity of furniture to be brought
from St Paul de Loanda and placed
within it Then he transferred
himself and his baggage to the
cottage.

Jackson displayed complete in-
difference to this change on the
part of the agent. In fact there
had been, ever since the arrival of
the latter upon the Point, and in
spite of apparent friendliness, a
perceptible breach, widening djdly,
between the two men. As to the
reason of this I had my own sus-
picions, for I had made the dis-
covery that Jackson had for some
time past been drinking very
heavily.

In addition to the brandy which
we white men had for our own use,
^ I had, to my horror, found out that
he was secretly drinking the coarse
and fiery rum that was sold to the
natives ; and as I remembered the
mutterings and moanings that had
formerly alarmed me, I wondered
that I had not guessed the cause of
them at the time; but until the
arrival of Mr Bransome, Jackson
had always kept charge of the spirits
himself, and he was such a secret
old fellow that there was no know-
ing what he had then taken. Now
that I was aware of his failing, I
was very sorry for the old sailor ;
for on such a coast and in such a
climate there was only one end to
it ; and although I could not actu-
ally prevent him from taking the

liquor, I resolved to watch him, and
if such symptoms as I had seen
before again appeared, to tell Mr
Bransome of them at all hazards.
But I was too late to prevent what
speedily followed my discovery.
It had come about that the same
mail-steamer that had brought out
Mr Bransome had again anchored
off the Point, and again the weather
was coarse and lowering. A stiff
breeze had blown for some days,
which made the rollers worse than
they had been for a long whilei
Both Mr Bransome and Jackson
watched the weather with eager
looks, but each was differently af-
fected by it Bransome appeared
to be anxious and nervous, whilst
Jackson was excited, and paced up
and down the verandah, and kept,
strange to say, for it was contrary
to his late habit, a watch upon
Bransome's every movement

Every now and then, too, he
would rub his hands together as
if in eager expectation, and would
chuckle to himself as he glanced
seawards. Of his own accord he
gave orders to Sooka to get both
the surf-boats ready for launching,
and to make the boys put on their
newest loin-cloths; and then, when
everything was in readiness, he
asked Bransome if he was going off
to the steamer.

'* I fear I must," said Bransome ;
"but I— I don't like the look of
those cursed rollers."

At this Jackson laughed, and
said something about " being afraid
of very little."

" The beach is perfectly good," he
added ; " Sooka knows, and Sooka
is the oldest patrao on the Point.*'

And Sooka, who was standing
by, made a low obeisance to the
agent, and said 'Hhat the beach
lived for well," which was his way
of expressing in Eaglish that the
sea was not heavy.

At that moment a gun was fired

1881.] King Bemha's Point: A West African St(yi*y.

from the steamer as a si^i^al to be
quick, and Bransome said, '' I T?ill
go, but not in -that black black-
guard's boat; it need not come,"
— and be went down to the beacb.
It was one of Jackson's rules,
that when a boat went through the
Burf there sbould be some one to
watch it, so I walked to the end of
tbe Point to see the agent put off.
He got away safely ; and I, seeing
Sooka's boat lying on the beach,
and thinking that it would be as
well t-o have it hauled up under the
boat-shed, was on the point of re-
taming to tbe factory to give the
necessary order, when, to my sur-
prise, I saw the boat's crew rush
down the beach to the boat and
b^n to pnsh it towards the sea.

I waved my arms as a signal to
them to stop, but they paid no at-
tention to me ; and I saw them run
the boat into the water, jump into
her, and pull off, all singing a song
to their stroke in their own lan-
guage, the sound of wbich came
^dntly np to the top of the Point.
"Stupid fellows," I muttered to
myself, "they might have known
that the boat was not wanted ;" and
I was again about to turn away,
when I was suddenly seized from
behind, and carried to the very
edge of the cliff, and then as sud-
denly released.

I sprang to one side and turning
round saw Jackson, with a look of
such savage fury on his face, that I
retreated a step or two in astonish-
ment at him. He perceived my
alarm, and burst out into a fit of
laughter, which, instead of reassur-
ing me, had tbe opposite effect, it
•ras so demoniacal in character.
* Ha ! ha ! " be laughed again,
'are you frightened?" and ad-
ancing towards me, he put his face
lose to mine, peering into it with
)loodBhot eyes, while his breath,
eeking of spirits, poured into my
OBtrils.

Involuntarily I put up my arm
to keep him off. He clutched it,
and pointing with his other hand
to the sea, whispered hoarsely,
" What do you hear of the surf?
Will the breakers be heavier be-
fore sundown ? See how they be-
gin to curve ! Listen how they
already thunder, thunder, on the
beacb ! I tell you they are im-
patient, — ^they seek some one," he
shouted. " Do you know," he con-
tinued, lowering his voice again,
and speaking almost confidentially,
" sooner or later some one is drown-
ed upon that bar ? " And even as
he spoke a fresh line of breakers
arose from the deep, further out
than any had been before. This
much I observed, but I was too
greatly unnerved by the strange
manner of Jackson to pay further
heed to the sea. It had flashed
across my mind that he was on the
verge of an attack of delirium tre-
mens, from the effects of the liquor
he had been consuming for so long,
and the problem was to get him back
to the house quietly.

Suddenly a thought struck me.
Putting my arm within his, I said,
as coolly as I could, " Never mind
the sea, Jackson ; let us have a
matahicho " (our local expression for
a " drink "). He took the bait, and
came away quietly enough to the
house. Once there, I enticed him
into the dining-room, and shutting
to the door quickly, I locked it on
the outside, resolving to keep him
there until Mr Bransome should
return ; for, being alone, I was
afraid of him.

Then I went back to the end of
the Point to look for the return of
the two boats. When I reached it
I saw that the rollers had increased
in size in the short time that I had
been absent, and that they were
breaking, one after another, as fast
as they could come shorewards — not
pigmy waves, but great walls of

100

King Bemba^s Point : A West African Story.

[July

water that seemed from their height
actually to waver along their huge
length before they felL

A surf such as I had never yet
seen had arisen. I stood and anx-
iously watched through a glass the
boats at the steamer's side, and at
length, to my relief, I saw one of
them leave her; but as it came near,
I saw, to my surprise, that Mr Bran-
some was not in the boat, and that
it was not the one that Sooka
steered. Quickly it was overtaken
by the breakers, but escaped their
power, and came in -shore on the
back of a majestic roller that did
not break until it was close to
the beach, where the boat was in
safety.

Not without vague apprehension
at his imprudence, but still not an-
ticipating any actual harm from it,
I thought that Mr Bransome had
chosen to come back in Sooka's
boat, and I waited and waited to
see it return, although the daylight
had now so waned that I could no
longer distinguish what was going
on alongside the steamer. At last
I caught sight of the boat, a white
speck upon the waters, and, just as
it entered upon the dangerous part
of the bar, I discerned, to my in-
finite amazement, that two figures
were seated in the stern, — a man
and a woman — a white woman; I
could see her dress fluttering in
the wind, and Sooka's black figure
standing behind her.
. On came the boat, impelled by
the swift flowing seas, and for a
quarter of an hour it was tossed on
the crests of the waves. Again and
again it rose and sank with them
as they came rolling in, but some-
how, after a little further time, it
seemed to me that it did not make
such way towards the shore as it
should have done.

I lifted the glass to my eyes, and
I saw that the boys were hardly
pulling at all, though the boat was

now close to the rocks that were
near the cliff. Nor did Sooka seem
to be conscious of a huge roller that
was swiftly approaching him. In
my excitement I was just on the
point of shouting to warn those in
the boat of their danger, although
I knew that they could not under-
stand what I might say, when I
saw Jackson standing on the edge of
the cliff, a little way off, dressed in
his shirt and trousers only. He had
escaped from the house I He per-
ceived that I saw him, and came
running up to me, and I threw my-
self on my guard. However, he
did not attempt to touch me, bat
stopped and cried —

" Did I not tell you that some-
body would be drowned by those
waves 1 Watch that boat! watcli
it ! it is doomed ; and the scoun-
drel, the villain, who is in it will
never reach the shore alive ! " and
he hissed the last word through his
clenched teeth.

" Good God, Jackson ! " I said,
^* don't say that. Look, there is a
white woman in the boat ! "

At the words his jaw dropped,
his form, which a moment before
had swayed with excitement, be-
came rigid, and his eyes stared at
me as if he knew, but comprehended
not, what I had said. Then he
slowly turned his face towards the
sea, and as he did so, the mighty
breaker that had been coming up
astern of the boat curled over it.
For a moment or two it rushed
forward, a solid body of water, car-
rying the boat with it; and in those
moments I saw, to my horror, Sooka
give one sweep with his oar, whic^*
threw the boat's side towards tl
roller. I saw the boat -boys l&
clear of the boat into the surf;
saw the agonised faces of the m
and the woman upturned to t
wave above them, and then t
billow broke, and nothing was se^
but a sheet of frothy water. TJ

1881.]

King Bemha's Point : A West African Story,

101

boat and those in it had disappeared.
For the crew I had little concern —
I knew they would come ashore safe-
ly enough ; but for Mr Bransome and
the woman, whoever she was, there
was little hope. They had not had
time to throw themselves into the
sea before the boat had capsized,
and their clothing would sink them
in such a surf, even if they had
escaped being crushed by the boat.
Besides, I feared there had been
some foul play on the part of
Sooka. Quickly as he had done
it, I had seen him with his oar put
the boat beyond the possibility of
escaping from the wave, and I re-
membered how he had been treated
by Bransome.

With such thoughts I ran along
the cliff to the pathway that led
down to the beach ; and as I ran, I
saw Jackson nmning before me, not
steadily or rightly, but heavily, and
swaying from side to side as he
went Quickly I passed him, but
he gave no sign that he knew any
one wajs near him ; and as I leaped
down on to the first ledge of rock
below me, I saw that he was not
following me, but had disappeared
among the brushwood.

When I got down to the beach,
I found that the boat's crew had
reached the shore in safety, but of
the two passengers nothing had
been seen. The capsized boat was
sometimes visible as it^lifted on the
roUeiSy but through my glass I saw
, that no one was clinging to it. I
caUed for Sooka, but Sooka was
missing. Every one had seen him
land, but he had disappeared mys-
teriously. In vain I questioned the
'ther boys as to the cause of the
lisaster. The only answer I could
et out of them was an appeal to
)ok at the sea and judge for
nyself. The woman was a white
roman from the big ship, was all
they could say about her ; and,
legro-like, they evidently consid-

sidered the loss of a woman or so
of very little consequence.

All I could do was to set a watch
along the beach to look for the
bodies when they should be wt^hed
ashore, and this done, I returned
to the factory. My next desire was
to find Sooka, He could hardly
have gone far, so I sent for a run-
ner to take a message to the native
king under whose protection we
on the Point were, and after whom
the Point was called, and who was
bound to find the missing man for
me if he could, or if he had not
been bribed to let him pass.

In my sorrow at what had hap-
pened, and in my doubt as to the
cause of it, I had forgotten all
about Jackson ; but after I had de-
spatched my messenger to the king,
I went to look for him. I discov-
ered him crouching in a comer of
his own bedroom in the dark.

" Are they found % " he asked, in
a voice so hollow and broken that
I hardly knew it; and before I
could answer him, he whispered to
himself, ** No, no; they are drowned
— drowned."

I tried to lead him into the
lighted dining-room, but he only
crouched the closer to his corner.
At length by the promise of the
ever -potent temptation, liquor, I
got him to leave the room. He
could scarcely walk though, now,
and he trembled so violently that
I was glad to give him part of a
bottle of brandy that I had by me.
He filled a tumbler half full of the
spirits, and drank it off. This put
strength into him, and for a little
he was calm ; but as he again and
again applied himself to the bottle,
he became drunk, and swore at me
for my impudence in giving orders
without his sanction. On this I
tried to take the bottle from him,
but he clutched it so firmly that I
had to let it go ; whereupon he im-
mediately put it to his lips and swal-

102

King Bemha's Point : A West African Story.

[July

lowed the rest of the liquor that
was in it. After which he gave a
chuckle, and staggered to a couch,
on which he tumhled, and lay with
his Qyes open for a long while. At
last he fell asleep, hut I was too
nervous to do likewise, and Bat
watching him the most of the
night: at least when I awoke it
was daylight, and it seemed to me
that I had heen asleep but a few
minutes.

Jackson was still lying on the
couch, and his face was calm and
peaceful as ho softly breathed.
The morning too was fine, and as
I walked on to the verandah I saw
the sea sparkling in the sunlight,
and there was not a sound from it
save a far-off and drowsy murmur.
Not a sign remained on its broad
surface of the wrath of the day
before. It was wonderfully calm.
Lying here and there on the ver-
andah, rolled up in their clothes,
were the servants of the factory,
sleeping soundly on the hard planks.

Presently, as the sun rose in the
heavens and warmed the air, the
place began to show signs of life,
and one of the watch that I had
set on the beach came running
across the yard to tell me that the
bodies had come ashore.

Immediately upon hearing this
I called the hammock - bearers to-
gether, and going down to the
beach, I went a considerable way
along it towards a dark spot, which
I knew to be a group of natives.
On coming up to the group, I found
at least fifty negroes collected round
the drowned man and woman, all
chattering and squabbling amongst
themselves, and probably over the
plunder, for I saw that the bodies
had been stripped to their under-
clothing. Rushing into the crowd,
with the aid of a stick I dispersed
it, so far as to make the wretches
stand back. The man of course was
l>ransome, there was no doubt as

to that, although he had received
a terrible blow on the left temple,
most likely from the pointed stem
of the boat as it had toppled
over upon him, and his face was
distorted and twisted to one side.
The woman was evidently Eng-
lish, young and pretty, although
her long hair, heavy and wet, was
polluted by the sand that stuck to
it, and her half- open eyes were
filled with the same. On her lips
there lingered a slight smile. She
was of middle height, of slender
figure, and delicately nurtured, as
the small bare feet and little hands
showed. As I looked at the latter
I saw a wedding-ring on her finger,
and I thought, " it is Bransome's
wife." I tried to take the ring
away, but it would not come off her
finger — which I might have knowD,
because the natives would not have
left it there had they been able to
remove it. I then ordered the
bearers to lay the bodies in the
hammocks; and that done, our
little party wended its way along
the shore homewards, while the
natives I had dispersed follow-
ed one after another in African
fashion.

. Arrived at the factory, I bade the
boys place the bodies side by side
on a spare bed in an empty room,
and then I sent them to dig a
grave in the little burial-ground
on the Point., where two or three
worm-eaten wooden crosses marked
the resting-places of former agents
of Messrs Flint Brothers.

As quick interment was necessary
in such a climate, even on that very
day, I went to call Jackson in
order that he might perform tl
duty that was his— that of readir
the burial-service over the deac
and of sealing up the desk an
effects of Mr Bransome. But Jacl
son was not in the factory,
guessed, however, where he waj
and sure enough I found him i

1881.]

King BembcCs Point : A West African Story.

103

his accustomed haunt at the end
of the Point The moment he saw
me he tried to hide himself among
the brushwood, but I was too quick
for him, and spied him as he
crouched behind a dwarf palm.

" I know, I know," he cried, as
I ran up to him ; " I saw you come
along the beach. Bury them, bury
them out of sight"

" Come, Mr Jackson," I replied,
**it isn't fair to put all the trouble
on to me. I am sure I have had
enough of the weariness and anx-
iety of this sad business. You
must take your share of it I
want you to read the service for
the dead over them."

"No, no," he almost shrieked;
" bury them quick; never mind me.
Put them out of sight"

*' I will not," I said, resolutely.
" For your own sake you must, at
any rate, view the bodies."

" They have not been murdered?"
he replied. But the startled look
with which I received the sugges-
tion his words implied, seemed to
make him recollect himself, for he
rose and took my arm without say-
ing more. As he did so, I felt for
the first time a sort of repugnance
towards him. Up to that moment
my feeling had been one of pity
and anxiety on his account, but
now I loathed him. This he
seemed instinctively to feel, and
he clung closely to me.

Once at the factory I determined
that there should be no more delay
on his part, and I took him to the
door of the room where the bodies
had been laid, but at it he made a
pudden halt and would not enter.
Covering his face with his handp,
he trembled violently as I pushed
the door open and advanced to the
bedside. The room, hushed and in
semi - darkness — the white sheet,
whose surface showed too plainly
the forms beneath it — and the
scared, terrified face of the man who.

with brain a-fire, stood watching,
with staring eyes, the bed, — made
a scene I have never forgotten.

Slowly I turned down the upper
part of the sheet, and Jackson, as
if fascinated by the act, advanced a
step or two into the room, but with
face averted. Gradually he turned
it towards the bodies, and for a
moment his gaze rested upon them.
The next instant he staggered for-
ward, looked at the woman's face,
panted for breath once or twice, and
then, with uplifted hands and a
wild cry of " Lucy !" fell his length
upon the floor. When I stooped
over him he was in convulsions,
and dark matter was oozing out of
his mouth. The climax had come.
I shouted for the servants, and
they carried him to his own room,
and placed him on his own bed.

How I got through that day
I hardly know. Alone I buried
Bransome and his wife, and alone I
returned from the hurried task to
watch by Jackson's bedside. None
of the natives would stay near him.
For two days he lay unconscious.
At the end of that time he seemed
to have some idea of the outside
world, for his eyes met mine with
intelligence in their look, and on
bending over him I heard him
whisper, " Forgive me 1 " Then he
relapsed into unconsciousness again.
Through the long hours his eyes
remained ever open and restless; he
could not eat, nor did he sleep, and
I was afraid he would pass away
through weakness without a sign,
being an old man. On the third
day he became delirious, and com-
menced chattering and talking to
himself, and imagining that all
kinds of horrid shapes and crea-
tures were around and near him.
I had to watch him narrowly in
order to prevent him stealing out
of his bed, which he was ready to
do at any moment to avoid the tor-
tures which he fearfully imagined

104

King Bemba's Point : A West African Story.

[July

awaited bim. By these signs I
knew that he was in the middle of
an attack of delirium tremens, and
I tried to quiet him by means of
laudanum, but it had no effect upon
him. I got him, however, to swal-
low a little soup, which sustained
him. My own boy was the only
negro I had been able to induce to
stay in the room, and he would
only remain in it while I was there.
I had sent a messenger to the
nearest station, where I remembered
there was a Portuguese doctor; but
he had not returned by the even-
ing of the fourth day. That night,
worn out with watching, I had
dozed off to sleep on a chair, placed
by the sick man's bed, when all at
once I was awakened by a loud
report, and I jumped up to find
the room filled with smoke. As it
cleared away I saw that Jackson
was standing in the middle of the
room with a revolver in his hand.
As I confronted him he laughed
a devilish laugh and cocked the
weapon, crying as he did so, "It
was you who tempted me with your
smooth face and unsuspicious way,
and you shall die, though I suffer
doubly in hell for it. Hist ! " and
he stopped suddenly and listened.
" Don't you hear the breakers !
Hark! how they roar. They say
they are ready, always ready," and
staring in front of him, he ad-
vanced, as if following the sign of
an invisible hand, to the door, un-
consciously placing, to my infinite
relief, the revolver on the top of a
chest of drawers as he passed by it.
I did not dare to move, and he
opened the door and walked into
the front room. Then I followed
him. For a little he remained in
the room, glaring vacantly about
him, and muttering to himself; but
seeing the outer door open he made
a rush towards it, and disappeared
into the darkness of the night.
Calling to the boy, I ran after him,

and easily came up to him, when
he turned, and picking up a heavier
stone than I thought he could have
lifted, threw it at me. I dodged
it and closed with him. Once in
my arms I found I could hold him,
and my servant and I carried him
back into the factory. We placed
him on the floor of the dining-
room, and he was too exhausted to
move for a while. By degrees,
however, he recovered sufficiently
to stand ; and as soon as he could
do so by himself, with devilish can-
ning, he made for the lamp, which
he struck, quick as lightning, with
a stick that had been lying on the
table. In an instant the great
round globe fell to pieces, but
luckily the chimney was not broken,
and the lamp remained alight, and
before he could strike another blow
at it I had grappled with him again.
This time he struggled violently
for a few moments, and seemed to
think that he was dealing with
Bransome, for he shrieked, "What !
have you come back from the sea 1
You are wet ! you are wet ! " and
shuddering, he tried to free himself
from my hold ; and I, not liking to
hurt him, let him go, taking care to
keep myself between him and the
lamp.

"Back from me, you villain of
hell ! " he cried, as soon as he was
free. " What have you done with
herl what have you done with
herl" And then, in a tone of
weird and pathetic sorrow, " Where
is my little one that I loved 1 I
have sought her many a year; oh,
why did she forsake me? Aha,
Sooka ! we were right to send him
to the hell whence he came — th*
lying, false-hearted scoundrel, t
steal away my white dove ! "

After which he drew from hi
finger a solid gold ring which h
always wore and threw it fron
him, saying, with a wild laugh
" There ! that's for any one tha^

1881.]

King Bemba's Point : A Weet African Story,

105

likes it; I'm a dead man." He
then staggered towards his own
room, and I, remembering the
loaded revolver which still lay on
the chest of drawers, tried to inter-
cept him. In his rage, for I verily
believe that he also remembered
that the weapon was there, he spat
in my face, and struck me with all
his force between the eyes; bnt I
stack to him, and with the help
of the boy, who had been all this
time in hiding, bat who came for-
ward at my call, I laid him for the
last time npon his bed. There he
lay exhausted for the remainder of
the night; bat there was no rest
for me, — I felt that I had to watch
him now for my own safety.

Towards morning, however, his
breathing became, all at once, very
heavy and slow, and I bent over
him in alarm. As I did so, I heard
him sigh faintly, *' Lucy ! " and at
that moment the native boy softly
placed something upon the bed.
I took it ap. It was the ring the
sick man had thrown away in the
night, and as I looked at it I saw
''James, from Lucy" engraved on
its inside surface, and I knew that
the dead woman was his wife.

As the first faint streaks of dawn

stole into the room, the slow-drawn

breathing of the dying man ceased.

I listened — it came again — once —

twice — and then all was silence.

He was dead, and I realised in

the sudden stillness that had come

upon the room that I was alone.

Yet he had passed away so quietly

after his fitful fever that I could

not bring myself to believe that he

was really gone, and I stood look-

ig at the body, fearing to con-

ince myself of the truth by touch-

igit.

So entranced was I by that feel-
ig of awe which comes to almost
rery one in the presence of death,

that I did not hear the shouting of
the hammock- boy outside, or the
footsteps of a white man coming
into the room; and not until he
touched me on the shoulder did I
turn and recognise the sallow face of
the Portuguese doctor whom I had
sent for, and who had thus arrived
too late. However, he served to
help me to bury the mortal part
of Jackson in the little graveyard
beside the body of his wife, and
that of the man who had come
between them when alive. And
such was without doubt the fact ;
for when the doctor had gone, and
I was alone again, I collected and
made an inventory of the dead
men's effects, and in Jackson's
desk I found his diary, or, as he
himself would have called it, his
log; and in that log was noted,
on the very day that Bransome
had arrived on the Point, his sus-
picion of the man, and later on his
conviction that Bransome was in-
deed he who had injured him.

Sooka was never found; but
when the mail- steamer returned
from the south coast, I discovered
that the younger patrao had made
his crew row away suddenly from
the steamer's side, while Mr Bran-
some had been engaged below, and
was out of sight. So it was evident
that the pair had been in league
together to- insure Sooka his re-
venge. What share Jackson had
had in the murder of his enemy,
I did not care to think of, but feared
the worst.

For myself, I had to remain on
the Point for many months, until
the factory was finally closed — for
no purchaser was ever found for it ;
and doubtless, by this time, the
buildings are in ruins, and long
grass hides the graves of those
who sleep upon King Bemba's
Point.

106

Recollectums a la /(mrchette.

[July

RECOLLECTIONS 1 LA FOURCHETTE.

We take it to be undeniable tbat
our earliest and happiest memories
associate themselves in some shape
with eating and drinking. We
had almost added, the purest and
the holiest; but on second thoughts
that might be going too far. For
we remember that stolen pleasures
were the sweetest, and the piquancy
of some of our most delightful remi-
niscences originated in the spirit of
lawless adventure. Be it remarked,
besides, that for the present we use
the word '' eating " in its simplest
meaning. The boy eats from in-
stinct, and to sastain his irrepres-
sible energy and spirits, although
far from insensible to those gratifi-
cations of the palate which transfer
their agreeable sensations to the me-
mory. Caring about cookery comes
later. Next, " cookery " with him
may be translated into the more
artificial cuisine; while sooner or
later, should his tastes lie that way,
the half-careless connouweur becomes
the serious gourmand^ or rises into
the more refined order of the
gourmets.

But our present concern is with
the boy — the father of the future
man — and so we go back to him
from our brief digression. With
the country boy, come home for
the holidays after his first terms at
school, and proud of his emancipa-
tion from those schoolroom dinners
where his elder sisters, in company of
the governess, are nourished on the
wholesome but monotonous roast-
mutton, and on rice-puddings that
are remarkable for the absence of
egg. He feels it to be a decided
step of promotion when he is per-
mitted to join the party at the
family luncheon. It has its mate-
rial advantages, moreover, in the
variety of delicacies which are

brought within the range of his
formidable powers. Every boy ha«i,
or ought to have, a splendid appe-
tite, which may be invariably de-
pended upon. Even preliminary
surfeits of fruit, when he has been
ranging the garden from the goose-
berry-bushes to the strawberry -
beds, seem to make slight impres-
sion on it. He lives in the open
air in most weathers ; and even
when the drenching rain is almost
too much for his philosophy, he is
loungiug about the open doors of
the stables, or making dashes at
the keeper's cottage and the ken-
nels. The hottest sunshine onlj
warms him into increased activity,
like the lizards and scorpions of
southern climes. Punctuality, in
well-ordered households, is the
rule, and especially for the young.
So, somehow, when the bell has
tolled for luncheon, omr busy
young acquaintance finds himself
in his place, panting with the
final burst that saved his distance,
and with his face flushed as with
incipient fever, and steaming fiom
hurried immersion in cold water.
He has lost some of his breath, but
none of his appetite. It is cut and
come again with the cold beef.
The butler, with whom Master
Jack i3 a prime favourite, notwith-
standing his predilection for prac-
tical jokes, helps him repeatedly
and surreptitiously to sweets ; and
finally, with cheese and bread, bat-
ter and salad, he completes a com-
fortable and satisfactory repai
The envious valetudinarian wit
chronic indigestion, who has bee
trifling with a biscuit and wet-
brandy and apollinaris, might 8
Master Jack down as a glutto
We were going to say, " Not a 1
of it ; " but we would stick close

IS81.]

EecoUections a la foureheiie.

107

to the truth. Few natures will bear
minnte analysis, and emerge from
the ordeal with nndimmed lustre ;
and it is possible that Jack may
have been endowed with a heredi-
tary liking for good cheer. Look
at his father, who, in spite of the
sufferings from gout, which send him
every year to Carlsbad or Buxton,
has at this very meal helped him-
self twice to the cutlets d la Soubise,
carefolly shunning the protesting
glance of the anxious partner of his
troubles. But whatever Jack may
come to be in later life, at present
his conscience, were he conscious
of a conscience, would acquit him
of any such impeachment. As his
liarents know well, and the keeper
of his wardrobe likewise, is he not
ready to leave the maternal flesh pots
at any time for a long happy day in
the woods or the fields, forgetful of
those needs that make us the slaves
of OUT bodies, till reminded by the
pangs of acute hunger? Then, in-
deed, he bethinks himself of break-
ing his fast, and small blame to
him. Possibly he remembers a crust
he had prudently bestowed in his
pocket, or he shares the rough fare
of the keeper or the ferreters, or
perhaps throws himself on the hos-
pitality of some friendly cottage;
and in those cases he makes one of
those memorable repasts which we
alluded to as associating themselves
with our happiest recollections.

We have been speaking hitherto
of a supposititious Jack, who may
be taken as the type of well-condi-
tioned boyhood. But any reminis-
cences of the kind must be more or
less autobiographical; and it is as
rell to say frankly at the outset,
bat we mean to spare our imagina-
ion and draw on our memory. The
uly difficulty is where to begin.
1 winter, short of actual violence,
was hard to draw us out of our
led. But in summer, and still less
a the spring, would any one have

dreamed of improving the parable
of the sluggard for our benefit]
Sluggard indeed ! With us it was
early to bed and early to rise. Let
the curtains be drawn close over the
blinds, and we seemed nevertheless
to awaken instinctively to the song
of the larks and the cheery rSoeille
of the cuckoos. What delight it
was to rush to the open window
and meet the fresh breath of the
morning, fragrant with the odours
drawn out by the night-dews ! The
window opened upon a rookery,
and the sunbeams breaking from
the east, came slanting through the
stems of the elms, and lighting up
the yellow daffodils* The rooks in
a clamorous chorus were cawing over
the stacks of nests that were gently
swaying to the breeze in the tree-
tops. Beyond the rookery rippled
the burn that divided the lawn from
the park beyond, where the sheep
had already scattered themselves
about in the nooks that were formed
by the encircling woods. And
among the grazing sheep in the
dewy clover were feeding hares ;
and the rabbits that had crowded
out of their burrows in the banks,
and the small family-parties of roe-
deer that, beiug never disturbed,
had become tame as the sheep with
long impunity. Though the sights
and sounds enchanted us even then,
with our imperfectly developed
sense of the beautiful, it was not
long that they held us spell-bound.
A minute or two and we had
tumbled into our clothes, and
carrying our shoes in our hands,
were softly stealing down-stairs.

Well do we remember those
morning rambles by the brook-side !
Never spaniel or terrier quested
more eagerly through the rank damp
grass and in the dripping tangles
of the thickets. We had a com-
panion or companions of course —
for the " we " is literal, not literary
— and we gave tongue merrily like

108

RecoUections d la fourchette.

[July

puppies broken loose, in the light-
ness of OUT heads and spirits. Each
sylvan sight and sound "was a joy,
and all the more joyous for long
familiarity with them : that caw-
ing of the rooks, growing more
and more mellow as it receded in
the distance; the bark of the
watch- dogs, and the crowing of the
cocks from the farm-steadings ; the
cooing of the cushats by the score,
from the cool recesses of the spruce-
woods ; the cry of the pheasant
as he flew out of the copse; the
matin-song of birds innumerable,
from every brake and *' bosky
bourne "of those " wild woods." The
notes of sweet Philomel were miss-
ing ; for the nightingale never visits
those northern climes. £ut the
native songsters made up a tuneful
choir, that poured forth in har-
monious rivalry volumes of the
richest melody. There seemed a
mavis or a merle on each second
fir-top. Now the water-hen would
flutter out from some bed of rushes
in a back-water, and go skimming
round the bends of the rippling
stream. Again there would be one
plunge and then another, when the
water-rats were taking headers into
the pools. The banks were mined
and broken, and the brook was
alive with trout ; and off would go
jackets and shoes and stockings ;
and with trousers turned back above
the knee, and shirt-sleeves rolled
up to the armpits, we would be
plunging down the water like otter-
hounds, "guddling" for the trout
under the tree-roots and beneath
the stones. It was the height of
the nesting season too ; and as,
breaking away from the burn-side,
we brushed our way through the
dew -bespangled boughs or tore a
passage through the thickets of un-
derwood and bramble, we stumbled
on from treasure to treasure. There
was little temptation to carry off
nestfuls of the blotched and speck-

led eggs wholesale, even had we
been more heartless or thoughtless.
By taking moderate toll, we speedUy
made superb collections. Or, leav*
ing the woods for the fields, we
went ranging for linnets' neets
among the shrubberies of scented
furze on the braes, where the larka
were singing overhead and the lap-
wings swooping and clamouring ;
— when hark ! the sound of ^e
warning beU comes booming over
field and copse. That bell means
family prayers, which we miss that
morning as we have missed them
many other mornings, in spite of
solemn warnings and excellent in-
tentions. But starting for the
house at a hand -gallop, we arrive
scant of breath and drenched and
happy, our soaking boots as white
as the new-baked rolls to which we
were soon paying our devoirs. Late
as we were, though no laggards, no
one had the ill nature to be more
than mildly reproachful

And what a meal that was ! The
porridge with the frothing cream
came in as a simple whet for all
that was to follow. The old din-
ing-room — it has been since pulled
down — arises before us as if that
time were yesterday, with the stags'
heads over the black carved side-
board, and the rural landscapes
with prize groups of sheep and
cattle ; and the finishes of famous
steeplechases, and the hunters fly-
ing fences in their stride. Broad as
was its expanse of snowy damask,
the sideboard was amply garnished ;
and the table was spread with the
ideal of a Scotch breakfast, though
it was no ideal but a glorious reality.
It must have been a lesson and s
revelation to the benighted South
em, to see the profusion of platterf
of home-baked breads of all de
scriptions, from household loavee
through rolls and barley ano
wheaten scones down to light oaten
cakes and the more substantial ban

1881.]

Recollections a la fourcfiette.

109

nocks. Nor would be have been
less astonished at tbe variety of
preserves in tbe sparkling crystal,
^m tbe luscious fruits of tbe gar-
den to tbe products of tbe bives
and bills. Does tbe reader know
the cranberry and tbe avern 1 If not,
we recommend bim to try them;
not tbe importations from Norwe-
gian fjelds, but tbe native growth
of our grouse-moors and deer-forests.
That by tbe way; nor need we say
anything of more commonplace
dishes of fish and flesh, &c., al-
thongb tbe chops of the small
black-faced mutton from Spey-
side must ever bold a place in
our dearest memories. Set a boy,
fresh and fasting from severe if
most exbilarating exercise, down
to such a spread; and while be
19 making the most of his oppor-
tunities, we may leave details to
the imagination. He may rival
tbe feats of the starving Quentin
Durward when tbe French monarch
entertained tbe youth in tbe hos-
telry at Plessis ; but he rises with-
out tbe slightest sense of satiety ;
and who shall say be was anything
but temperate t And so we would
leap out upon the lawn through
tbe low-cut windows, to bound off
to the after - breakfast reunion in
the stable-yard, lighter and fresher
than when we went to work.

Fortunate boys we were, to whom
sucb breakfasts came in the holi-
days as matters of course. But
undoubtedly there is more of the
excitement of pleasure in the un-
expected. We recall a day when,
after suffering extremities of hun-
ger and considerable bodily terror
to boot, we sat down as guests to
a sumptuous table literally spread
in tbe wilderness. We were on
a visit to a young school-fellow in
one of the wildest districts of tbe
storm-beaten north-eastern sea-coast.
As it chanced, we had been lefb
to our own devices for a day or

two, and absolutely masters of our
movements. So we struck out an
expedition for bird-nesting extra-
ordinary. We bad beard of a
colony of black- beaded gulls that
bad their breeding-place some half-
dozen miles to the northward ; but
as it was said to be jealously guar-
ded, we determined to keep our
own counsel. Had we communi-
cated with tbe servants as to com-
missariat arrangements, obstacles
might possibly have been thrown
in our way. So we started unde-
monstratively at peep of dawn,
without beat of drum or having
broken our fasts. We bad vague
notions of the topography of tbe
district, but hoped to steer a toler-
ably straight course by the sea and
the sandhills. A wild walk it
was, through a country without
sign of human habitation. Great
swampy stretches of the salt " bent "
grass, half drifted over with sand,
broke back into a stony wilderness
of furze -bushes and stunted firs.
The fir-trees bad been battered and
blasted by the northern gales, and
the furze-bushes had been nibbled
into fantastic shapes by tbe rabbits.
Objects of interest about us were
in abundance, and yet a depression
settled down on our spirits, from
the lowering clouds overhead; for
there was an uncanny lull in tbe
weather after a gale that bad
been blowing briskly through the
night. Possibly empty stomachs
had something to do with it.
We cheered up at the sight of a
certain narrow river, for we bad
beard our destination lay imme-
diately beyond it. We bad for-
gotten, alas ! that the river must be
crossed, and it was too swift to
swim and too deep to wade. To cut
the story short, we trudged up the
banks for miles and weary miles
till we came to the but of a vener-
able ferryman, in a coat of tattered
rabbit-skins, who punted us across

(

110

lieeoUeetions a lafourehette.

[July

in a superannuated salmon-cobble.
Old Charon plied us with quea-
tionSy which we answered evasive-
ly ; and he warned us that " the
weather was liking to be wet." In
fact, the sage was prophesying on a
certainty — ^the big rain-drops were
falling already, and before we had
proceeded half an hour on our way
we had not a dry stitch on our per-
sons. Prudence warned us to go
back ; pride urged us to persevere.
Footsore, out of spirits, and ready
to drop, we nevertheless forgot wet
and weariness when we heard the
first clamour of the sea-gulls. Nor
did we remember that we had been
almost sick with hunger when we
looked down from a little eminence
on swampy, rush -grown meadow-
land. The "Harberton hens," as
they were called in the country al-
literatively, had covered the ground
with what seemed a heaving sheet
of black and white lozenged pat-
tern. Nor was there a soul in
sight to interfere with our investi-
gations. Simultaneously we made
our rush, and in another moment
were ** squelching" over the sloppy
ground. Eggs everywhere, with
here and there some fluffy balls of
down. As we plunged forward,
though the mass of sitters were tame
enough, brooding mothers began flut-
tering up to join their mates ; and
the clamour overhead was aggravated
tenfold. No doubt the noise gave
the alarm. For by -and -by, the
holloa of a human voice came in
by way of bass through the shrill
tenor of the sea-gulls, and a plaid-
swathed figure, magnified by the
mist, stood dripping in the rain
like a misshapen water-kelpie. By
natural instinct we made a bolt
to find ourselves bogged over the
knees. Here was a predicament.
The quagmire that had gripped us
tenaciously was steadily sucking us
down, and our best hope was that
the enemy might come to the rescue

bdfore we had vanished clean out of
his sight Happily he seemed not un-
prepared for casualties of the kind.
He bore down upon us in boards
fastened to his feet, bringing with
him something resembling a ladder,
which we crawled along like wasps
released from a honey-pot, after
using it as leverage for self-extri-
cation. Our saviour landed na on
the solid ground we had left, and
he might have searched far before
he hit on two more pitiable objects.
He had no comfort for us. We
were collared and dragged awaj
with direful forebodings. We might
be made away with, and nobody a
bit the wiser. And so we were
hauled off to a little &rmbouse,
sheltering snugly enough near the
bar of the river, in the middle of
some reclaimed turnip and com
land. Once under his own roof-
tree, the manners of the ogre
changed as by enchantment; and
indeed it would have been absurd
to keep up an affectation of severity
before the smiling good wife, who was
standing open-eyed in her doorway.
How welcome was the fire of peat
and logs cheerily crackling in the
wide chimney ! scarcely less welcome
the ablutions in hot water from
the huge kettle swinging from the
crook. What shouts of laughter
broke from our kind entertainers,
as the goodman encased our small
persons in roomy homespun gar-
ments of his own ! And shall we
ever forget the feast, when we gave
the reins to our unbridled appetites f
Sea-trout, newly caught in the river,
and lifted smoking ** hot-shot *' from
the "brander;" kippered salmon
blushing a rosy pink, after the wii
ter's exposure to the smoke of th
chimney; mutton -ham that ha
been swinging as a pendant on t^
other side, and eggs from under t
hens that were cackling " among oi
feet " in the " spence." Bushels <
delicately -browned bannocks, ar

1881,]

lUcoHectiona a la fourehette.

111

half-pounds of golden butter, with
a double "browst" of tea of super-
lative Btrengtb. Gladly would we
have abjuied fine linen and bear's-
grease, and run wild for at least
a week, like little savages, in the
solitudes that suirounded that hos-
pitable kitchen. And our hosts
appeared to be so gratified by our
performances at breakfast, that we
believe they would have made us
more than welcome. We are sure
at least that there was sincere sor-
row on one side, when that rattle-
trap of a *' conveyance " came creak-
ing round to the door, in which the
farmer had insisted upon '^setting
US ower the river."

That improvised banquet suggests
picnics. There are picnics and pic-
nics ; and we have gone to many a
one in our time, between the banks
of the Thames and the shores of the
Boephorus. £ut commend us still
to the picnics of boyhood, before
we had come to care for our toilet
with designs on the peace of con-
fiding young females, or taken to
trifling with the edge-tools that
were to cut our own fingers; be-
fore we were victimised for contri-
butions of sweet champagne by
ladies like the '* old campaigners " of
Dickens and Thackeray ; before we
were doomed to dance attendance
on dowagers, while younger men
did the agreeable to their pretty
daughters ; before lobster-salads and
galantines meant indigestion for the
morrow. Many a merry alfresco
repast we remember, when a jovial
home-party went to luncheon in the
woods, smoking the steaks and mut-
ton-chops over fires of their own
ndling. Summer after summer,
cnics became a mania with us;
d our seniors were hurried away
oar juvenile impetuosity, till they
came nearly as much excited on
e subject as ourselves when we
oured the country in search of the
cturesque. A roomy brake car-

ried the elderly ladies and gentle-
men, with the provision -hampers.
The other members of the party
formed a flying squadron of irregu-
lar cavalry, mounted on steeds and
screws of all shapes and sizes, from
the superannuated carriage - horse
that renewed his youth, down to
the rough -maned Shetland pony
that came clattering in the rear.
Queer, shaggy-coated beasts, "taken
up from the grass " on neighbouring
farms, were pressed into the ser-
vice. They were picketed under
the trees, if there were no farm-
buildings ** convanient," as Paddy
says ; or hobbled and turned loose
to graze by the roadside.

One old castle was a very favour-
ite resort, chiefly, we believe, be-
cause there was an agreeable sense
of the appalling about it. It was
all very well in a bright summer
day ; but nothing would have
tempted us to go there alone in
the darkness. There were dun-
geons out of all decent proportion
to the old bedroom accommoda-
tion ; and a vaulted hall tapestried
with the mosses and clinging plants
that had struck root in the inter-
stices of the crumbling masonry.
Enclosed by a broken wall, — almost
stifled in the embrace of the elms
that threw their boughs over a
wilderness of nettles, there was a
dim, religious light in the precincts
even at noonday, and it seemed a
fit " place of habitation for dragons
and owls." The merry voices were
hushed for a moment, as the rotting
gates revolved on their rusty hinges
and we passed under the defaced
escutcheon over the doorway. Only
for a moment. And then in the
reaction we were more vociferous
than ever, waking echoes that for
months might have been slumber-
ing in silence; and rushing away
headlong to risk our necks on the
ruined stonework, where we went
clambering among the resting-places

112

Recollections a la fourchette.

[July

of the jackdaws and starlings. A
contrast in most respects was an-
other venerable fortalice, famous in
local song and story, which had been
brightened np into a modern shoot-
ing-lodge. Nothing could be more
cheerfid than the sunny situation,
commanding the windings of a cele-
brated trout-stream, where it mean-
dered among haughs and holms to
the sea that skirted the horizon.
The quaint dining - chamber, to
which we had access "by kind
permission of the proprietor," was
lighted from an octagon of lancet-
shaped windows, each offering some
picturesque variation of the view ;
while on the panels between were
landscapes with sporting scenes by
a clever north- country disciple of
Landseer. One of them, in par-
ticular, all full of life and action,
in which the stalwart old laird was
landing a silvery sea-trout on a bit
of gravelly beach among the rocks
beneath, was enough to send any
boy to rummage among the rods
and flies in the keeper's private
den, if a westerly wind and a
cloudy sky proclaimed a fishing
forenoon. And never, even on the
shores of Loch Awe or Loch Leven,
can we have eaten trout in such
perfection, as those fresh run from
the salt estuary of the Logic, which
made but a leap, as it were, from
the " Castle Pools " straight into
the frying-pan.

Shooting lunches are among the
pleasantest forms of picnics. It is
true that we should dispense there
with the presence of ladies, but
there is no perfection in the plea-
sures of this world. When we
were young, inexperienced, and
madly enthusiastic, the autumn
lunches on the moors, so far as the
hours at which we partook of these
went, were rather like French dejtu-
neiirs d la fourchette. The ground
on which we killed our first grouse
was a bit of Lowland peat-moss, but

a few miles from " the House.*' As
it was hardly worth while keeping
a watcher on it, we used to be up
betimes, in mortal fear of being
anticipated. The good old horse
was hitched into the dogcart^ and
away we went, before the thruahea
in the shrubberies were well awak-
ened; game-bags, luncheon-basket,
and pointers inside, with thestoidy
keeper overbalancing us behind, so
that if the belly-band had snapped,
a catastrophe was certain. Qame-
bags — heaven save the mark ! The
keeper's pockets would have held
all our game, with something to
spare. There was seldom more
than a single covey in that moss,
with the chance of some stray shots
at birds scattered by our neighbours ;
and the possibility of pidang up a
snipe or a brace of wild duck. Bat
there was rich heather with coarse
grass in abundance among the
" moss-pots," and that single covey
took a deal of finding. How con-
scientiously we trudged out the
beats, as the August sun rose high-
er and hotter I How our fla^ng
spirits were cheered by coming on
some sign of the brood we were
searching for ! How we hated the
worthy cottage-folk who were busy
cutting their peats ! and yet we
soothed our bitter feelings hypocrit-
ically, as we questioned them as to
anything they might have heard or
seen. What an agitating moment
it was, when that drawing of the dogs
which had so often proved delusive,
changed slowly into a steady point !
and how flurried we were, when,
after firing at random, we watched
the birds skimming away scatheless !
Scatheless at leasts so far as
were concerned ; for we ne
dreamed of disputing the keept
claim to the brace he had kaocl
down over our shoulders for .
dinner - table. But though th<
mornings were sometimes nei
bloodless, they were not altoget

1881.]

RecoUediwis d, la fourcheite*

113

without adventure. Once we were
taxed with shooting without licen-
ces by a gentleman in fur cap and
yelveteens, whom our attendant had
challenged for trespass; and with
whom we were glad ignominiously
to cry quits when he had solemnly
pencilled our names on a scrap of
wadding paper. Another day, in re-
trieying a fallen bird that had lighted
on a patch of emerald turf, we found
ourselves over head and ears in a
"pot," with slippery sides which
precluded the possibility of scram-
bling outof it. JSTor were we dragged
forth by the nape of the neck be-
fore we had swallowed several pints
of moss-water, and swathed our-
selves in the green duckweed as in
an overcoat. In those days, as we
need hardly say, we were never the
worse for a ducking, whatever might
be the fate of the powder and per-
cussion-caps ; and in a few minutes,
all the fresher for the batb, were
friskiDg about in the sunshine like
a water-spanieL Though we well
remember that on that particular
morning, the breakfast - luncheon
was even more welcome than usual,
as it was spread out on the shady
side of a peat-stack.

Tears had flown by, and as Byron
sings in "The Dream," "the boy
had sprung to manhood." As we
flattered ourselves, we could shoot
more than tolerably ; and a cousin,
the companion of our boyish sports,
had become the tenant of a crack
moor. There was no lodge on the
ground, so he had his qoarters in a
neighbouring inn. A more hospi-
table fellow than our cousin never
existed, and in all the country-side
he could hardly have chanced upon
a man better fitted to second him
in his ideas than our landlord. We
Uved up to the waists in clover;
md nothing but indefatigable exer-
nse in Highland air could have
helped us in our highly laudable
jfftHts to spare our host's feelings,

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCLXXXIX.

and do justice to his fare; though,
indeed, so far as memory serves us,
there was little sense of effort. Yet
he would insist on sending up sir-
loins and haunch where a single
joint was ordered; his chickens
changed to fowls, and his ducks to
geese, and all the poultry was boiled
or roasted in batches. Hodge-podge,
with many pounds of mutton- cut-
lets swimming in the tureen,
steamed opposite the savoury con-
tents of a caldron that had swal-
lowed a half-dozen of mountain-
hares ; grilses were cooked in their
uncurt ailed proportions ; prodigious
pigeon-pies figured as unconsidered
kickshaws ; and as for the rough-
booted muirfowl, they were roasted
by triplets and quartettes. The
table literally groaned under the
load that was laid upon it, but the
gillies and hangers-on of tiie house
accounted satisfactorily for all the
fragments of the feasts. We might
well have been reminded of the
festivities in the **Tent," which
Christopher North and his compan-
ions of the " Noctes " set up by the
Linn of Dee, not many miles away
as the crow flew. And as the
Ettrick Shepherd once observed,
half-apologetically, we were youths
of good, nay, of great, appetites —
but no gluttons. We settled into
untroubled sleep ere our heads
had well touched their pillows, and
woke with the lightness of pleasant
twenty-one, when Donald Mac-
pherson's bony knuckles were heard
rattling on the door- panels.

Going about your grouse-shoot-
ing at six A.M., or fo, may not be
the deadliest of systems if you are
set upon heavy bags ; but we are
sure that early rising and walking
are healthful, when you are in the
full flush of your bodily powers.
Never is the air so limpid, never
are the skies so bright, as when the
mists of the morning are lifting
from the moors, and swathing them-

114

BeedUeetions d la fowrehette.

[July

selves turban - fashion round the
nightcaps on the hill-tops. Kever
does the crow of the grouse- cock
or the piping of the tiny moor-bird
sound more cheery. The scent
might perhaps be better; but we
have not gone out shooting solely
for slaughter. Yet somehow, should
we be in luck, the bag fills rapidly,
for the sunbeams are bright beyond
all proportion to their power, and
the dogs, as they range wide and
strong, scarcely care to cool them-
selves in the numberless rills. For
it is a land of waters : tiny rivulets
flowing over the clifiEs, and trickling
down into the bigger rills; rills
running into bums that meet and
swell into streams, which are hurry-
ing down many a glen to the great
river in the valley. A land of
waters, as you would say, had you
seen it after some sudden downpour,
when the brooks we passed almost
dryshod a few hours before, had
been changed into so many brawl-
ing torrents. But now we are pic-
turing a perfect morning : so far as
any flooding of the burns is con-
cerned, we may shape our beats as
seems best to us ; now labouring to
mid-thigh in the blooming heather-
beds in the bottoms ; now slipping
and stumbling on the steep hill-
sides, and anon plunging into the
cool recesses of some corrie, setting
a flock of wild-eyed sheep a- scam-
pering. As each height is crowned,
we come on a glorious prospect,
with distant glimpses of Lowland
landscapes down the purple vistas.
Except for an occasional shepherd,
there is seldom a human being vis-
ible in the foregrounds ; for the
little village has been left out of
sight, nor do the avocations of the
villagers lie in our direction. But
as the sun is approaching the zenith,
we begin to look villagewards with
considerable interest ; and soon a
picturesque but familiar pair is seen
emerging from an intervening hol-

low. These are a pony with a
capacious pair of panniers, and a
boy who is piloting him through
the heather. An intervd of thirty
minutes may be supposed to elapse
while we make a cast after that
broken covey and pick up a brace
or two. Tt is time for luncheoD,
and something more, and weU has
luncheon been earned.

Was there ever more romantic
spot than the Well of Cozeen, that
diamond in the wilderness, though
not in the desert % We are almost
as parched as the valiant Sir Ken-
neth of Scotland could have been,
when he seated himself with the
Saracen Emir by the fountain of
Engaddi. Was ever draught more
refreshing than that quaigh of cold
water, slightly laced, and prettily
tinted with the straw-coloured moun-
tain-dew 1 No wonder; for the
water bubbles up through a rift in the
rock, and is screened besides from
the sunshine by the hanging rowan-
tree, which spreads its shade over
the velvety margin of turf. We
have a refrigerator of Nature's own
patenting, in which the bottles of
bitter ale and sherry are quickly
recovering themselves from their
exposure during the transit from
the cellar of the inn. And we have
the smoothest and most fragrant of
possible luncheon - tables, around
which we recline in unstudied at-
titudes, after the luxurious manner
of the ancients. Sandwiches we
hate, chiefly from associating them
with railway refreshment -rooms.
Nevertheless, the component parts
of sandwiches may be excellent ;
and nothing can be more delicatA
than that beautifully marked bee
of which each slice, with its ma
rowy veins, is a picture ; while tl
crisp salad and the yellow butti
are in every way worthy of it ; nc
is the "loaf- bread" from the vi
lage baker's contemptible. " Lo&
bread " it is called locally in co]

1881.]

RecoUeetions i la fourcltette.

115

tradistinction to the oat-cakes, to
which, with the Stilton, we shall
come presently. Meanwhile the
hreasts and hitter hacks of those
cold grouse must he disposed of, as
well as that very creditahle imitation
of a salmon mayonnaisey and those
tarts of the hlended raspherry and
currant, which we candidly own to
have heen oat of all role. But then
our magnificent host would insist
upon arranging the menus for the
mountains; and he had little fellow-
feeling with human frailties. Be-
sides, he would always clench each
dispute hy suggesting the alterna-
tives of ahstiuence or whisky. If
we liked, we might leave the con-
tents of his hasket alone: and if
not, we might make sure of settling
them with his Glenlivet.

We are inclined to think our
host was right. At least we were
in the hahit of sipping his Glenlivet
discreetly, and we never knew his
prescription to fail. Give us the
shortest of untrouhled snoozes hy
the side of the empty luncheon-
haskets, and we shot Setter through
the afternoon than when condemned
to shorter commons. We have
tried both plans and ought to
know. For we had another friend,
no less hospitahle than the cousin
we have anonymously immortal-
ised, hut who went on directly
opposite principles. He stowed
away a very sufficient hreakfast,
and then lay hack for the late
dinner, merely bridging the yawn-
ing abyss with some such trifle as
a water -biscuit. He had higher
hills and deeper valleys on his
moors, with rougher walking and
far broader beats. We might tramp
a long half-dozen miles or more
before we took the guns from the
gillies ; and knock off after a severe
day's work, at least as far from the
dinner-table. We like to do at
Borne as do the Eomans, and we
scorned to feast when our friend

was fasting. Though sometimes it
was hard to dissemble our melan-
choly as we thought of the splen-
did opportunities we had missed,
while tantalising a vulture-like ap-
petite on precipices brushed by the
wings of the eagles. And what
vras the result? Far from demon-
strating the merits of our friend's
theory by the firmness of our step
and the deadliness of our aim, the
flesh used to fail altogether towards
sunset; the muzzles of the gun-
barrels seemed weighted with lead,
and the shot went cutting the
heather -tops without touching a
feather of the game. It is true
that, thanks to our strong vitality,
we rallied after a bath and a change
of dress ; but though the cook had
little cause to complain of us, we
gained nothing, or less than noth-
iiigi hy our voluntary self-denial.

But the Highlands are one thing,
the Lowlands another. We hold
that no man who prides himself on
the cardinal virtues of temperance
and self-denial, can indulge in reck-
less disregard of consequences when
shooting the stubbles in September.
We care nothing about insults to
breakfast, but we demur to the in-
juries done to dinner. When we
see the elaborate collation laid out
under the greenwood-tree ; when
we listen to the gurgle of strong
ale from narrow- necked stone jars,
or the more luxurious popping of
lively champagne-corks, we always
think of Pickwick, cold punch, and
the pound where the indiscretions
of the immortal sage were so swiftly
visited by punishment. Light beer
or lighter claret should he strong
enough refreshment for any reason-
able man ; and if he keep the
muzzle on over the solids, he is
sure to be rewarded. As the year
ages and the temperature cools,
our conscience grows more elastic.
Indeed in bleak autumn, and still
more in bitter winter, we may own

116

ReeoUeetiont A la fourchette.

[July

to the reader in strict confidence,
that unless the corners of the woods
be invariably warm, we find the
lancheon-hour the pleasantest pass-
age in the day. The wind has been
blowing through the closely but-
toned Norfolk jacket, warmly pad-
ded with waistcoats and woollen
underclothing ; or you have been
kicking your heels in the half-
frozen slush in the rides, vainly
trying to keep the blood in circula-
tion, when your taskmasters tell
you that you may draw cartridges
for the time, and the shivering
guns go off at the double for some
cottage or shingle hut, where the
luncheon has been served under
cover. The mulligatawny is dis-
tinctly medicinal ; and, like Martin
Chuzzlewit with his first cobbler
at New York, you begin to feel
yourself another man after the
second glass of sherry. You own
that those flannel-padded cases of
block-tin in which the soups and
stews will keep their warmth al-
most indefinitely, are among the
most useful inventions of modern
science. Never have you shown off
your jovial powers to much greater
advantage than in the conversation
that accompanies the digestive pipe
or cigar ; and moreover, your shoot-
ing is cent per cent steadier than
in the forenoon, as the rocketing
pheasants discover to their cost.

But to go back to the picnic pro-
per after our long parenthetical dis-
cussion on shooting-lunches. Picnics
in Scotland may be delightful, as
we have seen ; but unquestionably
the climate becomes more congenial
to them to the southward, where
the swelling air soothes us into a
voluptuous listlessness which, never-
theless, is far from degenerating into
torpor. On the contrary, the facul-
ties should flash responsive to the
sunshine, like the bright sparkle of
still champagne; while the young

man's fancy, voluptuously stimu-
lated, turns as lightly to thoughts
of love as to mayonnaises and sav-
oury jellies. The English rivers to
the south of Tyne have seldom the
wild beauty of the Scotch streams ;
yet they may have charms more
winning if less impressive, and they
associate themselves naturally with
the romance of boating-parties. A
boating picnic on the upper waters
of Spey or Tay would almost infal-
libly land one, through shipwrecks,
in the churchyards. On the slug-
gish English rivers you are safe
enough from upsets— or were so,
at least, before these days of the
steam - launches, — and the boats
may be propelled with the mini-
mum of action — "Youth on the
prow, and Pleasure at the helm " —
to the accompaniment of soft music
in the plash of the oars. If the
rivers are sluggish, they are none
the less bewitching in the stillness
of the summer day. Should you
hush your voices and lie upon your
oars, you listen to the hum of the
bees and the chirping chorus of
grasshoppers and field - crickets.
Each twig and leaf of the oak-
boughs, bending under the foliage,
is mirrored in the unruffled surface ;
the lolling rise of some over-gorged
fish sends the circling ripples half
across the stream ; the blue-bodied
dragon-flies, with wings grey-veined
like the sails of a windmill, are
flitting among the butterflies over
the beds of water-lilies; the cattle
are ruminating quietly in the lush
meadow-grass, or switching their
tails as they stand in the silent
pools; you hear the roucoulemen*
of ringdoves and wood-pigeons fron
the woods, and watch the antics o
the lively squirrels playing hide-and
seek behind the stems of the beechec
No wonder that artists, amateur an-
professional, love to camp out o
these river-banks, filling their sketch

1881.]

RecoUectiona a la fourchetie.

117

books when the humour takes
them, or treasuring up impres-
8ions for future use. One of them,
by the way — Mr Leslie — has just
turned his memories of the Thames
to exceUent purpose in his delight-
ful volume * Our Kiver/ And un-
questionably, in point of picnics
and boating-partiep, the Thames is
par excellence the king of English
rivers. We have rowed down the
winding course of the Wye, through
the holms and under the hanging
covers of Herefordshire and Mon-
mouth — counties where, in the damp
warmth of the atmosphere, vegeta-
tion flourishes in greater luxuriance
than in any others in England ; we
haye boated on the Avon of Shake-
speare and Warwick Castle ; on the
Colne of Hertfordshire — unknown
to tourists, though classic to an-
glers ; on a score of other streams,
famous or nameless. But, putting
width and volume of water out of
consideration, no other of the river
deities can hold a candle to Father
Thames — not even excepting the
water-nymph " Sabrina Fair," who
has her shrine in the pools of
" sandy-bottomed Severn." It may
be partly the brilliancy, of the com-
pany that gilds our recollections, —
for, as our readers may remember,
the choicest scenery of the Thames
lies within easy reach of the society
of the metropolis. Not altogether,
however, and we have had some
experience, for many a week have
we spent in successive summers be-
tween the bridges of Henley and
Hammersmith.

Perhaps as pleasant a time as we
ever parsed was in one of those
rainless and cloudless summers that
are now, unhappily, become so ex-
ceptional, when, with a quartette
of friends from Aldershot camp and
Cambridge University, we had our
headquarters at a well-known ang-
ling and boating hostelry, situated

between Shepperton and Walton-
on-Thames. There our party prac-
tised a free though discriminat-
ing hospitality, and rarely in-
deed were our invitations refused.
The military and academical ele-
ments mingled pleasantly, as in the
masterpieces of the accomplished
punch-brewer or salad- maker. The
brilliant "talk" seldom stagnated
into flat " conversation ; " and the
al fresco symposia were enlivened
by songs and sentiments, to the
foniier of which the very bargee
would incline his ear, as he hushed
his oaths while he brought his
horses to a standstill. We are
satisfied that transpiration must be
admirable from the medical point
of view, for we never spared our-
selves when toiling against the
stream, and used to step ashore in
our flannels dripping like river-
gods. What were the consequen-
ces ? We would give carte blanche
to the caterers at the " Swan,"
the ** Pack-horse," or the " Bell,"
for we gave a wide berth to more
fashionable establishments. We
sat down to smoking chops of
primitive size; to shoulders of lamb
and bowlfuls of salad ; to Cheshires,
where we might cut and come again ;
to knobby loaves, new- drawn from
the oven, with brimming tankards
to the verge of indiscretion. But
neither were our mental faculties
dimmed, nor was our readiness for
the evening dinner abated. Those
Homeric banquets generated Ho-
meric brilliancy. Cambridge edi-
tors of critical editions of the Bard
found themselves for the time, to
their delight, rhapsodising with
the fire and the eloquence of their
original, till their less cultivated
convives caught the divine conta-
gion. Could we have secured the
presence of an invisible shorthand
reporter, we believe the flow of
wit, pathos, and reason, at those

118

SeeoUeetkms d la fourehetie.

[Julj

summer symposia on Thames,
might have proved a not discredit-
able sequel to the Noctes Ambrosi-
ansB of the North. Many drip-
ping summers and fierce winters
have passed since then, and the
idleness of earlier years has given
place to engrossing occupations.
Yet from time to time we have
renewed our pleasures there ; more
often than not, in the company of
the fair sex, and in more promis-
cuous companies. We challenge
England, as we might defy the
world, to show a much more en-
chanting spot for a picnic than on
the tiny lawn before a metamor-
posed farmhouse that stands under
the feathering woods of Hedsor,
looking down the woodland reach
of river-bank, beneath the heights
of Clievden and Taplow ; though
Magna-Charta Island may run it
hard, where we were once present
at a meeting which must live in the
memory of many a good contri-
butor to * Maga.' Alas that the
Editor, in whose honour the en-
tertainment was given, should be
lost to the friends his society used
to gladden ! Well do we remem-
ber the happy and touching little
speech which expressed his feel-
ings towards the lady to whom
we were indebted for that cheery
day, — a lady who was one of his
most valued, personal, and literary
intimates, and who, as she took
occasion parenthetically to remind
him, was his oldest contributor
then present. A standing puzzle
to him, as he said, after having so
often lived under the same roof
with her, was how she managed
to overtake all the work which
speaks for itself, and yet appear
the least occupied or preoccupied
of mortals. Nor can we see any
possible reason, as we are writing
veracious recollections, why we
should not name the lady, and

say frankly that she was Mrs
OUphant.

Why our Englbh Mississippi, the
father of English waters, should
suggest the Pyrenees to us, we can-
not pretend to say, unless it be on
the Iticus a non lucendo principle.
For the lack of water is the grand
defect in scenery that has almost
every other attraction. And Pan,
the beloved of English and Ameri-
cans, is a famous centre for picnics,
and many is the happy afc»moon
we have spent on the Landes and
among the coteaux. Water is scarce,
no doubt, but it is all the more
valued when we come upon it ; and
the gaveSy or mountain torrents,
that flow from sources in the snow,
are singularly beautiful and emi-
nently characteristic. They show
nothing of that dismal infusion of
glacier moraine that turns the mail-
ing Swiss rivers to the colour of
diluted soap-suds, before these are
purified in their course through
some lake. The gaves are filled
by the springs that have their rise
in stony subsoil, and are filtered
over beds of sand and gravel, till
they run in the limpid green that
has the tints of liquid emerald.
When they have cleared the gorges
in the mountains, and left the cover
of the gloomy pine - forests, they
ripple and smile through a succes-
sion of meadows, brawling or mur-
muring as they are caught among
the rocks that have rolled down
into the valleys from the flanks of
the coteavx. A village over a gav*^
is sure to be picturesque, with the
ruins of the medieval casUe or
the shattered feudal tower; and
the rocks scattered at random ove
the broken ground, as if the giant
and the gods had been having i
great stone " bicker," Then ther
are ivied bridges overhung by con
vents, and shrines that were th«
objects of pious pilgrimages before

1881.]

BecoUedions a la foureheite.

119

the late epidemic of apparitions
aud revelations; and crosses on
solitary heights commanding nn-
rivalled prospects; and chdteavx
seldom occupied by their owners,
standing on the crests of the lower
hills in neglected gardens overrun
by roees and enlivened by night-
ingales.

In short, when people like the
Gilpins were bent on pleasure, there
was no want of objects for excur-
sions, and the only difficulty was
choosing. Nor have we ever joined
in expeditions of the kind where
there was more of fun and less of
ceremony. Eidiug was in general
favour, and the little Pyrenean
hordes are marvellous animals. They
are said to be sprung of a Moorish
strain, and assuredly they have the
endurance and the fire of the moun-
tain-bred and desert-bom. They
lie on stone, and live on furze or
chopped straw. After being over-
taskcKi in Pau through the winter
and spring, they go to Biarritz for
'* relaxation ^ in the bathiog season ;
and yet there is always a canter to
be got ou t of them. We are ashamed
to remember how the goodwill of
those cheerful little cripples used
to be abused by reckless parties of
riders who had left their chaperons
to follow in the carriages. As good
of their kind, and in far better con-
dition, were the ponies, which came
out in pairs in the pony-carriages
seated for two, with a "monkey-
box" behind. Capital things the
pony-carriages were considered ; for
at Pau, in those comparatively
primitive days, the muf^n system
of Canada was encouraged to a
limited extent, — at least, the young
man was allowed to invite a maiden
as his companion for the day, and
we need hardly say that the cramped
monkey -box was no place for a
mother, or spinster aunt. So the
youthful couple had it all their

own way, and could enjoy them-
selves under no embarrassing super-
vision.

As for the materials of those
rural or sylvan meals, they were
much the same as are to be met
with at picnics all the world over.
More characteristic were the rough-
aud-ready repasts in the inns in the
remoter villages or in the mountain-
passes, when we had driven farther
afield on longer carriage expedi-
tions. We found ourselves, of
course, in pleasant' company ; we
had either hshed for an invitation
or been fished for, according to
ideas of our eligibility; and were
travelling for the time in the easy
relations of an adopted member of
some united families. As we sat
on the back seat under the eyes of
our respectable parents for the time
being, there were no opportunities
for those little innocent endearments
which seemed to* grease the wheels
of the slowest of the pony-carriages.
But then, as we had foreseen, in so
mountainous a country, horses must
be continually crawling at a snail's
pace ; and in common consideration
to them the young people must get
out to walk. And there were en-
chanting scrambles by the wayside,
where we were gathering flowers or
chasing butterflies ; or reaching the
ever-ready hand in the difficult cir-
cumstances when a slip might sprain
an ankle or stain a dress. Those
sympathies and emotions gave a
wonderful edge to the appetite,
when we had started on a light
and early breakfast. So that, quick-
ly and pleasantly as the morning
had gone by, not unwelcome was
the sight of the village chimneys
standing out against the schistose
precipices behind, that dropped
from box-covered hills into the bed
of a shrunken torrent. The smoke
from the kitchen never meant much
in the meantime, as we knew from

120

EecoUedions A la fourchette.

[July

experience. Yet experience had
taught us to put some faith in the
assurances of the host when he
ruhbed his hands and was voluble
of promises. We knew pretty
nearly what the menu must be, and
that it would comprise the good,
the bad, and the indifferent. Im-
jTrimis, there was the watery soup,
with bits of bread bobbing about in
it, more or less mixed up with lamp-
oil, according to the number of
kilometres from the Spanish fron-
tiers. Next came the delicious
trout, caught with a hand-net in
the re«>ervoir in a neighbouring
pool, blue of skin and white of
flesh, as if they were still shivering
in their crisp curdiness after life-
long immersion in ice-cold water;
yet rich and delicate as the rosiest
of Scotch sea-trout. Next, in shape
of enireey the inwards of some ani-
mal, "accommodated" in a white
sauce that might have been excel-
lent had it not savoured somewhat
strongly of garlic. But in that
dish as to the garlic, the cook had
held his hand, which was probably
much more than could be said for
the haunch of mutton that followed.
That usually more than " kept the
landlord's promise to the eye, to
break it to the taste." We are far
from objecting to something stronger
than the subdued sonjp^on of garlic,
which we believe to be introduced
in course of roasting in the best
English kitchens. But the full
flavour of the herb is still an abom-
ination to us, though we might
have been taught by this time in
the school of semi-starvation to like
it. So more often than not the
haunch was countermanded when
it had heralded itself by odours
wafted upwards from the kitchen ;
or it was sent away uncut when its
fragrance had filled the apartment.
Prejudice apart, the young ladies
for obvious reasons dare not ven-

ture upon it ; and even the British
paterfamilias^ who prided himself
on the robustness of his appetite,
held such villanous foreign weeds
in abhorrence. Well, we could
always fall back on the inevitable
omelet, which was sure to be ex-
cellent; and there was delicious
mountain-honey besides, and deli-
cate bread ; and there were goats'-
milk cheese, and golden butter, and
brimming jugs of the richest milk,
which was not only pleasant but
wholesome when freely corrected
with cognac. For it must be owned
that the wine was generally infam-
ous ; and it was just as well that
we were otherwise disposed to
hilarity, since it could gladden the
hearts of neither man nor woman.
If we had brought our own basket
of claret and champagne so much
the better for us. In any case the
dessert jf as delectable. For that we
adjourned to the garden or a balcony,
and had it in the shape of enjoy-
ment of the soft yet most exhilar-
ating air, and the glorious panorama
of snow-capped mountains.

Somewhat more formal affairs
were the picnics from the Eternal
City; and so far as actual eating
and drinking go, the associations
with Eome are none of the moat
agreeable. The winter climate is
depressing — we had almost said
detestable — whatever the hotel-
keepers and physicians may main-
tain to the contrary ; which makes
the first fresh breaking of the spring
in the Campagna like a breatk of
Paradise to the prisoner escaped
from a dungeon. You are nnusu-
ally dependent on regular exercise,
and exercise you are extraordinari
loath to take, since the air mak
you languid, while the "pa'v
ments " try your feet*. The malai
ous influences of crumbling ruin
decaying civilisations, and decrep:
institutions — we are talking of tt

1881.]

Recollections a la fuurchette.

121

days vfhen the Pontiffs were su-
preme — seemed to have told upon
the meat and tainted the veget-
ables. Beef ! We always fancied
that the original wearer of those
coarse JUets and steaks had passed
the best of his days under the
goad in an ox- waggon. Mutton !
Only look at the stupid Eoman-
nosed sheep that cropped the rank
vegetation among the swamps and
the ruins of the Gampagna, and say
if you could expect anything sa-
voury of them in the way of cut-
lets ! The black flesh of the wild
boar, bred in the jungly lagoons or
in the Pontine Marshes, was power-
ful enough in all conscience, with-
out the picquant berberry sauce.
The porcupines and hedgehogs,
and other local delicacies that we
used to eat in the hostelries,
were well enough once in a way.
But man cannot live by porcupines
alone, nor did we ever meet them
at picnics. Then the vegetables,
in point of colour and taste, might
have been weeds gathered from the
Colosseum or the Baths of Cara-
calla, before the sediles of the new
regime had taken to polishing up
those public buildings. And the
native wines, from the oil and cot-
ton-stoppered flasks of the local
vintages, to drugged Lachryma
Christi and doctored Marsala, were
in every way suitable to the viands.
Nevertheless we have pleasant me-
mories of the old pillared dining-
hall in the Hdtel d'Angleterre,
where we were probably sowing
the seeds of indigestions that made
change of air and of scene impera-
tive towards Easter.

Where the Italians excel — next
to the Spaniards — is in their pas-
try. We hardly knew that they
ame in as correctives to heavy din-
lers, but we look back to many
\ laxurious light luncheon at the
'ong tables laid at their restaurants

in readiness for all comers by the
Signori SpiUman or Nazzari. These
were pleasant gossipy gatherings,
where men rallied from the sur-
rounding hotels and from the club
round the corner. And talking of
gatherings, Herr Spillman with his
tent and his luncheon-tables used
always to be in high feather at the
suburban meets of the hounds. If
the sport was indiflbrent, owing to
the superabundance rather than the
scarcity of foxes, and to those stiff
posts and rails of seasoned oak that
could only be negotiated by axes
and handsaws, there was far more
flirtation, fun, and merriment than
at the grand meets de riffueur with
the Py tchley or the Quorn. Strings
of screws had been sent forward to
be mounted at the city gates ; and
well-filled carriages had gone roll-
ing in rapid succession along the
stones of the AppianWay, awaken-
ing the silent echoes of the street of
tombs ; and Eoman magnates, irre-
proachable in their boots and pink,
had come caracolling in intense
self-satisfaction, looking the legit-
imate descendants of the conquer-
ors of the world. When the hounds
went off to draw, with the riders
following them, the rest of the com-
pany remained by the pates and the
ice-pails, under the shadow of the
sepulchre of some mighty Roman
house. Yet the less thoughtless
must have often felt that there
was something sacrilegious in these
revellings; though we know that
familiarity breeds contempt, and
how quickly, even in Jerusalem, one
becomes the dawdling man about
town. Far more congenial to the
spirit of the scenes were excursions
to the lonely sea-shore, where by
the grim fortalice of the medieval
baron you might listen to the mel-
ancholy lapping of the waves, as
you sat on the swaid under the
foliage of the stone-pines ; or to

122

BeeoUecitons a la foureJiette.

[July

some spot in the solitudes of the
Campagna — and you could hardly
go wrong — among the lines of
broken aqueducts and the weed-
covered mounds that marked the
sites of imperial villas ; to the gar-
dens of psJaces among the Alban
hills, where cool grottoes, curtained
with trailing maidenhair, offered
seductive retreats to sauntering
couples ; or even to those suburban
Cockney resorts wh jre the columns
of temples of the golden age had
been defaced by the scribblings of
generations of tourists.

From Eome we might go south
to the sunnier Campania — and how
well we recollect the wayside meals
purveyed by the proprietor of the
lumbering vetfunno, which was
packed with the jolly party of
bachelors ! — to the cone of Vesu-
vius, where we roasted our eggs
in crevices in the flood of half-
molten lava ; to the orange-gardens
of Sorrento, hanging over the sea ;
to the chestnut-groves and myrtle-
thickets of Ischia, since devastated
by earthquakes ; to the cliffs and
caverns of the island of Tiberias,
dear to that cosmopolitan colony of
artists, with whom we speedily be-
came sworn friends. Or we might
turn back into Switzerland, when,
responding to the rise of the ther-
mometer, we went thither to cool
the blood that had been growing
feverish among the Lombard lakes,
as we chilled the muscat-flavoured
wines of the Yalais in the snows of
the high Alps. But it is high time
that we had done with picnics, and
so we hasten eastwards to what we
heard an American characterise as
the tallest thing of the kind ever
given on the face of this eternal
old world. The nominal giver of
the feast was the late Khedive of
E$i^ypt; the real entertainers were
his unfortunate fdlaheen, who, in
their leanness from short commons

on rice and maize, had been laid
under involuntary contribution.
The occasion was the opening of
the Suez Canal, and at the head of
the list of guests were an Empress
and an Emperor, sundry Princes
Eoyal, and innumerable minor po-
tentates. Nobody who was there
is likely to forget the palace that
had risen as by enchantment in the
desert, with the city of wood and
canvas that encircled it, and the
long ranges of open-air furnaces,
with the battalion of cooks who
were busy over the fires. A mon-
ster picnic it was truly, for each
article of the commissariat had been
sent over leagues of sand, transport-
ed either by the craft on the new
canal or the more primitive " ships
of the desert" The ^'companies
of camels" had gathered in from
all directions, bestridden here and
there by black Nubian slaves,
perched on the summits of the
humps, and draped in variegated
garments of goat-hair. They were es-
corted by warlike Bedouins mount-
ed on their mares, and armed to the
teeth with lances and matchlocks.
While, on the other hand, were the
hordes of Frankish visitors, looking
as if they had been equipped by
the Messrs Moses or at the moffo-
sin of the '' Bon Diable," and
showing, it must be confessed, to
humiliating disadvantage, as they
passed in their thousands out of
the squadrons of steamers. Except
that they wore tweeds or broad-
cloth for " curets," and carried sun-
umbrellas for " ashen darts," they
might have recalled one of the no-
blest passages in Homer, finely turn-
ed into English by old Ghapman,^

"And as from &ir« the frostie nortl
wind blows a cold thick sleete

That dazzles eyes, flakes after flakes in
cessantly descending ;

So thick helmes, cnrets, ashen darts, ant
round shields never ending,

1881.]

SeeoUedionB d la fourcheite.

123

Flow*d from the navie's hollow wombe ;

their splendours gave Heaven's eye
His beams again ; Earth laught to see

her Hce so like the skie ;
Anas shined so hote, and she snch clouds

made with the dust ahe cast."

There were heat and dast enough
in aU conscience; but there are
life and health, as we learned, in
the pure dry air of the desert, and
the company brought Gargantuan
appetites to Gargantuan prepara-
tionfi. What may have happened
to the provisions in transit we
know not. If the beeves and the
muttons did not travel thither on
their own legs, which seemed im-
possible, who can say how many
joints may have been tainted or fly-
blown ; and we have reason to he-
lieve that the quantity of cham-
pagne and seltzer-water wasted in
explosions might have irrigated for
many days one of those pretty
flower-gardens which were already
in bloom among the sands of
Ismalia. ^o ill-bred French or
British bondholder asked to look at
the bill — just then : the overhaul-
ing of accounts was reserved till
some years later, when Mr Cave
was charged with his memorable
mission. All we knew was that,
taking the circumstances into ac-
ooont, the serving of a never-ceas-
ing succession of banquets might
have done credit to caterers in the
' Arabian Nights,' when they could
call enchanters into council, and send
genii and Afrits on their errands.
The supremea and the cotelettes a la
qwdque chose or d la touts chose,
were sent up simultaneously in
dishes by the hundred ; and the
ips of champagne, Bordeaux, and
iui^andy were turned on, as if the
magnificent Khedive had arranged
rith M. Lesseps to lay pipes in
onnection with the Gironde and
he C6te d'Or. What if there
night be an occasional touch of

wood-smoke in a sauce ; if a flask
that pretentiously styled itself
Lafitte was evidently a pushing
bottle of St Emilion ? Even short-
comings like these were excep-
tional: the eyes of the master-cooks
and chief butlers could not be
everywhere ; nor could one expect
in the plenty of a Camacho's
wedding, multiplied many hundred
times with oriental profusion, the
delicate artistic finish we look for
with a Bignon or a Durand. As
for plenty, the broken fragments
might have been carried away by
the waggon load, had they not been
intercepted by the mixed multi-
tude of camp-followers ; and many
a boa - constrictorish adventurer
went on Dugald Dalgetty's prin-
ciple — victualling himself doubt-
less for days to come. After he
had gone more than satisfied from
the board of the Viceroy, Bedouin
chiefs laid violent hands on the
stranger and dragged him away to
their hospitable tents.

Having oppressed him with tales
of such heavy feeding, witli the
thermometers indicating fabulous
temperatures in the shade, we in-
vite the reader to accompany us on a
cruise or two, before bringing these
rambling Recollections to a close.
Memory flies back with us to days
when original railway shareholders
still dreamed of lucrative returns in
legitimate profits, after fantastic
prices had been paid for the land and
for damages, — when, although a
railway king had arisen at York,
there were no lines sls yet to the
north of Newcastle, and the Scotch
traffic was still conducted by
coaches. Naturally many people
still travelled by sea, and the
steamers of the time were both
well - found and commodious.
None of your narrow - waiated
screws, down by the stem, send-
ing tremors through the system

124

Reeollectwns d la foureJteile.

[July

even when the weather is fine, and
with all- pervading smells of tar and
engine-grease; but capacious, com-
fortable craft, smoothly propelled
by powerful paddles, with broad
and beautifully clean quarter-decks
where you could really take your
ease, and icabins that were airy and
fairly well ventilated. For our own
part, even in boyhood's careless hours
we had always some apprehension
as to going down to the sea in
ships of any kind. "Whether in
the portly passenger steamer, in the
luxurious pleasure yacht, or in the
tiny cockle-shell of a cutter, com-
bining the adventurous with the
economical, it was much the same.
Appetite and happiness depended
on the weather. But then with us
the mcd de mer was never chronic :
it struck us almost by surprise,
coming up like a squall over the
still Mediterranean ; and it passed
away for a time just as quickly,
leaving us all the better. So that
in rude health, or in the intervals of
illness, our appetite on board ship
was wolfish, and only to be paral-
leled by the famine-fits we have
experienced when suddenly trans-
ported in the middle of August
from the flagstones of Pall Mall to
the slopes of Ben-something-or-
other. So far as we remember,
the stewards of the Scotch and
London boats must have been
very kindly fellows, and superior
to sordid considerations. At all
events, when intrusted to their
care in travelling to and from
school, before being advanced to
the dignity of the jacket, they
looked after us with fatherly inter-
est. We remember how welcome
was the shrill tinkle of the dinner-
bell, when we were wearied with
watching the monotonous panorama
of cliifs and sandhills on the dis-
tant coast-line, enlivened though it
was by the swooping and clamour-

ing sea-fowl in the foreground.
How, when the weather was rough ,
with no sea legs on to speak of, we
staggered and lurched when beating
up for the "companion." How,
hanging on by the hand-rail at the
side, stumbling and slipping down
the brass-bound steps, we steadied
ourselves on the dancing floor of
the cabin, and settled into one of
the seats on the horse- hair sofa, be-
fore a table that was creaking under
oscillating lamps. How the com-
pany at dinner was select in num-
ber, and the majority showed a
stern resolution of countenance, as
if they had screwed up their cour-
age to do and dare. How the con-
versation would have languished,
had it not been for the bluff and
gruff old captain, who was support-
ed by some ancient mariner like
himself, and one or two other weath-
er-beaten individuals whose internal
fittings might have been of cast-
iron. How we responded with
genuine politeness to the attentions
of our affable patron the steward,
by partaking freely of the dishes
he pressed on us. By the way,
corned beef and carrots used to
figure conspicuously among these,
and we found it went admirably with
the unfamiliar bottled porter. How
the pale-faced lady who had been
generally commended for her pluck,
beat a precipitate retreat on the
appearance of the butter-boats
which accompanied the fish ; how her
rosy-gilled neighbour, who had been
gradually turning livid like herself,
welcomed the opportunity of assist-
ing her on deck ; how one or two
more succumbed ignominiously to
the boiled mutton ; and how we mf
personally have held out to th
pastry, when we knocked under 1
internal qualms. If we showed
face so resolute to adverse fortun
it may be imagined how happy w
were when the seas were serene

1881.]

Recollectiom d la fourchette.

125

more especially on the eve of the
grouse-shooting, when the yelpings
of pointers and setters on the fore-
deck made most melodious music
in oar ears, and when jovial sports-
men, pleased with our enthusiasm,
good-naturedly condescended to he
amused by us, occasionally closing
the acquaintance with a tip.

We daresay those seafaring din-
ners and breakfasts may scarcely
have been all our fancy paints
them; and it is certain that the
practice of cooking on board ship
must have been greatly refined and
developed since then. We have
often marvelled at the wonderful
culiaary resources of a " Cunarder "
or a vessel of the "P. and 0."
After much information vouchsafed
to our cariosity by head-cooks and
parsers, we confess ourselves still at
a loss to understand how those
tremendously solid meals can be
prepared in the very limited space
of one of their patent modern bat-
teries de cuisine. But it is a still
greater mystery how the Anglo-
Indian valetudinarians are in case
to dispose of them. If a man's
machinery be independent of in-
voluntary motion, we can conceive
of his going ravenously to work
when rocked on the breast of the
broad Atlantic ; and we know that
Americans, notwithstanding the
national dyspepsia, may be relied
on to play excellent knives and
forks. But against either native-
bom American or emigrating Briton,
we should be content, for staying
powers, to back the Anglo-Indian
gentleman, voyaging eastward after
^ong leave devoted to patching up
lis liver. Had the Peninsular and
Oriental Company not consulted
be tastes of its patrons, it must
urely have revolutionised its
nenus long ago. We have sailed
rom Southampton in sound bodily
wndition, made decent weather

of it in ** Biscay's sleepless bay,"
and so long as we were to the west-
ward of the Pillars of Hercules,
have neither felt surprise nor ex-
pressed distaste at the cuisine.
Steaming westwards, the weather
grew warmer and warmer, till the
iron stanchions of the awnings be-
came hot to the touch, and the air
in the sleeping - cabins more and
more offensive. Baths and morning
coffee did much ; but still we had
an apprehension that our marrow
might be simmering in our bones
long before we arrived at the Isth-
mus. We felt inclined to turn
total abstainers and vegetarians,
and would have indulged ourself
for choice at the dinner-hour, if we
could, with some such trifle as
a light mayonnaise of butterflies.
But day after day our discomfort
at meals was aggravated by disgust,
which may have had its origin in
envy. There was the invariable
profusion of steaming dishes on the
breakfast - table, that would have
been appropriate to the latitudes of
Scotland or Scandinavia. There
was the same lavish display of pon-
derous joints at dinner, with mulli-
gatawnies and other messes of simi-
lar consistency. Yet day after day,
and meal after meal, cadaverous
civilians, sallow - cheeked soldiers,
and ladies who lounged away the
days in their lolling-chairs, seldom
stirring a finger except to wave a
fan, went to work on the fare with
unabated eagerness.

They manage these things some-
what better, as may be supposed,
on the Messageries boats. The
genius of the French cliefs is less
material; and with them, for ex-
ample, the curry was but a piquant
sauce sent up with the tempting
platters of perfectly boiled rice.
Yet we soon found that the French
steamers had drawbacks of their
own. We sailed once from the East

126

Eecolleetions d la fourchette.

[July

for Sicily, in a splendid vessel, ^ith
barely a dozen of fellow-passengers.
Nevertheless, repasts that were both
well devised and sumptaous were
laid oat every day in the spacious
saloon. The pity of it was that we
could never, for the life of us, taste
a morsel. The vessel unhappily
rolled a little to the light breezes :
the captain, with the frank, rough
bearing of a fire-eating old sea-dog,
was the most careful of timid mari-
ners ; so there was a standing order
that, to guard against accidents, all
the port-holes and bull's- eyes should
be secured. The consequence was
that we slept and breathed an at-
mosphere that at last became posi-
tively fetid : the roses faded out of
our damask cheeks, and our souls
sickened at the sight or smell of
food. Knowing all the time that
free ventilation below would have
made us a man again, we languish-
ed as we could on lemonade and
oranges, falling off sensibly in flesh
and spirits. It was a blessed hour
when, disembarking in the harbour
of Palermo, we hurried off to our
good friend Signor Ragusa's hotel,
to run all the risks of a surfeit in
oar state of extreme inanition.

On that melancholy cruise, with
an excellent table within reach of
ns, we suffered something like the
torments of Tantalus; but much
more frequently, on small foreign
coasting craft, we have been lowered
to starvation-point by sheer repulsion.
The dishes were so foul, and the
preparation was so filthy, that we
could only hold aloof, and long to
be landed; while acute sufferings
from hunger were not unfrequently
aggravated by thirst. Once we
were so much left to ourself as to
take a passage down the Gulf of
Corinth in a small Greek boat.
For showing us the enchanting
scenery, the vessel's programme
was admirable; for we zigzagged

from coast to coast, and took
five days to fetch Corfu. The
weather might have been called
exquisite, had it not been so
overpoweringly hot. And unfortun-
ately, the courtesy of the captain
was extreme. He would insist
upon ceremoniously treating us as
an honoured guest. He seated us
at his own right hand, and pressed
dish after dish upon us with orien-
tal hospitality. And these dishes
of strange and mysterious meats
were smothered in the greasiest
sauces, and scented and flavoured
with the most detestable herbs.
Had the tipple been tolerable, we
might have managed better. Bat
our shrivelled tongue clove to our
parched palate ; and the diabolical
Greek wine, with its strong in-
fusion of resin, seemed positively
to hiss upon our smarting lip9.
We have no great liking for pure
water as a dinner beverage in onlin-
ary circumstances, but what would
we have given then for a cool filter
at our elbow ! As for the fluid
that was carried in the grimy water-
butts, it had a worse flavour than
the wine, and was more than luke-
warm to boot. We trust that we
held out with Spartan beroism,
smoothing our face into smiles to
reject the captain's civilities; and
happily we found some relief on
our runs ashore, when we satur-
ated ourself with lemonade in the
shabby cafes. But the day when
we set foot on the strand at Corfu,
like that other landing at Palermo,
almost repaid us for our previous
pains, and will always be cherished
in our memory. At that time tb'^
British colours flew from the fort
fications, and leaving our lugga^
to the mercies of a lacquais c
place, we rushed up to a Highlan
sergeant who stood looking 01
The honest fellow was taken abac
by our inarticulate earnestness ; bi

1881.]

BeeoUeetions a la fourchttte.

127

when he undeistood the sitaation,
we had his wannest sympathy. He
could take ns to a tayem where
they sold capital pale ale, and was
willing enoagh to act as guide and
as taster too. So before we climbed
the difis to a friend's quarters in
the citadel, we had eaten and
drunken to our heart's content. As
for the bitter ale, it tasted like
that nectar of the gods which we
had failed to find under the seats of
some of those deities on Parnassus.
We forbear from glancing back
at the greater horrors of Turkish and
Spanishsteamers — aggravated, more-
oyer, by seeing the cooking going
forward on the deck in hands that
might haye been grubbing all morn-
ing in the coal-bunkers. And we end
our article with the brighter sketch
of a merry noon-day dinner on a
river steamer. Though the hour
may have been unsuitable, accord-
ing to our insular notions, we re-
member nothing pleasanter than the
tables set out under the awnings on
the deck of a boat on the Khine or
the Danube. Where there is no
moTement but what is agreealJe;
where there are no sounds of suffer-
ing from adjacent state - cabins ;
where everybody is happy, or ap-
pears so, and when most of the
party are making holiday, — there
is an air of light conviviality about
the long-necked flasks that ought
hardly to hurt the sensibilities of

the most thorough-paced total ab-
stainer. Then the scenery that
glides past as the boat shoots on
surpasses the noblest landscape-
paintings in the most princely
dining-hall; while the decorations
nature displays on the banks are
worth any quantity of flowers and
fruits adorning all the diners d. la
Basse, Castles and convents, vine-
yards, villages, and orchards, all
pass before the eyes in turn ; now
we change the course to leave room
for a lumbering raft ; now we
give the go-by to a string of deep-
laden lighters, dragging along in
the wake of the panting steam-
tug ; or we touch bank for a
moment or two at some pier, or
slacken speed for the shore -boat
rocking on our wash, that has come
off from a hamlet to land a passenger.
So all the senses are soothed or
agreeably excited simultaneously,
and we feel in peace and charity
with all the world; till even the
strains of the brass band from amid-
ships are floating on the air in
sounds that seem seraphic. Had
we stopped our ears to the charm-
ing of the oberkeUner ; had we
churlishly turned our back on the
company, the calves' cutlets, and
the Riidesheimer or the Voslauer, —
we could never have enjoyed the
scenery half so much, while we
should have regarded the bandsmen
as unmitigated nuisances.

128

Tunis.

[Jdy

TUNIS.

If a straight line were to be
drawn from the frontiers of India
on the east to the coast of North
Africa on the west, it would pass
through an unbroken series of Mo-
hammedan countries, which have
one and all of them at some time
or another played an important part
in the history of the world. A
very large proportion of the States
in question are dependencies of the
Ottoman empire, which has gener-
ally been understood up to the
present time to comprise within
its limits, not only Arabia and
Syria, but the Pashalics or Regencies
of Jpgypt, Tripoli, and Tunis. From
the banks of the Tigris to the now
famous Hamfr mountains on the
frontiers of Algeria, numberless
Moslem tribes acknowledge the
civil and religious supremacy of the
Caliphs at Stamboul, and consider
their own immediate rulers, the
Khedives, Beys, or Pachas, as velis,
viceroys, or governors. This fealty
paid to the Sultan of Turkey
throughout Egypt, Tripoli, and
Tunis (no say nothing of Asia
Minor and Arabia) is no doubtful
sentiment or political fiction ; it is
a living, actual, and unmistakable
reality, and forms part of the
common ideas as to civil duty
entertained by every good Moslem
throughout these three provinces.

The Regency of Tunis has, since
1830, formed the extreme western
boundary of the Ottoman empire,
and recent events which have oc-
curred in connection with it have
in a very marked manner attract-
ed the attention of Europe to its
history, its political status, and
its ultimate fate. The Tunisian
Beylic occupies nearly thel centre
of the northern shores of Africa;
and its sea coast, which extends

first eastward and then due south,
forms an irregular line of nearly
500 miles. The country is in-
habited from one hundred to two
hundred and fifty miles inland, is
watered by several large streams,
and possesses a fertile soO, large
unexplored mineral wealth, and a
peaceful and industrious popula-
tion. In the north is situated the
great natural harbour of Bizerta,
and the port of Goletta. Susa and
Sfax are of considerable mercantQe
importance. The export trade of
the country is for the most part
confined to oil, esparto grass, wool,
and cereals, and its imports consist
chiefly of colonial produce and
manufactured goods. There are
about 30,000 European colonists in
Tunis, of which 16,000 are Italians
and 10,000 Maltese. I refrain
from alluding even in the briefest
manner to the annals of Tunis prior
to its conquest by the Arabs. The
history of Phcenician, Roman, and
Byzantine Tunis is the history of
Carthage. In the twenty-first year
of the Hegira, Tunis was invaded
by the Arabs under Okba, and
before a quarter of a century had
elapsed it was completely occupied
by its conquerors. In 698 a.d.
Hassan - ben - el Neman destroyed
the Byzantine Carthage which had
sprung up on the ruins of the
Phoenician and Roman cities, and
a victorious Ikloslem army reached
the shores of the Atlantic, founding
the provinces of Algeria and ^lor-
occo. We hear of one dynasty <
rulers succeeding another down t
the time when the great family
Beni Ilafs obtained the supren
power in Tunis, and held it for jui
three hundred years. One of tl
most celebrated of this race, Moi
ley Muhamed, died in 1525, b

1881.] Tunis.

queatbing bis tbrone to bis yonngest
son, Mouley Hassan. In order to
render bis own position unassail-
able, Moaley Hassan planned tbe
massacre of bis brotbers. Two of
1 4iem were assassinated, but tbe sar-
vivor, Eesbid, contrived to escape.
Taking refuge in tbe first instance
witb tbe celebrated Turkisb corsair
Kbeir-ed-Din, be afterwards accom-
panied bis protector to Constanti-
nople. Tbe Saltan, Soliman, readi-
ly agreed to espouse bis cause, and
undertake tbe conquest of Tunis on
bis bebalf ; but before tbe Turkisb
armament set sail in 1534, Resbid
was tbrown into a Turkisb prison,
from wbicb be does not appear to
baTB ever emerged. Tbe plans of'
Kheir-ed'Din were attended with
complete success; tbe gates of Tunis
were tbrown open to bim, tbe im-
perial banner of tbe Calipbs was
unfurled on tbe citadel, and tbe first
act of tbe conquerors was to pro-
claim tbe overthrow of tbe dynasty
of tbe Beni Hafs, and tbat bence-
fortb obedience was to be paid
exclusiyely to tbe vdi or deputy
of tbe Porte. It was tbus tbat
tbe Calipbs obtained political as
well as religious supremacy in
Tunis. In tbe course of a few days
tbe gates of tbe boly city of Cair-
w4a were opened to tbe Turkisb
viceroy, and tbe deposed Mouley
Hassan fled to tbe Court of Charles
V. Tbe Emperor promised to assist
him, and during tbe summer of
1535 appeared off Goletta — tbe
Piraeus of tbe Tunisian capital —
witb a fleet of 400 sail and an army
of about 30,000 men. The forces
of Spain, Flanders, Portugal, Italy,
md tbe Knights of St John, took
lart in this famous expedition.
Jomplete success attended tbe op-
irations of tbe invading army,
Slheir - ed - Din was defeated, and
>foaley Hassan was once more
>laced upon tbe throne of his
S&thers. On tbe 6th August 1535,

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCLXXXIX.

129

be signed a treaty by wbicb be ac-
knowledged himself to be a vassal
of Spain, and bearing in many of
its details a remarkable resemblance
to tbe hardly less important con-
vention which, on tbe 12th May
1881, rendered tbe Regency of Tunis
a fief of tbe French EepubUc. The
Turks, however, continued to offer
tbe most strenuous resistance to
Mouley Hassan and bis Spanish
allies. In 1573, Sinan Pasha, the
Turkish general, regained possession
of tbe Regency, which was entirely
evacuated by tbe Spaniards, and
proceeded to reorganise the govern-
ment of tbe country on behalf of
tbe Sublime Porte. The supreme
power was intrusted to a Pasha
named by the Sultan, who was to
be assisted by a Cadi (appointed
in the same manner) and a divan
or council. The public prayer was
to mention only the '* ruling Sultan
of tbe Osmanlis," and in bis name
alone was all money current in
Tunis to be coined. Up to within
six weeks ago the doors of the
Hall of Justice at the Bardo Palace
were always tbrown open at four
o'clock, and the public invited by
proclamation to pay homage to their
most puissant suzerain the Emper-
or of Turkey, whose virtues were
loudly set forth by a functionary
appointed for the purpose. In
1705, one Hossein ben Ali became
Bey or Pacha of Tunis, and his
descendants have remained in power
ever since. The present Bey, Mu-
bamed - es - Sadik, succeeded bis
brother in 1869.

These references to tbe past his-
tory of Tunis are necessary in order
to estimate the gravity of the events
wbicb recently happened there.
The author of * Les Annales Tunis-
iennes' has compiled an elaborate
record of the history of the Regency
between the years 1525 and 1832.
M. Rousseau was first interpreter
of the Prench Consulate- General at

130

Tunis in 1860, and had access to
the voluminous archives of that
office. An examination of the re-
sults of his labours puts the ques-
tion of the political status of Tunis
during the period above referred to
beyond the possibility of a doubt.
Some such investigation is rendered
necessary by the fact that M. Bar-
th^my Saint-Hilaire, in a circular
of the 9th May 1881 (which was is-
sued simultaneously with a " Livre-
jaune" on Tunisian aflGEurs), declares
that '' France has always regarded
Tunis as an independent country;''
whereas Earl Granville, in his letter
to Lord Lyons of the 17th June
1880, says that, "in the view of
her Majesty's Government, Tunis
was a portion of the Ottoman em-
pire." The history of Tunis as
written by M. Rousseau, and a
study of the various treaties enter-
ed into between that country and
France, leave no doubt whatever
either as to the legitimacy of the
Sultan's claims to suzerainty, or as
to the correctness of the facts con-
tained in his appeal to the great
Powers. M. Rousseau teUs us of
the constant arrival in Tunis of
special envoys from the Porte ; of
the investiture of each succeeding
Bey with the kaftariy or robe of
honour sent from Stamboul ; of
frequent applications made to the
Porte in matters concerning Tunis
by the French ambassador at Con-
stantinople ; of decisions on several
occasions pronounced by Turkish
commissioners as to disputes be-
tween Tunis and Algiers ; and
of Austria, Venice, and Tuscany
negotiating conventions with Tunis
through the good offices of the Sul-
tan. The testimony afiforded by the
texts of the thirteen Franco-Tunis-
ian treaties entered into between
1604 and 1830, is still more con-
vincing. The Bey of Tunis is
uniformly styled as the Viceroy,
Dey, Captain-General, or Pacha of

Tunis. [^^J

the Odjak of Tunis ; the treaties
made by France with the Sublime
Porte from the year 1535 are
ratified and confirmed, and in
several of the conventions it is
stipulated that French vessels
coming to Tunis shall only pay
"the dues levied in other parts
of the Ottoman empire." In 1830,
a Tunisian force was sent to the
aid of the Sultan ; and even as late
as 1854, the Bey of Tunis sent a
contingent of 15,000 to join the
Turkish army in the Crimea. There
can therefore be no doubt as to
the untenabUity of the position
assumed by M. St Hilaire, whose
arguments involve a dilemma from
which there is no escape. He says
Tunis is, and always has been,
independent. Nobody disputes
that she accepted the fimian of
1871 ratifying her position as a
dependency of the Sublime Porte.
If she accepted those conditions
as an independent State, they are
equally binding on her, and must
of necessity impugn the validity
of any arrangement now made in
defiance of them. These con-
siderations are of little practical
importance, as the dependency of
Tunis on Turkey, politically speak-
ing, is substantiated beyond the
possibility of a doubt.

We now come to the considera-
tion of the relations of Great Brit-
ain with Tunis. Between 1662
and 1 826, fifteen conventions were
entered into by the two countries.
The conditions obtained were sing-
ularly favourable to English com-
merce ; and we always appear to
have been considered in the light
of the most favoured nation. Art
cle 24 of the Treaty of 1751 rj
thus : " Que les sujets de fc
Majesty Britannique seront toi
jours traits par TEtat de Tun
avec le plus haut degr^ d'egarc
d'amiti^, et d'honneur, parceqr
les Anglais, de toutes les autr

1881.]

Tunis.

131

nations sont les premiers et les
meilleurs amis." During upwards
of two centuries our forefathers
jealously watched our position in
Tunis as '* the most favoured
nation;" and M. Bousseau clear-
ly points out that whenever France
managed to obtain some excep-
tional privileges, England immedi-
ately demanded similar concessions
for herself. Besides the treaties
above alluded to, two other im-
portant conventions exist between
Great Britain and Tunis. By
that of 1863, English subjects
acquired the right of holding real
property in Tunis in their own
name; while that of 1875 relates
almost exclusively to commerce.
In virtue of the one, British sub-
jects have acquired much land in
the Eegency ; whUe the other has
not a little contributed to the de-
velopment of international trade.

During a reign of twenty -two
years, Muhamed-es-8adik has hon-
estly tried to insure to each Euro-
pean nation a just respect for rights
acquired by treaty, and has always
refused to allow one of his allies to
profit by the loss of another. In
1869 the finances of the country
were, with the consent and ap-
proval of England, France, and
Italy, placed in the hands of an In-
ternational Financial Commission,
in which all three Powers were
equally represented. A large por-
tion of the revenues of the country
have been conceded to the Commis-
sion in order to secure the punc-
tual payment of the interest on
the funded debt ; but they are col-
lected and administered in strict
xinformity with the treaty engage-
uents existing between the Kegency
if Tunis and the Powers. The
Bey has invariably shown a dispo-
lition to favour in every way the
introduction of foreign capital into
is country; but he has always
jndeavoured, in the concessions he

has granted, to maintain his own
independence. Ten years ago seve-
ral English companies embarked in
different enterprises in Tunis. Of
these one still exists, while a second
has ceded its rights to the Italian
Rubattino Company.

One of the most important events
of the reign of Muhamed-es-Sadik
Bej was the reception of a firman
from the Sultan in 1871. Although
the Bey had been formally invested
on his accession to the throne twelve
years before, he felt that time had
somewhat weakened the tie which
bound him ,*as a vassal to the Ca-
liph, and was anxious to place the
position of Tunis towards the Otto-
man empire beyond the possibility
of dispute or cavil. In 1863 M.
Drouyn de Lhuys had informed
a French banker who was about
to contract for a Tunisian loan,
that the consent of the Porte was
necessary to "legitimise " the trans-
action ; but subsequent events had
induced France to call in question
the rights of the Sultan as suzerain
of Tunis. So strongly did France
oppose the reception of the con-
firmatory firman^ that she threat-
ened to prevent the landing of the
Turkish commissioner. The fir-
man, however, was brought in state
to Tunis, and proclaimed with pub-
lic festivities and rejoicings. It
declared that the Regency of Tunis
should form, as heretofore, an inte-
gral part of the Ottoman empire ;
that although the Bey might make
commercial treaties with foreign
Powers, he was entirely debarred
from entering into political conven-
tions with them, or ceding to them
any part of Tunisian territory ; and
that the forfeiture of the right of
hereditary succession should follow
any violation of the essential con-
ditions of the imperial kltat. On
the 8th November 1871, the 'Times'
commences an article on the sub-
ject of Tunis with these words :

132

Tunis. [J'^y

" The Tanisian Regency is now de
jure and de facto an integral part
of the Ottoman empire;" and nearly
all the Powers of Europe appear
to have entertained the same opin-
ion. England, Austria, and Eussia
officially congratulated the Bey on
the reception of the firman^ and
have, as well as other Powers, acted
upon it ever since. The Liberal
Cabinet of England took a promi-
nent part in the negotiations which
led to the action of the Porte in
1871; and the activity of Mr Glad-
stone and Lord Granville in assist-
ing the Bey to obtain the firman
when France was weak in 1871,
forms a striking contrast to the
apathy with which they have wit-
nessed its destruction in 1881 when
France is strong, powerful, and there-
fore to be dreaded. In 1878 the
Bey sent both money and supplies
to Constantinople, and Eussia with-
drew her Consul from Tunis on the
outbreak of hostilities. The Ger-
man Emperor in 1872 refused to
receive a Tunisian envoy unless
presented by the Turkish ambassa-
dor, and England has invariably
assumed a similar position.

With these unavoidable refer-
ences to the history of Tunis in
the past, I now propose to sketch
the events which led to and at-
tended the recent French invasion
of the country, and culminated in
the signing of the Treaty of Kasr-
Essaid on the 12 th May 1881.
In 1876 Monsieur Theodore Rou-
stan arrived at Tunis as French
Charg^ d' Affaires. Restless, ambi-
tious, and energetic, he soon evinced
a disposition to advance French in-
terests in the country with a high
hand. Two years later Signer Li-
curgo Macci6, an old rival of M.
Roustan's in Egypt, succeeded to
the post of Italian Consul-General
in Tunis, and seemed determined
to contest his French colleague's
endeavours to assert for France

an exclusive prepondSrance at the
Tunisian Conrt. Abont tiiis time
the capabilities of Tunis as a field
for enterprise and speculation at-
tracted the attention of the capital-
ists of Paris and Marseilles, and the
Societe des Oomptoirs Maritimes,
the SociSte Marseillaise, and the
SoeiSte des BatlgnoUes hastened to
establish branches in the Regency.
In M. Ronstan they found an able
and devoted ally. The Bey was
induced to grant to the last-named
Company a concession to construct
a railway across his territory to-
wards the Tunisian frontier, and a
year later he unwillingly permitted
the constructors to effect a junction
with the Algerian lines. Five years
ago a very similar grant was made
to an Englishman ; but as the peca-
niary success of the undertaking was
more than problematical, the pro-
ject wholly failed to find favour in
the English market. M. Ronstan,
however, induced the Crovemment
of the Republic to guarantee a sat-
isfactory interest on the necessary
capital; and it was then he must
have unfolded his plans, which,
three years later, resulted in the
events which Europe has .witnesa-
ed during the past three months.
ITot content with the success
achieved by the SocietS des Batig-
nolles, M. Roustan embarked on
other similar adventures in aid of
"French interests." Seven years
before, the Bey of Tunis had granted
to M. de Sancy a vast domain, to
be held under certain specific con-
ditions, called Sidi Tabet The
grant was purely personal, and
amongst other things M. de Sancv
engaged to maintain on the eeta
such an establishment as woi
conduce to the improvement of t
native breed of horses. Accordi
to the terms of his agreement wi
the Tunisian Government, M.
Sancy 's rights were forfeited, a.
an attempt was made by the B

1881.]

Tunis.

133

(who even then appears to have
become alarmed at M. Eoastan's
progress) to recover possession
of the property in the manner
prescribed by the original deed
of gift. M. Koustan, however,
promptly intervened; the Tunis-
ian Minister was obliged to pub-
licly demand pardon for invading
a French possession, and M. de
Sancy's grant was renewed, but
with powers of cession. The do-
main of Sidi Tabet has now passed
into the hands of the Soeiete Mar-
seiUaise. Shortly afterwards a M.
Oscar Gay arrived at Tunis. He
brought with him a project, which
appears to have been of too ad-
vanced a nature even for M. Eous-
tan, although he very strongly sup-
ported it M. Gay desired to re-
build the city, and reconstruct the
ports, of Carthage. The Bey re-
fused to accept his proposals, and he
was obliged to rest contented with
a considerable indemnity for lost
time, and the Grand Cordon of
the Tunisian Order. During 1880
M. Koustan pressed the granting
of several other concessions on the
Bey, but in the summer of that
year he received a temporary check
which has never been forgotten or
forgiven. The English railway be-
tween Tunis and the Goletta came
into the market, and after a spirit-
ed competition it was purchased by
the Italian Eubattino Company.
M. Roustan at once obtained grants
for lines to the coast and to Bizerta,
and a general undertaking from the
Tunisian Governments to refrain
from allowing the construction of
any other railways in the country
riihout first offering them to French
apitalists. M. Macci6 now en-
leavonred to obtain permission to
onnect the Eegency with the tele-
praphic lines of Itidy by a subma-
Ine cable; but M. Koustan induced
he Bey to refuse his consent, al-
hoagh the French pretensions to

monopolise telegraphic communi-
cation could on no ground be de-
fended. Shortly afterwards a con-
cession was granted for the con-
struction of a port at Tunis, which
would render the Eubattino line
practically useless. During the
summer of 1880 M. Eoustan first
intimated to the Bey his plans for
the establishment over the Eegency
of a French Protectorate ; and as
time went on, he pressed the matter
with increasing energy on Muhamed-
es-Sadik, but without any favour-
able result. The Bey informed
the Sultan of these proposals, and
seemed inclined to court the aid of
Italy. Matters were in this posi-
tion at the beginning of the present
year, when the dispute commonly
known as the Enflda case attract-
ed public attention in England to
Tunis, and more particularly to M.
Eoustan's proceedings. The ex-
Prime Minister of Tunis, Kheir-ed-
Din Pacha, possessed an enormous
domain in the neighbourhood of
the city of Cairwdn called the
"Enfida." An English subject,
Mr Levy, was the proprietor of a
neighbouring estate, known as the
" Sujah." Mr Levy was in treaty
for the purchase of the Enfida,
when the Soeiete Marseillaise inter-
vened and induced the Pacha to sell
it to them. According to the local
law of Tunis, adjoining proprietors
have the right of exercising pre-
emption, and obtaining possession
of the property sold, on repaying
the purchase -money, with certain
formalities, to the original vendee.
This right was exercised by Mr
Levy, and the local courts put
him in possession of the Enfida.
M. Eoustan forcibly ejected Mr
Levy's agents from a house on the
estate, but failed to deprive him
of the bulk of the property. The
matter was referred to England :
two ships of war were sent to
counteract M. Eoustan's attempt

134

to overawe the Tunisian author-
ities, and to this day Mr Levy
remains the occupant of the Enfida.
The action of the Government in
this matter, rightly or wrongly, im-
pressed the Bey with a conviction
that England was not prepared to
surrender her interests in Tunis,
and that Mr Gladstone would adopt
a policy in conformity with his
views of 1871. M. Roustan next
demanded, on behalf of a M. Een-
ault, the authorisation of the Bey
for the formation of an Agricultural
Bank, with peculiar and exclusive
privileges ; and his request was re-
fused. During the months of Jan-
uary and February in the present
year, the Havas Telegraphic Agency
and the French press entered on an
active campaign against Tunis, tak-
ing the Enfida case and the Agri-
cultural Bank as their text; and the
assertion of French propoiiderancey
the establishment of the Protector-
ate, or even the total annexation of
the Regency, were openly discussed.
A French writer in a very remark-
able pamphlet, 'Les Fran^ais en
Tunisie,' alludes in the following
terms to the means used to justify
the approaching campaign in the
eyes of France : —

" C'est en cela," writes Videns, " con-
siste I'art moderne des gouvernants.
lis ont pour instruments choisis, dans
I'exercise de cet art, les Agences tele-
graph iques, qui sont ^ leurs ordres :
pour instruments volontaires les jour-
naux juils, ou financiers, c'est la
jneme chose, et il y en a beaucoup :
pour instruments aveugles on in-
conscients, les malheureux journaux,
meme honnetes, contraints par la ne-
cessite de fournir des nouvelles h. leurs
abonnes, de reproduire les dcpeches et
les correspondences toutes faites des
Agences, dont il leur est materielle-
ment impossible de se passer."

The Italian and English press,
however, strongly advocated the
maintenance of the status quo in
Tunis 3 and it soon became evident

Tunis* [Jrdj

that some better excuse for proceed-
ing to extremities than the Enfida
case must be put forward. The
action of M. Roustan in that matter
had wellnigh involved France in
a very disagreeable complication.
During the early days of March,
M. St Hilaire thought it prudent
to distinctly deny any desire on
the part of France to obtain a pro-
tectorate over Tunis.

The activity of M. Roustan en-
abled him in a short time to furnish
his Government with a fresh pre-
text for hostile action towards the
Tunisian Government, and with
one which entailed no undesirable
entanglement with a European
Power. He fell back on the
time-honoured cclsus belli of a
frontier raid. Between Tunis and
Algeria is a spur of the Atlas
range, stretching from a point some
sixty miles inland to the shores of
the Mediterranean near Tabarca.
One slope is inhabited by the
Tunisian tribe of Hamirs (any
other rendering of the name is
absolutely incorrect), while the
other is peopled by the Algerian
tribe of Nehed. The Hamirs are
sturdy, warlike, and quarrelsome
agriculturists, never too loyal sub-
jects of the Bey, but by no means
the brigands they have been de-
scribed to be. In the last days
of March a dispute arose between
some of the Hamirs and their
neighbours the Neheds, and in an
affray a Hamfr was killed and some
Nehed tents burned. A company
of French soldiers interfered ; the
Hamirs were attacked an Tunisian
terrifort/y and five French soldiers
and several Hamirs lost their liv«
in the melee. This occurred oi
the 31st March ; and within sh
weeks from that time, Tunis, as ai
independent country, ceased to ex
ist, and the Sultan was depriyer'
of one of his richest and most im
portant dependencies.

1881.] Tunis.

The important role of the Havas
Telegraphic Agency now began . The
£[amir raids were exaggerated ; and
as the massacre of Colonel Flatters'
expedition happened to occur at the
same time, care was taken to con-
fuse as much as possible the two
events. Battles between the Al-
gerians and the Hamirs were de-
scribed one day and contradicted
the next, and public excitement
in France soon reached a pitch
which permitted of no delay on
the part of the Government. It
was decided to punish the Hamirs.
Preparations were commenced in
Algeria and in France, and M. St
Hilaire distinctly assured both
Signor Cairoli and Lord Granville
that France had no other ulterior
views beyond the vindication of
her honour and the prevention of
farther disorders on the frontiers.
These declarations were explicit,
clear, and unmistakable. On the
nth April 1881, M. Jules Ferry
denied that France had any idea
of conquest^ and assured the French
Chamber of Deputies (with refer-
ence to an insinuation to the con-
trary) that "entre cette operation
militaire et Taflfaire d'Enfida il
n'y a aucune relation, directe ou in-
directe." With these assurances
England and Italy had no other
alternative but to remain content.
On the 7th April M. Eoustan
annonnced to the Tunisian Govern-
ment that the French Eepublic " a
decide d'infliger un chatiment k
quelques-unes des tribus Tunisi-
ennes." The Bey immediately an-
swered that he was able and willing
to inflict himself any punishment
France desired on the frontier tribes,
and respectfully protested in his
own name and that of his suzerain
against the violation of his terri-
tory, and the consequences which
might ensue therefrom. As M. St
Hilaire refused to alter his purpose,
the Bey addressed a second letter to

135

M. Eoustan, as well as a circular to
the foreign representatives, in which
he set forth the difficulties of his
position, and renewed his protests
against the invasion of the Eegency.
In order to give France immedi-
ate proof of his ability to control
the Hamirs, and afford any satis-
faction which might be asked on
account of the alleged raids, the
Bey despatched his brother with a
large force to the frontier; and with-
in ten days he had received the sub-
mission, not only of the Hamirs,
but of all the other mountain clans.
The French preparations, however,
increased in magnitude; the Bey
in alarm appealed to the Sultan,
and on the 18th April addressed
fresh protests to M. Eoustan. On
the 25th April, M. St Hilaire saw
Lord Lyons ; and the French pro-
gramme appears to have been con-
siderably extended since M. Ferry's
declaration of a fortnight previous.
M. St Hilaire then told Lord Lyons
that "the objects of the French
expedition were to chastise the law-
less tribes, to insure the permanent
establishment of order on the fron-
tier, to settle outstanding claims,
and to take effectual securities
against Tunis being used by any
foreign Power as a means of dis-
turbing the French rule in Algeria."
On the same day the invading
force entered Tunisian territory.
Five days before, M. Eoustan had
again demanded the Bey's permis-
sion for the French troops to land
at Tabarca, and his Highness had
refused to accede to the request.
On the 26th April, Generals Forge-
mol and Vincendon entered the
Hamir country and attacked the
Hamirs at Ain Ismain. At the
same time four French ironclads
bombarded the ancient fortress of
Tabarca. The Tunisian officer in
charge of the fort declined to sur-
render it to the French of his
own accord without the Bey's in-

136

Tunis, pttly

stractions, and while lie was wait-
ing for them he was unexpected-
ly attacked. About fifty Tunisian
soldiers were killed, and the officer
managed to escape wounded to the
shore. The French flag was at
once hoisted on the Tabarca fort
Although the progress of Generals
Forgemol and Vincendon in the
forest-covered fastnesses of the Ha-
mf ra was necessarily slow, their de-
lay was amply compensated for by
great activity in other directions.
On the 1st May the French occu-
pied the port of Bizerta, which will
in a few years, in all probability,
become the most important harbour
in the Mediterranean. Two days
previously another force under
General Logerot had taken Kef,
and subsequently pushed on to
Souk - el - Arba, a station on the
French railway. Meanwhile the
alarm at the Bardo palace increased
apace. The Bey telegraphed ap-
peals to the Powers ; these ap-
peals were repeated even with
greater force by the Sultan, and
yet no sign was made. M. St
Hilaire repeated his pacific assur-
ances. The European colonists,
becoming more and more uneasy,
addressed their respective Consuls
as to the dangers of the situation.
On the day the French troops
entered Kef, M. Roustan writes as
follows to his subordinates through-
out the Regency : " There is no
need for alarm ; the French troops
are only come to punish the
Hamirs, and not to make war
against the Bey of Tunis." The
garrison of Bizerta was rapidly
augmented, and in a few days
Generals Br^t and Maurand were
in command of 12,000 men. The
French flag was ostentatiously dis-
played on the citadel, the forts
were furnished with French artil-
lery, and the general in command
styled himself officially " Governor
of Bizerta." On the 5th May the

Bey communicated a farther pro-
test to the Powers by telegraph.
The occupation of Bizerta had
directed public attention in Eng-
land and Italy still closer to the
Tunisian question ; Lord Granville
and Signor Cairoli received fresh.
assurances that this step only formed
part of the original plan of opera-
tions against the Hamirs, and ap-
pear to have been convinced by
them. On the 9th May a column
under General Breart left Bizerta,
and having crossed the Medjeida,
took up a position near SabaJla,
barely ten miles from the capitaL
The following day, however, the
French troops marched by way of
the Sidi Tabet estate to Djedeida,
a station on the French railway.
The Bey's fears greatly increased,
and on the 11th M!ay he tele-
graphed by way of Italy the fol-
lowing last appeal to the Powers : —

" To Earl Granville, London, — ^The
advance of the French troops in this
Regency continues. Hitherto we have
succeeded in reassuring our subjects
by reiterated declarations that the
French operations would be strictly
confined to the punishment of the
Kroumirs. We believed that the as-
surances given to the Powers and to
our suzerain justified our so doing.
Notwithstanding these protestations,
the French camp is to-day within 17
miles of our capital, and during their
march the French forces approached
it even nearer. These undeniable facts
tend materially to lessen the effect of
the injunctions we have given our sub-
jects, and have even led to our own
conduct being very seriously animad-
verted on in our own dominions. We
have redoubled our efforts to persuade
our subjects to offer no resistance to
this invasion, but our task becomes
more difficult as a disregard of the
assurances given becomes more appa-
rent Is it possible for us to tell now
long we may be able to maintain order
among the unoffending tribes, who see
their dwellings, herds, and crops sac-
rificed by the march of the French
troops ? In these circumstances, and

1881.] Tunis.

137

in view of the extreme ux^ency of the
case, we implore the British Govern-
ment, as well as the Governments of
the other great Powers, to take such
measures as may at least induce the
Government of the French Republic
to declare its intentions in respect to
our Regency, and make known the
complaints which it may consider itself
justified to prefer against us. — Mu-
hamed-es-Sadik."

The next morning the interpreter
of M. Roustan brought a letter to
the Bey, in which he stated that the
French Government had appointed
Greneral Br^art to tender a treaty
for his acceptance, and that he re-
quested the Bey to grant him an
interview in the afternoon. He also
asked the Bey's permission for the
general to bring with him a detach-
ment of troops from Djedeida. The
Bey answexed that although he
should be happy to receive General
Bnkrt, he strongly deprecated any
approach of the French troops to-
wuds Tunis. This letter had barely
been forwarded to Tunis, when the
advance-guard of General Bret's
troops was observed crossing the
low hills in the direction of Dje-
deida. Before noon 4000 men had
encamped in the gardens of Man-
ozzba, barely two miles from the
palace. Two batteries of artillery
were ostentatiously displayed, and
the outposts were pushed to the
immediate vicinity of the Bey's
residence at Kasr-es-Said. It is
difficult to describe the terror ex-
cited amongst its inmates, who
viewed the approach of the French
from the upper windows. The
effect of the demonstration was
remarkable, and the Bey's advisers
seemed at once to lose all hope.
The attendants conversed in whis-
pers, and at four o'clock M. Roustan
arriTed. He was soon followed by
General Br^art, who was accom-
panied by twenty officers of his
staff fully armed, and a numerous
escort On entering the Bey's room

he at once presented him with a
draft treaty, which he said the
French Government desired the
Bey to sign that night before eight
o'clock. The Bey asked for time,
but General Br^art would only
grant the extension of a single
hour. The draft was then read
over to the Bey, and for some time
he declined even to consider it. He
requested the general to inform him
of the consequences of a refusal,
whereupon M. Roustan answered
that they would be of a very serious
character. A friend of M. Roustan
whispered them to the Bey. The
penalty of non-compliance was to
be the deposition of Muhamed-es-
Sadik in favour of his younger
brother Sidi Taib, and the condign
punishment of the Prime Minister,
Mustapha ben Ismail. Sidi Taib
had lent a ready ear to the French
proposals, and was at that moment
waiting at the Marsa for the escort
of French troops which was to
convey him to the Bardo. The
Bey then resolved to lay the matter
before his CounciL Ten of the
councillors were in the palace ;
and while nine of them advised
the Bey to yield, the tenth de-
clared death was preferable to such
disgrace. Even then the Bey hes-
itated. He asked for an Arabic
translation of the treaty, and to
be allowed to sign under protest.
Both requests were refused him.
The ladies of the palace, terrified
by the presence of the French sol-
diers, sent frequent messages im-
ploring him to sign. The Beys of
Tunis invariably affix their signet
to documents of this kind, but in
the present instance time would not
allow of the seal being sent for.
At seven o'clock he signed the
French treaty and became a vas-
sal of France, under terms even
more onerous than those which
Charles Y. had imposed on his
predecessor Mouley Hassan three

138

Tunis, [^^7

centuries and a half ago. While
General Br6art was negotiating at
the Bardo, M. St Hilaire was even
at the eleventh hour making the
most pacific disclaimers in the
French Chamhers. On the 9th
May he had, however, issaed a re-
markable circular which admitted
to a certain extent the real objects
of the Tunisian expedition, and in
which, for the first time, he aban-
doned the plea of Hamir punish-
ment. It will be curious to observe
how he can reconcile these declara-
tions with M. Ferry's statements in
the Chamber exactly one month
before. In this circular M. St Hil-
aire sets forth the various reasons
which have induced France to have
recourse to other means as regards
Tunis than " la discussion loyale et
la persuasion.'' He then proceeds
to enumerate the dispute as to the
Tunis and Goletta railway, the
Italian attempt to establish a sub-
marine cable between Tunis and
Italy, the opposition to the French
railway to Susa, and lastly, "la
question du domaine de TEnfida
qu'on essaye de ravir par des
moyens ill^gaux h une compagnie
Marseillaise aussi honnete que
laborieuse." The Hamir raids are
barely mentioned, but the real ob-
ject of the French expedition is
clearly revealed.

The treaty of Kasr-Essaid con-
tains ten articles. The French Re-
public agrees to protect the Bey
against alKforeign Powers, and the
Bey consents that his interests in
Europe shall be exclusively rep-
resented by French diplomatists.
The Bey yields to France the mr-
veillance of the frontier and the
coast, which may be carried out by
the occupation of all places deemed
necessary, until both Governments
can agree as to the Bey being in
a position to maintain tranquillity
unaided. The Bey agrees to enter
into no engagement of an interna-

tional character without the consent
of France, and renders himself re-
sponsible for the payment of a war
indemnity by the offending tribes.
The Bey consents that France shall
remodel the system under which
the finances of the country are at
present administered. By this
treaty the suzerainty of the Sultan
is set aside, and that of France sub-
stituted in its stead ; the right to
an occupation of any part of the
country by France is secured \ the
interests and treaty-rights of all
other Powers are wholly disre-
garded, and the finances of the
country handed over to those very
speculators who have provoked the
aggression. All this has been
achieved by a war carried on in
defiance of every rule of the law of
nations, but against which no Euro-
pean Government has cared to raise
its voice. It is in vain for the
Bey to any longer protest. His
old suzerain the Sultan considers
him as a traitor, while his old allies
the European Powers regard him
as a French vassal. It is true that
Lord Granville has written to M.
St Hilaire a remonstrance which
would have considerable effect under
ordinary circumstances. Such, how-
ever, has been the duplicity dis-
played by French statesmen in the
Tunis question, that it will proba-
bly be received by them as the ne-
cessary and expected consequence
of their own conduct. The Porte
forwarded a solemn protest to his
European allies, but neither Lord
Granville's letter nor the appeals of
the Sultan have had the smallest
effect. On the 8th June, the Bc-
was forced by M. Eoustan to issii
a decree nominating the Frenc
Minister Kesident as the sole inte
mediary for communication betwee
the representatives of the Powe
and the Tunisian Government; ai
within two hours M. Roustan pp
mulgates this decree in an arrogar

1881.] Tunis.

circular to his former colleagues.
This, too, is accepted by the Gov-
ernment which ten years ago helped
to obtain the firman of 1871, and
still considers Tunis an integral
part of the Ottoman empire. Al-
though we have had a Political
Agent "near" the Beys of Tunis
since 1690, Sir Charles Dilke as-
sures the House of Commons that
"access" to the Bey was never
an essential part of his functions.
England has accepted the position
of her representative at Tunis
being virtually accredited to the
French Minister Eesident, and her
colonists being practically under
French protection. Neither Lord
Granville nor Sir Charles Dilke can
prevent a widespread appreciation
of the ignominy of the situation,
or of the humiliation England has
suffered by the latest phase of the
Tunisian question. It is useless to
endeavour to shift the blame for
what has happened to the shoulders
of Lord Salisbury. Nobody can
believe that the recent action of the
French in Tunis was contemplated,
when Lord Salisbury spoke at Ber-
lin of the " legitimate extension of
French interests " in that country.
As Lord Salisbury well observed in
the House of Lords, on the 21st
Jane, " the Tunisian question has
entered on a new phase. If Lord
Salisbury had invited M. Wadding-
ton to " take Carthage," as France
would have us believe, there would
have now been no necessity for the
miserable pretexts of Hamir raids
or frontier aggressions, or for the
constant exercise of a duplicity in
negotiation certainly unparalleled
in the annals of diplomacy.

The consequences of this war
of twenty days are inevitable.
Italy will never forgive what she
considers in the light of a per-
petual menace, and will only wait
for the hour of vengeance. While
the state of popular excitement pre-

139

vented for weeks the formation of
a Ministry, a powerful party de-
manded war against France at any
price, and Garibaldi sent forth im-
passioned appeals from Caprera, im-
ploring Italy to insist on the res-
toration of Tunisian independence.
These feelings have been greatly ag-
gravated by the recent occuiTences
at Marseilles. Italy now seeks peace
with all the world to punish France.
England has, through the English
press, unanimously condemned the
French aggression. Her friendship
for France has cooled, and she is
watching for the sequel of the
campaign with anxiety. M. Eous-
tan has already demanded the
arrest of the Sheikh-el-Islam, who
is the chief civil judge at Tunis ;
while his subordinate at Susa has
been loaded with chains for preach-
ing the holy war, an accusation
which has already served the new
Minister Eesident in good stead.
This will within a few days lead
to the forcible resumption of the
Enfida, and will be in strict accord-
ance with M. St Hilaire's pro-
gramme. The loss of the Enfida
to Mr Levy, and the consequent
violation of the rights of an indi-
vidual, will be of little importance
in comparison with other wrongs
we may confidently expect. When
the most powerful arsenal in the
Mediterranean is established at Bi-
zerta, when English manufactured
goods are subject to a French tar-
ifi*, and when Malta is debarred
from receiving supplies from Tunis,
we shall probably regret the dis-
dainful silence with which we re-
ceived the thrice-repeated appeals
for mediation from Muhamed-es-
Sadik Bey. The importance of
Bizerta is regarded as a harmless
chimera by those who seek to put
off" the evil day, when England
must realise her loss of power in
Europe. Admiral Spratt and Mr
Bosworth Smith, Lord de la Warr

140

and Mr Guest, have placed on re-
cord their opinions on this subject ;
and Admiral Hobart Pasha states
that the possession of Bizerta means
the mastery of the Mediterranean.
A short time will probably suffice
to put their views to the test.

But these consequences are of
comparatively little importance with
the effect this aggression has had
on the Moslem world. The tribes
of the interior of Tunis are in open
revolt; this excitement is extend-
ing itself to Tripoli and to Egypt,
and we daily hear of massacre and
insurrection in Algeria, where a
total disarmament of the natives
has been hastily resolved on. Pa-
triotic Frenchmen do not hesitate
to ascribe the rising of Bon Amena
to the unprovoked attack on the
Tunisian Regency. The Moslem
realises the fact that the day is
coming when he must make one
final stand against Christian inva-
sion, and this resistance will take
the form of a war which will ex-
tend from the frontiers of India to
the shores of the Atlantic. Tunis
contains the venerated city of Cair-
wdn, and around that city the war-
like tribes of the Slasi, the Hamama,
and the Ouled Drid are assembling

Tunis, [Jiily

to defy the invader. These men
regard Sultan and Bey alike as
traitors to their faith, and they will
fight under the fiag of the Prophet.
Once let this spirit spread, and the
consequences of the French Pro-
tectorate over Tunis may exceed
in importance anything which we
are now able to contemplate. The
strength of this feeling in the in-
terior of Tunis we can personallj
attest. In a word, the recent policy
of France has earned for her the
enmity of Italy, the resentment of
England, and the antagonism of the
Moslem world. Nowhere has this
attempt at cheap glory been more
ably denounced than in the French
Chamber on the 23d of May ; and
the congratulations of M. St Hilaire
on the ominous silence of Prince
Bismarck are singularly inoppor-
tune, if not wholly premature. The
author well observes : —

" L'Europe va entrer k toute vapeur
dans une mer d'iniquit^. Tout est
dispose pour cette croisade & rebours
de la civilisation corrompue au profit
des juifs et des meneurs des peuples.
Mais toutes les expeditions ne ressem-
bleront pas 4 celle de Tunis, d^cr^t^
et accomplir en guise d'app&t. II y
aura bien du sang vers<S pour de Vor."

1881.] The Late Andrew WiUm. 141

THE LATE ANDREW WILSON.

AccnsTOH£D as the Magazine has alvrays been to interest itself in
those who have identified their literary careers with its fortunes, it
cannot pass over without an expression of feeling the death of Andrew
Wilson, which took place at Howtoun, on Ulls water, in the Lake country,
on the 9th of last month. It is now a quarter of a century since a little
essay called " Wayside Songs " appeared in these columns, and raised
hopes that the graceful mastery of prose, combined with the delicate
appreciation of poetry of the then unknown writer, would win for his
gifts a ready recognition in the higher circles of criticism. Andrew
Wilson's work has justified these expectations ; and though his health
denied him that power of unremitting application which is essential to
the highest literary success, he has still done enough to keep his name
green in the literary history of his generation. In his own particular
line of travel he has hitherto been without a rival, and though his
aims were not those of the explorer or the sportsman, personal incident
and picturesque description are scattered so lavishly throughout his
books, that the reader imagines himself in the company of Speke, or
Grant, or Buxton, rather than in that of a confirmed invalid who is
taking refuge amid the wilder beauties of nature from an oppressive sense
of bodily infirmities

With the exception of his work in journalism, almost the whole of
Andrew Wilson's literary remains have been first given to the public
in the pages of the Magazine. From his frequent absences in the East,
in China, and India, he would return with his mind richly stored with
impressions of travel, and, settling down in some quiet nook, would pro-
ce^ to record them in a spirit of philosophic reflection. He wrote, as
he travelled, in a mood of thoughtful leisure, and had no sympathy with
the modem explorer who dashes off his diary for the book-market with
the same haste as he had galloped across a continent. Among his earli-
est contributions to the Magazine were papers descriptive of his travels
and adventures among the wild tribes of the Sindh frontier and Beloo-
chistan, a region which at that time could be traversed by the European
only at great personal risk. His experiences as a journalist in China
opened up to him the Further East, and on his return numerous articles
contributed to our pages showed to what good account his opportunities
had been turned. Among these an account of the " Inland Sea of Japan,"
and "Six Weeks in a Tower," — a graphic narrative of his residence 'among
the Chinese in a post in the Kwei-shin district, about a hundred miles
from Canton, where he beguiled the time in studying native manners,
contrasting Chinese with English character, writing poetry, and recall-
ing verses from favourite authors — attracted most notice. His Chinese
experiences during the Taiping Eebellion mostly appeared as papers in
the Magazine, and were subsequently republished in his successful vol-
ume, 'The Ever- Victorious Army.' Another epoch in his travel-life
was a summer and autumn which he spent in Switzerland later on, and
of which he contributed an account to the Magazine in the years 1865-66.
During his last visit to the East he undertook the adventurous Him-
alayan journey which he has described in the * Abode of Snow,' and
which forms his best claim to rank among accepted travellers. Prob-

142 The Late Andrew Wilson. [July 1881.

ably no journey of the same extent and difficulty was ever undertaken
by one so physically unfitted to undergo severe fatigue and pri-
vation. His spirit and endurance, stimulated by his enthusiasm for
natural scenery, supplied the place of bodily strength, and enabled
him to accomplish a journey of nearly five months' duration across
passes 13,000 feet high, and .encountering ascents before which even
Alpine Club men might have paused. The circumstances under which
Wilson crossed the Himalaya would of themselves have made the
journey sufficiently remarkable; but the account which he has given
of it in the * Abode of Snow,' with its glowing pictures of the unknown
beauties of the Himalayas, its poetical interpretation of the charms of
the mountain landscape, its genial humour, and its endless fund of
story and quotation, will effectually stand between it and oblivion.
We have a pleasure in looking back to the warm reception which
Wilson's Himalayan travels received as they appeared in our columns ;
and he himself has put his own feelings on record. In the pre&ce to
the * Abode of Snow,' he writes : —

" I feel deeply indebted for its having been written at all to the en-
couragement, consideration, and advice of Mr Blackwood, the editor of the
famous Magazine which bears his name, and in which a great part, but not
the whole, of this narrative originally appeared. From the outset he sym-
pathised warmly with my plan, and throughout he never failed to cheer
my flagging spirits with generous praise, not to speak of other encouragement.
Then he gave me a great deal of admirable advice. There is nothing that
is commoner in this world than advice — nothing that is showered down upon
one with more liberal profusion ; but there is nothing rarer than judicions
useful advice, the first condition of which is sympathetic appreciation of what
one would be at ; and it was this invaluable kind of advice wliich Mr Black-
wood freely tendered, pointing out where the treatment of my subject re-
quired expansion, or aiding me by his knowledge of the world and pro-
feundly appreciative literary taste."

The last excursion made by Wilson was a run through the wild
state of Kathiawar shortly before his final departure from India, a
narrative of which appeared in the Magazine in the autumn months
of 1876. His last contribution was written in the following spring —
" Twenty Years of African Travel," an interesting retrospect of the dis-
coveries made by Speke and Grant as compared with those of more
recent explorers.

Andrew Wilson was the founder of a school of travellers which as yet
has had no other representative except himself. He had no thirst for
discovery, no ambition to take rank as a sportsman, no desire to encoun-
ter sensational dangers. His was a genial delight in natural beauty and
grandeur, which seldom rose to feelings of sublimity, but which, never-
theless, sank deeply, if quietly, into his nature. His well-stored mind,
his extensive reading, and the aptness of his memory, mad a Kim
thoroughly independent of society ; and when his attention was a
in his wanderings, passages from his favourite authors readily croT(
about his memory, like old friends, to aid and stimulate his en
ment. Kever was there a more delightful guide through the jungl
or over the mounfain-pass than Andrew Wilson ; and his name w*
continue to suggest pleasant memories to the readers of ' Maga.'

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BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. DCCXC.

AUGUST 1881.

YoL. CXXX.

CONTENTS.

Uncle Z, ..... .

Hints for the Vacation Eamble. By an Old Tramp,

Florio : A Little Tragedy, ....

The Pbitats Secretary. — Part X., .

The Land op Khbmi, — ....

Part III.— Old and New.

143
164
179
184
212

Holidays. — Sunset on the Lomonds. By J. LooiE Eobertbon, 228

Autobiographies, — ...... 229

No. IV.— Edward Gibbon.

The Meiningen Company and the London Stage, . . 248

Besieged in the Transvaal. The Defence of Standerton.

— Concluded, ...... 264

EDINBUKGH;
rrJJAM BLACKWOOD &• SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET,
And 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

To whom all Communicaiiotts must be addressed.

BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBUKGH MAGAZINE.

No. DCCXC.

AUGUST 1881.

Vol. CXXX.

UNCLE Z.

* Well, then," I said at length, in despair, " if I cannot read a book, I will write one."
— Preface to * Tales of a Traveller y^ hy Geoffrey Crayon^ Gent.

CHAPTER I. THE START.

I WAS educated at Oxford, and
was supposed to have finished my
academical career in the year 1825.

I was an only son ; and my
parents, though not very rich,
were sufficiently so for their own
wants and for mine. My father
was a cultivated English gentle-
man, hut my mother was a German.
She had, however, lived so long in
England, as to hecome identified
with all our island habits and cus-
toms ; and unless you had been told
that she was bom a foreigner, you
could not have detected it from her
accent. There was one point, how-
ever, on which she was very sensi-
tive, and that was the rank of her
family. She was descended from
a noble house in Austria, and ima-
gined — I dare say with justice —
that she was allied to the stock of
the illustrious Zahringens.

But in spite of all the traditions
with which my boyhood was en-
circled, I must confess that I was
brought up with very insular pre-

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCXC.

judices — was very shy amongst my
schoolfellows about my German
connection, and carefully evaded
all possible reference to family
matters. My sensitiveness on this
point led to reserve ; and, as often
happens, this reserve was set down
by my equals to pride rather than
to shyness : but perhaps there was
really a strong spice of both ingre-
dients in my character. In any
case I found myself, at the conclu-
sion of my terms at Oxford, with
very few friends ; and my real
attachment to my parents was
not weakened by any overween-
ing friendships formed with those
amongst whom I had been brought
up.

My father had been a patient
observer of the growth of all my
peculiarities, and, being a shrewd
judge of human nature, did not
attempt too violently to oppose
them. But he waited to accom-
plish his design until I should
have taken my Bachelor's degree.

(

144

UndeZ.

[Aog.

I had shown no bent for any
particular profession in life. My
circumstances were easy, and I
was fond of reading, but after a
somewhat desultory fashion; and
after a few weeks spent in the
country with my parents, the want
of any definite pursuit brought with
it the accustomed weariness of idle
spirits — and I began to think much
of myself, and to dream of imagi-
nary ailments with which I thought
myself threatened.

I have no doubt that at no other
period of my life I was more dis-
agreeable to other people, or a
greater bore to my own self. And
my father and mother sometimes
held mysterious conclaves apart by
themselves.

One day my father sent for me
to his study, and informed me of
the result of some of the delibera-
tions which he and she had had
together aboat my more immediate
future.

He said that the time had now
come when travel would be of
great advantage to me — greater
perhaps than at any other time of
my life — and (though, of course,
a long separation from me would
cause them some anxiety and, he
kindly added, some self-denial)
still he thought it better that there
should be no delay in my setting
out on my journey. He wished
me to see Florence and Rome, for
the sake of giving me a knowledge
of what was beautiful in art, and
afterwards to visit Paris, where he
had friends resident, who would
give me introductions into the best
French society : and this he thought
would give me much knowledge of
men, and of the world generally —
in which he was pleased to say,
rather to my annoyance, that I
seemed to be deficient And as he
did not wish me merely to scamper
over the Continent, but to make
my tour a real finish to my educa-
tion, he desired that it should not

be a hurried one. Eighteen months,
or two years even, ought to be spent
in this kind of self- improvement,
and he hoped, by help of the letters
with which I should be supplied, I
might soon find some acquaintances
to take off the sense of loneliness,
which at first might be inevitable.
At all events, all was new and fresh
to me; and my stock of informa-
tion, already not inconsiderable,
would enable me to enter fully
into the characteristics of all the
different countries that I might
visit, — and though lonely, I ought
not to find it dulL

He said this, and a great deal
more, in that cultivated and easy
manner which made advice from
him a thing to be courted and not
dreaded. But at the end he added
something eke which, as will be
seen, proved perhaps the most im-
portant part of all his scheme.

"But Edward," he said, "I
should not like you to visit either
Italy or France without having first
gone to see one of your nearest
relations, of whom you have often
heard your mother speak; though
perhaps you may have gathered
from her description of him that
he is not exactly the kind of per-
son who would be a very suitable
companion for a young man like
you — and perhaps this conjecture
would not be far wrong. At the
same time, I wish you not to form
any prejudice against your uncle.

" Without doubt he is what is
usually called an original person.
And the solitary habits of his life —
for I understand now he is a com-
plete recluse — have very likely add-
ed some eccentricities to a manner
which was always a peculiar, though,
at the same time, a distinguished
one. Remember this, for however
humble his present retired life and
occupations may be, even in the
Court of Austria he was considered
a fine specimen of the noblesse of
a haughty country. But, since my

1881.]

Unde Z.

145

own marriage, we have never met 3
only, as you know, he has always
kept up a correspondence with
your mother, to whom he is much
attached, as indeed she is to him.
We gather, however, from his
letters, that for at least the last
fifteen years of his life he has rarely
left an old family possession, some-
where near the sources of the
Danube, where the castle T^as de-
molished long ago in the wars of
the Peasants, and where we sup-
pose his only residence to be one
of the better kind of farmhouses
in that district. I cannot say that
I was ever there myself nor, in-
deed, that I have much desire to
visit him, for I am the child of
civilisation: first, because I like
the society of men of letters, and
an easy access to London comforts \
and secondly, because I have no
longer any relish for a journey on
the Continent. But we suppose
his home to be in an inland and
romantic country, not often in-
vaded by the traveller, but which
would well repay you the rough
sojourn of a few days. You will,
however, see it, and report to us
your impressions. And now one
word more : Graf Eerthold is still
a member of the Eoman Church.
I need not caution you about your
behaviour towards him in this re-
spect j you will of yourself remem-
ber not to use any disrespect to
the forms of worship T^hich obtain
in that country, and which, very
likely, you would find antagonistic
to the religious customs in which
you yourself have been trained.
Ilecollect that we and they alike
express our faith in the same

creed ; though you may be thank-
ful for freedom from those errors
which later ages have allowed to
accumulate round it, £rom which
you have been emancipated."

It was not often that my father
spoke as much at length on any
subject connected with my conduct,
or gave so much systematic advice.
I promised obedience to all his
counsels, and expressed gratitude
for his kind provisions for my
future. I felt, indeed, that both
my parents had been acting with
great disregard of their own feel-
ings in arranging for me this ex-
tended tour, and that my own
sudden repugnance to this journey
arose from no selfish motives, but
from the pain inseparable to so
long a separation from those who
loved me thus unselfishly.

But it was no hasty decision on
their part. It was best for me to
go ; and on both sides we struggled
to suppress any outward display of
our real feelings. And thus, a few
days after, I left my comfortable
English home with the many bene-
dictions both of my father and my
mother, with a well- filled purse,
and with means for replenishing it
when exhausted. A yellow post-
chaise was at the door. The
servants were gazing out of the
hall window which looked on the
approach. I shook hands with
everybody within my reach, gave a
parting kiss to my mother through
the chaise door, saw the butler
struggling to prevent my New-
foundland dog in a frantic attempt
to follow the carriage, which already
was in motion, and was soon on
the turnpike road to London.

CHAPTER II.

My father had sketched out the
first part of my tour with much
judgment and forethought — leav-
ing a wide margin for my own dis-

cretion, and, as usual, showing a
desire to influence rather than
absolutely to guide my wandering.
Nevertheless, whenever I deviated

146

from the original plan, I must own
that I had no right to think that I
had hit upon any improvement. At
all events, I soon leamt the wisdom
of following the great bearings of
the journey which he had traced.

Accordingly, upon landing at
Calais, I secured the best place in
the first diligence which went to
Lille, and wondered how it was
possible that, cumbersome as it
was, relays of five strong horses
could not drag it quicker over the
paved highway, and that so much
time should be consumed upon a
route which on the map seemed to
occupy so short a distance.

From Lille, I varied my mode of
travelling by posting to Brussels.
All was new to me; and though
there was much that was monoton-
ous in the general character of the
scenery, yet the crossing of the
frontier was a novel excitement,
and I was much amused by the
exercise of a new language, in
which I was pleased to find that I
could make myself readily under-
stood, although it was some time
before I followed easily the answers
and remarks of those who were
talking carelessly their everyday
speech with what seemed to be a
wonderful rapidity, and who, in-
deed, sometimes only made use of
a regular patois. But, in fact, in
those days the change from the
shores of England to the Continent
was much more marked than it is
in these days. There really was
more difference in dress, and in
manner, and in habits of life, which
the vast increase in the intercourse
has brought into a much less in-
teresting similarity. And the var-
iety did at first much relieve that
feeling of loneliness which sooner
or later fastens itself on a single
traveller, who finds himself sud-
denly cut off from all the habits
and associations of his youth, and
who has no friend except his note-
book to whom he can impart the

Uncle Z. [A^g-

strangeness of his sensations, and
no fellow-being who, by the inter-
change of mirthful thoughts, can
turn the most provoking incidents
of travel into a constant source of
present and future amusements.
But it was not until I found myself
in the crowded streets of Brussels
that I felt myself thoroughly alone.
I began to be conscious that a cer-
tain reserve in my manner had
made me unwilling to propose to
share my undertaking with any of
my acquaintances, even if I could
not have secured the society of a
more intimate companion. A sort
of nostalgia was already creeping
upon me ; and I believe that the
long letter which I composed on
the occasion, and which I addressed
to my mother, was the most senti-
mental effusion of which I had ever
been guilty.

I said, I remember, that I did
not like Brussels ; and that the air
seemed to disagree with me ; and
that I should go on at once to Aix-
la-Chapelle. And as nothing oc-
curred to make me alter my resolu-
tion, I did so at once, travelling by
night as well as by day ; and, thanks
to my good constitution and powers
of sleep, finding myself, after a bath
of the natural hot water of the city
of Charlemagne, as fresh as, and
perhaps fresher than, when I left
Brussels.

The next morning, with some
difficulty, I secured two letters of
my parents from the post-office, and
read my mother's first, and my
father's afterwards. The first told
me much about my dog, and his
regrets at my departure, and other
interesting details, which I foun<
very agreeable to myself at th
time, but which to the reader woul
seem intensely dull. And then
read my father's letter, which
should have suppressed for simils
reasons, had it not contained soff
counsels which indirectly have a
effect upon my story, and wit'

188L]

Uncle Z.

147

which, in consequence, I must
trouble those who chance to read it.

My father said that it had oc-
eorred to him that I should do
well, as I was within tolerable dis-
tance, if I should pay a visit to
Dusseldorf, for the sake of seeing
its gallery. He enlarged upon the
visit paid to it by Sir Joshua Eey-
nolds, A.D. 1781, and reminded me
of his commentary upon some of
the more important works in the
collection ; his criticism on the
famous assortment of Yanderwerf 's,
and on the still more famous works
of Eabens. There was one picture,
he said, which alone might reward
me for my trouble — that of the an-
gels falling from heaven — of which
Sir Joshua had pronounced deliber-
ately, that it was one of the greatest
efforts of genius which the art had
produced.

I really chiefly intended to please
my father by following his advice ;
but I had also an honest desire to
obtain a well-grounded knowledge
of the different schools of painting;
and so, after a sojourn of two days
at Aix-la-Chapelle (for which, by
the way, I was well repaid), I di-
rected my wanderings towards Dus-
seldorf, and availed myself of the
vehicles which in those days took
the misnomers of schnellposts. A
more miserable and stupid mode of
travelling could not be conceived.
I became more and more out of
humour with myself and the rest of
my species ; and one wet evening I
found myself lumbering through the
streets of the very useful capital of
the Duchy of Berg, for which, how-
ever, I then conceived, and have
since continued to entertain, a most
irrational dislike.

But I said to myself, at all events
there are the pictures. And after a
long night's rest, and a heavy Ger-
man breakfast, I hastened to the
gallery to feast my eyes at leisure
on its contents, and armed with an
excellent note-book, to which I

might refer in days to come for my
first impressions.

I had no difficulty in finding the
building itself, nor in obtaining
access to its spacious corridors. But
let the reader imagine my vexation
and despair when I found that the
pictures from which I was to learn
so much, and to obtain a sight of
which I had gone through so much
discomfort, were simply not there.

How my father could have made
so great a blunder I could not
imagine at the time, though now I
know well enough how easy it is to
pass over the events of the last
twenty years, and to find more
reality in the life which preceded
them. But so it was, as all the
German world knew, and the town
of Dusseldorf only too well, twenty
years before, all the gems of the
once famous collection had been
purchased for Munich by Maxim-
ilian,. King of Bavaria, though they
were not arranged in their present
really royal abode, the Pinakothek
of King Lewis, until (I believe) the
year 1836.

And the student of art will re-
memher that I had not the consola-
tions which now await the traveller
(if there are still travellers to Dus-
seldorf), and recompense him in
part for the loss of the works of the
old masters. Cornelius had not yet
founded his new school of German
painting, which has no small merit
of its own, though England has not
yet produced another Sir Joshua
Reynolds, to whose admirably ex-
pressed criticism she might as con-
fidently intrust the taste of her
educated classes.

Had I myself known as much
about painting as my subsequent
studies have enabled me to pick up,
I might have solaced myself by
getting access to the collection of
drawings by the old masters which
were not carried off by the Bavarian
king. But in the haste of my
annoyance, I quitted the gallery

148

with a sorfc of indignation, and re-
solved to lose no time in leaving a
city where I seemed to have been
exposed to all the ignominy of a
crael hoax.

But everything seemed that day
oat of gear. I took, I suppose, a
wrong turning, for I found myself
in the narrow streets of the Alt-
stadt, or older portion of the
town, and was arrested in my
progress hy a shop of curiosities,
which seldom fails to produce the
same eJBTect upon me, wherever I
may he. As I finished a survey
which ended in a wish to inquire
the price of a Louis XVI. clock, of
a quaint and particular character, I
turned suddenly round, and simul-
taneously found myself encountered
by a man who came out of the
shop very hastily with a parcel
under his arm. He was a man of
essentially German characteristics.
He had a restless blue eye, a face
much overgrown with hair, was
somewhat tall, and very meagre in
body. This man, instantly snatch-
ing back his covered treasure, as-
sumed all the appearance of a per-
son who had been wantonly as-
sailed, and began to pour forth a
torrent of invective in a patois
which I could not understand, or
very imperfectly.

Whether, at the same moment,
the unexpected shock aggravated
my ill humour of the morning, or
whether there was some natural anti-
pathy in our two characters, which
the circumstance of meeting so un-
pleasantly drew out at once, I can-
not tell. But as our gaze became
fixed on each other, I very foolishly
gave way to the impulse of the mo-
ment. My countenance betrayed
my anger, and if this had not, my
attitude would have been sufficient
witness to it.

I found myself raising my cane
to strike him, speaking French,
which came more naturally to my
lips than German, and which

Unde Z. [Aug.

seemed to chafe my opponent even
more than my outward behaviour.
In a few moments I found myself
the object of an unpleasant interest
to a gathering crowd from the dregs
of the population of Dusseldoif ;
and when I became conscious of
this fact, I became aware also at
the same time of another, namely,
that my antagonist, who was hiss-
ing with rage, was ill and strangely
dressed, and not at all like the
rest of the people who clustered
round him. The quarrel was ridi-
culous, and my position absurd.
To add, moreover, to the awkward-
ness of it, two of the town police
were appearing at the edge of the
crowd. So I made an eSbrt, and
contrived to make my way into the
shop which had contained the in-
animate and the living curiosity,
and the owner of the shop shut
the door as I entered it. I im-
mediately hastened to enlist the
shopkeeper's sympathies, by mak-
ing inquiries about the clock in
his window, which I thought it
prudent to purchase for a trifling
sum, and which really proved to
be what is called a bargain. I was
promised that it should be sent, via
Eotterdam, to an agent in London,
whence it was to be transferred to
my mother ; and I .beg to say that
the promise was faithfully kept.

The salesman indeed was a good-
natured as well as an honest fel-
low. He had been half amused
and half vexed at the scene out-
side his house. He said, the man
who had been so angry was a
clever man in his way, and a char-
acter. He did not belong at all to
that country. He lived far away
somewhere up the Rhine, many
days' journey from Dusseldorf.
But he came at intervals of two or
three years, bringing with him in-
genious specimens of clock-work,
which he disposed of at the vari-
ous towns on the Rhine, and gener-
ally travelling on one of the large

1881.] Uncle Z.

timber rafts' which were floated
down the stream in the summer
time. When he had got rid of his
goodsy which were made by himself
and his fiiends, he contrived to
jonmey back to his own country
chiefly on foot. But as he some-
times sold a considerable amount
of property, he caused remittances
to he made by the bankers to
Freiburg in the Breisgav, for he
came from somewhere up that way.
In consequence of these transac-
tions, he was well known to persons
in the trade. And his goods in
general were cheap enough, though
at GeneTa, Paris, and London,
they were sometimes retailed at far
higher prices. His angry temper
to-day was probably owing to the
circumstance that I had perhaps
narrowly escaped doing an injury
to a very complicated piece of
mechanism, a singing bird, which
he, the shopkeeper, could not afford
to buy, but which was really worth
a great deal of money.

Meantime, as the crowd outside
had dispersed, I prepared to make
for my hotel. The shopkeeper,

149

however, insisted on walking with
me, as he said it would be unfair
to allow a stranger to walk through
that part of the town alone, for my
appearance would cause me easily
to be remembered, and might pro-
voke some insult Accordingly he
did not leave me till I reached my
destination. I thanked him much
for his courtesy. He had given me
some interesting information as to
the manners and customs of the
lower orders of the people with
whom my lot would be often cast
during the next few months ; and
as we shook hands (at that time an
unwonted cordiality on my part
with an inferior), he advised me to
avoid the Black Forest Man, as be
called him, in case be again crossed
my path, for, he added significantly,
that he was not one who easily for-
got an offence, and that he had
many friends.

Then we parted ; and as quickly
as possible I ordered post-horses
and a carriage, and by the promise
of an extra trinkgelt, arrived at
Cologne with very reasonable ra-
pidity.

CHAPTER III. — UP THE RHINE.

' In KShln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang'd with murderous stones,
And rags, and ba^s, and hideous wenches,
I counted two-and-seventy stenches.
All well defined and several stinks !
Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne ;
But tell me. Nymphs 1 what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? "

" As I am a rhymer,
And now at least a merry one,

Mr Mum's Rudesheimer

And the church of St Geryou

Are the two things alone

That deserve to be known
In the body and soul stinking town of Cologne."

It is well known that a few years
later than the events to which my
story refers, Mr Coleridge and Mr
Wordsworth visited Cologne, and
the former, to avenge himself on the
dirt and smells of this famous city.

left a lasting record of his disgust
in two powerful stanzas. I could
not have written the verses, but I
could have borne record not only to
their power, but to their truth, as
far as the description of these evils

150

« Uncle Z.

[Aug.

are concerned. But I will not
subscribe to that portion of them
which says, that in this town of
Cologne —

Mr Mum's Rudesheimer
And the church of St Goryon
Are the two things alone
That deserve to be known. . . .

I remember how, for the first time,
I learnt to appreciate the rush of
the mighty stream itself, not then
insulted by the present hideous
railway bridge; and how, by fre-
quent gazing, I learnt better to
wonder at the vast proportions of
the cathedral, the completion of
which seemed at that time to have
been abandoned in despair.

The conception of the old archi-
tect, six centuries before, seemed
all too grand for the puny aim and
feeble execution of a new and con-
ceited age. Imperfectly as it could
then bo judged, it was evidently
intended to be the noblest building
of the kind in the whole world.

And yet, as long as that pictur-
esque crane on the top of the half-
finished tower was, though unused,
suffered to remain, one seemed
allowed to cherish a vague expecta-
tion that so great a work of man
would not always bear witness to
the stinginess of modern religious
systems, and the incapacity of what
was called a civilised era, for any
high conception of what was beau-
tiful.

But St Geryon and the cathe-
dral were not the only objects of
interest for me, as I threaded the
maze of " crooked streets," over

** Pavements fang'd with murderous
stones."

I was arrested by the Eomanesque
work in several of the churches,
which are really rich in specimens
of architecture, such as the Church

of the Holy Apostles, and that of
Santa Maria in Capitolio— and per-
haps I found even a still greater
pleasure in tracing the fragments of
old Eoman work, which are found
scattered here and there over the
ancient colony of Agrippina.

And so I spent two or three days
not unprofitably in this kind of
sight -seeing, and in studying the
habits and customs of the inhabi-
tants themselves, — taking many
small sketches, and now and then
crossing the comparatively new
bridge of boats,* and watching the
effect of tower and pinnacle, quaint
buildings and busy wharves, from
the other side of the river.

But it was time for me to be
thinking more of Southern Ger^
many; and gathering information
from the more intelligent people
with whom I came in contact, I
resolved to take the public convey-
ance to Bonn, only a few hours*
drive, and from thence to con-
tinue my journey on horseback as
far as Mayence, sending on my lug-
gage by the same coach which was
to deposit me at Bonn. This ac-
cordingly was arranged, and I was
content to be again stifled for a
few hours in a German eilvcageuy
in consideration of the prospect
of a few days in the saddle, in
fine weather, amidst new, pictur-
esque, and indeed historic scenery.
I was in high spirits then as I
ensconced myself once more in the
eilwageUy but confess to an unplea-
sant sensation — a mixture of irrita-
tion and uncomfortable foreboding
— when I saw my Dusseldorf enemy
deliberately climb to the top of the
huge fabric, with a dirty pipe in
his mouth, and a green bag in his
right hand : and I almost think he
must have seen me, for his coun-
tenance wore anything but a benign
expression during the few instants

Built in 1822.

1881.]

Uncle Z. .

151

when I canght a glimpse of it.
I was provoked with myself for
caring, one way or another, about
80 common a churl. What does it
matter % I said to myself; and at all
events I shall be free from him in
a few hours, and we are not likely
ever to meet again.

^ow the reader must not be
surprised at the accuracy of my
memory. I kept a very minute
journal whenever I was by myself.
And even now, in my advanced
years, that old journal -book (to
which I have already alluded), in
which I -dotted down so many of
passing thoughts, so devoid of in-
terest to any stranger, is full of
interest to myself. Sometimes
when I glance over the pages as I
do now, I feel a sweet sadness, and
sometimes a feeling of quick shame,
at the memories stirred by the
imperfect records. But there is
always an interest in them for the
writer. I became again the friend
of my former self; and even at the
time when I was a lonely traveller,
I anticipated the pleasure I myself
might derive from such manu-
scripts, about which it is more
than doubtful whether anybody
else will care as much. .

With a grateful feeling of a sud-
den cessation from unrest, I left
the cumbersome vehicle, and did
not even pause to observe whether
the man with bag and pipe de-
scended from the roof likewise.

I hastened to a really very tol-
erable hotel ; and before many
hours were over I had succeeded
in securing two serviceable - look-
ing horses for myself and a guide.
The guide was not wanted so
much for the purpose of guidance
as for the charge of the beasts and
of the small leather bag which was
strapped on the one which he rode;
and also partly, I suppose, from
the desire of company, and of some
one with whom I could " air " my
German, and of whom I could ask

questions about the numerous
places of interest which I expected
to be continually passing on the
road. I am bound to say that in
all respects Johann answered my
purpose ; and when next day, at
a very early hour, he brought the
horses round to the hotel, I felt for
the first time that feeling of adven-
ture which is necessary to make a
good traveller. After all, to me at
that moment everything was de-
lightfully fresh and strange. Every
turn of the road or of the river
brought with it the unexpected.

I was in excellent health. I
was a good horseman, and I was
full, only too full, of confidence in
myself. I lived altogether too
much for myself : but at the same
time I think I may plead here the
disadvantages of my peculiar position
as an only son, whose future was
all provided for, and whose affec-
tions were centred in a father and
mother whose will I had never
questioned, and whose wishes I
was even then most exactly fulfil-
ling.

So forth I rode, like knight of
old, with Johann by my side ; and
as I look back I cannot but con-
gratulate myself that I took this
journey in that particular year, and
did not defer it to some few years,
perhaps the very next year after-
wards. I sometimes fancy that I
was one of the last real travellers by
the Rhine. Little can the modern
tourist understand of the peculiar
interest of the noble river as I saw
it then, as I now look back upon
it with delight.

Those crowded steamers, with
their hideous funnels of black
smoke, how they jar upon every
feature of the castles and the
stream 1 Those harsh grating lines
of iron binding in on either side
the rushing waters, and over which
the hissing shrieking engine speeds
with such ruthless haste ! Have
not they, and similar parallels,

152

made European travel, for the most
part, the mere restless desire to
get from one distant point of the
earth to another in the least possi-
hle space of timel And in this
particalar instance of the Ehine,
what have they left of the many
charms which gave zest to my less
luxurious but very happy pilgrim-
age, of which the remembrance
is still a joy 1 The road was ex-
cellent, and generally pleasantly
shaded by well-grown orchard trees,
and especially by the umbrageous
walnut ; for up to the base of the
steep hills on which the vine is so
hardly cultivated for want of soil,
the ground is for the most part
extremely fertile. The scenery too
was much varied — much more so
than you might have imagined,
from knowing only the views from
the steamboat. Sometimes the
road wound above, and sometimes
seemed to des fiend to the very level
of, the river ; and at each turn of it
we hailed some new feature in the
distance, — some castle, or some
little ancient town with a some-
thing left about it, which brought
home to me, as if still present, the
centuries which have long passed
by ; some precious morsel of an
old fortification, now draped with
festoons of green vine, now picked
out with a wealth of bright flowers ;
then always, with every group of
buildings, the church, whether
large or small, generally with its
llomanesque architectural character,
around which all the rest seemed
to gather, and from which every
village seemed to take its distinc-
tive peculiarity.

I was also much interested in
those floating villages — the rafts —
which were larger in size then than
they are at present, containing
sometimes 500 persons, which came
twisting round the comers of the
stream, and which required no
small skill to guide, and which

Uude Z. [Aug.

seemed to have an organisation as
to their crews, as well as an in-
genuity in their construction, quite
characteristic of the great river of
the Fatherland. If I had not been
travelling up stream — a coarse
contrary to the very nature of a
Floss — I should have been tempted
to have taken a voyage on them.

But such reminiscences do not
affect my story ; though I am glad
to vindicate a noble river from the
somewhat contemptuous descrip-
tions bestowed upon it by modern
Cockneys, who have themselves
helped to vulgarise some of its
most pleasing traits. As I felt
then that I was in no hurry to
leave its banks, or to hasten to the
end of my journey ; so now, my
memory, as I write, seems to be
refreshed by many a half-forgotten
incident, and to desire to linger
even somewhat more over those
dreams of a past intercourse with
its pleasant scenes.

But there is perhaps one little
occurrence which I might mention,
as it bears some connection with
what is to follow. Some fifteen
miles from Coblenz, the Rhine takes
one of its most delightful turns at
the small town of Boppard. Bop-
pard boasts of a very remarkable
church, built at the very beginning
of the thirteenth century. Among
many features in this church cal-
culated to attract the notice both
of the architect and the tourist, is
the gallery which unites its two
spires. I dismounted for some
time, and studied the whole build-
ing as well as I could, though I
did not ascend to its higher por-
tions. Before I resumed my jour-
ney, I thought I would commit to
my note- book a rough sketch to
remind me of the unusual bridge
in the air, to which I have alluded,
when I saw leaning over the gal-
lery a man's form in an unusual
dress, both of which I at once re-

188L]

Unde Z.

153

cognised as belonging to my antag-
onist at Dusseldorf. Annoyed,
I knew not why, and vexed with
myself for being annoyed, I left
my sketch incomplete, and rode off
somewhat hastily.

Johann seemed to detect the
cause of my petulance ; and his
next observation was : " Well, I
saw him too."

** Whom do you mean 1 " I said,
and Johann answered —

" Why, that clockmaker in the
gallery."

" Do you know him, then ? "
" Yes, by sight, as many of us
do. We none of us much like to
see him ; he is very clever, but he
is " . . . here he paused.

"Well, whatr' I interrupted,
rather impatiently ; and Johann
said, " Well, he is outlandish," and
shrugged his shoulder. I did not
quite know what he meant, but I
discovered, with a sort of satisfac-
tion, that I was not the only per-
son who disliked Ulric the watch-
maker.

CHAPTER IV. — FREIBURG.

My long ride was over. I had
found at Mayence three letters of
great interest for me, — one from
my father, approving of my travels
generally, but somewhat surprised
by my allusions to the little con-
fusion at Dusseldorf; the second
£rom my mother, warning me against
summer chills, and with details
about my dog and horse, which
would now prove as tedious to the
reader as then they were a refresh-
ment to my thoughts; and the
third letter was of a very different
character altogether : it was written
on very thin paper, it was folded
np differently from any other letter
I had ever had before, and it bore
a most unwonted superscription —

"The High and Well-bom Sir,
much honoured, &c., &c., travelling
in Germany, and seeking letters at
the Post-Office, Mainz."

I at once guessed that it came from
my uncle, and so it proved ; and he
wrotesomewhat after this fashion : —

" For the better assurance of my
respectful affection for the son of
the best of sisters, and of an highly
honoured sire, I beg, my dear
nephew^ to salute thee first by

letter, though before long I hope
to impress a kiss upon thy cheek.
I also seek to explain the method
of reaching my dwelling, the not-
often-resorted-to abode by strangers.
Thou wilt proceed by the ordinary
stages to Mannheim. Thou wilt
pause to admire the beauty of
Heidelberg, and its full-of-interest
ruin. But after that do not pause
too much, for thou art strong, and
canst bear to travel quickly, and
much is to be gathered into the
mind through the eye alone, even
from the common conveyance
through a new country. But be
prudent in thy diet, for a new diet
may try even an old stager; and
especially do not drink freely — if
possible, not at all — of common
wines. After all, does not the old
Greek say as wisely as beautifully,
' Water is the best thing ' ? At all
events, push on briskly to Freiburg,
the beautiful home of thy maternal
ancestry: there shall two of my
servants meet thee, and be thy
guide to my Forest Home. Much
do I yearn to see thy mother's son.
May God shield him from all harm,
but, above all, make and keep him
wise. And does not the wisdom
of the young grow best by travels 1
What says the Son of Sirach in thy

154

English Bible? ' When I trayelled
I saw many things, and saw more
than I am able to express.' Far
truer this translation than the ver-
sion of that Luther, far nearer both
to the Septuagint and to the ortho-
dox Bible. I confess that I study
much the Scriptures. Dost thou
study them ? Without them thou
canst not be learned ; and the Eng-
lish translation is confessedly a
great work. For a while, then,
farewell. Thy much loving uncle,

" Z."

The contents of this unusual letter
astonished me, I believe, even more
than the outside endorsement. I
knew nothing of my relative, ex-
cept that which I had been told
of him by my mother, and she had
invested his character with a sort
of reverential mystery, which, when
I was child, seemed to represent
him as a being quite apart from
and quite unlike other men. As I
thought of the old heroes of Israel,
so I had framed his picture in my
mind. I had a sort of awe of him,
mingled in old days with a great
deal of curiosity. But I should as
soon have thought of having a love
for him, as of having an affectionate
regard for the Grand Lama.

And yet now, as I look at his
first letter to me — for I have still
preserved it as a relic — the sight of
the elaborate penmanship on the
paper yellow with age brings mois-
ture to my eyes. What a kindly
heart ! What a liberal hand !
What a high-born culture of mind,
which seemed to take a shape even
in his very gestures ! But, above
all, what a good and holy man !
Singular as a recluse, but learned
as a Benedictine monk ! uncle
Z.! I have never seen thine equal
in the worldly world, with which
I have been mixed up since.

One portion of his letter put me
to some confusion of thought — I

Unde Z. [Aug.

did not recognise his quotation.
As a child I had carefully read
through the Bible with my mother
— ^mothers in those days, I think,
were more personally sedulous in
the religious education of their
children than they are at present —
and whatever had been my faults,
I had kept up my acquaintance
with the contents of the holy
Book. Yet I could not recall the
particular passage. I had my own
Bible — the precious gift of my
mother — carefully stowed away in
my portmanteau, and from time to
time I really searched for the pas-
sage cited, but I could not find it.
Some years afterwards, looking into
an old copy of the Scriptures which
I saw on the shelves of a weU-filled
library at home, I found the verse
in Ecclesiasticus, and felt a feeling of
shame at my ignorance of the whole
book of the " wise son of Sirach," so
wantonly omitted from many mod-
ern editions of the Bible. And
thus far I trust that I have atoned
for my shortcomings, that I may
now say that I am familiar with
the whole, and never have since
purchased a Bible for hall or cot-
tage without first ascertaining that
it contains the books which are so
invaluable fof example of life and
instruction of manners, and which,
at least, form the beautiful border-
land of the inspired writings. May
the reader forgive the digression.

And so it was, in bright sunny
weather, as I can well remember,
that I found myself pursuing the
route which my as yet unknown
uncle had marked out for me.
Sometimes in one sort of convey-
ance, sometimes in another; for I
was young and strong, and hardly
observed the difference of one from
the other, except by this, that the
variety was pleasing to me. Then
at last I entered the territory of the
Duchy of Baden, and, almost un-
awares to myself, was skirting the

1881.]

Unde Z.

156

borders of the Black Forest. Bat
very little did it there deserve its
name.

I was myself on a long rich tract
of land betwixt a high range of
hills and the Ehine. These hills
were in reality much higher than I
shonld have supposed them to be.
Id fact, they were often mountains,
though they appeared like hills.
But the plain itself, somewhat
monotonous from its uniformity,
varied from four or five to some
twenty miles in breadth, though
the eye hardly detected any dimin-
ution or increase of the extent on
the right hand. All was fertile,
all was cultivated. Hemp, pota-
toes, flax, fruit trees, vegetables,
besides the usual crops of grain,
succeeded one another in unfailing
variety. In vain, century after
century, had man's folly and wick-
edness laid waste this garden of
Europe. Generations perished, but
the earth only gathered fresh riches
from the decay of former ages, and,
always grateful to the hand of in-
dustry, hastened to repay the re-
newed toil of each succeeding race.
As I journeyed onward, I began to
take more interest in the forest
scenery, which formed the contin-
ual boundary of the landscape on
the left. I began to wonder where
I should be permitted to thread the
tempting openings of the valleys
which from time to time seemed to
expand as if to give vent to streams,
which rushed down them and gave
fertility to the plain I traversed,
before they themselves were swal-
lowed up by the mighty river from
the distant and giant Alps. So, I
can now reflect, it is pleasant, after
the wild cheerfulness of youth, to
be able to do some works of distinct
usefulness to our fellow-creatures,
before our brief courses of time are
swallowed in the onward sweep of
the eternal ages. But let me be as
impatient as I choose, Freiburg was

my inevitable destination, and the
valley of the Dreisam was the first
inlet of which I could avail myself.
Certainly it was no small satisfac-
tion to me when I drew near to it.
If, in these days, it is a gratification
to step out of an express train near
the same spot after a whole day's
journey in it at an average speed of
thirty miles an hour, let the reader
imagine what it must have been to
have alighted after days and per-
haps nights of the same journey
over a roughly paved road at an
average speed of five or six.

In my case, the last conveyance
set me down at an old-fashioned
inn called "The Angel," which 1
found to be a good specimen of its
class, and which, facing down a
narrow street which crossed the one
in which " The Angel" was situate at
right angles, gave me my first view
of the finest piece of Gothic archi-
tecture I had ever seen : indeed,
after all my superadded acquaint-
ance with architectural buildings,
and my increase of knowledge on
such subjects, I do not think I
have seen that structure surpassed.
The spire of the Cathedral rose at
the end of the vista 385 feet from
the ground. I stood for some
minutes wrapt in my admiration of
it, and turned round to the old inn
behind me. The landlord was
bowing down before me with al-
most obsequious courtesy, and be-
hind him stood three other men,
who seemed equally pleased at my
arrival.

If the unexpected view of the
spire had taken me by surprise, I
found this reception equally a mat-
ter of astonishment. The conduct
of my landlord harmonised with
his appearance and with his busi-
ness. But these three others were
in keeping with nothing that I had
seen before, or was expecting then.
Their very dress was most peculiar,
for they wore long dark-brown coats

156

reaching below the knees," fringed
and lined with red ; the waistcoats
and the breeches were of the same
colour, but the former had double
rows of bright yellow buttons, neck
handkerchiefs of bright gay colours
intermingled, and dark soft - felt
hats, with bands of red, completed
their costume ; * and yet they had
no air of being liveried servants.
One of them, however, came for-
ward; and though I understood
his speech — ^which was exceedingly
harsh and unmusical — very imper-
fectly, I gathered from it that they
had arrived the day before from
the hill country where my uncle
dwelt, that two of them indeed
were his dependents, and that the
other had charge of the horses
which we were to ride through the
forest — not that we were to start
immediately, as the Count (so they
called him) had said that his
nephew would wish to see first
the city of his forefathers, and the
world-famous church which their
great ancestor had built.

My wonder increased the more
I studied their appearance, and the
better I began to comprehend what
they said. Was I really travelling
in modern Europe 1 Was I dream-
ing] or was I becoming the hero of
a romance 1 A certain sense of the
ludicrous side of my position here
overtook me, and I very nearly
burst out laughing. But I restrain-
ed myself, and yet kept silence.
The second man in costume then
said that perhaps I did not under-
stand their German, and yet the
Count had said that he thought I
sliould be able to do so. For their
own part, they did not understand
French. Upon this the landlord
then attempted to give a transla-
tion of their speech. But his accent

Uncle Z. [^^'

seemed so grotesque, and his idiom so
very German, that again my gravity
nearly forsook me. The situation,
however, was becoming embarras-
sing as well as comical, so I rallied
my powers, and collecting all the
German that I possessed, made an
answer to the effect that I was much
gratified by this proof of my uncle's
affection for me, and that I should
certainly follow his injunctions ;
and that after I had inspected this
ancient home of my forefathers, I
should be ready to follow their
kind guidance to the modem abode
of their much esteemed descendant.
These few words were received with
much attention and apparent appro-
bation. And after that it was ar-
ranged that first of all I should be
refreshed by my host with some
necessary food, to be specially pre-
pared for me, as it was now 2 p.m.,
and the mid-day meal (happily for
me) was well over; then that I
should devote myself to sight-see-
ing as long as the summer light
lasted, and that, as early as they
pleased the next day, I should ac-
company them on the proposed
journey. After the repast one of
my new retinue (for such they
seemed to be), and I may as well
confess at once that such an ad-
dition to my importance was not
very wholesome for one who had
already such very high notions of
my own importance in the social
scale — but there they were — and
one of them again stepped forward
and said that the Count was anxious
that I should not fail to see the
monument erected by the town of
Freiburg to the memory of my
ancestors, and so I gladly followed
his leading, through deliciously
watered streets to a modern foun-
tain,t erected really to the honour

* This dress, as I learnt afterwards, was really a national costume peculiar to a
certain district of the forest, and not v.bolly fallen into desuetude at the present day.
t Erected 1807.

1881.] Unde Z.

of thd late Duke of Baden, but
which recorded at the same time
Berthold III. of the Zahringens, the
real fouader of the city in 1120,
and his brother Conrad, who is
said to have founded the cathe-
dral three years later. It was a
long while ago, certainly, and to
share such ancestors with a Duke
of Baden seemed to cover me with
a reflection of their glory. Though
I might have felt humbled by the
X>arallel thought, which neverthe-
less does in fact occur to few — viz.,
how very little I had done myself,
or was ever likely to do, in imita-
tion of their noble actions, to prove
my kinsmanship with the illustrious
dead. But no : on the contrary,
all that happened to me at this
time only added to my love of my-
self, and to my well satisfied esti-
mate of my own position and con-
duet. I at once asked to be shown
the way to that beautiful monu-
ment of the piety of Conrad of the
Zahringens, which, in the complete-
ness of its work, still continued to
carry off the palm of beauty from
all similar structures in Germany.

I found indeed but little to dis-
appoint me ; and rich and wai'm
were the tints of red and grey with
which the hands of the great build-
ing painter. Time, had embellished
the noble and chaste details of the
holy pile ; and the general propor-
tions of the whole fabric were not
frittered away by any extravagance
of ornament.

I shall, however, for the details,
refer the reader to some book on
architecture. Nevertheless, let him,
if he can, visit the building itself,
which has, I am told, since my day
heen carefully restored, and he
will find it best to say but little,
where it is not difficult to say too
much.

At length I found myself again
standing in the porch and examin-
ing the charming entrance. On

157

either side there are sculptures ;
and I was looking on those at the
left hand side, and endeavouring to
discover their meaning, when I
heard a harsh voice behind me,
saying, "Fiinfe unter ihnen waren
thoricht," in English " Five of them
were foolish," and then, of course,
I at once recognised the treatment
of the parable ; and often after-
wards, on reflection, I have thought
how appropriate such a subject was
to be the last consideration before
entrance into a house of prayer.
The propriety of it did really flash
across my mind even then ; but all
farther good thoughts or prolonged
meditation were quickly arrested,
as I turned round, and discerned in
the speaker the object of my newly
formed antipathy.

I started back as if I had seen a
snake in the porch, and I suspect
my features betrayed the scornful
dislike which I really entertained
in my heart. I went back straight
to " The Angel ; " but as I walked
down the narrow street I heard a
man whistling, and as I remember,
whistling very well, Kdrner's * Song
of the Sword ; ' but I did not con-
descend to turn round, though I
felt persuaded that it was intended
to be a fresh insult from my Dussel-
dorf enemy.

I amused myself in the evening
with preparations for my journey
on the morrow, and found ready
aid from one of my companions,
Fritz, who seemed more especially
devoted to my personal service. I
was pleased to find that my uncle
had sent his own horse for me for
the forest ride, and that though a
somewhat old campaigner, it was
a very serviceable animal. Fritz
also joined my evening stroll round
the outskirts of the town. But I
retired early to my bed, for we had
agreed to start soon after sunrise
on the morrow, and I was very
glad of repose.

158

Unde Z.

[Aug.

CHAPTER V. IN THE FOREST.

We presented a very respectable
cavalcade on that early start the
next morning. I fancy I can see
it now before my eyes as we left
the narrow street in which "The
Angel" was situated. I bestrode
Count L.*s horse, which, though
ill- groomed, as it seemed to my
English fastidiousness, proved, as
I expected, an excellent roadster.
The horse which the first attendant
bestrode seemed also useful, but was
less respectable in appearance. A
sensible looking mule was laden
with our luggage, and was accom-
panied by one man on foot, and
followed by another mule which
was ridden by a youth, who from
time to time had to relieve guard
at the side of the sump ter -mule,
whilst the older man, who really
served as the guide of the expe-
dition, rested by bestriding the
other beast, which always much
resented the exchange. So we were
a party of four.

The weather seemed to promise
a delightful day, and indeed at
that hour of the fresh morning was
really delicious. Nevertheless my
landlord, I remember, though he
did not contradict my praise of it,
gave a somewhat ominous shrug
with his shoulder, and repeated
a country rhyme to the effect that
not always a fine dawning can be
trusted to proclaim a cloudless eve,
and then we went gaily on through
the town, passed under the old
gateway covered with ambitious
frescos, and soon found ourselves
following pretty steadily the course
of the Dreisam, and making our
way through the broad valley which
it enriches and refreshes. The pine-
clad hills bounded the view on all
sides, but at the first at a respect-
able distance.

When the novelty of the scene

began to wear away, I had time to
reflect that our journey could not
be very rapid, though the guide
seemed possessed of the Beyen-
leagued boots of the fairy story,
and the mule kept good pace
with his strides ; still our progress
must be limited by his powers, and
I knew that the day's march would
be a fatiguing one. I beckoned,
therefore, to my fellow horseman
to ride alongside of me, and asked
if it was necessary to sleep on the
road.

He laughed, and said — "Surely
we could not hope to reach Freiburg
until late on the following after-
noon."

"And my uncle's house. Does
he keep a large establishment ? "

" Count Z.'s house is not large ;
but it is large enough, for he does
not keep many servants."

" Are there any gentry living in
the neighbourhood with whom lie
can associate 1 "

"There are none who approach
his position ; but if there were, I
think he would seldom see them."

"Why so?"

" Because I think he likes to be
alone."

" But he goes out, — he occupies
himself every day % "

" Yes, every day he goes out."

"Does he shoot game? Has he
any rights of shooting % "

" He used to shoot the food for
his own table. He had a special
licence from the Grand Duke, who,
they say, knew him well in earlier
life. But of late years he goes t
the chase more rarely; — indeec
now, he very seldom carries hi
gun."

" What, then, is his chief occi
pation ? "

"Oh, he reads — reads, they saj
wonderfully ; and he plays the oi

1881.]

Uncle Z,

159

gan, I know, divinely. I have
often listened without and heard
him."

" But when he leaves his house,
has he no object for his walks and
drives ] "

''He yisits the sick; he gives
them medicines; he takes them
food ; he encourages them ; he will
travel miles to give comfort to the
distressed. Yes ; there is none
like him in the Forest. All hail
his approach; all reverence his
wishes; and all love him."

"And are not at all afraid of
him 1 " I rejoined ; for I began to
feel a mysterious awe at becoming
the guest of such a relative.

The man replied in a somewhat
hashed voice — " Yes, they are
afraid of him;" but added, evi-
dently deairous of avoiding further
cross-examination, '' I hardly like
the look of yonder cloud over that
gap in the hills." The weather had
in fact become exceedingly sultry,
and there was a great heaviness in
the atmosphere.

" We should do wisely," I cried,
" to get on a little faster. I shall
be glad to leave this hot valley.
Long before this I had expected to
have reached the mountains."

"You will not have long to
wait," he answered. " You see
that tower not a quarter of a mile
off; there we turn to the right, and
presently the gorge through which
we ascend will reveal itself. But
if you, sir, like to press on a little,
I will go back and tell them to hurry
on the mule."

Accordingly he turned his horse's
head in an opposite direction, whilst
I orged mine in the direction of the
tower. After reaching it, I duly
turned to the right, and at once
perceived a change in the scene.
I had gained some elevation over
the valley, of which I now obtained
a striking view ; and the foreground
had become suddenly more rich and

VOL. cxxx. — NO. Dccxa

varied, and abounded in orchards.
The natives, I learnt, called this
tract Himmel - reich (" Heaven's
Kingdom"), from the contrast which
it affords to the neighbouring gorge,
which obtains, undeservedly enough,
a much darker name. Presently I
saw the outlet of the narrow val-
ley through which I was to enter
upon the mountainous part of my
journey.

The arm of the river Dreisam,
if indeed it was not the main stream,
here assumed more and more of the
wild nature of the torrent, and was
struggling among rocks covered with
forest trees : such scenery was alto-
gether new to me. I enjoyed it all
the more for the absence of my com-
panions ; but I was really less alone
than I thought I was. 1 discovered
this by following a little way a
tempting, well-trodden path, which
deviated from the high road, and
which brought me quickly to a sight
for which I was not at all prepared.

Just a little shrouded from the
gaze of the curious passers-by was a
rock which rose out of a small level
space in front of it, and which had a
dark background of pines. Upon this
rock was a crucifix, with the Christ
somewhat rudely carved, somewhat
roughly coloured, but which had a
solemn and devotional character,
which somehow or other harmon-
ised fitly with its surroundings.

At the foot of the cross a tra-
veller had laid down a well-worn
knapsack, and was kneeling in
prayer. T was moved by the
earnestness of his manner, whilst
at the same time I was struck by
the perfect arrangement of the
unexpected scene. I stayed my
horse's footsteps for fear of disturb-
ing the suppliant, and, as one who
feels himself an intruder, turned
the bridle towards the road which
I had left. A chastened and reve-
rent feeling seemed to steal over
me, but unhappily it was very

160

transient, for before I could regain
the highway, near as it was, an-
other little footpath became appar
rent among the trees, and issuing
out of the shade appeared a figure
which I had already learnt to re-
cognise but too easily, and again
TJlric the watchmaker literally
crossed my path, with quick step,
and a low, accurate, but to me
disagreeable whistle. My religious
feeling was soon gone, and was
succeeded by a very different one.
There seemed a fate connected with
him. Already he seemed to ex-
ercise that sort of pernicious influ-
ence over me, such as I had read
was thought to be exercised over
the Italian mind by the Evil eye.
I could not certainly suppose that
he had done much injury to my
body. But was it not strange?—
was it not passing strange? — that,
short as had been my term of resi-
dence on the Continent, this one
man should have appeared sudden-
ly before me so often, and always
with a bad effect ; and yonder he
trudges with a light step up the
very entrance of the ravine which
we too are to ascend. If he is
going in the same direction, we
shall pass him again and again,
and it will be a continual annoy-
ance. I must make further in-
quiries about him.

Thus musing and muttering to
myself, I pulled up my horse, for
the rest of the party were already
close upon me; and all together
we soon halted at a roadside inn,
which, rude enough, had a charm-
ing situation near the waters of the
stream, refreshing both to the eye
and ear, where our animals obtained
the nourishment to which they were
accustomed, and where I added to
the food provided for myself and
my comrades some excellent, but
not very cheap, draughts of a Bava-
rian beer.

It was not a very long bait, and

Uncle Z. [Aug.

was perhaps made all the sborter
owing to an ominous growl of dis-
tant thunder which warned us that
we were not safe from a storm.
The weather was more sultry now
we were fairly in the closed valley,
which narrowed as we went on,
and which presently led ns to one
of the most beautiful spots in the
fair country of the Grand Duke.

Greater heights and grander pre-
cipices may be seen elsewhere ; but
nowhere have I seen a more agree-
able combination of rock and vege-
tation. I wondered how the hud
stone could support such a variety
of tree life so closely brought to-
gether. Oak and ash, birch and
hazel, and many other deciduous
trees, seemed here to keep back the
pine which flourished in the dis-
tance ; and the waters of the river,
evidently now held in very mode-
rate compass, dashed by, and kept
alive a delicious carpet of verdure,
shaded by ferns and wild-flowers
of all descriptions. Summer suns
seemed to have no power to dry
up, but only to bring to ripeness
and beauty, this charming garden of
the Black Forest ; for we may be
considered to have fairly entered it
when we thread the gully which at
its narrowest part bears the name
of " The Stag's Leap." It owes its
name to a tradition that a stag,
hotly pursued by hunters, as a last
effort actually cleared the space
which divided an isolated rock from
the corresponding eminence on the
other side of the road. Perhaps
part of that rock may in course of
time have become separated from
the main bulk, but certainly the
leap seemed to me so prodigious a
to be almost beyond the bounds c
credulity.

I amuse myself, from my note
and sketches, at looking back o:
such scenes with the eyes of med'
tation ; and though they may seei
to bear but little on my story, a]

1881.] Uncle Z.

sucb touches recalled to memory
seem to make its tale more entirely
my own.

As we left the scene of the per-
formance of this wonderful sta^;,
the road clunj; to the torrent's
coarse with something approaching
to a level ; but its gradual rise was
soon perceptihley and by degrees
we left the chafing waters below us,
and gradually began what I con-
sider to have been my first moun-
tain climb. Soon, at a little dis-
tance in front, I descried, as I had
anticipated, the form of the watch-
maker, wending his way onward
with even and unwearied step,
which was, in fact, a more rapid
one than that of our little group,
so that, allowing for the haltiugs of
our man on foot, we seemed to ob-
serve a tolerably equal interval of
space from one another. But there
he was, frequently in view, and as
frequently attracting my particular
attention from the pleasant scene
around me. At length, when the
man Fritz, with whom I had my
former conversation about my un-
cle, was pretty well alongside of
me, I gave further vent to my
curiosity.

"Fritz," I said, "that man in
front seems bent on the same track
as we are ; do you happen to know
who he isl'*

" Js, mein Herr," was the first,
and I must say the usual, laconic
reply.

"Does he live at all near my
uncle's residence ) "

** Yes ; surely not far. He comes
from the common which U over the
village of Nutbrook."

" I saw him before,*' I said, " on
the other side of the Ehine, and I was
told that he was a watchmaker."

"Yes; he is TJlric, the watch-
maker."

" la he well known *? "

"Yes; he is very clever at his
trade."

161

"And at other things?"

"Yes; and in other waj's like-
wise," replied Fritz.

" Are there many watchmakers
at Freiburg 1" I asked.

My companion laughed merrily,
and said "yes" so many timep,
and so quickly, that his favourite
monosyllable seemed spun out into
a regular sentence.

"We are all clockmakers there,"
was the answer.

" All clockmakers !" I exclaimed.
" What an extraordinary place ! and
what a strange occupation for the
inhabitants of a forest ! I never
heard before that Freiburg was so
celebrated for a useful art ; but then,
had it not been for my uncle, I
never perhaps should have heard
of it at all. What pale can they
have for their clocks 1 "

" Ah ! " said Fritz, " Geneva and
other places get the credit. But if
ever we had proper roads, so as to
make our forest towns and villages
accessible to the rest of Furope,
perhaps we should do business for
our own advantage, rather than
for the purses of the Swiss."

Fritz was an intelligent fellow.
So I thought I would try him
further.

" Why do you complain of your
roads 1" I said. " This one, surely,
if not like our best English roads, is
well engineered, though somewhat
roughly kept."

" But then," he answered, " this
road has a story attached to it, and
a sad story, I think, for this was
the road which was made by the
Austrians, when they brought the
fair Marie Antoinette to queen it
in the most brilliant Court of Eu-
rope, but which proved rather the
shambles, where all the beautiful
and noble in France were murdered
pitilepsly."

"Yes; we have read — we have
heard of it. I never tread the way
without thinking of the lovely

162

Uncle Z,

[Aug.

young lady, and of the bloody
tragedy."

I remember my passing tbonghts
were, should I, if I travelled in
England, meet with many of my
countrymen, of the same class who
not only would know so much of
modern history, but would enter
into it so feelingly. But in those
days there were many living who
had been eyewitnesses of the scenes
to which he alluded ; though great
events followed so rapidly after-
wards, that the space which separ-
ated us from them seemed greater
than it really was.

At this moment, at the end of
the still ascending road, clear against
the sky-line, and through a sort of
avenue of pine, I aprain detected
the singular form of Ulric, looking
taller than his wont, as figures so
seen generally do.

"But that man yonder," I said,
" does he know my uncle 1 "

"He often sees him — often is
sent for by him."

" Indeed ! and my uncle likes
him]"

" We suppose so."

"And why 1"

Fritz answered with a somewhat
shrewd observation, — " People like
those whom they benefit."

"And my uncle is his benefac-
tor!"

"Ohi for that, Count Z. is a
benefactor to all ; but Ulric is much
devoted to him : and they say,
when he began his trade the Count
did him much good."

" But Count Z. cannot always be
wanting to have his clocks re-
paired," I rejoined with petulance ;
for I felt piqued that such a fellow
as TJlric appeared to be should in
any sense be connected with my
uncle's household. " Why should
he be often at his house ? "

" He goes also to the Tower for
other reasons ; for example, he un-
derstands the organ, he can tune it

— nay, sometimes the Count likes to
hear him play."

"Is the Count so very musical
then 1 " I said, never having heard
of any special musical gift in the
family, and feeling that I myself
knew nothing about music : though
I really was able to distinguish
good playing from bad playing —
little as I had heard hitherto ex-
cept my mother's delicate perfor-
mance on a piano, which my father,
I had always perceived, tolerated
rather than enjoyed.

" The Count is the best musician
of our neighbourhood," returned
my companion, somewhat fiercely.
" When he plays the organ of an
evening, many draw as near to the
Tower as they can, and listen even
when the snow is on the ground.
It is like a charm."

"Why do you speak of Count
Z.'s house as a tower % Surely he
does not live in a tower?" I felt,
after our bright English home, that
such a residence might prove rather
a gloomy one.

" There is a new house attached
to the old Tower, but it is not very
like other houses. You, sir, must
see it for yourself."

And then again, suddenly — as if
for a second time he hardly liked
my cross-examination — he stopped
our conversation by saying that he
must go back and urge the youngster
who had charge of the luggage not
to linger, as we should hardly reach
the top of the pass before the storm ;
and another growl from the dark
thundercloud seemed to justify his
precaution.

Again I was left alone. I have
heard that the road by which
modem travellers ascend this pass
is very different from that by which
I then mounted it In one char-
acteristic of the Black Forest I
know that its appearance must
have changed considerably, for at
that time the real Forest scenery

1881.] Uade Z.

163

was much more uDivereally spread
over the mountains than it is in
these days, when every year adds
to the extent of the clearings, and
diminishes the number of the pines.
I was then fairly in the forest, and
sometimes the view was much con-
fined. But gradually we had ad-
vanced to an unusual height for
me, who had never scaled to the
top of a Malvern hill, and I was
more and more interested in the
novelty of the whole scene. The
weather was, as I have said, ex-
ceedingly close, and so I did not
feel all the invigorating effect of
the rarefied atmosphere ; but I was
conscious of a very great difference
in the temperature during the last
hour. I Idoked down glades which
I fancied of a prodigious depth.
I heard the far-off roaring of fall-
ing water with surprising clearness,
for all nature seemed hushed as
before a coming storm. I became
also folly sensible for the first time
of the aromatic scent of the pine —
a delicious odour, which was on
that day and afterwards one of my
principal enjoyments of the resi-
dence amongst the trees. And
that afternoon, I remember, it was
particularly delightful.

Suddenly I found that I had no
higher ground to ascend. Turning
round a huge lump of moss-covered
rock, a new valley burst upon my
view. On the right, a long narrow
lake, dark and still under the sum-
mer cloud, seemed a few hundred
feet below me. On the other side
of it the precipices were so steep,

that one wondered how those stately
pines found room to grow — as they
evidently did, and majestically — up
to the top of a much higher acclivity
than that on which T was placed.
Straight before me was a long road
winding hither and thither, and
gradually losing itself in a ravine
exactly opposite, following the
course of a bold little river, which
I fancied must issue from the lake,
and of which the waters sooner or
later, I justly supposed, found their
way into the great Danube, for I
was travelling in a direction decid-
edly eastward.

If the mountains had been more
varied in size and shape, the scene
would have been perfect. On the
immediate left, about two hundred
feet below us, appeared a few cot-
tages, one of which, far larger than
the rest, was apparently our halting-
place for the night. I confess, rude
and rough as it probably was, I re-
joiced to think it was so near. Al-
ready some heavy drops had begun
to fall, and I urged my horse on to
avoid a wetting.

I was just in time myself.
Though my rear -guard came up
after me, mule and all, with accele-
rated speed, all looked damp and
draggled when they reached their
goal ; and our landlord was al-
ready busied in thrusting fresh
pine-logs on the stove fire. And
I, having given a glance at the
stabling of my horse, was delight-
ing in an entirely new phase of
life and manners. Indeed it will
deserve some special consideration.

(To he continved.)

164

Hints for the Vacation Ramlle.

[Aug.

HINTS FOR THE VACATION RAMBLE.

BY AN OLD TRAMP.

TuERB is no design on this occa-
sion to occupy the throne and ex-
ercise the prerogatives wielded by
Jahn and Meyer for their seyend
departments of Deutschland, and by
our own Murray for half the world.
It is the prerogative of the guide-
book that it dictates to its passive
subject the tourist with an abso-
lute despotism. It would be at
once indecorous and ungrateful to
question the authority of these
guides, philosophers, and friends,
when we reflect on their heavy re-
sponsibilities, and the mighty ser-
vices they have rendered to a help-
less and confiding class of beings,
by marshalling the way that they
should go. There is no intention
of here disputing their dominion.
Perhaps, on the other hand, a hint
or two, to be distinguished by ad-
mission into their potent code of in-
struction, may be gathered from the
following pottering details hoard-
ed in the experiences of one who
can look back on generations that
have come and gone since he first
felt a stirring and invigorating in-
fluence in " the power of the hiUs,"
the ** speluncae vivique lacus ; " yes,
and even the '^molles sub arbore
somni,'' in places where there is far
more of the frigida Tempe than in
Mantua or Cremona.

Let us begin near home and
encourage a gradual expansion of
view. The Isle of Wight is in
its way rich in beauty and in-
terest There are wildness and
nature in abundance, while the
insularity exempts the wanderer
from the risks attending long ram-
bles taken in fits of interest or
oblivion that annihilate time and
place, and, at the hour when he

should have been enjoying the re-
pose of healthy exercise, appal him
with the assurance that he is some-
where ''in terra domibus negata,"
with a worse fate before him than
the martyrdom courted by the wor-
shipper of Lalage, since it is not
in the inconveniently warm vicinity
of the chariot of the sun that his
terrors and miseries are aroused,
but in its distance and obscuratioD.
Even in such roughing, when it is
survived, as it generally is, there is
compensation in the mingled ele-
ments of endurance, courage, and
caution communicated to the adven-
turer. So it is, then, that the no-
vice in pedestrian adventure may
discharge anxiety and " take his
swing," to use an expressive vul-
garism, in the Isle of Wight. Un-
disturbed he may enjoy sweet
variety of rockiness and verdancy ;
and if he is one who does not
"^ presume to judge for himself on
such high matters of taste, let him
take the authority of Walter Scott,
who seized at once the supreme rank
of criticism in scenery by bursting
on the world with a revelation of
the glories of Loch Katrine and the
Trossachs. He called the Wight
" that beautiful isknd."

The visitor, if his curiosity is
not limited to the surface of the
soil, may here indulge in the exam-
ination of considerable fossiliferons
deposits; but he will find this kind
of treasure far more extensive and
more remarkable in the neighboor-
ing district of Portland. The stone
known by the name of this district
is so richly fossiliferons, that though
it has furnished London and other
parts of the world with building
material of a beautifuUy uniform

1881.]

Hints for the Vacation Ramble.

165

colour, and signally free from nod-
ules or other irr^ularities apt to
disturb the parity and consistency
of the cat blocks, yet its richness
in fossil remains demands extreme
skill and caation in the selection
of the blocks, and people endowed
with close powers of observation
have detected small ammonites in
the walls and pillars of St Paul's.
These, of course, have been so min-
ute, or otherwise unobservable, as to
have been unseen both by the ex-
cavator and the builder, or to have
been considered too trifling for the
sacrifice of an otherwise sound
block. But there are fossil beds
in the Portland district filled with
wonderful forms, especially with
the ammonite, extinct among us in
the shape in which it has become
fossil, but represented still in the
water by the gay and beautiful
nautilus.

The ammonite was naturally at
first welcomed as a petrified snake.
Some sceptic remarked that it was
a snake never in possession of its
head. We all know the cause
assigned for this peculiarity in an-
other district where the ammonite
abounds, to justify in a wondrous
manner the legend of St Hilda
tossing the snakes over the rock
with the efiect of breaking off their
heads. At Portland, however, the
headless snakes are more abundant
and individually remarkable than
even in St Hilda's district. They
are to be found from the size of a
pin-head to that of a carriage-wheel,
all exquisitely proportioned in the
succession of cells or chambers en-
closed by coil after coil in the cir-
cular range from the centre to the
exterior.

If any reader shall suspect that
we are here dabbling in the science
of geology, he may perhaps be jus-
tified in denouncing it as geology
of a very childish and scienceless
kind. When the geological science

of the present day was in its sha-
dowy development of the grand
conclusions it now achieves, there
dropped away from it a subordinate
or auxiliary science called miner-
alogy or lithology. Through the
vast generalisations bequeathed by
Murchison and Lyell to their rep-
resentatives, the chemical elements
that distinguished certain earths
and stones, as granite, porphyry,
greywacke, and the like, have been
subordinated to an inquiry into the
ever-active but seldom perceptible
metamorphosing powers at work
changing and readjusting the cruet
of the earth. Our tourist is in
courtesy presumed to be a scholar
and a gentleman, and therefore ac-
quainted with the leading principles
of geologic as of other sciences.
But crediting him with these among
his other accomplishments, he will
probably find in lithology, and
especially in one of the sub depart-
ments of that branch called palae-
ozoic entomology, an enlightened
and instructive, and, let us hope, a
not unpleasant source of amusement;
and it is for the sake of helping
him to amuse himself that we cheer
him on to his vacation ramble.

It is a natural instinct with the
traveller of every class to acquire
and bring home some specific arti-
cles pecuDar to the places where he
has been. Among natural objects,
he whose treasure of this kind is
lithology possesses the most dis-
tinct and available reminiscences
of the actual country whose surface
he has trodden. There is the col-
lecting of antiquities, of books, of
works of art, and of objects repre-
senting the industries of the various
parts of the world, — all noble ob-
jects of pursuit, but still leaving
the fact that the lithologist has the
best opportunity of showing items
of what the crust of the earth con-
tains. The importation of speci-
mens of animal life is a serious

166

lUnUfoT the Vacation Ramble*

[Aug.

and cosily affair, to be accomplish-
ed only by men of large fortune or
the patrons of public zoological
collections. Let us not show dis-
courtesy to the noble and beautiful
science of botany, and the means
of ministering to its wants; but
it cannot be represented with the
same realistic fidelity as lithology.
A hnrtus siccus is but an impover-
ished relic of the flora of the Alps.
That the beauties or rarities of
lithology are a natural object of
acquisition is known to those who
track the tourist to minister in
sordid manner to his wants; and
he is apt to buy from them, or they
would cease to stand in his path
with their wares. And if the tour-
ist were a more cunning man than
he often is, he would have known
that the cut gems offered for his
purchase at Chamouni or Berchtes-
gaden — even in the Grampians —
had come from the great central
workshop of such trinkets on the
banks of the Kahe in Grermany.

All these casual remarks go to
the support of the simple problem,
that he should litholise for himself.
If he is ambitious of becoming a
geologist, this is a fair training for
his object. The metamorphoses by
upheaval, depression, or otherwise,
that supply the geologist with suf-
ficient causes for the phenomena
which dignify his science, must
have taken their character and their
effective power from the litholo-
gical structure' of their districts;
and it is not to be regretted that,
in acquiring a knowledge of this
lithological structure, the wanderer
has got possession of some fine
specimens of fossils, crystals, or
agates.

Another spot where the tourist,
either unwilling or unable to go far
from home, may find both scenery
and lithology, is the highlands of
Derbyshire, with its peaks and
caverns. Petrifying springs flow

there, where the process of turning
into stone is perceptible; so that
the owner of the treasure may have
had the fortune to see its comple-
tion. But this is a process vastly
differing from the geological revolu-
tions that peopled the fossiliferous
rocks. The petrifying, spring does
its work by depositing a chemical
mud called calc-tuff, having the
faculty, when sparingly covering
anything, of taking an impression
of its form ; while if it be abund-
ant, and deposits itself in unlimit-
ed quantities, it obliterates all soft
and ductile things by first rotting
them, and then, in conjunction
with the rotted remains, forming
itself into stone, known as calc-tuff,
or calcareous tufa. This stone is
remarkable by becoming, from a
soft substance, hard by degrees,
and hardening through centuries
of exposure. At home it may bn
found in small deposits here and
there. In Italy it stretches in
large masses through Terni, and by
the banks of the Anio; and it is
from its property of induration
that the glorious pillars of Tivoli,
originally supposed to liave been
cut out of a soft clay, have defied
all the enemies that the lapse of
time lets loose against the work of
men's hands, retaining a perfection
of finish and a freshness of beauty
capriciously conferred on them by
the power that is so hostile to archi-
tectural triumphs elsewhere.

If we suppose that in the process
which created the original material
of these close-grained pillars, with
their sharp distinct cutting and
fine colour, material to be petri-
fied was a messy conglomerate
logs of timber, green branches,
mosses, weeds, fruit, flowers, lizards,
frogs, serpente,— every conceivable
variety of elements to be found
on the superficial covering of the
crust of the earth, — we are in a
position to distinguish the petri*

1881.]

Hints for the Vacation Ramble,

1G7

factions of the petrifying springs —
liable to be obliterated and con-
Terted into solid stone by continu-
ous activity in tbe petrifying pro-
cess — ^from the fossils or petrifac-
tions that beautify and give a sort
of vitality to the fossiliferous strati-
fications.

Of the representations of organic
life preserved in the fossiliferous
stratifications, however little we
can tell about the actual method of
deposit, we can at least be well
assured that they are the results
of a totally different active process
from the action of those petrifying
liquids which in the end obliterate
all organic distinctions and produce
a homogeneous rock. This latter
process is of daily influence and
action among us, but the agencies
that have created the fossiliferous
deposits have completed their work
— how far back in the ages of the
structure of our globe^ let the sages
of geological lore tell us. The con-
vulsions that had done the work
appear to have been displacements
of great masses of mud — or, to de-
fine it otherwise, of some solution
of inorganic earths in water. What-
ever we call it, we must hold that
the liquid or mucous mass set in
motion was not of a character to
destroy the organic objects it fell
upon, but rather received them into
itself uninjured. The process, how-
ever, leaves to be accounted for,
a beautiful mystery, arising out of
the fact that the stone organism
within the stony matrix has all the
component parts of the original
living organism, animal or vege-
table. The fish, for instance, is
not merely complete in its external
form; but if it be divided, there
can be identified the skin with its
scales, the flesh, the vital organs,
and the tissue of bones. When
driven to account fox this wonder-
ful phenomenon, there is no more
hopeful intellectual refuge to be

found than in the supposition that
as each of these elements of the
composition of the fish decayed one
after another in the oider of its
destiuctibility, its place was as-
sumed by some liquid element
about to pass into the condition of
stone; and some aid from plausi-
bility has been afforded to this hy-
pothesis, in the consideration that
the substance of each of the sev-
eral elements — skin, bone, and in-
testines — might each have modified
the character of the matter coming
in its place.

A slight misgiving as to the
gravity of the speculations we have
drifted into, suggests an apologetic
explanation, — and with it a sincere
abjuration of any attempt of the
kind often perpetrated against the
holiday-seeker — and naturally more
frequently against the young than
the mature in years and experience
— an attempt to convert holidays
into working days. The present
object is not to drive him into dis-
tricts where he may profitably study
the science of geology or lithology,
but to indicate what he may find
both for amusement and instruction
in the spots he may seek for the
pake of their scenery or any other
attraction. Our ammonites, with
the kiudred foFsils, have as yet,
in pursuance of that object, been
limited to the Isle of Wight and
the neighbouring rocks of Portland.
Another eminent abode of the am-
monites and their kindred is Whit-
by in Yorkshire. This spot lays
no great claim to dignity, or beauty,
or scenery, but it is close to Scar-
borough, a notable tourists' haunt,
and is not far distant from Flam-
borough Head and its precipices.

It will be admitted that scenery
is to be found on the banks of tbe
Tay ; and there, too, is to be found
in abundance the beautiful agate
that, in the days when it burst into
notice as a worthy decoration of

168

Uititsfo}' the Vacation Bamble.

[Aug.

female beauty, was always talked
of as the Scotch pebble. The most
highly esteemed forms of it are also
known as the fortiiication agate,
from a certain resemblance found
in the adjustment of its brilliant
colours, in angular demarcations
one within the other, to the bastions
and ditches of a fortress. The
agate generally presents itself in a
rounded lump, rough and unattrac-
tive on its surface, with perhaps
more resemblance to an unpeeled
potato than to anything else, though
the matrix it is found in is called the
amygdaloidal trap, from the Greek
word that is translated as ''almond."
Again we are thrown into the
grand phenomena supposed to have
been at work in the structure of
the earth, to account for the forma-
tion of these beautifully variegated
nodules.

Let the tourist on the Rhine find
his way a few miles up the tribu-
tary stream of the Nahe to the
dirty village of Oberstein, and stand
there on the summit of the great
rock or hill of amygdaloidal trap,
whence more agates have been
quarried out than from any other
spot in the world. He is to sup-
pose that, in some stage or other
in the eventful construction of the
crust of the earth, it had heaved
itself forth from the fiery zones
below, a boiling mass of liquid lava.
When this cooled down, a mass of
air that had been caught up by the
boiling fluid could not escape in-
stantaneously, and so left behind
certain hollow spaces of the nature
of air-bubbles. Into these, as the
ages passed by, certain chemical
elements existing in the trap found
their way, forming laminations of
divers colours according to their
chemical properties; and it fitted
into this theory, that clefts in rocks
of the amygdaloidal trap kind were
filled with the variety of the pebble
where the several colours are ar-

ranged in parallel layers, thus form-
ing the material used by artists of
the classic periods in cutting the
beautiful gems known as onyx
cameos, the parallel layers permit-
ting the head to be cut in the
form most applicable to the purpose,
while another colour afforded the
relief or background. If this be
the true story of the affair at Ober-
stein, it will apply also to the
ancient history of the amygdaloidal
traps on the banks of the Tay. The
formation may be found in many
other parts of Scotland not pre-
occupied by the granite or the gneiss.
The Pentland Hills consist in great
measure of the agate- bearing trap,
though the agates in it are seldom
so large as to tempt the collector.

It may seem almost a truism that
in making his choice for the season
the holiday tourist should select a
mountain district. If he has had,
or is to have, an opportunity of seeing
the world, that should be a separate
and weightier af^Eiir, to be adjusted
with all gravity by those who have
the responsibility of his training
and education.

In the days of Sir Charles Gran-
dison, a period of early life devoted
to the visiting of the most renowned
cities, chief states, and most remark-
able buildings in the world, was a
part of a young gentleman's educa-
tion, and doubtless a very produc-
tive part. But the world has been
recast since the day when it was
convenient to' see the whole of it
at once, and devote a considerable
period of a lifetime to that duty.
If the young gentleman and his
governor were in Rome, it was well
to visit France and Spain before
taking the long journey homewards;
but express . through - trains have
removed these difficulties. They
have brought with them, perhaps, de-
fects of their own — as, for instance,
the propensity to hasten over the
ground, to ''do" the most within

1881.]

Hififsfor the Vacation Ramhle.

169

the given time. We pass through
a moantain gorge on a fine summer
evening. It is a thing of beauty
and a joy for ever, whether it be to
be revisited or to be retained as an
impression on the memory. But
a hurried visit to a great picture-
gallery carries to the mind tbat has
any thoughtfnlness and love of art
in it, painful sensations of disap-
pointment and opportunity lost.
And so it is with every object that
attracts notice as a permanent mon-
ument of artistic genius. There
is something arousing a certain
feeling of sympathy in the consid-
eration that time, and art, and effort
have been devoted to it, — that it
has been an anxious and probably
engrossing thought in the mind of
its creator, Will it give pleasure,
and be admired 1 Is it a success 1
Bnt^ature ib lavish with her charms,
and mountain scenery is not so
much an object of study as a thing
to be enjoyed, as the leisure and
momentary inclination of the wan-
derer through it may influence him.
It is a matter of gratifying con-
sideration that, among more valu-
able objects of nationd wealth, the
United Kingdom possesses moun-
tain-ranges peculiarly endowed with
beauty and sublimity, and at the
same time signally accessible. Chief
among these are the Grampians, the
cluster in ^orth Wales culminating
ixL Snowdon, the Lake district of the
north of England, and the Killamey
range in Ireland. The oldest favour-
ite among our mountains is Snow-
don. People ascended it when there
was an almost superstitious dread of
mountain adventure, and the adven-
turer on his return to the bosom
of the society of ordinary mortals
seems to have found temptations
there to indulge with garrulity on
the marvels and perils of the achieve-
ment. However profound the pris-

tine solitude of the summit of
Snowdon may have been a century
ago, the wanderer of the present day,
if he has succeeded in discovering
solitary tracks to ascend by, finds
himself back in society when he
reaches the summit. As one to
whom the vision encountered there
was as unpleasant as it was un-
expected, might lose his temper
and become excited in an attempt
to characterise it, let it be described
by the sage Murray : " The visitor
who has thus arrived at the peak of
Snowdon by any of these routes
will be much mistaken if he comes
prepared for mountain solitude, for
Moel-y-Wyddfa is one of the most
crowded spots in Wales. The guides
have erected two huts on the high-
est point, where comestibles, such as
eggs and bacon, may be obtained at
tolerably reasonable prices, consider-
ing the labour of getting them up.
In foggy or wet weather it is no
slight relief to find a dry room and
blazing fire. A charge of five
shillings is made for bed and
breakfast to those who wish to see
the sun rising." *

There is some consolation in
reading this, and even in encoun-
tering the scene described, in the
reflection that the precedent thus
set up on what in the historical and
social sense is our oldest mountain,
has not spread to other tops. The
practice of decorating a summit
with a tavern is essentially German,
and is the growth of propensities
rooted in the German nature. It
is bom of the desolation and des-
pair that overtake Herman when
he sees the prospect of passing a
couple of hours where beer and
sausages are unobtainable. And
indeed, those who come much in
contact with him suspect that
he requires these adjuncts to com-
plete his enjoyment of mountain

• Handbook for Travellera in North Wales, third edition, p. 116.

170

Hints for the Vacation Ramble.

[Aug.

scenery. He is said to be peculiarly
susceptible to the soothing and ex-
hilarating influences of music ; but
still the beer and the sausages are
necessary to give substantiality to
the tone of the whole affair. A
mountain expedition by a band of
German students is apt to lead to
convivialities even beyond the hum-
ble standard of beer and sausages.
Auerbach's cellar in Leipzig, immor-
talised by Goethe in his 'Faust/
has occasionally harboured many a
merry crew; but all their orgies
have in recent times been equalled
or exceeded by the revels in the
huge substantial Gasthof on the
summit of the Bloksberg, commonly
known as the Brocken.

Perhaps among our home moun-
tains we may assign Ben Lomond
as next to Snowdon in the anti-
quity of its acknowledgment in
the annals of the picturesque.
Long as it has been known, and
multitudinous as its visitors would
appear if we had them all before us
in Hades to give account of their
career on earth, yet the symmetry
and dignity of the beautiful moun-
tain as it arose out of the con-
vulsions that adjusted the present
crust of the earth, is still untouched
by such profane hands as those we
have found leaving their marks on
Snowdon. Long may it remain so,
and as long may the pleasant hostel
at Eowardennan exist to provide
its comforts and luxuries under the
conditions. Upwards of a century
ago a bard who registers his name
OS Russell, but otherwise has passed
unknown to fame, embodied his ex-
perience in certain precepts cut on
a pane of glass in the neighbouring
inn of TarbeL Living in the days
when men were more ready than
they can venture to be in these
days of compulsory sobriety that
render "the partaker" a monster,
it is refreshing to find some judi-
cious precepts opening thus —

" Oh stop a while ; oft taste the cordial

drop,
And rest, oh rest, long, long upon the

top."

On the question of the frequenpy
of the application, every wanderer
will take the -medium suggested by
the contest between inclination and
capacity ; but it is always well to
keep in view, in mountain travel-
ling, that it may prove perilous
while there is still climbing or
descending in prospect to indulge
in hilarities that might involve no
danger in the hospitalities of home
life.

The vision of Ben Lomond aris-
ing in the mind through the mist
of long years spent in the usual
cares and vicissitudes of the world,
recalls a Fcene typical of the exhil-
arating influence of the mountain-
top on youthful natures. The ascent
is in the opening of spring, while
the snow lies deep in the great cor-
rie. Near the top there had been a
landslip. From a rock a portion
loosened by the frost had broken
away, carrying with it a moraine of
earth aud stones. The attention
of one of the party seemed myste-
riously attracted to this phenom-
enon, and he was heard to mutter,
*' What now if there should be a
dead body below ) " He began forth-
with to occupy himself in a very
odd way. A few paces downward
in the ascent we had observed two
objects lying on the ground — one
was a glove, the other a staff, both
in their weatherworn aspect sug-
gesting that they had passed the
winter where they lay. That one of
the party who seemed to take po
excited an interest in the recently
formed moraine, went back for these
articles, aud proceeded in an insaniah
sort of manner to stuff the fingers
of the glove with moss. Then he
pressed the opening part of the
glove into the sand of the moraine
so that the fingers stuck up, and

1881.]

Hints fur the Vacation Ramble,

171

completed his stage effect by leav-
ing the staff near the half-buried
glove. The whole had a very
suggestive and startling effect.

It may be said of all our home
mountains, and especially of the
highest and the best of them, that
they are easy of ascent. It is a
sort of etiquette that mountain
scenery is not to be noticed except
in laudation ; but there is no great
harm in glancing censorially at a
distance when the result is to ren-
der us contented with our own.
The grandeur of Alpine Switzer-
land, and the peculiar beauties and
sublimities often so unexpectedly
revealed in the clefts of the Jura,
leave yet to the debit side of pro-
ductiveness in scenery many weari-
some round-backed hills that, if
the tourist is so unwise as to seek
beauty in them, will only serve to
burden his memory with the pres-
sure of a monotony of ugliness.
A great portion of the surface
of France belongs to this class,
properly called mountain ground,
but not mountain scenery. France
has her share in the glories of the
Alps and the Pyrenees — and the
beautiful central patch of scenery
culminating in the Puy-de-D6me
is entirely her own ; but her other
mountain-ranges are characterised
by wearisome monotony. Pass to
the other extremity of Europe, and
we shall find the same feature on
an exaggerated scale in Norway
and Sweden. Far away at the
back, as it were, of this unsightly
barrier, Norway is enriched with
scenes of great sublimity and ex-
quisite beauty; but these are not
within the easy grasp of the wan-
derer in his statutory holiday — and
it is well that he should know this,
lest when he gets at mouutains in
Norway he thinks he has also got
possession of scenery. If he mas-
ters the geography of the whole
ground he will find indeed that it

is a quicker affair to get at the
Alps than at the veritable Nor-
wegian scenery. Methods have
been suggested for shortening the
journey to the recesses of the
northern fiords. Let us hope that
this may some day soon be accom-
plished, so that it may not happen,
as it has, that after a week spent in
vain efforts the party resolve to
turn their backs to the north, and
find their way to Switzerland. The
practical accessibility of the fiords
running inland from Bergen would
be a vast addition to the available
stock of European touring districts.
Eeturning homewards let us keep
hold of the pleasant consideration
that the mountain - ranges of the
United Kingdom are , signally ac-
cessible to the adventurer endowed
with a moderate amount of skill
and activity. It is a condition,
however, of these qualities finding
a successful investment in the ease
and pleasantness of the ascent, that
whether it be taken by the lonely
wanderer, or by a general group of
friends, it must not be effected
under the superintendence of a
guide. The reasons for thiB warn-
ing are supplied from propensities
and prejudices that have their roots
deep down in the fundamental im-
pulses of human nature. No one
is so blind to the action of his
fellow-mortals and their motives,
as not to have seen that he who
derives profit from any occupation
instinctively believes that the oc-
cupation and its rewards are a
blessing to the whole human race,
and as a corollary that their main-
tenance should be zealously guard-
ed; and if any change is to be
effected on the munificent arrange-
ment, it ought to be in the shape
of strengthening and enlarging it.
Now your guide is not a knave, or
even a superlatively selfish man,
but he feels like every other person
who his got the monopoly of an

172

HMsfor tJie Vacation Ramble,

[Aug.

occupation. There is nothing ia
tlie world so valuable as guidance
in bis eyes, and therefore he feels
it his duty to make the most
of it.

If you are determined to do the
thing, in order that you may say
you have done it, and not having
a whole day at your disposal, but
must encroach on the night, or if
the weather is rainy or foggy, you
will surely need the services of a
guide, and may tax his highest
skilL Of one thing you may be as-
sured, that he will, for such an occa-
sion, select the simplest and least
dangerous tracks for the ascent.
A scene of sublime interest is often
presented in a mountain battered
by a storm that sways the mighty
clouds around it, sometimes mys-
teriously shrouding and enhancing
the sublimity of great precipices,
sometimes rolling like huge snow-
balls down the long slopes. But a
phenomenon of this kind is best
witnessed from some elevated ac-
cessible ground looking across a
valley to its more lofty neighbour.
It is from such a post too, that,
the weather being favourable, the
ambitious wanderer will trace his
course to the top. His first con-
sideration should be the state of
the weather ; for if there be in it
the elements that may shroud the
mountain in mist, it were well to
postpone or abandon the expedi-
tion. The paths laid out by nature
for the ascent of any of our native
mountains are thas easily traceable ;
and it is especially so with the
greatest of all, Ben Kevis, when it
is examined from the heights above
Fort William. When the aspirant
has satisfied himself about the
available gradients, and has suc-
cessfully accomplished his project,
he may feel assured that he has
found it far more simple and easy
than a guide would have made it
for him.

The casualties from mountain
adventure are, after all, few when
counted among those arising from
the various perils that flesh ia heir
to. There is scarce a form of or-
dinary work or occupation in the
labour that man is doomed to less
productive of calamities; and the
amusements the most esteemed for
their exciting influence — hunting,
racing, and yachting — are far more
tragic. The only mountain that at
the present moment can be recalled
to recollection is Helvellyn. The
event was commemorated by the
mighty Minstrel of the North, in
a dirge beginning —

** I climbed the dark brow of the mighty

Helvellyn —
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed

misty and wide."

It is not likely that so illustri-
ous a commemoration shall follow
another tragedy of the same kind,
even if the prospect of such post-
humous fame should tempt any
ambitious youth to court it

If the unknown friend for whose
benefit the information and precepts
of these utterances are intended
should feel a touch of prejudice
against Helvellyn on account of
this unfortunate incident^ let him
turn to the neighbouring Skiddaw.
The ascent is easy, and it leads to
a panorama of infinite beauty and
variety. On a sunny afternoon there
comes forth a beautifully soft and
rich effect in the minglings of rock
and water, especially in the repoae
of the smaller creeks of Ullswater,
retreating as it were into the narrow
openings of its rocky edge. ,

For this feat, as for all others
among the mountains of the United
Kingdom, it miy be inferred, from
what has already been said, that
the employment of a guide is not
recommended. If any one looking
back on his experiences among onr
mountains will try to find his rea-

1881.]

IlirUsfor the Vacation Ramble.

173

son for having on any occasion made
this cumhersome and unsatisfactorj
addition to his impedimenta, as
the Itomans aptly called the sol-
diers' or travellers' luggage, he will
probahly see that it had nothiog
more to recommend it than the fact
that innkeepem, authors of gaide-
books, and other sage advisers of
the wanderer, always took for grant-
ed that he required a guide. A
friend in Edinburgh became sud-
denly alive to this view on the
occasion of an accomplished Cock-
ney soliciting his services to pro-
cure for him ''a steady guide to
Arthur's Seat." At the same time,
lest the rambling remarks indulged
in here should create a supposition
that their utterer considers the guide
an absolutely useless and superfluous
being, it may be well to give a hint
of his proper sphere. Let us fake
a banker's messenger perfect in the
geography of " town," able to hit the
very shortest cuts by half a street's
breadth, and expert in seizing at
the right moment the most perilous
crossings. Set him down in the
middle of the Arabian Desert, or
the great steppes of Tartary, and
let us see how he will find his way
oat of his perilous position. So
let the hero who has taken with
great ease the Cumberland moun-
tains and the Grampians in their
order, be whisked through the air
till he hovers over Mont Blanc, and
be dropped on the well-known spot
preposterously called the Jardin, in
order that he may find his way
back to the world through the Mer
de Glace. The mysteries of the
mountains rising to any consider-
able height above the midsummer
snow-line are only to be acquired
by years of experience and study
put at the disposal of a sturdy
frame.

The " Abode of Snow," or those
X>arts of the world where it is
a permanent element, has lately

received much curious and inter-
esting elucidation in ^Maga.' It
opens up associations of grand and
mysterious interest, especially when
there comes out the emphatic an-
tithesis between the solemn silent
white dome penetrating upwards as
it were through the heavens, and
the burning plain below. This is
felt by those readers of the ' Abode
of Snow' who have to content
themselves with what Europe can
afiford ; and even within such ijar-
row limits, when out of the fertile
vales with their glittering streams
the pure white cone mounts up-
wards through the clouds, it is an
object full of the majestic and
imperial.

**Mont Blanc is the monarch of monn-
tains :

They crowned him long ago
On a throne of rock, in a robe of clouds,

With a diadem of snow.
Around his waist are forests braced,

The avalanche in his liand."

This is an apt expression of the
sense of awe-imposing dignity that
subdues the wanderer into rever-
ence when he gazes on these snowy
heights. To mountain scenery in
that superbly majestic form we have
no claim at home ; but still it is but
just to our native possessions to
note that we have among them a
small "Abode of Snow" in the upper
reaches of the Grampians. Take
the cluster of hills containing Ben
Maeduie, Braeriacb, Ben-a-Bourd,
and Lochnagar. They are from
a distance seen even in midsum-
mer to be flecked with patches
of snow, and these patches when
approached enlarge themselves into
small fields. Snow itself is no
doubt a sufliciently prevalent and
not highly valued article, disturb-
ing our equanimity from the slushy
streets of London to the blocked
railway on the far-off hills. Yet
the possession of midsummer snow
gives a touch of interesting dignity

174

Hints for the Vacation RamUe,

[Aug.

to the mountain it adorns. It may
be useful to tell the reader that the
proper path to this our humble
native ** Abode of Snow " is by start-
ing eastward from the Spey. He
may pitch his tent — ^to use a figura-
tive expression for finding accom-
modation in a good inn — either at
Kingussie or Grantown, where he
will find entertainment better than
even the luxuries of the Saut-
market were in Bailie Nicol Jarvie*s
daya It is possible, of course, to
reach the district by the valley of
the Dee, but scarcely without the
risk of intrusion on the sorely beset
privacy of Eoyalty — ^a peril which
every loyal and even humane sub-
ject ought dutifully to shun.

The scenery within the bounds
of Scotland examined in these cas-
ual notices belongs to the range of
the Grampians. But other moun-
tain groups have their features
both of the beautiful and the sub-
lime. As the Jura range may be
counted a subsidiary companion of
the Alps, so may the Ochill Hills
be associated with the Grampians.
They are not a lofty and dignified,
scarcely a picturesque range; but
they are split by cavernous clefts
like the Klams of the Bavarian
Alps. Noisy with roaring waters,
their white cascades and deep black
pools draw a mysterious and to
some nerves an intimidating influ-
ence from the darkness of the deep
cleft, where

*' Deep, deep dovsii, and far within,
Toils with the rock the roaring linn."

Noticeable among these clefts is
that leading to the mound sur-
mounted by Castle Campbell, and
the valley or gorge of the Devon,
where it passes from the Bumbling
Brig to the Cauldron Linn.

Another district of Scotland is
dignified by a cataract of a totally
different character. In Moffatdale
the Grey Mare's Tail tosses itself

down the face of a precipitous rock,
its waters being supplied from the
** dark Loch Skene." It claims
rank as the highest of the falls in
Scotland bulky enough to be called
cataracts; and this distinction gives
it a claim to compete for eminence
with Foyers or the Falls of the
Clyde, though it does not carry
down so heavy a bulk as either of
these more famous cataracts. It
has the benefit, too, of some com-
plimentary and sonorous descrip-
tive flashes from the muse of Scott,
who naturally cherished it as one
of the picturesque properties of his
own Border-land : —

*' Rises the fog- smoke white as snow,
Thunders the viewless stream below.
Diving as if condemned to lave
Some demon's subterraneous cave.
Who, prisoned by enchanter's spell,
Shakes the daik rock with groan and
yell."

Not far off, tumbling into Moffat-
dale from the other side, is a cat-
aract known as Dob's Linn. The
rock it springs from was the theatre
of a contest between two Covenant-
ing saints on the other, leading to
the satisfactory result that " Hab
Dab and David Din, dang the
deil doon Dob's linn."

Moffatdale belongs to that Border
district known otherwise as the
Land of Scott. It has been cele-
brated in immortal verse both by
him and Wordsworth, the contri-
butions of the two affording oppor-
tunities for testing, by similarity
and contrast, the peculiar genius
of each, — Scott rapid and potent,
hurrying through his descriptions of
the savage or the beautiful in com-
plete devotion to his story or bis
picture, and utter unconsciousness
of self ; while Wordsworth plunges
into the unfathomable depths of
his own individuality — and what-
ever he dwells on, stream, cataract.,
or lake, it is treated in i^ation to
himself and his sensations, or if

L881.]

Hints for the Vacation Ramble.

175

such sensations exist not, then to
the remarkable and interesting fact
of their absence. Thus he must
faYOur the world with a beautiful
little morsel from his inner thoughts
in "Yarrow Unvisited." When
afterwards he renders an account
of his visit, a prosaic person who
has heard of Wordsworth's earnest-
ness as a poet, might suppose him
to be expressing a warm reception
when he tells how " through her
depths St Mary's Lake is visibly
delighted." Perhaps Scott did less
for the celebrity of the district by
his poetry than by his prose in the
touching and very beautiful ro-
mance of * St Ronan's Well/ It
is now identified in Innerleithen,
though this very pretty village
seems scarcely to have existed
when that novel was published.
However this may be, by one who
desires to be in the midst of moun-
tain scenery, yet demands not that it
shall be of the rugged and sublime
school, a more pleasant haunt is
not easily to be found.

The traditions about Scott cur-
rent among the peasantry of the
Border districts treat him some-
what as a star apart. He lived in
his own castle, where he received
visitors of rank and fame, more after
the manner of a prince than a poet
or story-teller. He was the sheriff
or chief local judge of the district ;
and indeed in that capacity, as a
terror to evil-doers, drew more re-
spect than any paid to his genius.
The recollections of James Hogg,
the Ettrick Shepherd, were more
genial and friendly, especially on
all convivial occasions where mem-
ories of past scenes of the same
character were recalled. He had a
iiatnre that drew around him kin-
dred spirits from all available dis-
tances, and they surrounded him
with many an improvised group of
levellers. Even when he paid an
occasional visit to Edinburgh this

VOL. CZZX. — NO. DCCXO.

attractive quality was signally illus-
trated. There are people alive who
can remember meeting Hogg in his
selected tavern opposite the Grey-
friars' Church. If he was found
alone the population of his chamber
was not long restricted to the ten-
ant and his visitor. Dropping in
one by one, the group enlarged
until it filled the largest room in
the house; and it was observable
that the landlord seemed to consider
the apparition of Hogg at his door
as equivalent to an intimation that
he must expect a large public din-
ner-party, and draw upon his re-
sources as rapidly as possible.

Of all the spots dignified by scen-
ery in our own island noted in these
rambling remarks, it will be seen
that they are approachable without
exposure to danger, and very little
exposure to hardship. The holiday-
seeker may, however, find these
elements no farther off than that
portion of the United Kingdom
called Ireland. Let him go to Kil-
larney. It is not that, following
the directions of the guide-bookp,
or coming under the jurisdiction of
the guides, he will be subject to
dangers and difficulties, or even to
anything that can be fairly spoken
of as ** roughing it." Indeed
nothing can exceed the luxurious
hospitality of the hotels, and their
desire to serve the stranger and
thankfully accept the due reward
of the service. An instance in
point may be cited. A lady having
dropped her parasol from her car-
riage, a ragged peasant anticipated
her attendant in recovering it ; and
though he cast wistful looks after
the retreating vehicle, as if he
thought there was a serious omis-
sion to acknowledge his eminent
services, yet bo sure seemed the
reward for a feat so meritorious,
that he got drunk on the credit of
its being duly acknowledged. But
let the visitor stray from his com-

Hints for the Vacation Ramble.

[Aug.

fortable hotel beyond the fairy
region under its influence, and
flounder among the bogs of Kerry,
he will soon find himself both
in difficulty and danger. Perhaps
these evils were encountered in an
aggravated form by two friends
who were so unfortunately foolish
as to resolve on a search for adven-
tures before the famine period of
Ireland had completely passed over.
If they wandered in the insane hope
that, as in England or Scotland, they
might find shelter in a decent cot-
tage where a frugal meal could be
procured, their mistake was lament-
able. The helpless creatures they
met directed them to the abode of
a farmer who employed ten assist-
ants, but he could give them no-
thing but diseased potatoes. It was
a contrast to this when they were
enabled to reach a village which
the abundance of trout-fishing had
made a sort of out-station of the
Killarney establishments. They ob-
served that they might have for-
gotten that they were still in Ire-
land but for an entry in the visitors'
book intimating that ''Sir Lucius
and Lady O'Rooney arrived at this
excellent inn by mere chance, and
recommend all their friends to do
the same."

To the man whose every day,
with sometimes a portion of the
night, is absorbed in hard labour,
especially of the intellectual kind,
his recess into holiday life in the
bloom of the year or before the leaf
has become sere and yellow, is a
matter of earnest moment ; and the
responsibility of any one who, either
in wickedness or levity, should lead
him astray, is momentous. It is
but common charity to believe,
then, that Byron was under the
spell of some delusive influence
when he sang —

** Adieu to thee, fair Rhine. How long

delighted
The stranger fain would linger on his way !

Adieu to thee again — a vain adieu ;
There can be no farewell to scene like

thine.
The mind is coloured by thy every hue,
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely

Rhine,
'Tis with the thankful glance of part-
ing praise.
More mighty spots may rise, more glar-
ing shine,
But none unite in one attaching maze
The brilliant, fair, and soft — the glories
of old days."

Now, to a lover of sparkling and
transparent streams, there is in the
Khine an insuperable element of
the odious; its waters are dirty,
and only in too much harmony with
another local feature, described by
the poet as

'* Peasant girls with deep-blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers.
Walk smiling o'er that paradise,"

— a hint unpleasantly recalling the
slovenly women pestering the un-
fortunate pedestrian for groschen in
return for the paltry weeds held in
their dirty fingers.

The causes of the dirty muddi-
ness of the Rhine are somewhat
mysterious. Coleridge is brilliant
on the dirt of Cologne ; and telling
how it is washed by the Ehine,
he exclaims —

** But tell me. Nymphs ! what power

divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? *'

But the washing is only used in a
figurative sense, applicable to the
district or city passed by a flowing
river; and indeed, although the
Rhine carried with it all the pollu-
tion of Cologne, that would hardly
account for its dusky muddiness.
The Rhine, indeed, is chiefly fed
from glaciers — and it is a too well-
known feature of these icy scaven-
gers of the mountains, that the
streams issuing from them are tur-
bid and muddy ; but the Rhine
has rid itself of all this element of
pollution long ere it reaches " the

1881.]

Hints for the Vacation Ramble,

177,

castled crag of Dracbenfells ; " and
indeed past Easle it flows in an
expanse of lovely translucent blue.
If the wanderer desires to see
with how much majesty a river
can issue from a glacier, let him
find the source of the Rhone. Let
us suppose that he has climbed to
the great cat-aract of Handek, and
slept at the hospice of the Grimsel.
At early morn when he is afoot,
instead of descending towards Swit-
zerland, let him ascend westward,
passing the cheerful margin of the
" Todten See," or lake of the dead,
—so called, as the guide-books tell
us, because of old tbe bodies of
travellers lost on the pass were
tossed into it. The summit of the
pass is reached; and thence, deep
down, but distinct, as if it were
not half a mile away, if the day
be clear, the Ehone and its parent
glacier are visible. The glacier is
in a cleft of the mountain-range,
and rises up to what would be a
dome-shaped mountain of ice, were
it not that it is subordinated by the
Alpine tops above. From a great
archway in the glacier the Ehone
leaps forth and tumbles down a
long steep bank to the Lake of
Geneva, where it gets itself washed
and comes forth entirely trans-
parent save for a beautiful pale-
blue tinge; and so it flows on
iintil, to its misfortune, it is joined
by a stream fresh from its glacier
source, and is turbid again for many
a mUe — making a good parallel to
the naughty youth who, left to
his own ways, takes a turn and
becomes virtuous, but happening to
fall again into the hands of an old
companion in mischief, is subdued
by his firmer will into the evil
ways of both. It would be dealing
with palpable notorieties in scenery,.
and an officious interference with the
privileges and responsibilities of the
guide-bookp, to devote an effort of
descriptive eloquence on Switzer-

land and the Alps ; and it is offered
as a vindication of the few words
here bestowed in that direction,
that as a good deal of recommen-
datory advice has been given about
our home scenery, this has not been
commended without a full sense of
the glories that await the rambler
should he find his way to any of the
snow-clad mountain-chains of Cen-
tral Europe. It has been already
explained that in these districts the
guide may be a necessity. But in
the general case he is so only when
the region of snow is entered, and
the motions of the tourist are in
the category of hard work rather
than of pleasant, easy vagabondage.
It is not safe to wander on the
Mer de Glace or any other exten-
sive glacier without the aid of an
adviser, not only learned in scenery
of that character, but deeply expe-
rienced in the perilous peculiarities
of the special ground to be tra-
versed.

But it would take a long holiday
to exhaust the resources in Switzer-
land and the valleys of the Alps
to one who is content to ramble
through scenes of exquisite beauty.
Even in the path from Interlachen,
with its soft repose of loch, meadow,
and noble trees, to the source of
the Rhone, where we have already
found it, there is wealth of beauty
and sublimity. The valley of
Lauterbrunnen is full of waterfalls,
any one of them grand enough to
be a treasure elsewhere. Pre emi-
nent among them is the Staubbach,
tossing itself over a ridge some nine
hundred feet above the level of the
valley. In a summer night, to one
wending his way upwards to the
Wengern Alp, the top of the fall may
be seen blazing in the evening sun-
shine, while it seems to toss itself
into a chasm, where it disappears in
indefinite gloom. In contrast to
the darkness below, the Jungfrau,
towering over the end of the valley,

178

Hints for the Vacation Ramble.

[Aug.

lifts its white peak to the setting
sun ; and perhaps the hot summer
day having melted a large mass of
its snows, the stillness of the sum-
mer evening is disturhed by the
frequent roar of avalanches. To
reach a panorama of scenery vying
with this, our friend may take a
long walk down the banks of the
Ehone, through Brieg, Martigny, and
other sepulchral-looking, old, half-
ruinous towns, till the road ascend
the Col de Balme; and thence,
when the summit is reached, Mont
Blanc stands forth before the wan-
derer in all its sunny and cloudy
glories.

Your late friend, the eloquent
describer of ** The Abode of Snow,"
has had opportunities of dealing
with mountain - ranges far more
gigantic even than the Alps, but
hopelessly reserved from all the
world having ties, whether of occu-
pation or otherwise, to home life.
But he has a pleasant word to con-
tribute to the Alps. Indeed there
is something of magnanimous gener-
osity in the tone of this author in
dealing with the privileges and en-
joyments of those who are obliged
to be content with more accessible

theatres of enjoyment on mountain
land.

" The Himaliya, as a whole, are not
80 richly apparelled as the Alps. In
Kashmir, and some parts of the Siitlej
valley, and of the valleys on their In-
dian front, they are rich in the m(>>t
glorious vegetation, and present, in
that respect, a more picturesciue ap-
pearance than any parts of Switzer-
land can boast of ; but one may travel
among the great ranges of the Asiatic
mountains for weeks, and even months,
through the most sterile scene?, with-
out cominjTj on any of these regions of
beauty. There is not here the same
close union of beauty and grandeur,
loveliness and sublimity, which is
everywhere to be found over the
Alps. There is a terrible want of
level ground and of green meadows
enclosed by trees. Except in Ka.--h-
mir, and about the east of Laihik,
there are no lakes. We miss much
those Swiss and Italian expanses of
deep blue water, in which white towns
and villages, snowy peaks and dark
mountains, are so beautifully mirrored.
There is also a great want of perennial
waterfalls of great height ana beauty,
such as the Staubbach ; though in
summer, during the heat of the day.
the Himdliya, in several places, pn*-
sent long graceful streaks of dust-
foam."*

* Second Edition, p. 251.

1881.]

Florio : A Little Tragedy.

179

FLOEIO: A LITTLE TRAGEDY.

It is night in Venice,
low voice lazily : —

Clelia 18 alone in her balcony. She sings in a

Death with my heart in a thin cold hand,
O dear Death that art dear to me —

Love of my heart, the wide waste land,
O my lost love, holds nought hut thee !

There is nought in the land, or sea, or sky.

But thou, and the man that once was I.

A pretty farrago of love and death !
Whether this youth he singing to
death or to his lady-love ; whether
love he death, or death love ; whe-
ther his lady he dead, or he he
dead, or hoth ; let my little Florio
say, if he can, for he made the
. verses and the music. How these
children lisp of love and death !
One would think they cared not a
jot which of the two came to kiss
them. It is all a matter of the
minor key. If a round-shot knocked
the mandolin from young master
poet's fingers, would he not crouch
behind the chair with his milk-
teeth chattering 1 I have not seen
my little poet, my singer of love-

lorn songf, for days. He makes
pretty verses, and not too powerful.
They are not so weak either.
Wonderful is the power of song.
I have hut to sing this rhyme of
love and death a little louder, only
a little louder; and at the signal,
from the low black arch opposite
creeps noiseless a gondola. So
slight a thread may draw a strong
man, — one who dare sing of death
and face him too. Three notes of
this poor melody — of dear death,
forsooth — would bring Duke An-
gelo from his great black palace.
So one may lure spiders. But I
will sing to myself only — softly —
softly —

^0 perfume is left on the fair broad earth

But the scent of thy raiment passing sweet ;
No gold of price, no

What man is that 1

Florio (who has dimhed unseen
to her balcony). No man,

Clelia. A poet, then. Why have
you come ?

Fl. Why !

CI. Because the night is fair, and
craves for song? Have you some
new numbers, little poet? This
exquisite pale night is like a lady
faint with passion, a dumb queen
who longs to sing. Find her a

voice, Florio. Sing for her and for
me.

Fl. My song of death and love 1

CI. No. Any song but that.
Not that — not yet. Where have
you been theee many idle days ?

Fl. Away from you.

CI. Where?

Fl. I know not. Only I know
that I was not with you. I meant
to see you no more.

CI 'Twere pity, Florio.

180

Florio: A Little Tragedy,

[Aug.

FL Only a few days have gone;
only a few nights like this night,
accursed, which hums me like a
shirt of fire ; and I am here again.
Yesterday I was far from this place.
I had left you. I thought that I
was free. And now I am here —
here with you. Venice hreathes
flame to-night ; and you are Venice.
How heautiful you are !

CL Yes, in the shadows ; beauti-
ful as this night. Yes, I am Ven-
ice. She is a queen in tarnished
gold, is she not 1 Venice and I are
growing old, and are most beautiful
in the loving shadow of a night
that half conceals. And this night
is like fire to you 1 Boy, it is full
of coolness and softness, bountiful,
tender, sweet. I am young to-night.
Sing to me.

Fl, I have forgotten how to sing
since you taught me to love.

CL Song without love is a cup
without wine. If you had ever
loved, your heart would be full of
melodies, as the night is full of stars.

FL Cut like a gallant's love into
a myriad little fires.

CL Often so — not always. There
are many stars, but only one
moon.

FL I am full of one love, as this
night is filled to overflowing by one
moon.

CL You are too young to love.

FL Why am I here, then?

CI, To be with me.

FL And is that not lovol

CL Or habit. There are many
kinds of love. Listen, Florio. There
is the love of a child for sweetmeats.
Is yours such a love 1 There is the
love of a youth for himself — a van-
ity which needs feeding by girls'
glances; and this the young do
for the mo3t part mistake for love.
Then there is the love of a man,
— but that is terrible.

Fl, Is there no love of women ?

CI, Women are loved. They like

to be loved. They love love. Florio,
on such a night as this, I feel that
every girl in Venice dreams that
she is loved. Breathless she awaits
her lover. There is a sound of the
guitar and mandolin ; the whisper
of a song ; the soft lisp of the gon-
dolier's oar, and the drip of silver
drops from the blade that turns in
the moonlight. Then in the black
shadow a little window opens; there
is a faint light in the room ; half
hidden behind the curtain she
stands trembling ; she wishes him
away, and she wishes him anear ;
her lips speak without her will, and
she hears his name in her ears, and
her ears grow hot with shame. " An-
gelo," she whispers — " Angelo ! "

FL Angelo !

CL Or Beppo or Pippo or Cecco :
it matters not a jot who the man
is, so he be man and lover. There
is a girl. I have painted her, com-
plete from head to heel — a girl of
Venice.

FL The night is sultry. I am
stifled.

CI, Ah, little one, you cannot
feel the passion of this night. You
cannot be a woman, poet though
you be.

FL Poet! I was a bird with
one note. You tamed me to your
hand ; and I am dumb.

CL Then I shall whistle yoa
away. What ! keep a songless
thrush ! Pipe to me, pipe. Think
of all the maidens dreaming around
us, dreaming all of love : think of
them ; dream of them ; sing for
them. Sing to me.

FL I can think of no girl but
one ; and she dreams of no lover.
Or if she dream of a lover, dreams
of no man, but of some being puro
as she and noble — such as men are
not — or are not here in Venice.

CL And who is this girl 1 Some
convent sparrow ?

FL My little sister.

1881.]

Fiona : A Little Tragedy,

181

CL A tall girl too, and a pretty.
1 have seen her. And she does
not dream of a lover ? Is there no
brown boy, no

FL No. I have told you. If
she have dreamed of love, it is of
some angel-lover, noble and pure —
as she thought me. And I shall
make her weep! A curse fell on
me when I saw your face.

CI. My Florio !

17. My love I (He falls at Tier
feefy and the hand which she yields
him is wet with his tears.)

CL And you tried to leave me %
Ungrateful. You will not leave
me. This hour is for us. Is not
this hour beautiful 1 Beautiful for
me and thee %

FL For me and thee.

CI. Sing to me, my bird with
the sweet voice — sing to me.

FL I cannot sing. It is so good
to be silent when I am near you.

CL Sing ; and I will give you
this rose from my breast. See ! It
is pale in the moonlight, but the
scent is sweet. Sing to me, Florio ;
and as your song, like this queen
rose, fills the night full with per-
fume ; so like a rose my heart will
open to love, as my arms open now.
{She stretches her arms to the dark
palace opposite.)

FL Drop your arms. They
strangle me. They are great white

CL See how I obey you 1 Obey
me. Sing to me — sing to me of love ;
but not of love and death — not yet.

FL {sings). — If face of mine this night
My lady dreaming see,
I pray that kind and bright
With gentle thoughts it be.

May no rude look of mine
Trouble my lady's breast ;

Eut dreams of me incline
Her soul to sweeter rest.

{As the last note of the music
trembles to sil€7ieej she laughs.)

FL Ah ! why do you laugh 1
It is horrible.

CL It is the song of a youug
monk. A pretty pale face to look
into a dreaming woman's dream, —
and make her sleep the sounder.
This is a night too exquisite for
sleep. It is a night of all the
loves.

FL Of all the infamies! The
hot air stifles me. It is full of
the sighs of men, who lie deep in
Flime below these creeping waters.
Every breath is heavy with awful
memories ; of secret judgment, and
noiseless murder; foul love and

quick revenge ; blood of a thousand
knives ; fumes of a thousand cups,
and in each cup poison ; poison in
the very flowers of God — in this
rose poison !

{He sets his foot upon the rose ;
she laughs again,)

CL Do you think that I would
kill you?

FL Have you not killed mel
You have killed hope in me ; you
have killed my faith in woman.
And here you stand close to me —
your gown touches me — and smile,
as if a smile could warm the dead
to life. You cannot warm me to
life. Will that crushed rose open
its heart again, because you smile?

182

Flario : A Little Tragedy.

[Aag.

I am dead in a dead world. The
world was all so beautiful to me —
a web of colour, a fountain of sweet
scent, its air all music. And then
one day you smiled on me, as you
are smiling now; and perfume,
soDg, and colour rushed together,
and were one — were you; they
found one exquisite form, and it
was yours; and love found a lan-
guage in your eyes.

You held my heart in your hand,
and you have frozen it. And you
have killed truth too. I can be-
lieve no more ; and you have made
me lie. "When I am away from
you, I comfort my soul with lies,
and find torture. I prove to my-
self that you love me. I have a
thousand unmistakable proofs. Oh,
I can argue with a fine subtlety. I
explain to myself your every word,
your slightest look. I show myself
why I may be sure that I am loved.
These are all lies. I am never de-
ceived. I know that you are cold
to me, as the grave will be cold.
I know that you would play with
me, and crush me, as this rose
under my heel, when you are
weary of me. I know you. I
have judged you.

CL And condemned 1 MyFlorio,
look in my eyes, and tell me I am
condemned. Look at me.

FL I will not. I know your
power.

CL Why should I hurt you?

Fl, For knowledge. Mine is the
loving heart, and yours the sur-
geon's knife. Tou are cold and
curious.

CI. Cold on this night ! I think
it is the beating of warm hearts
that makes this pulse of the air.
And what if it be true ? — ^what if I
cannot love 1 — should you not pity
me ? Pity me, my Florio.

FL You did not pity me.

CL I almost love you for your
scorn of me.

FL Yes, you can almost love. I
pity you.

CI. I am tired of men's praises.

Give me more blame But no !

Sing to me.

Fl. That you may laugh again.

CI. There will be no laughter.
Sing before you go— —

FL I am to go, then ?

CI. All good things go. Sing me
your song of Death and Love.

FL It was the first song I ever
sang to you — that spring day on
the island.

CL I remember. For my sake,
Florio ! Sing it to me now. (Ife
begins to murmur the song, hut she
stops him.) Louder and clearer,
Florio. Let the night hear it all.

Fl. (sings). — Death with my heart in a thin cold hand,
O dear Death tliat art dear to me —
Love of my heart, the wide waste land,

O my lost love, holds nought but thee !
There is nought in the land, or sea, or sky,
But thou, and the man that once was L

No perfume is left on the fair broad earth
But the scent of thy raiment passing sweet ;

No gold of price, no fame of worth.
But only the place where we did meet ;

Death ! — do I call on Death ? Ah me !

1 thought to call on Death, but I cry sweet love to thee.

1881.]

Florio ; A Little Tragedy,

CI. Do you know why you sang
that song?

Fl. To please you.

CI. To please me ; yes.

Fl. What do you mean 1

CI. It is my signal to Duke
Angelo.

Fl. What if he find you dead ?

CI. Put up your dagger. You
daie not use it.

Fl. If I struck here, here in my
heart, I should feel no more. You
know me — you know I dare not
strike. You have killed courage
in me, as you killed faith, and
hope, and love. There, take my
dagger at your feet. God pardon
you.

(He leaps from the balcony. She
leans her bosom on the edge and
looks into the water below.)

a Will he drown? No. There,

183

it.

he rises; he swims. I knew
They do hut sing of death.

O Venice, mother of mine, what
think you of the hrood of men that
crawl upon your waters? Dukes
and fishermen, blowers of glass or
breathers of song, they are all men
— and that's the pity. Florio has
sung, and Angelo has heard his
song. How sharply the black
gondola severs itself from the dark-
ness of the low archway ! So
death might steal from the sha-
dows. It seems as I had seen
this thing long ages since in some
dead world. More music ! {From
the canal rises the Duke's voice sing-
ing the song of Florio.) Ah me,
but I am tired of that song ! {She
tosses him the rose, which Florio^ s
heel had crushed, and so begins to
laugh again.)

184

Tlie Private Secretary. — Part X.

[Aug.

THE PRIVATE SECRETARY. — PART X.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Clifford rushed off to Waterloo
and took train for Kainham. As
he hurried from the station he met
Hilda coming towards him. It was
in the puhlic road they met, bor-
dered by little villas. A railway
porter was strolling home to his
dinner; an empty fly was return-
ing slowly to the station. All was
prosaic around as this romance was
being played out before the uncon-
cerned passers-by. The only em-
brace possible for him was to take her
outstretched hands as her eyes met
his, timidly, yet suffused with love.

"Where were you going?" he
said.

"To meet you. I knew my
letter would be delivered at eleven.
So I thought you would catch this
train."

Ko more was said. He could
see the traces of past emotion in
her face, but it now shone with
love for him, calm and modest love.
Having yielded, she would not
make the sacrifice a grudging one,
whatever it might have cost her.
She placed her arm in his, and they
turned and walked back together.
Clifford was too joyous to speak.

When they reached her cottage,
he stopped involuntarily. " Let us
go on to the river, Robert," said
Hilda; "let us take the walk we
walked the other day."

**So be it; you are wisest and
best, in this as in all things. I,
too, should like to efface the im-
pressions of that day. I felt as if
I should never be able to bear the
sight of that reach of the river
again. I daresay, too, your modest
larder would hardly furnish lunch-
eon for a guest Let us walk on to
the 'Angler' and get some luncheon
in the arbour there, on the river-

bank. Do you know, I feel quite
hungry — a new sensation ; and you
look as if you had eaten nothing
since Sunday. Is it not so 1 " And
he pressed the little hand resting
on his arm.

The day was fine, the air cool
after the storm of Sunday ; the
peaceful river-scene never looked
more smiling than on this afternoon
as the lovers strolled along the
bank. Cautiously, as if still hardly
daring to feel certain that his prize
was won, Clifford gradually unfolded
his plans. His first impulse had
been to carry off his bride at once ;
but reflection while coming down
in the train had brought him to a
different view. Hilda should not
appear to be flying away. She had
no friends or relatives to consult,
but still all should be done in
orderly fashion, without the sem-
blance of haste or flight. And Hil-
da appreciated her lover's thought-
fulness as he explained his pro-
posals. This was Tuesday. Could
Hilda arrange to have her modest
trousseau ready by Saturday 1 Kot
much was needed, as they would
stop at Paris; but her little bills
at Eainham had to be settled, and
the cottage must be placed in
charge of a house-agent, Martha
being relegated to leave of absence
on board-wages till Captain Eeid's
pleasure regarding her future should
be ascertained. Clifford for his part
would have plenty to do in winding
up his affairs. Fortunately his mode
of benevolence did not commit him
for the future, but the various new
projects which had been in contem-
plation must be stopped. Some
time would elapse before the trus-
tees would cease to stop paying his
full income, but from this time he

1831.]

The Private Secretai-y. — Part X.

185

should limit his drawings to the
portion which would now legally
continue to be his. Another place
must he found for Jane ; Simmonds
was to be allowed indefinite fur-
lough; the chambers were to be
shut up and placed in charge of
the porter.

The mixture of business and love-
making involved in discussing these
arrangements CliiFord found exqui-
sitely pleasant. Certainly the time
passed quickly. "If we only had
pen and ink here, Hilda/' said he,
**you should draft all my letters to
the different people I have to write
to. I shall now have to write them
all myself, and what a lot there
are ! A truly doleful prospect ! —
four whole days with no private
secretary to help me ! "

Ouly when Clifford made Hilda
take the money for her wants did
she betray her feelings. " I have
enough to pay for everything," she
said, pushing back the hand with
its gold and notes. " I owe only a
trifle in the village, and I can put
off buying things till "

" This is no gift, Hilda, it is your
money. But stay, let us be busi-
ness-like. Here is your half-quar-
ter's salary still due, and a further
quarter's salary payable because you
have been dismissed from your ap-
pointment without notice. Let us
make out the exact amount, and
you shall give me a receipt for it."
And working out the sum on the
hack of a letter, he counted it out.
"There, now we are square, my
private secretary is dismissed 1 "
Then they walked back again.

"When they reached the cottage
gate there was again a stop, and a
hesitation.

"Will you not come inl" she
said, as they stood looking at each
other; "Martha shall make you
some tea. I know you like your
afternoon cup of tea,"

"You are too good to me," he
replied, looking wistfully at her;

" but my next cup of tea shall be
made by you, without any other
agency. No; I tear myself away
till you are really mine. Write to
me if you want help in anything ;
but if not, we meet on Saturday
evening at the Victoria Station."
He was bending forward to kiss
her, but a foot-passenger was com-
ing down the lane ; he could merely
press her hands, and giving her one
fond look, and saying, " Till Satur-
day," set off for the station radiant
with joy.

And yet his happiness was not
altogether unalloyed. Although
Clifford was now in a state of ex-
citement quite foreign to his usual
disposition, he could not but know
in his heart that he was guilty of
deceiving the woman he loved. In
explaining his position, and the
bonds in which he was held by his
father's will, he had not told her
the whole truth; and in keeping
back a part, he had, his conscience
told him plainly enough, been say-
ing what was false. It was not
true that there was no alternative
between remaining unmarried and
surrendering the whole of his for-
tune. A third course was open to
him, by which he might both save
a remnant of it, and yet be free
hereafter to marry as he pleased.
But hereafter — ^not at once ; and the
period designated involved so long
a waiting as in his present state of
feeling it seemed impossible to en-
dure. More than once, indeed, as
in his journey back to town, dwell-
ing on the past meeting, and recall-
ing the look of resignation he had
noticed at times on Hilda's face —
which showed him plainly, even if
he had not known it from what
passed before, at what a cost she
had brought herself to the sacri-
fice she was going to make for
his sake — he felt an impulse from
his better nature to turn back and
tell her the whole truth. But he

186

The Primte Secretary. ^Part X

[Aug.

could not bring himself to make
an avowal which he felt sure must
put off their union into the in-
definite future; for he knew well
that, although he had gained her
heart, if the option were now given
her of making wedlock possible,
even at the cost of many years'
delay, Hilda would appeal to his
generosity to release her from the
promise she had now been induced
to make — nay, more, that she would
insist on it : she would not be his
Hilda if she did less, and he could
not bring himself to so much self-
denial. Selfish love had for the
time the mastery of him. Nor was
there wanting, as there seldom is
wanting when the heart inclines to

baseness, a plausible excuse. After
all, was it not too late to go back 1
Welcome though release would be
to her, would she not despise him
for having all this while been de-
ceiving her ? Might she not even
spurn him altogether, and so be lost
to him for ever? And he could
not bring himself to face the possi-
bility of such a blow. The mis-
chief, then, was done already, and
could not be undone. After all, she
need never know of this condition.
But as he finally came to this re-
solve, his conscience told him that
if she did ever find out his treach-
ery, she would never forgive him ;
at any rate, that he would deserve
not to be forgiven.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Clifford's continued absence
from Charles Street was naturally
ascribed by his aunt to the dis-
covery which she fancied she had
made. His marriage having been
found out, as she supposed, he
would of course be ashamed to face
his relations, and could hardly do
otherwise than stay away and await
the consequences of the discovery ;
and if Mrs S call an had been still
alone she would have set about
taking some steps to pursue the
matter further. But it was not
the good lady's habit to take the
initiative in anything while her
husband was at hand, and he was
just now so preoccupied with his
own affairs that it was impossible
to interest him in anything else.
On the only occasion when she
tried to broach the subject, he had
repulsed her even more savagely
than usual ; and, indeed, she was
herself so much absorbed in watch-
ing him that she had little time to
think about her nephew ; while
Blanche, who had her own reasons
for keeping silence on the subject,
displayed an equal indifference

when her mother referred to it.
Mrs Scallan saw very little of her
husband during this time. He was
absent for the greater part of the
daytime, and often till late at
night, and when at home he was
generally closeted with strangers.
He would breakfast alone before
his wife and daughter were up, and
the family seldom met except at
dinner, when he would drink so
hard as to be unfit for conversation
afterwards. Mrs Scallan had often
known her husband in difficulties,
but she had never seen him like
this before. He used always to be
cheery and hopeful at such times ;
and, in fact, whatever temporary
eclipses he h^d suffered at various
periods of his career, he had always
emerged more confident and appar-
ently more prosperous than ever.
But now his buoyant manner had
forsaken him except in his cups,
and, even after drinking, his sleep
was uneasy and disturbed. Per-
haps the poor wife learnt more of his
affairs then than he imparted to her
when awake.

She felt it to be a very bad

1881.]

The Private Secretary. — Part X,

187

symptom tliat no ready money was
forthcoming. " Don't bother your-
self about such a trifle as that/' he
said, when she was obliged to ask
him for some. '* There is no place
like London for living in without
spending money, especially when
you have established your credit by
spending so much already." And
so, under Mr Scallan's orders, the
business of the household went on
as usual. The poor lady with an
aching heart paid and received vis-
its, and she and Blanche partook
of such amusements as came in
their way. Captain Burrard was
very much in the house, and accom-
panied them on more than one
occasion to the theatres or the
opera. Except that she was so
preoccupied about her husband, it
would certainly have struck Mrs
Scallan as singular that Blanche
displayed so little interest in the
disclosure of her cousin's affairs,
repressing her mother's confidence
with even more than her usual
brusqueness. If he was married,
she said, when her mother began
to talk about the matter, as no
doubt he was, what was the good
of saying so over and over again 1
Things would all come right sooner
or later, and there was no need to
make a fuss about them. She had
no mind to play the part of a jilted
lover, and did not want condolence
from her or anybody else.

One afternoon when Blanche,
who had driven out to do some
shopping by herself, was still ab-
sent, Mr Scallan returned home.
His wife did not know of his arrival
at first, for she had not expected
him so soon, and he had let himself
in with his latch-key ; but happen-
ing to go down to his room she
found it locked. After a little
hesitation she knocked gently, and
presently he came to the door and
opened it. He was engaged in
sorting papers, with which the
table was covered, and a heap of

cinders in the grate showed that he
had been burning some. His small
restless eyes seemed more restless
than ever. "I wanted to see you,"
he said; ''you are just in time.
Bring me in some sherry and bis-
cuits, there's a good girl ; but don't
let any one know I am here."

She got these and brought them
in to him. "i^ow," he said, turn-
ing to his work of sorting the papers
on the table, " I am nearly ready.
I must clear out sharp, old woman,
and that's a fact. I have held on
quite as long as was safe. I want
you to pack my bag for me ; put a
clean shirt or two in, and bring it
down here. Are any of the ser-
vants about 1 "

"They have just gone to their
tea?"

"Well, take care that none of
them see what you are after.
Where is Blanche?"

" She went out immediately
after lunch. She said she had
some shopping to do. She sent the
carriage home a long time ago,
with a message that she would
walk back. I cannot think why
she has not returned."

" Well, look sharp and bring the
bag down, but mind you take care
that no one sees you." And as
sh^ went out he locked the door
again.

When Mrs Scallan returned to
the room she did not at first recog-
nise her husband, and thought for
an instant some one else had taken
his place, so disguised was he by a
big moustache, whiskers, and beard
of dark brown, and a pair of col-
oured spectacles, which, however,
did not conceal the sparkle of his
restless little eyes.

"That's right," he said, as he
took the bag from her; "now
Molly, my dear, I must be ofi^,
sharp."

" Oh, William ! " cried the poor
woman, "something dreadful has
happened, I can see."

188

TJie Private Secretary, —Part X,

[Aug.

^' Something awkward might
happen, Molly, if I didn't keep
out of the way for a bit, but I
expect to be safe enough by to-
morrow morning."

"But where are you going,
William 1 Is it very far away 1 "
She understood the implied danger,
and although full of distress at his
desertion of her, the desire that he
should escape prevented her from
thinking much about herself. '' Is
it something very bad, "William,
this time ? '' she added.

"The less said about it the
better, my girl," said Scallan. " I
made a good fight of it as long as I
could ; but things beat me at last,
and I was driven to do more than I
intended. That's about the long
and short of it. It's easy enough
to be honest when everything goes
smooth, and no one can say I have
not been a free man with my
money, and done many a liberal
thing for others in my time; but
damn it, there's no generosity left
in the world, I think. Well, I am
about played out now, I guess. I
played for high stakes, and if
things had gone well you nor any
one else would ever have heard
a word against me. And there's
many a man, I'll be bound, who
holds his head high enough now,
who has done just as bad, and worse,
only he has never be( n found out ;
that makes all the difference, don't
you seel They will paint me black
enough now, I don't doubt. There
will be enough heard about me in a
day or two, I expect."

** And where do you mean to go
to first, William % You may trust
me, surely. I won't give a hint, even
to Blanche, if you tell me not to."

** Well, I think it's just as well
not to expose you to temptation,
my dear," replied Scallan, a gleam
of cunning replacing the look of
desperation his face had just worn.
" A secret's only a secret as long as
it's not known, you see."

The prospect of being left alone
to face the coming storm rose awful
before the poor wife, but she still
thought first of her husband, and
did not express her anxiety further
than to say — " I suppose you can't
take Blanche and me with you,
William 1 " She knew it was use-
less to ask it, and her way of speak-
ing showed this, but she could not
help asking.

"I think I shall do better with-
out encumbrances just at present,"
he replied, more mildly than she
expected. "But," he continued ,
looking at his watch, "it is time
for me to be off." He took a couple
more glasses of wine, and then
opening the door cautiously, he
said, "Good-bye, Molly dear, you
shall come and join me as soon as I
see the way to manage it," and gave
her as much of a kiss as the hairy
state of his disguise permitted.
" Blast these summer evenings," he
said, peering into the hall, " it never
grows dark in this infernal country !
just look out, will you, and make
sure that no one is about."

Mrs Scallan stole cautiously into
the hall. It was now getting dusk
in the house, although the long
summer evening had not yet come
to an end. She looked up the stair-
case and into the dining-room. A
man had been laying the table for
dinner, but was now gone down-
stairs. Tae way seemed clear, and
she made a sign to her husband,
who emerged from his room, and,
opening the hall door, noiselessly-
slunk out, bag in hand. His wife
closed it after him ; then returning
to his room, she restored the sherry
decanter to its place in the side-
board of the dining-room, and put
away the biscuits ; and taking the
wine-glass up-stairs to her room,
wrapped in her handkerchief^ lest
she should meet anybody, washed
it and brought it down again to the
dining-room.

As she came out again into the

1881.]

The Private Secretary. — Part X,

189

hall she met the footman coming
up from the basement, and had the
courage to ask him if Mr Scallan
had been home that afternoon, and
the man's manner showed that he
had no suspicion of what had passed.
'*I do not think he will dine at
home to-day," she said. " We will
not wait dinner for him; we will
have it as soon as Miss Scallan
comes home."

But the dinner -hour came and

Blanche had not returned. Mrs
Scallan sat trembling in the draw-
ing-room, at the window, looking
out into the twilight for her
daughter. So long as her husband
had to be thought of her courage had
been sustained ; but now that there
remained nothing to do but to await
the catastrophe his flight announced,
she felt utterly broken down, and
the absence of her daughter seemed
to portend some fresh disaster.

CHAPTER XXXV.

The night was fine, and as the
Dover mail-boat cut her way across
the calm water, its smooth surface
was broken only by the passing
farrow made by the steamer^s pas-
sage. But the air passed through
so quickly was cool and fresh, and
one of the passengers, wrapping his
own shawl tenderly round his com-
panion, presently left her side and
began walking up and down the
deck to keep himself warm. He
was a young man, and as he trod
the deck, his light step seemed to
indicate a joyous mood. As well
it might, for he was carrying off his
lady-love on a h<Jneymoon trip.
Now and again he would return to
his companion, who wore a thick
veil, although it was night, and
seemed by her shrinking manner
to shun observation.

The vessel, although not crowded,
was full, and his seat had now been
taken by a lady, so that private
conversation with his companion
was impracticable, and the young
man went forward and leant over
the bow to look at Calais lights,
now rapidly nearing.

Another passenger also came for-
ward and stood beside him.

" A splendid passage," observed
this gentleman presently, between
the puffs of his cigar. *' We shall
do it in one-twenty, there or there-
abouts."

The familiar tones of the voice
made the other turn round to look
at the speaker, and he was himself
immediately recognised. ^'Clifford!
by all that's wonderful," cried Bur-
rard — for it was he — "this is in-
deed a coincidence ! 1 fancied that
I saw some one very like you
coming on board, but I was rather
preoccupied, so did not follow up
the idea. And you not alone
either. If I don't mistake, you
are travelling with your "

" My wife 1 Yes ; we are going
to make a little trip on the Con-
tinent."

** Just my case," replied Burrard.
'' I was married to-day, and we are
bound on our honeymoon trip."

Clifford made an involuntary
start, a suspicion of the truth flash-
ing on his mind.

"A curious coincidence, isn't
it?" continued Burrard. "Al-
though our cases are not exactly
similar, for yours is hardly a wed-
ding-tour, whereas I was married
only a few hours ago. We must
go a little way back, I take it, for
the date of your wedding-day 1 "

Clifford nodded assent. He bad
scarcely realised yet all that was
implied in his friend's news; but
Hilda's reputation must be saved
at any cost.

" Yes," resumed the other, " you
have been a sly fellow. No offence

190

The Private Secretary. — Part X.

[Aug.

between friends, you know, — in
fact, I am bound to speak without
reserve, because my fortunes have
become involved in yours, don't
you seel So long as I believed
you were going to make a match
with your cousin, it would have
been an unwarrantable breach of
friendship to interfere. But since
you chose to be so Qaixotic as to
throw away your fortune, why
should not I step in and console
the poor little cousin as well as
another man 1 So here we are, and
no grudge on either side, I hope.
I knew you were a man who did
not care about money, but I must
say I did not think you were quite
so disinterested as to throw away
five thousand a-year. But what
won't a man do when there is a
woman in the case ? However, the
thing is done, and there is no good
in saying anything more about it.
I suppose you have looked the thing
in the face, and see your way to get
along without Blanche's money. Mrs
Scallan tells me you have saved
ever so much already, and I am
sure I hope you have. But now
won't you introduce me to the lady
in form 1 You know I have never
had the opportunity of speaking to
her, although I have had the plea-
sure of seeing her."

Clifford muttered something about
his wife being unwell.

"Well, then," said Burrard,
" come and see my little girl, she
is sitting somewhere over there;
you owe her an apology for treating
her so cavalierly, but we neither of
us bear you any grudge, I assure
you. Come along, she will be de-
lighted to see you." And passing
his arm through Clifford's, Burrard
led him to the bench where Blanche
was seated.

The bride saluted him more cor-
dially and unaffectedly than she
had ever done before. " Fancy
you, of all men in the world," she

said, holding out her hand, *' being
so romantic ! But I compliment
you on your taste, sir. Having
seen my rival, I can understand
how you came to treat me so
badly."

" But you have been a little
romantic too, my fair cousin, have
you not]" replied Clifford, who
had now recovered his composure ;
'* this is surely a very sudden
affair?"

" Would you have had Blanche
pining away for a twelvemonth
because forsaken by her faithless
swain ? " said Burrard. " But you
are right there, my boy, it was
sudden, although not quite in
Gretna Green form. I gave the
required notice according to law,
and we were married before the
registrar this morning, and mamma
and papa would know of it only
this evening. The society journals
will have something to write about
for a week or two, won't they?
This little thing," — patting his
wife's cheek playfully, — " will be
quite a celebrity for a time."

" But surely," said Clifford, " this
is the part of Lydia Languish re-
versed. I should have thought that
both parties beibg so unexception-
able, beauty and wealth allied to
rank and fashion, there would be
no need to make a secret about it."

Blanche was sitting on a camp-
stool on the middle of the upper
deck, so that the party could talk
thus freely without being over-
heard.

*' True, my dear boy," replied
Burrard, '* there was no need for
concealment here ; there was no
loss of a large fortune involved in
the discovery. I don't want to
imply for a moment that was your
case," he added hastily, noticing
that Clifford made an involuntary
start, '^ but still there were reasons
why we should want to get the
matter out of hand quickly; and

1881.]

The Private Secretary. — Part X,

191

this" — again patting Blanche on the
cheek — ^'is such a romantic child
that she much prefeis having it so.
Anyhow the thing is done. We
were married this morning at a
registry office, and here we are on
our wedding trip; and we must
make the most of it, mustn't we,
my loYel for I have to he hack
again and at work in a few days.
Business with me must follow close
on the steps of pleasure."

"But whereahouts is Mrs Clif-
ford % " said Blanche. " You must
introduce me again, Eohert, for the
last was not a regular introduction,
you know." Blanche's manner was
more hearty and natural than it
had ever heen hefore.

Just then a movement among the
passengers announced that the
steamer was nearing its destination,
and Clifford, evading the proposal
to introduce his cousin to Hilda,
said he must go to look after his
packages. '' Well, then," said
Burrani, as they parted, '' we must
try to get the same carriage on to
Paris: there will he sure to he a
crash ; let us keep together."

Clifford was making off towards
the quarter-deck where he had left
Hilda, but, suddenly taming, took
Burrard's arm, saying, ''Just one
word with you. I gathered from
what you said just now that it
was supposed I had heen secretly
married in order to evade the con-
ditions on which I have been hold-
ing the property. Is that really
believed of me?"

"Well, my dear fellow, I did
not put it that way, but since you
ask me, of course I can't help say-
ing that it is not apparent what
other motive should have prompted
the mystery. For, as I understand,
the lady is very charming and all
that, so that there is no apparent
reason for concealment as far as
she is concerned. But all this, of
course, is supposing that you are

VOL. CZXX. — ^NO. DCCXC.

married. There's no mistake about
that, is there % " he asked; noticing
the other's hesitation. " You are
married, ain't you ! Blanche told
it me as a positive fact."

"Blanche, of course, is always
quite accurate," said Clifford, feeling
that Hilda must be saved at all
hazards.

"Thank you, that is very satis-
factory," replied the other, although
not feeling quite so assured as he
professed himself, " because if you
had not been married, but had
merely been playing the Don Juan
with us, I should have made rather
a mess of it. Murder will out, no
doubt, and your marriage must have
been known before long : the only
objection I see to your line of
action, as a matter of business, is
that your income ought properly to
have become my wife's from the day
on which your marriage took place,
so that if the secret had been kept
much longer, there might have been
an awkward accumulation of arrears
to be refunded. However, I don't
want on her part to be exacting."

" Do not be under the smallest
apprehension on that score, Bur-
rard; the bulk of the estate goes
to my cousin, according to the pro-
visions of the will, and she shall be
paid all that is due to her to the
utteimost farthing. I give you my
word for that."

"Thanks, my dear fellow ; I never
doubted your good faith for one
moment. I knew everything would
be all square where you a^e con-
cerned. But here we are close
alongside of the pier; we must
look after our respective brides."

Clifford had not responded to his
friend's invitation to share a car-
riage with him, knowing that Hilda,
who had in vain tried to conceal
from him the feeling of shame
which possessed her throughout
th'e journey, would prefer the soli-
tude afforded by the company of

192

Tlie Private Secretary, — Part X,

[Aug,

strangers for fellow -passengers to
travelling with people who knew
her ; so finding one compartment
of the train a&eady occupied hy
four travellers, he secured the two
remaining seats. The other per-
sons appeared to he all foreigners,
and did not attempt to open con-
versation, which was just what he
knew Hilda would wish ; and after
seeing that she was made comfort-
able in her place, he too remained
silent. This was not a time for
commonplaces, and Hilda would
not like him to he demonstrative :
throughout the journey so far she
had shrunk from any attempt on
his part to treat her as a bride.

Soon the strangers composed
themselves to sleep : whether she
was sleeping he could not tell, but,
for his part, he had sufficient food
for thought to keep him wide
awake. At the first moment of
making the discovery of his cousin's
presence on board the steamer, he
had not realised all the conse-
quences involved in it, but now
these came up clear before him.
From the first moment of starting,
indeed, the joy had not been un-
alloyed. He had gained his object,
and was bearing off the woman of
his heart in search of love and
happiness ; but already he had dis-
covered that happiness is not al-
ways to be got merely by seeking
after it. Already his happiness in
having gained Hilda had a flaw in
it, due, as his conscience told him,
to a deviation from the path of
honour. He did not repent of
having won a sacrifice from Hilda,
believing that his fidelity and scru-
pulous respect would soon place
her at her ease ; but ever since the
day when she consented to be his,
his conscience continued to re-
proach him for having deceived
her. Yet the first sin against the
woman he had won was as nothing
compared with that he was about

to perpetrate, if, after this discovery,
he still pursued the course whither
they were now tending; and he
knew Hilda well enough to feel
sure that she would never forgive
him, should she discover that he
had betrayed her under false pre-
tences. Yet this was what he was
now about to do; for the revela-
tion just given made it clear that
the sacrifice he had demanded of
her was now no longer necessary.
His cousin having been the first to
break the conditions of the will, he
was set free to marry Hilda. It
could not even be alleged that he
was in any way to blame for the
mistake into which Blanche had
fallen in supposing him to have
married Hilda already. She had
evidently jumped to a conclusion
which a little inquiry and patience
would have shown to be unfounded.
He had thus recovered his fortune
through his cousin's precipitancy.
But this hardly cost him a thought ;
and, indeed, he had distinctly re-
nounced the fortune thus regained
by his declaration to Burrard. It
was the difficulty of deciding how-
to act towards the gentle, trustful
creature sitting motionless beside
him, all unconscious of this hidden
crisis in the plot enacting round
her, that possessed and harassed
him. At one moment his duty
would seem clear, but at the next,
doubts would unite with inclination
to restrain him. For this step back-
wards, which might have been so
easy, was it not rendered almost
impossible after what he told Bur-
rard, leading him and his cousin
to believe that he was married al-
ready ? After such a statement his
denial of it would not be be-
lie vel^ by anybody. To separate
now from Hilda till they could be
married would not therefore save
her reputation. That could only be
preserved by persisting in the false-
hood. And now, his conscience

1881.]

Tlie Private Secretary, — Part X.

193

once aroused, he reflected with re-
morse that if he had not won her
to this step of flying with him hj
his importanity, hacked up hy the
deception of withholding from her
knowledge the reserved conditions
of the will, he would not have heen
driven into trying to shield her hy
a lie. Thus one dereliction from
the truth had led on to another.
And his feelings now aroused to
an almost morhid pitch of intensity,
the arguments hy which he had
endeayoured to win her to his pur-
pose now seemed to him disingenu-
ons sophistry. Kor, he thought,
did they impose on her. She has
yielded, not to the force of my
arguments, hut under a nohle im-
pulse of self-sacrifice. But I can
see that the greatness of that sacri-
fice is weighing her down. She is
not like a trustful, happy hride;
time for reflection has hrought
shame and dismay ; the tremhling
bride who met me last night at the
station was a different woman from
the trustful lover I parted from four
days ago. She shrinks from my
caresses ; and if she tries to appear
more at ease than she really feels,
it is to save me from distress. Her
mind still dwells on what she
deems the sacrifice I have made in
preferring her love to money. How
different is her aspect from that of
Blanche ! Blanche on her wed-
ding-day has become quite unaf-
fected and gay; my bride is sad
and distraught.

Then he began to revolve in his
mind a plan for separating himself
from Hilda at the end of their
journey, and finding some iemale
companion who might accompany
her back to England. H^ would
follow them^ and then, as soon as
the fact of Blanche's marriage was
established, he could wed Hilda.
There might be some delay in mak-
ing sure of the fact, if the marriage
was a secret one ; but what would

be the delay of a few days, or even
a few weeks, if followed hy a happy
life ! But must, then, all this pre-
paration and planning come to
nought] Hilda had heen won, and
was now sitting by his side — ^his
love, his bride, his own, his wife in
soul and will ; and was he to give
her up at the last moment, and
their union to be suhject to all the
chances and uncertainties awaiting
them in the unknown future ? And
after all, the sacrifice would not
suffice to save her reputation. She
had been seen travelling with him
by those most interested in pub-
lishing the fact, and he had himself
declared that they were living toge-
ther. Thus his own falsehood made
retreat useless. No ; he was only per-
plexing himself with what he flat-
tered himself to be excess of scruple.
Then his conscience whispered to
him, why not put the case to Hilda
herself, and let her decide? But
he could not make up his mind to
do this, knowing in his heart what
her answer would be. He hardly
knew indeed how eagerly she would
have welcomed the chance of escape
even now, although he could not
but be sensible of her obvious de-
jection. Hilda's feelings, in truth,
had undergone a great change since
the day of their last meeting. At
first, after consenting to his pro-
posal, she had been borne up by
the sense of self-sacrifice, so sweet
to many a woman's heart ; and the
preparations for her journey, and
the business of setting her home in
order, had scarcely left time for
thinking about herself. But now,
on this long journey, which gave
no opportunity for distraction by
conversation, but left her thoughts
free to pursue their own course, all
her distrust of herself, and shame
at her conduct, came back again in
full force. Had her lover claimed
her at once when first she promised
to yield to him, the shock would

194

The Private Secretary. — Part X,

[Aug.

have been leas; but all this cere-
mony and preparation of a mock
wedding-tour, although deyised, as
she knew, out of consideration for
her, added to the sense of degra-
dation which possessed her, now
worked up to a morbid state. At
Dover, and again at Calais, she had
been on the point of appealing to
her companion to leave her to her-
self to find her way back alone ;
what to do then she knew not — all
she desired was to escape. But a
feeling of pity for him restrained
her. She knew what a blow to
him would be such an avowal.
Just now fatigue and mental weari-

ness made her feel more resigned,
although not more happy ; but the
least suspicion of what was passing
in her lover's mind would have
brought back all her energies to act
for her preservation. If he doubted,
she was saved.

But although unable to resolve
his doubts himself, as passion and
conscience alternately possessed
him, he did not impart them to
her, finally excusing himself men-
tally under the plea that, in her
over-sensitive state, she could not
take a just view of the position.
Meanwhile the train sped on its
course.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Burrard and his bride, looking
about like the other passengers on
Calais pier for seats in the train,
had found a vacant coupe, and were
congratulating themselves on their
good luck, — for although there had
been plenty of room in the English
train, the French one as usual was
closely packed. But just as they
were about to start, the door was
opened, and a solitary traveller,
who had stayed on board till the
last, and was now trying to find a
place, was pushed in by the con-
ductor, and in another moment the
train started.

" This is a bore," whispered Bur-
rard to his bride : " serves mo right
for not having telegraphed to secure
a eaupS. However, he is a foreigner,
so he won't understand what we
say. You may make love to me as
much as you like."

In the noise made by the train,
confidential remarks of this sort, if
made in a low voice, with faces in
close proximity, could not be heard
by a third party.

" An Englishman, I should say,"
replied Blanche, ** from his way of
coming in without making a bow."

'^That is because he has been

living among us, and caught our
ways. He's a Frenchman, 1*11 bet
you a pair of gloves against a kiss ;
only a Frenchman would muffle
himself up in that way on such a
night." And, indeed, the third
occupant of the coupe wore a large
hood over his head, as if it were
winter, which left little visible of
his face but a large moustache and
beard, and eyes concealed by col-
oured spectacles.

"Do you know, my girl," said
Burrard presently to Blanche, as
he played with her gloved hand in
a patronising way, "I don't feel
altogether sure about your cousin
being married after all."

"Kot after what he said just
now ? Why, he confessed it plain-

ly."

" Yes, to you ; and so he did to
me. But you should have seen
how he spoke the first time. The
lady was here, you see, and so he
was bound to say it. How did
you come to know about it, my
child f I have always forgotten to
ask you that 1"

"I' judged by appearances, of
course. Mamma and I smpriBed
Eobert and the lady in his cham-

1881.]

The Frioate Secretary, — Part X.

195

bera one day, you know. Mamma
thought just what you did, and so
did I at first; but it was quite
plain she was his wife/'

«* Why quite plain?"

" From their manner of behav-
ing, of course."

'^ What was their manner like ?
Anything like this?" And Bur-
rard, passing one hand round his
bride's waist, still fondling her
hand with the other, rested his
head coolly on her shoulder.

" For shame, Cyril ; that person
will see you if you don't take care.
!No; Eobert behaved much more
prettily than you do, I can tell
you, sir. But there was no mis-
take about it."

** I wish there may not be, my
girl, or we shall bave made a mess
of it by being in such a hurry.
But what's done can't be undone,
can it ? Particularly the little cere-
mony we have gone through to-
day." And Borrard, leaning back,
recalled the conversation he had had
with Clifford, and recollected with
satisfaction the distinctness with
which the latter had renounced his
fortune. There could be no mis-
take about that part of the con-
versation, at any rate. Thus mus-
ing, he soon fell asleep, and Blanche
shortly followed his example.

The short night was over when
they reached Amiens, and the
young couple left their carriages,
like the other passengers, to get
some coffee and bread at the bufi'et.
There they encountered Clifford,
but there was not time to ex-
change many words, for he was
hurrying with some refreshments
to Hilda, who declined to leave her
carriage. On returning to their
eoupSy the young couple found their
fellow traveller still sitting there.

"Kot going to take anything,
sir?" said Burrard to him, as he
passed by him to his own seat.
"There is not much time to be
lost."

"Thank you," said the other,
"but I am not hungry."

Burrard started as the stranger
spoke, and looked at Blanche, who
seemed, like him, surprised. The
similarity of the voice to one they
knew had struck them both; but
they said nothing, and the journey
was resumed in silence. Burrard
kept awake, but Blanche fell asleep
again, and so did the stranger, sit-
ting forward in an uneasy attitude
with nodding head.

The train was n earing Paris when
Burrard woke Blanche, and whis-
pered to her to bend forward and
look at the traveller.

As his head rubbed against the
cushion, the dark wig became dis-
placed, showing the red natural
hair beneath. The artificial whis-
ker and moustache also were dis-
arranged and out of place.

"Queer Street, evidently," ob-
served Burrard in a low voice, after
scanning the features of the sleep-
ing man. " I say, Blanche," he
whispered presently, "did you
know anything of this?"

Blanche blushed as she said
" no," and conscious that she was
blushing, added, " I knew that my
father was speculating, of course;
that's his business. I am afraid
something must have happened.
I am sure I don't know what it is."

And indeed the hints of what
Mr Scallan had confided to his
wife, which that lady had from
time to time passed on to her
daughter, had siways been impart-
ed with the proviso that Blanche
was not to be supposed to know
anything about the matter, and
that terrible consequences would
befall her mother if Mr Scallan
found out that she was divulging
what he told her. So that the
young lady was able to satisfy her
conscience with the reservation that
these had been privileged communi-
cations. "I knew that papa was
mixed up in speculations, and

196

The Private Secretary, — Part X,

[Aug.

things of that sort, of course," she
again whispered, as Burrard did
not at once reply ; " but he never
told me anything about them. I
always thought he was as rich
as CroBSUs. I am sure he always
made mamma and me live as if he
wera Something dreadful must
have happened. What can it be 1 "
And Blanche looked at her husband
as if he could penetrate the mystery,
thinking how fortunate it was that
the marriage had taken place before
the crash had come which her
father's appearance portended.

Burrard looked at his bride with
a shrewd smile, which made her
wince.

"Well, my little one," he said
presently, in a good-tempered tone,
" however the case may stand, we
must make the best of it. This
respectable gentleman with the
false hair was the pillar on which
I intended to build up my fortune,
and the pillar is obviously smashed
to bits. So that, instead of making
a fortune, I shall have to live upon
yours, my girl. It is just as well our
friend Clifford has gone aad made
an ass of himself. I meant you to
have been a rich lady, but we must
face our poverty now, and do the
best we can on five thousand a-year.
But perhaps in the fulness of time
my little girl will be a countess,
and then she wiU be consoled."

And Blanche, as he spake these
reassuring words, thought to herself
that when she did become a coun-
tess, she should not be so afraid of
her husband as she felt herself to
be DOW.

Here the conversation dropped;
and indeed their discovery was of a
kind to give both of them food for
silent reflection. The train was
now approaching Paris. Mr Scal-
lan was still sleeping uneasily.
Burrard gave him a nudge, and
he started with an appearance of
alarm, but as soon as he compre-
hended where he was, he began to

arrange his hair, now altogether
awry. While he was thus engaged,
Burrard stooped down, and opening
the dressing-bag which was at his
feet, took out a looking-glass, and
handed it to him. "I doubt if
you will be able to manage it with-
out the use of this, sir," he said ;
"at any rate, your friends will
recognise you, Mr Scallan."

Mr Scallan took the glass me-
chanically, and holding it in his
hand, gazed stupidly at the other,
as if unable to say anything.

" You had better look sharp, sir,"
continued Burrard; "we shall be
there in a minute, and you certainly
won't pass muster as you are now."

Scallan made no answer, but ap-
plied himself busily to adjust his
false hair. Burrard too remained
silent; he did not well know
what to say. Presently he ob-
served, "I would put that hood
down, if I were you. It is just as
well not to overdo it. And you
might cut those moustaches short-
er with advantage, likewise the
beard. Here is a pair of scissors.*'

Scallan took the scissors without
raising objection, and began to do
as the other recommended. He
had just returned the implement
when the train ran into the ter-
minus.

" It's a bad business, I suppose ? "
said Burrard, as Scallan, bag in
hand, was making ready to leave
the train so soon as it should stop.
" A sensation piece, I conclude, to
end like this in a transformation
scene % "

" I am afraid things are in rather
a bad way with me just now," re-
plied Scallan, meekly. " I was ob-
liged to leave very hurriedly, and
I dare say, in my absence, my con-
duct will be misrepresented. I was
very unlucky, sir, very unlucky ;
and then I had to do with a pack
of infernal rogues, who have got off
scot-free, and be damned to them."

There never yet was a man in

1881.]

The Private Secretary, — Part X.

197

Scallan's position who was not,
according to his own account, the
Tictim of circumstances, or of otheis
more to hlame than himself.

*^l8 it a case of Bow Street, or
warrants, or anything of that sorti''
asked Burrard, significantly.

" Well, sir, things might be liable
to misconception, and that's a fact ;
and so I think I had better keep
out of the way for a bit. But I
hope they will come round all right
in time. I only want time, sir, — I
only want time."

His nervous, terror-stricken man-
ner, however, sufficiently belied
the confidence expressed in words.
Never a prepossessing man, he
looked now exactly what he was, a
rogue trying to escape from justice.
The discovery of his identity had
completely unnerved him. He
stood up now, bag in hand, with
his other hand on the door, ready
to spring out as soon as the carriage
should stop.

"From the way in which you
put it,'' said Burrard, *' I am afraid
it must be a bad job, and that I
cannot be of any help to you, other-
wise 1 should feel bound to do what
I could in your behalf. And I
don't want to trouble you with
domestic affairs when you are so
preoccupied, but you ought to know
one thing. Haven't you noticed
who my companion is — Mrs Bur-
rard? Blanche, my own, you had
better say good-bye to your papa."
Impressed by the grotesqueness of
the situation, he could not help lay-
ing a sarcastic stress on the last
word.

Scallan turned round to look at
his daughter, who leant towards
him with a flushed face; but he
was too flurried to say anything
appropriate. " I thought it might
be her," he mumbled to Burrard.
'' I am glad you have found a good
husband, my dear," he added, to his
daughter. " I wish you every hap-
piness, I am sure."

" You are not going to stay long
in Paris, I suppose ? " said Burrard.
"Where are you bound? Your
plans are quite safe with me, you
know."

"Well, my plans are not quite
settled yet, sir, but I will write and
let you know as soon as ever I can.
I am a most unfortunate man, I
do assure you, — a most unfortunate
man. I must take precautions, and
keep quiet for a bit."

Just then the train came to a
stop, and Scallan hastened to open
the door. " One moment," said
Burrard, detaining him just as he
was stepping out j " how about Mrs
Scallan ? Have you left her alone
in London? All alone?" he re-
peated, as the other assented by a
nod. " But of course you did not
know that Blanche was coming
away. And she is not too well pro-
vided with cash, I suppose ? "

" She has some money, I believe,
sir, and I hope to send her more
shortly. But really I must not
stay," and releasing himself from
the other's hold, Scallan stepped
out and hurried down the platform,
looking neither to right nor left.

I have put my foot into it, and
no mistake, was Burrard's mental
reflection, as he watched the retreat-
ing figure. This comes of being
impulsive. To think that ruffian
should be my father-in-law ! Well,
it is no good crying over spilt milk,
and he won't be able to claim the
relationship for some time, which
is a comfort. "Blanche, my girl,"
he said, turning to his wife, as they
stood waiting for a porter to carry
their things, " have you realised the
fact that your mamma is left all
alone in London?"

" Poor mamma ! " said Blanche,
consigning her dressing-bag to a
porter, — " that is very sad."

" It throws our arrangements
out too."

"How so, Cyril dear?"

" Why, we must cut our trip

193

The Private Secretary, — Part X

[Ang.

Abort, and go back and look after
ber."

"Must we, CyriH" asked bis
bride, and a look of disappoint-
ment passed oyer ber pretty face.

** Wby of course, my cbild, we
must. We couldn't leave tbe poor
lady all alone witb tbis terrible
trouble coming on ber. We must
go and fetcb ber away out of tbe
row at any rate. You wouldn't
wisb us to do less tban tbat, would
your*

" Of course I sbouldn't, Cyril
dear," but ber face did not at once
assume a cbeerful expression. To
say notbing of baving to give up
tbe promised Continental tour witb
tbe man of ber cboice, tbe prospect
wbicb seemed now to present itself
of ber motber making one in tbeir
new bousebold, was not a pleasur-
able one.

" I knew you would tbink witb
me about it It's a bore to bave to
go back again so soon, but it can't
be belped. However, we must make
tbe best of wbat time we bave.
Come along."

Tbe process of awaiting tbe de-
livery of tbe baggage at a Paris
terminus is never an agreeable one,
especially after a nigbt's travelling.
Few women look to advantage
under sucb conditions; but al-
tbougb Blancbe owed some part
of ber appearance to tbe secrete of
tbe toilet, tbe dark eyes, tbe clear
complexion, and tbe ricb outlines
of a fine figure were graces wbicb
were independent of an artificial
setting. Few women stood less in
need of adventitious aids to beauty.
Sbe bad slept well, and was but
little fatigued. Seen even under
present disadvantages in tbe crowd-
ed salle d'attente^ a parcel in eacb
band — ^for tbey bad more packages
tban Burrard could carry bimself —
Blancbe migbt still attract attention
by ber striking beauty. Hilda's
loveliness too, owing so mucb as
it did to sweetness and intelligence

of expression, was not of a kind to
wane from a nigbt's exposure. But
sbe was tired, and sat on a bencb,
waiting till tbe luggage sbould be
brougbt out, wbile CUfiford, stand-
ing before ber, sbielded her from
tbe observation wbicb be could see
sbe dreaded to encounter.

As be stood tbus, fondly watcb-
ing ber, bis mind still a prey to
doubt and irresolution, tbe expres-
sion of frigbtened modesty em-
bodied in tbe pose of tbe sbrinking
figure toucbed bis beart witb pity.
Even now, be tbougbt, it is not
too late to act an bonest, unselfisb
part, and preserve for ber tbe
purity sbe covets. A word of ex-
planation, and sbe may yet be
saved.

Just tben tbe doors of tbe salle
were tbrown open, and tbe porters
from tbe inner ball entered witb
tbe luggage. Clifibrd pressed for-
ward witb tbe otber passengers to
claim bis boxes : tbe decision be-
tween rigbt and wrong must still
be deferred for a few moments
longer.

Tbere was tbe usual scene of
bustle and confusion, and tbe por-
ters, boxes on sboulder, asked if
tbey sbould put tbem into a cab.
Clifford, standing witb Hilda by
bis side, on tbe outer steps of tbe
station, nodded assent. But s(ill
be did not move forward. Even
now it is not too late to separate
tbeir tbings ; be migbt explain mat-
ters as tbey drove away.

Hilda berself looked at bim witb
surprise, as be stood tbus irresolute,
unable to make up bis mind.

"Here you are again, Clifford
my boy," cried a voice from bebind,
and Burrard witb Blancbe came
out of tbe waiting-room, followed
by tbeir porters, " We are clear of
tbis pandemonium at last. I bope
Madame is none tbe worse for ber
journey. You must introduce me
now, Clifford, or perbaps I may be
allowed to introduce myself; You

1881.]

Tlie Private Secretary. — Part X.

199

must have often heard of me, I am
sure, Mrs Clifford," he continued,
taking off his hat and bowing;
''and I have had the pleasure of
seeing yon more than once before,
although under different circum-
stances. We shall become better
acquainted soon, I hope. My little
'wife, too, is dying to know more of
you. Come here, Blanche, and
shake hands with Mrs Clifford."
And so saying, he took his bride,
who was just behind him, by the
arm, and pushed her forward, and
the ladies exchanged salutations.

'' Clifford has been a sad sly fel-
low," he added, "but he has made
it all square now, and we can all of
us understand that his gain has
been well worth the sacrifice of
worldly goods he has made. Are
you going to stay long in Paris % "

Clifford answered for her that
their plans were not settled, but that
they thought their stay would be
short

" So must ours be. We must go
back very soon. Business will take
us back — deuced unpleasant busi-

ness it is, too. You are sure to
hear all about it in good time.
After all we shan't lose much. I
expect Paris will be infernally hot.
Just feel what it is already at this
time of the morning. But we
ought to be starting. Where are
you stopping?"

Clifford mentioned the name of
his hotel.

"Ah, that is a snug little place,
but quiet. We have got a suite of
rooms at the ' Grand/ A bridal
tour, you see; we are obliged to do
things in style. Now an old mar-
ried couple like you can do as you
please. Good-bye. I hope we shall
meet again soon." And Burrard
ascending into the carriage after his
wife, the two drove away.

** An old married couple ! " said
Clifford to himself, repeating the
other's words. " What is the use
of over - refinements and conceal-
ments now ? The die is cast. Oar
carriage is ready, Hilda, dearest,"
he said, aloud; and handing her into
the ^acre, he took his place beside
her, and they too drove off together.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

From the outset of his tour,
Clifford had reason for misgiv-
ings that his new life would not
furnish the perfect happiness he
had expected from it. Hilda
was his, but she was not the
same Hilda as of old. She was
sweet-tempered and gentle as ever,
but she had lost her cheerful spirits
and buoyancy of manner. What
distressed him stiU more, she evi-
dently was keenly sensible of what
she felt to be the degradation of
her position. This was manifested,
among other ways, in her disinclina-
tion .to appear with him in public.
When, after the first day or two
following their arrival, during which
they took their meals in their own
apartments, Clifford proposed that

they should dine at the table d^hdte
by way of change, she consented
with such evident reluctance that
he did not press it, and they con-
tinued to take their meals in pri-
vate. When one day, after spend-
ing the morning in sight-seeing, he
proposed that they should turn into
a restaurant for luncheon, Hilda
entered with evident embarrass-
ment, and sought the most retired
corner, and as long as they remained
there was plainly ill at ease. Her
feelings had, in fact, been worked
up into a state of morbid sensi-
bility. The woman who formerly,
fearless in her own purity, would
venture alone on errands of mercy
into any part of London, now
shrank from observation wherever

200

The Private Secretary, — Part X

[Aug.

she went ; and even in the re-
cesses of a private box at the opera,
sat nervous and trembling as id the
whole house was watching her.
The unusual langour of her manner
might perhaps be ascribed to the
heat of the weather. Paris was
very hot, and this was a bad time
for paying a first visit to it. After
a few days, which Clifford had
found very different from what he
expected, he proposed that they
should leave it ; and they moved
to a watering-place on the coast
of Normandy.

Here they found a new climate.
The sea-breeze was cool and refresh-
ing, and some rain came at last
to break the long drought Clif-
ford, for his part, had so far ab-
stained from any attempt at remon-
strance, or even openly noticing the
change of manner in his companion
which so distressed him, rightly
judging that, if challenged on this
score, Hilda might make some pro-
testation of unhappiness which
would only serve to intensify still
more strongly the feeling that
possessed her. He felt that it
would be better to avoid an explan-
ation. He trusted to time to re-
move this impression ; and mean-
while his manner to her was as
tender and considerate as that of
any young husband could be. But
the old playfulness between them
was not renewed; and he recognised,
with bitter self-reproach, that the
Hilda he had won was something
different from the Hilda of the old
days in the Alexandra Mansions —
sweet, gentle, and graceful as ever,
indeed, but without the bright
spirit and piqiiante manner which
he used to find so charming. Time,
however, he thought, would set
things right ; and if she did show
a want of interest in their way of
life, after all this was perhaps not
surprising, for they were completely
cut off from all old pursuits and
associations. Clifford had not left

his address, that he might not be
troubled with letters, and wishing
to put off the inevitable settlement
with his trustees until after the
honeymoon.

Perhaps one reason why he did
not seek an explanation with Hilda,
and endeavour to restore her self-
possession by inducing her to aban-
don her reserve, arose from an un-
easy feeling of uncertainty how far
her depression might not be due to
a suspicion of his deception. He
dreaded to ask how much she knew.
He had told her only that the
retention of his property was con-
ditional on his marrying his cousin.
She did not know — at least, not
from him — that he became absolved
from that condition if his cousin,
before a certain time, married some
one else. Could she have guessed
that such was the case 9 If so, she
must know his perfidy, which would
appear to her blacker than it really
deserved to be regarded. It was
strange, he thought, that she had
never once referred to the meeting
with Burrard and Blanche, although
she might have inferred that the
marriage of his cousin was likely
in some way to affect his fortunes.
But, then, she had not manifested
any interest about anything, and
Clifford, for obvious reasons, had
not brought up the subject. Thus
he, too, had his cause for anxiety
and reservation. This wedding
tour, as he called it, was not atten-
ded by that mutual confidence, that
free exchange of thought and feel-
ing, which he had so ardently looked
forward to. It seemed to him that
Hilda was now hardly nearer to him
than in the old days when she was
his paid servant. But she bright-
ened up after the move to Xor-
mandy. The gay scene and the
fresh air of Etreville could not but
act on her spirits, although she
avoided the parts most frequented.
Excursions about the country or
walks by the sea were evidently

1881.]

The Private Secretary, — Fart JT.

201

pleasanter to lier than the crowded
streets of sultry Paris. Perhaps,
after all, it was the weather which
had made her so unlike herself.

They had not heen more than
two or three days at Etreville when
Hilda received the proposal that
they should dine at the table dhdte
of one of the great hotels hy the
sea without any of the repugnance
which she had shown at Paris to
such appearances in public ; and as
they set oif to walk there from
their lodgings, Clifford thought that
she had never looked more charm-
ing. Hilda's beauty was most seen
in her expressioD, her winning
smile and lovely eyes. There was
not the dazzling complexion or the
swelling outline of his cousin, but,
like every woman, she gained by
being well dressed, and the time
spent at Paris had been turned to
good account in this respect, in
the good taste with which her slight
graceful figure was robed.

Eut they had hardly entered the
dining-room, and taken tlieir places
at table, when Hilda suddenly rose
in evident confusion, and left the
room. Cliiford hastened to follow
her. He supposed she must be ill,
and led her out to a bench in the
now empty veranda facing the sea.
It was some time before she would
tell him what was the matter. Just
as she was sitting down, she had
seen on the other side of the table
a lady and gentleman, friends of
her uncle and aunt, whom she had
known when she was with them at
Nice.

**Well," said Cliiford, "surely
they did not do anything to distress
your'

" I don't think they saw me be-
fore I got away."

" But supposing they had seen
you, what then? You would in-
troduce me as your husband."

" Oh, Eobert, I couldn't do that.
Supposing they found out after-
wards that I was deceiving them?"

** How are they to find it out, I
should like to know 1 People don't
take their marriage lines about with
them to produce wherever they go.
Come, Hilda dearest, this is really
carrying the matter too far. You
must make a beginning some time
of taking the position you have a
right to assume. After all, it won't
be for long."

" What do you mean ? " she asked
eagerly, lifting iip her head and
looking him in the face.

'* I mean," he said, not. without
confusion, " that if you once brace
yourself up to make the effort, it
will soon cease to be difficult. You
must make a beginning some time
or other, my darling : why not make
it at once ] "

"I am very sorry," said poor
Hilda, seeing the expression of dis-
tress on his face ; " I will try to do
better. I am afraid I am a great
trouble to you, after all, now you
have got me." She said this with
a tearful smile that went to his
heart.

" That's right, my love," he re-
plied, professing a gaiety he did
not feelj "put a bold face on it,
and the thing will soon come to
be easy enough. Now, then, shall
we go in again and make another
try]"

But Hilda looked so alarmed at
this that he was fain to give way,
and they strolled back to their
lodgings along the now deserted
promenade, and dined there by
themselves. The meal was not a
cheerful one. Clifford was per-
plexed how to deal with this ten-
der creature, and Hilda, thinking
he was annoyed with her, sat silent
and distressed.

" Can you spare me for three
days ? " he asked her next morning.
" I should like to run over to Eng-
land for a few hours' business. The
boat for Lagrace will leave in half
an hour, and I can catch the steamer

202

The Private Secretary. — Part X,

[Aug.

to Southampton. I will be back on
the third day — that is, if you will
promise to come over to Lagrace and
n^eet the steamer as it comes in."

Hilda assented at once. In truth,
the prospect of being alone wa9, in
the present state of her nerves,
rather a relief than otherwise.
Clifford did not like to tell her
not to mope in his absence, know-
ing well that the injunction would
be useless. So packing his bag
hastily, and bidding her a tender
farewell, he set off to the pier where
the little ferry-boat was lying with
her steam up. It was a comfort to
him, as the boat steamed off, to see
a handkerchief waved by a figure
standing in their balcony, in return
for the salutation which he had
wafted from the paddle-box. At
any rate, she had not yet shut her-
self up in her room, but he rightly
judged that she would remain in
seclusion during his absence.

They had purposely chosen a
house where no English were stay-
ing, and had no acquaintances in
it. Hilda kept her rooms all day,
and only came out in the late even-
ing to take a walk on the sands, at
that hour bare of visitors, who were
all collected at the casino. But on
the third afternoon of his absence
she summoned up courage to take
her passage in the little steamer
which plied across the bay to La-
grace, and was standing on the
wharf of that place when the Eng-
lish steamer came in.

She could soon make out Clifford
among the passengers. But who is
that with him — a child whom he is
holding up in his arms above the
bulwarks] It is Arthur, waving
his hat, and wild with excitement
and delight at the journey and the
prospect of meeting his sister again.
So this was the business which had
taken Eobert away ! The look of
gratitude which she cast to him
while she embraced her little bro-
ther amply repaid him for his

trouble. For the first time since
they had left England she looked
bright and happy.

" How quick you have been ! "
she said. "How could you man-
age the journey in so short a time 9
Or did Arthur come to meet you?"

" No ; I went up to Eoehampton,
didn't I, Arthur 1 And there was
barely time for him to put on his
best clothes — Miss Pasco would in-
sist on his travelling in his best
clothes — and pack his box. We
couldn't even stop to get some-
thing to eat; and if Miss Pasco
had not given us some sandwiches
and cake to bring with us, we
should have been in a bad way,
shouldn't we, Arthur) And by
the way, here is Miss Pasco's report
on the young man. She desired
her best compliments and congratu-
lations, — but I said the congratula-
tions were due to me, not to Hilda,
didn't I, Arthur? — and says your
little brother has been a particularly
naughty little boy, eh, Arthur 1"
Thus rattling on as they walked
along the quay to the ferry-boat,
he put into Hilda's hands a letter
from the governess, addressed to
Mrs Clifford. It was the first time
Hilda had received a letter with
that name, although it was upon
all her boxes. She blushed, but
speedily recovered her composure,
and while they were crossing the
bay on the way back to Etreville,
she read Miss Pasco's letter.

Mr Clifford's announcement of
his marriage to her was the first she
had received of it, said the school-
mistress, as she had never seen it
in the papers ; but she would take
the liberty of saying that the news
was no surprise to her — she had
guessed what was coming when she
saw Hilda and Mr Clifford together
at her house. And she hoped she
might be permitted to send her
warm congratulations on Hilda's
union to one who appeared to
unite ample means with a truly

1881.]

The Private Secretary, — Part X,

203

noble heart and disinterested be-
nevolence of disposition. The rest
of the letter was about Arthur.
Clifford winced a little when Hilda
gave him the letter to read. He
had never felt less noble or disin-
terested than since he had won
Hilda to his purpose; but he felt
rewarded for having thus broken
up their seclusion by bringing
Arthur over, in the change his
presence wrought on Hilda, and
willingly surrendered the pleasure
of having her all to himself on see-
ing how efficacious was the cure.
They dined that evening as usual
in private, but seeing from their
balcony the lights of the great
building by the shore, and hearing
the sound of music, Arthur natur-
ally expressed a wish to see the
wonders of the place ; and the re-
sult was that they were soon seated
in the veranda of the casino^ eat-
ing ices, and looking at the dancers
within. This was a great step.
The next day Hilda was ready to

accompany the other two in an ex-
cursion all over the little town and
adjacent suburb, and later to go
down to the beach in the full glare
of noonday at its most crowded
time, to see Arthur take his bath,
Clifford giving him his first swim-
ming lesson. And while enjoying
the child's happiness for its own
sake, Clifford continually congratu-
lated himself on his move. Hilda
was now more like her old self than
she had been at any time since he
first made his proposal to her. Her
brother's presence seemed to protect
her against herself; and although
she still felt bitterly the nature of
the deception that she was practis-
ing, and dreaded the scorn which
she thought the people among
whom she was mingling would
manifest, did they know the truth
about her, still she became more
tranquil as she recognised that in
Arthur's presence there was no
cause for suspicion, — that his com-
ing had made her secret safe.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Clifford meanwhile had abundant
food for reflection. He had taken
the opportunity of his visit to Lon-
don to go to his chambers and get
firom the porter the letters which
had arrived in his absence. Among
them was one from the solicitors to
the trustees. They had been given
to understand, so the letter ran, that
he had contracted marriage — a secret
marriage — he being still under the
age of twenty- six, and his cousin,
Miss Blanche Scallan, being still
unmarried. They conceived it was
needless to remind him of the con-
ditions of the trust under which the
income of the property had hitherto
been paid to him; and without wish-
ing to dwell on his conduct to the
trustees, and the difficult position
in which he had placed them by
this concealment — supposing, as

the writers had every reason to
believe, their information was cor-
rect — they persuaded themselves
that it would be his wish now to
make them all the reparation in
his power, by placing them at once
in full possession of the facts, with-
out reservation, in order to enable
them to proceed to execute the pro-
visions of the trust. In the mean-
time, until his reply should be be-
fore them, they hoped he would
refrain from drawing any more funds
from the proceeds of the estate al-
ready made over to his bankers,
although it was their desire to
meet his wishes on this head so
far as might be consistent with
their duty.

There was also a private letter
from Mr Bryant, the trustee with
whom principally he had been used

204

The Private Secretary. — Part X,

[Aug.

to have dealings, and with whom,
as has been already mentioned, he
had always been on very friendly
terms. The old gentleman wrote
in evident anxiety and alarm at
the information, which, he said,
having regard to the source whence
it came to him, he could not doubt
was substantially true. He had
always anticipated the possibility
of his young friend declining to
carry out that part of the condi-
tions of the wUl which required
him to marry his cousin, if she, for
her part, was ready to take him for
a husband; but in that case the
course which the writer's previous
knowledge of his young friend
woidd have led him to expect
Clifford to pursue, was that he
would have remained unmarried
until the time when, on the ter-
mination of the trust, the trustees
would be relieved of all further
responsibility, and he would be at
liberty to marry whom he pleased.
" But," continued the writer, " if
you have been so rash and head-
strong as to contract marriage
already — and our information for-
bids us to doubt that you have
done so — I sbould at least have
expected that you would have felt
it due in common fairness to the
trustees to make them at once ac-
quainted with the fact. Repos-
ing implicit confidence in your
honour, they have omitted to take
the precautions which would in
ordinary cases have been quite
justifiable, and now find them-
selves liable for all the moneys
which, believing you to be single,
they may have illegally overpaid
you out of the estate." But the
writer put it to him tbat he should
now at once make what reparation
was in his power by a full and
unreserved confession of the facts,
and especially the date of his
marriage, so that the trustees
might at least know the extent
of their liabilities to the parties

rightfully entitled to the income of
the estate. As the case stood,
Clifford's flight, without leaving
any address, could not but make
him, Mr Bryant, put the worst
construction on the case; but if
this letter came into his hands,
he implored him to relieve his
anxiety — an anxiety increased by
the absence of the other trustee —
without a day's delay.

These letters opened Clifford's
eyes fully for the first time to the
folly of his course. It had seemed
so easy to carry out when planning
it. But although the complication
had arisen from the unexpected meet-
ing with Burrard and his cousin,
he ought to have known that dif-
ficulties would certainly arise sooner
or later in pursuing it. He had in-
tended to relinquish the bulk of
the estate from the day of his de-
parture, retaining only the one-fifth,
to which he would be entitled in
any case so long as he remained un-
married. He had taken it for
granted that the other parties inter-
ested in the trust would have been
ready to accept the terms thus
offered without asking questions;
but it had not occurred to him to
consider whether the trustees and
their legal adviser would agree to
such an arrangement without in-
quiry. At any rate, the plan was
entirely upset by the meeting with
his cousin and Burrard, from whom,
he could not doubt, the trustees
had received their information. As
it turned out, his cousin's marriage
before his own left him still legally
entitled to the property; but the
promise which he had made to
Burrard was binding on him in
honour, and he must part with all
but the small residue which would
have come to him even if Blanche
had not married. But how to
secure this residue without com-
promising Hilda? Now he felt
how foolish he had been in not bind-
ing Burrard to secrecy for a time.

1881.]

The Private Secretary, — Part X.

205

as the piice for wliicli he might
have oflfered the property which he
bad promised unconditionally. But
the case standing as it did, having
acted from first to last under the
influence of an infatuation, blinding
him to the consequences, and hav-
ing placed himself in a false position
by his secret flight, how could he
preserve Hilda's secret, and yet
deal fairly by the trustees ? That
secret must be preserved at any
cost To no one but himseK must
she be known as other than his wife.
Yet the trustees must have a plain
answer to their question j but there
seemed the possibility of getting
out of the difficulty if he deferred
giving it until he had made Hilda
his wife. To marry her had been his
purpose from the first moment of
his encountering Burrard ; but com-
mon prudence, now beginning to
return, enjoined that he should
make sure of Burrard's marriage to
his cousin before effecting his own.
He had so far only Burrard's state-
ment for it, and it was not ap-
parent why, if they really were
married, there should be any se-
cret about it. But if Blanche
were actually married, then he
might marry Hilda, retaining the
fraction of the estate which he in-
tended to keep as his portion, and
making a gift to Blanche of the rest,
in accordance with his declaration
to Burrard. ' It would be necessary
perhaps to make a partial revelation
of the facts to Burrard ; but secrecy
could be secured by letting him un-
derstand, as the price of the secret,
that the surrender of the property
was a voluntary act. Accordingly,
soon after his arrival in Paris, he
bad sent instructions to his lawyers
— not those who managed the
affairs of the trust, but a firm whom
be employed occasionally on the
business arising out of his charitable
schemes — to ascertain if possible
the fact of the marriage. Burrard's
reference to a registry-office had

given a clue; and the very day
after his return to France with
Arthur, the anxieties and self-re-
proaches aroused by these letters
abating largely from the joy afforded
by witnessing the happy change in
Hilda, he received a reply from his
agents. They had found out the
registry-office at which Burrard's
marriage had taken place on the
day of the meeting at Calais. It
was not, as Clifford had suggested,
in the East-end of London, but that
of St George's, Hanover Square,
the district in which Burrard's
chambers were situated. They for-
warded a certified copy of the re-
cord.

Immediately on receiving this,
Clifford replied to the solicitors of
the trustees. The case, he said,
was not as they had been led to
suppose, and there was no real
cause for anxiety about the appro-
priation of the trust-income. But
as it would be difficult to make
the matter clear in writing, he
would shortly return to England
and explain his position to them in
person. Meantime he would ask
them to reserve judgment on his
conduct, while he for his part would
refrain from drawing any more
money.

And now to make Hilda really
his wife. Next morning, as they
were sitting together by the sea,
Arthur and some French children
with whom he had struck up an
acquaintance playing on the sands
in front of them, he asked her
whether she could spare him for
a time. He had some business
which would take him away, this
time to Eouen. It was a tedious
business, although not very difficult;
it would oc3upy him for a whole
month. As he spoke he watched
with delight the effect of his pro-
posal. Hitherto Hilda had appeared
so much absorbed by the sense of
degradation involved in her position
as to be even less of his equal than

206

The Private Secretary. — Part X,

[Aug.

in the old days \?hen she was his
paid servant. She might have
been the captive of his bow and
spear, brought into his tent by
force of arms, rather than the fond
companion and helpmate which he
had looked to find her. Her affec-
tion had been receptive only, the
more noticeable from the very fact
that, out of consideration for her,
he had been even more scrupulously
attentive than a young husband
would ordinarily be in the first days
of the honeymoon. There was a
want of interest about him and his
doings, a sort of passiveness iu her
manner, which was in striking con-
trast to what it used to be, and
Clifford had recognised with bitter
disappointment that the new Hilda
he had won was something different
from the Hilda he had hoped to
win. But since her little brother's
arrival, she had become again more
like her own self; and now, when
he proposed to go away, he noticed
with delight that there was no
longer the same sort of listless resig-
nation as she had manifested on
the last occasion. The announce-
ment created real distress. Must
he go away for a whole month?
His presence was evidently dear to
her. Then he explained the plan
which he had been working out in
the night, but without telling her
what the object of it was. She
and Arthur were not to stay here,
but to move to Trecamp. They
could travel together as far as the
road station for that place on the
way to Eouen, where they should
join him as soon as his arrange-
ments were made. Hilda evidently
had no suspicion of the purpose he
had in view ; but she knew his
fondness for making plans, and the
completeness with which he worked
out his arrangements, usually cul-
minating in something for the good
of others. And so accepting his
assurance that she would approve

of what was now proposed, as soon
as the affair was completed, she
readily agreed to the suggestion
that they should start that day,
and they returned to their lodgings
to pack up. Although she was so
much happier now, the place was
connected in her mind with painful
associations, and she was glad to
leave it. Arthur showed concern
at the prospect of quitting the sea-
shore delights of this gayest of
French watering-places, but the
child was not used to be consulted
or to have his own way, and was
speedily reconciled to the change
on being told that they were going
to make a journey by railway which
would bring them to the sea again
at the end of it.

They started early in the after-
noon. The junction reached, the
brother and sister alighted to change
for the diligence to Trecamp, while
Clifford continued his journey. He
could not accompany them to their
destination, as every day was of
consequence. " FareweU, for a
month," he said, as the train
started again, noting with mingled
pain and rapture Hilda's evident
distress at the parting ; ^' the Hotel
d' Albion will be my address, and
the Hotel d'Angleterre will be
yours, till you get lodgings : it is
quiet and comfortable, says the
guide-book. I shall write every
day, and you will write sometimes,
I know."

He did more than write. At the
end of a week, as Hilda and Arthur
were walking on the beach toge-
ther, they descried him coming to-
wards them. He had taken a re-
turn-ticket for the day, he said,
and finding they were not at their
lodgings, had come to seek them
here. '* I made sure you would
be in the quietest part of the place,
so came straightway here. I saw
you long before you saw me."

" But then you were looking for

1881.]

Tlie Private Secretary, — Part X,

207

us," said Hilda, as he drew her to
hiiiL " How could I suppose that
you would come yourself to-day,
when I had a letter from you this
morning with not a word about
it?"

"It was a sudden resolve," he
said. "I could not keep away
longer. You did not give me cred-
it for so much ardour, did you?
You were quite resigned to be
without me, were you not % " And
the protestations Clifford thus
sought for shot forth in Hilda's
glances. " Such a train, too ! " he
continued; "three hours coming,
and ever so many miles to drive at
the end of it."

"And "

" It will be nearly as long going
back? Yes," he answered to the
mute inquiry of her eyes; "I
must go Imck again this afternoon.
I am bound to be for a whole
month a hand, fide resident at
Eouen in order to fulfil my work
there. Let us go and get some-
thing to eat — not at your lodgings.
Let us try the Casino ; it will be
empty at this hour." So they had
a repast together, and then the
brother and sister took a walk with
him over the place, passing by
their lodgings, which Clifford
would not enter. "I am merely
a stray visitor," he said, casting a
fond glance at Hilda — '*a casual
acquaintance."

Two more such visits he paid.
As he took leave of Hilda and Ar-
thur the last time, he seemed radi-
ant with joy. " 'Tis our last good-
bye from this place," he said. " One
week more, and then this month of
years will come to an end at last.
Kemember, you start by this very
train. I shall meet you at the sta-
tion. But you will go on writing
every day to the last ; I have noth-
ing but your letters to live upon."
And when their train arrived at
Bouen he was waiting for them,

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCXO.

and they drove off together to a
hotel — not the one he had given as
his address, but a small one in the
outskirts of the city, near to the
terminus.

As they alighted, Hilda noticed
that the directions on her boxes
had been altered. In place of the
labels— "Mrs Robert Clifford"—
which he had himself written with
conspicuous plainness when they
started from England, there were
new ones on each box, with simply
the initials " H. R., Voyageuse \
Rouen," superimposed on the old
ones. He must have effected the
change while they were waiting at
the station; she had noticed that
he was very busy helping the por-
ters with the boxes.

Hilda looked at him, surprised
and anxious. What could it mean ?
Clifford returned her glance with a
fond smile.

" You may be sure I did it on
purpose," he said. " I am going
to leave you here alone with Arthur
for the night. We are still to be
separated for a little longer. Trust
me, I do not keep away an hour
longer than I can help. And I
have an injunction to add. You
will have to sign a paper on arriv-
ing at the hotel — every traveller
has to do it ; it is for the informa-
tion of the police. You will have
to state your name. Give it this
once as Hilda Raid, spinster, tra-
velling with your brother, a little
boy* Now I must be off. Don't
mind doing this for once ; trust me
I have a good reason. And now,
will you be ready for me if I call
to take you for a drive to-morrow
morning at eight ? There is a great
deal to be seen here, as no one
should know better than I do, who
have got to know every stone in the
place during this weary month, and
we can never do it aU on foot. And
now, good night for the last time,"

Next morning Clifford arrived at
o

208

Tlie Private Secretary. — Part X.

[Aug.

the appointed hour, and foand
Hilda and Arthur both waiting
for him at the hotel door.

"That's right, Arthur my boy,"
he said. "There is nothing like
early rising. But I want to take
Hilda out alone for this once. Do
yon think you can manage to take
care of yourself for an hour or so
till we come back for you ? " And
the elder ones drove off together.

They drove into the middle of the
town, and then Clifford proposed
that they should alight and walk,
and dismissed the fiacre. They
turned down a street. Presently
he stopped before a small building.
"This is a church worth seeing,"
he said, "although not for any in-
trinsic beauty. But it is worth
seeing. It is the English Church ;
come in and look at it." They en-
tered the little building.

It was empty save for a couple
of people — a man and a woman,
standing by the altar rails, who
looked to be waiting for something,
and on seeing them enter passed
into the vestry.

Something in Clifford's manner
made Hilda stop. Coupling the
scene with the mysterious proceed-
ings of the last few weeks, a sus-
picion of what was intended sud-
denly flashed upon her. She looked
at him, silently but with parted
lips, in a flutter of doubt and ex-
pectation.

"Yes, my dearest one," he said,
in answer to her look; "cannot
you guess my secret now] Come
and let us be married."

" But, Eobert," she answered, in
hurried but faltering accents, " how
can this be, if it is to bring you to
ruin and beggary? You yourself
have told me that it would cause
this. No, dear Robert," she added,
standing irresolute, as he strove to
lead her forward; "this is noble
and generous, like yourself, but I
must not let you sacrifice yourself
for me in this way."

Every word atabbed Clifford.
Even now he was on the point of
throwing himself, so to speak, at
her feet, to tell her the truth, and
that he was now at last trying to
atone for the wrong he had done
her. But a feeling of dread re-
strained him, lest her love and ad-
miration should turn to contempt.

" Do not be afraid," he said ; " I
think I see a way out of the diffi-
culty ; anyhow, I would rather lose
everything than go on this way. I
did you an injustice, my sweet one.
I thought you would not mind it,
and I find you do. I would rather
be beggared outright than go on as
I have been doing, seeing you pine
away and droop before me. After
all, we shall be beggars together.
But it isn't a question of beggary ;
never fear. There have been irregu-
larities on the other side. I shall
be able to compromise matters ;
to rescue a trifle out of the fire.
Come, my love, they are waiting
for us," — and in effect the chaplain
now came out of the vestry in his
surplice, followed by the two at-
tendants, — and Hilda allowed Clif-
ford to lead her up to the altar, and
make her his wife.

" I was obliged, you see, to re-
side here a full month," said Robert,
as he led his wife away, and they
walked down the street together.
" I had also to make an affidavit
that you were over one-and-twenty,
although I had no evidence of the
fact but your own words — and you
don't look it, to-day, at any rate ; "
and he turned to gaze fondly on tho
happy woman clinging to his side.
" Now we must go to the British
Consul. This last ceremony was a
mere form ; it is he alone who can
marry us legally; but he made an
appointment for nine o'clock, so I
thought we might get the other
done first."

"And now," he said, as they
came forth from the Consul's office,
" for our wedding breakfast, of

1881.]

Tlie Private Secretary, — Part X.

209

which Arthur must partake. Here
is a fiacre; let us drive hack and
bring him away. I have taken
rooms for us all at the Hotel

d' Angle terre. Let us have one day
to see the sights, and then start
homewards ; there is husiness to he
done, and our purse is running low."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

The day — the first really happy
day which Clifford had known since
Hilda had left England with him —
was passed in seeing as much of
the town and its famous buildings
as could be managed in so short a
time, and in the evening the party
were resting in the gardens of St
Ouen, eating ices to the music of a
military hand — a form of recreation
which Arthur, at any rate, found
the most agreeahle part of the day's
proceedings. There had been some
fetes at Eouen, and a temporary
restaurant had been estahlished in
these gardens, now crowded with
visitors, and as our party rose to
leave, they had to thread their way
in single tile among the little groups
seated at the different tahles. Sud-
denly Arthur gave an exclamation
which made the other two turn
round. " Papa ! " he cried, and
ran to where a gentleman and lady
were sitting among the company a
few yards off. They were in fact
Captain Reid and his hride. Eohert
and Hilda could see Arthur speak-
ing to his father, and pointing to
where they were standing, hy way
of explanation for his unexpected
appearance ; and the Captain rising,
they advanced to meet him.

,"This is indeed an unexpected
pleasure," said the Captain, with
considerahle self-possession, and
speaking as if his observations were
graceful and appropriate. " Hilda,
TSf^ love, let me introduce you to
your new mamma," indicating hy
a wave of the hand the lady seated
at the tahle from which he had just
risen. "This is Mr Clifford, my
dear Mary Ann, who is my dear
Hilda's husband." "

Mrs Reid, a very fat lady, elderly-
looking, and with an ohvious false
front, gave a solemn bow at these
introductions, but without getting
up.

** You will excuse my wife from
rising," ohserved the Captain, "hut
she is a little lame to-day ; we think
it is from the weather and the sight-
seeing. This is an unexpected pleas-
ure. You told me that you were
going abroad, but did not say where.
Let us all he seated together. Won't
you take something % I am having
a little cognac-and-water, with ice,
and Mrs Eeid is taking some too.
And so you have hrought Arthur
with you. That is very kind of
you, I am sure. I thought prob-
ahly you might leave him at the
school, where he seemed to be so
well taken care of. I hope he is a
good hoy, and does not give you
any trouhle."

The Captain went on to explain
that he and his bride were staying
at Dieppe, and had come up to
Eouen for a little change.

Mrs Eeid had so far remained
silent, turning her head gravely
from one to the other as they spoke,
in a manner that might indicate
either critical intelligence or mental
vacuity ; hut her face could not he
seen distinctly in the evening light.
The Captain having now stopped
speaking, an awkward pause ensued
in the conversation, and Clifford,
by way of breaking it, asked her
what she thought of Eouen, to
which the lady replied that she
liked it very much, but it was not
so cheerful as Dieppe. Yes, the
Captain and she had been over
some of the churches, but she did

210

The Private Secretary. — Part X.

[Aug.

not care for tliem much ; it was so
hot going about, and they were
kept so dirty : she liked the music,
and the ships on the river, they
made the place look so cheerful.
It reminded her of Hull.

" Bat you don't think much of
Hull, my dear," remonstrated the
Captain. " You don't want to go
back to Hull, I am sure ; " to which
his wife replied that she didn't like
being at Hull nearly so much as
travelliug, but it was natural to talk
about a place where you had lived
all your life. " Have you ever been
to Hull, sirl" she asked Clifford,
who replied that he never had that
pleasure. "It is a lively place,"
said Mrs Eeid. ^ Some people say
it is dirty, but there's a deal of
money made there. And then there
is Scarborough not far off. I have
never been to Scarborough myself,
but many people used to go there
from Hull, and I am told it's a
beautiful place. It's on the sea,
you know, and quite the fashion ;
the Naples of the North they call
it. Have you ever been to Naples 1
No 1 No more haven't I."

" But you shall go there if you
fancy it, my dear," observed the
Captain. "We might winter at
Naples, you know. You would
like Naples in winter, I am sure."

" We have been stopping at Bou-
logne," resumed the lady, who, now
that she had made a beginning of
speaking, found no dithculty in
going on in her own way, ** and
then we came on to Dieppe. D ieppe
is a nice cheerful place, but I think
I like Boulogne best; it is more
home-like, you know. I like France
very much. I like the music and
the restaurants, but the sight-seeing
and the heat make my leg painful,
and all this French talking round
me makes me quite giddy. I should
never be able to travel in France
alone, I am sure."

" But you will have no need to
travel alone, my dear," remonstrated

the Captain ; " so why talk about
it?"

"Of course I know that, Wil-
liam," said the lady, placidly. " I
was only saying how I should feel
if I were alone, which I know I
am not." And she took a sip of the
cognac-and-water, wagging her head
slowly with an air of melancholy.

" I don't see the good of talking
about what isn't going to happen,"
pursued her husbaiid. "You
shouldn't give way to these fancier,
my dear. Mrs Eeid has had a
good deal of trouble before her
marriage," he added, by way of ex-
planation to the company, " and it
makes her low-spirited at times;
but she will have no cause for
anxiety in the future, now that she
has somebody to take proper care
of her."

Silence succeeded, during which
Mrs Reid sat as if in pleased con-
templation of the feelings ascribed
to her. Presently she said to
Hilda, " Have you brought a maid
with you, ma'am 1 No 1 No more
haven't I. I had a maid in Lon-
don, but the Captain thought it
would be best for us to travel
alone; so I gave her her month's
wages, and discharged her."

"And a month's board wages
too," said the Captain. " It is al-
ways well to be accurate in speak-
ing on money matters, and I should
not like Hilda and Mr Clifford to
think you were not generous with
your money, for you know you are,
my dear."

There was some more conversation
of the same sort. It was illustra-
tive of the Captain's easy disposi-
tion that he asked his daughter
no questions about herself or her
movements, or about the cottage
at Rainham. Clifford had written
him a few lines before leaving
England — at Hilda's request, for
she could not bring herself to
make a direct communication —
telling him that his daughter had

1881.]

The Private Secretary, — Part X,

211

consented to share her lover's for-
tunes, and that they were about
to stsu-t immediately on their wed-
ding trip ; also that Arthur would
be his (Clififord's) charge for the
future. And this announcement
had snfQced to aUay any anxieties
the Captain might have felt about
the daughter whom he had de-
serted.

Clifford, now rising, suggested
that it was time for his party to be
oft They had to start next morn-
ing for England.

** We had better be going to our
hotel, too, my dear, 1 think,'' said
the Captain to his wife, "unless
you would like a little more re-
freshment. Don't hesitate to say so,
if you would. If o more ? " he added,
as the lady shook her head gravely
to and fro ; " then I will settle our
little account. There is one advan-
tage of taking your meals in this
way, that you go on the ready money
principle. You pay your bill and
have done with it." And calling
the waiter, he paid for the refresh-
ments consumed by himself and
his wife, producing a purse with
evident gratification that his daugh-
ter should see that it was in his
possession.

They all left the gardens to-
gether, Mrs Eeid leaning heavily
on her husband's arm ; and as their
roads home separated, Keid hailed
a fiaerey although his hotel was
close at hand, Mrs Eeid being, as
he explained, not a good walker.

"Well, Arthur, my boy," he
said, as after helping his wife into
the carriage, he turned to make his
adieus to the others, "you are in
luck, upon my word. I hope you
-will be a good boy and deserve it.
I need not say I wish you every
happiness, Hilda, my dear, because
I am sure you have secured it by
marrying this excellent gentleman.
And I flatter myself, Mr Cliflford,
that you could not have chosen a

better wife, though I say it who
shouldn't. But who should know
her good qualities better than her
father ? I hope we shall meet again
before long, but my plans are un-
certain. 1 have to consider my
duty as well as pleasure," — waving
his hand in the direction of the
occupant of the fiacre — " my dear
Mary Ann requires care, and to
have her life made cheerful and
pleasant, so that I may be kept
abroad longer than I expected.
Good-bye. God bless you both."

As the two young people walked
back to their hotel, with Arthur by
their side intent on the wonders of
the streets, a feeling of natural re-
serve restrained each of them from
an exchange of confidences on the
subject which then occupied their
thoughts. Hilda's feelings were
divided between a sense of shame
at her father's conduct, and satis-
faction that things should have
turned out for him so much better
than she had expected. He had
married a poor foolish creature, but
there was no reason to fear that
they might not get on very well
together. Clifford, for his part,
was too full of his own happiness
to be much concerned for the mo-
ment with anything else. He had
been watching all day, with secret
delight, the change in his wife ;
noting that the languor and dejec-
tion which had caused him so much
poignant distress had passed away,
and that she was now once more
the bright and radiant Hilda of old.
But as he pressed the little hand
that rested fondly on his arm, he
thought, with amusement, how
shrewdly he had guessed his father-
in-law's character from the outset,
and reflected with satisfaction that
there were now no members of the
family remaining, save the little
brother whom he had adopted, to
come between him and the woman
who was now really his bride.

212

Tlie Land of Khemu

[Aug.

THE LAND OF K H E M I.

PART III. — OLD AND NEW.

The more one sees of the Land
of Khemi, the more one is amazed
at the extent of the remains which
still exist awaiting a thorough ex-
amination, and which lie so tempt-
ingly strewn over the face of the
country that it is almost an insult
to them to leave them still unex-
plored. The mounds and cliffs
seem to be crying out, " Come and
dig, — we contain all the records of
the ages, we only conceal the pages
of ancient history which are still
dark, because no one will take the
trouble to turn us over ; we can
reveal the secrets of the little-kno'WTi
period when the Shepherd -kings
reigned over the land ; we can throw
light upon the obscure annals of the
pontifical monarchs of the twenty-
first dynasty ; we can tell all about
the seventh, eighth, ninth, and
tenth dynasties, of which no record
whatever has yet been found upon
any of the monuments ; under these
superincumbent masses of brickbats
and potsherds, in rock-cut tombs and
undiscovered mastabas, it is all writ-
ten in imperishable letters, — only
come and dig." It would be doing
a gross injustice to the distinguish-
ed body of Egyptologists, from
ChampoUion down to Marie tte and
Brugsch Pashas, to say that this
appeal has not been responded to,
and that in the great works at Sak-
kara, and the excavations which
have taken place, a wonderful effort
has not been made ; but what strikes
one is, that the task is so vast and
endless — that in spite of all the
time and money that have been al-
ready spent, 80 much remains to be
done. In fact one does not know
which is most wonderful, what has
been achieved, or what yet remains
to be accomplished. The ordinary

tourist who visits the Boulak Mu-
seum and the Necropolis of Sak-
kara, and then runs up to the First
or Second Cataracts, is apt to think
that the subject must be wellnigh
exhausted ; and is scarcely conscious
of the fact that the banks of the
Nile from Cairo to Thebes, between
which he glides so rapidly in a
Cook's steamer, or, more tranquilly,
journeys in a dahabeej/ay are strewn
with the mounds of ancient cities,
especially on the eastern shore, and
that its cliffs are honeycombed with
tombs. It was the knowledge of
this fact which tempted us, in the
most humble and unassuming man-
ner, and without any pretensions
to a knowledge of the subject, to
try and see whether we could not
discover something in a very small
way, by poking about in a leisurely
manner, from various centres on
the banks of the river, where wo
were kindly provided with accom-
modation. Indeed, so far as our ex-
perience went, the hospitality of the
Government was only equalled by
that of private friends. To one of
these, learned in the lore of the
ancient Egyptians, we were indebt-
ed for our first attempt, and in fact
for the encouragement of any latent
tendency we possessed towards re-
searches, which, when once the taste
for them is fully developed, becomes
one of the most absorbing and in-
teresting of pursuits.

About a hundred miles up the
Nile from Cairo, the limestone cliffs
of the Jebel Th6r on the east bank
are cleft by a gorge at a spot known
to the natives as Hay bee, near which
there is a small hamlet of hovels, a
grove of young date-trees, and the
remains of a very ancient pier,
which, in the days when there was

1881.]

an important town and fortress at
the mouth of the gorge, projected
into the river. Near the stones
that still mark its site we moored
our bark, which was nothing more
or less than a common village
boat, in which we had crossed from
the opposite bank in company with
our erudite friend on archaeological
researches bent. We had given
notice of our projected visit the day
before, and the sheikh of the neigh-
bouring village, with a dozen or
more of its male inhabitants, were
on the bank awaiting our arrival.
As soon as we got through the date-
grove we came upon the mounds
of an ancient town, whose name,
as found in the hieroglyphics, was
Isembheb. Scrambling over these,
with eyes eagerly scanning the dS-
hria for coins, heads, and other
relics, we followed our guides to a
projecting shoulder of the cliff, be-
yond which they said there was a
cave ; but we had no sooner reach-
ed the brow, than we were arrested
by the remarkable view which burst
upon us. The gorge had widened
into an amphitheatre surrounded
by limestone cliffs, which bore the
marks of having been extensively
quarried both in modern and an-
cient times, the trenches and cut-
tings increasing the quaint pictur-
eequeness of the natural formation.
Immediately to our left, and rising
oat of the mound on which we
stood, was a cliff, partly faced and
partly crowned with brick to a
height of fifty feet, and about a
hundred yards broad, the massive
construction of crude brick pre-
senting quite an imposing appear-
ance. In other directions there
were fragments of similar buildings
' and walls, the whole suggesting the
idea that in former years a fortress
of considerable dimensions had been
erected here to guard the entrance
of the pass to the river. From the
heights on which we stood, the
view of these masses of masonry

Part 111.— Old and New,

213

crowning the mounds and cliffs,
together with the quarried preci-
pices and the sharp outline of the
ranges of desert mountain beyond,
with the placid Nile, lined with
palm-groves, sweeping beneath us,
was striking in the extreme. When
we had feasted our eyes upon it we
descended to the cave, the entrance
to which we were disappointed to
find was so choked with sand that
it was with the greatest diJfficulty
one of the Arabs squeezed himself
into the bowels of the earth, where
he stood every chance of being suf-
focated. On these occasions they
always go in feet first, not merely
in order to get as much air as pos-
sible, but because the passages are
often so narrow and choked as to
prevent their turning round. He
came to the surface in a few mo-
ments, saying that the passage was
blocked ; so we sent to the village
for some mattocks, and went mean-
while to examine another cave.
The entrance to this was a little
larger, but it presented more diffi-
culties of excavation on account of
the masses of rock by which it was
encased. I managed to crawl in a
short distance, feet first, but all
progress was almost immediately
blocked by a number of sarcophagi
piled one upon the other. The lid
of one was broken, and I poked my
foot into it in the dark. There was
something so very "uncanny " in the
soft feeling of the mummy against
it, that I drew it back with great
alacrity. It was impossible to get
the mummy out without a great
expenditure of time and labour, as
though the crack in the lid was big
enough to allow of my foot passing
in, the mummy could only have
been got out piecemeal. Moreover,
there is no particular interest at-
taching to fragments of a mummy.
There were possibly ornaments in
the sarcophagus, but its position
made it impossible to grub into its
interior; so we abandoned it for

The Land of Khemi,

[Aug.

the present, lest by spending too
much time over it we might lose
something that was more interest-
ing, and proceeded to a third cave
which was nearer the bank of the
river. The entrance to this was
by a square hole in the face of the
cliff, about five feet from its base.
We put two Arabs in, very much
a3 one would put ferrets into a
rabbit-hole ; and as they stayed in
nearly half an hour we began ^ to
get alarmed^ although they had
lights. Finally they reappeared,
thoroughly exhausted. They re-
ported that after squeezing along
a narrow passage for about a hun-
dred feet, they came to four cham-
bers, opening into one another, but
containing no sarcophagi. From
these they ascended about ten feet
by a perpendicular shaft, into a
number of small chambers, — they
could not tell how many on account
of the bats, which they averred
were so numerous as to prevent
their making any observations.
Of course, all inquiry as to whether
there were hieroglyphics on the
walls was comparatively useless,
as their accuracy could not be re-
lied upon ; but they declared most
positively that there were none.
Their account was, however, suffi-
ciently interesting to tempt my
friend to try his luck. I was un-
fortunately not strong enough to
attempt the scramble. He soon
reappeared, in a half-stified condi-
tion, saying that he had been
obliged to come back for want of
air, and on account of the extreme
narrowness of the passage, in which
he was afraid of sticking perma-
nently. Our exertions, though they
had not so far been attended with
any great success, had given us an
appetite, so we adjourned to the
date -grove for luncheon, sending
the Arabs in search of bricks, if
there were any stamped with hiero-
glyphics. In a short time they
brought us several fragments but

my learned friend could make noth-
ing of them, they were so imper-
fect. It was not untU we reached
the spot from which they had been
taken that, by piecing the most per-
fect fragments together, and com-
paring several, he deciphered their
meaning. The inscription read as
follows : —

*^ NouUr-hon atrp en Ammon
Pinedjetrif pet our Klient Isis ; "

which, l)eing interpreted, signifies
" Grand Priest of Ammon Pined-
jem, Protector of the Grand Sanc-
tuary of Isis.'' The bricks on which
this inscription was stamped were
about fifteen inches by nine, and the
presumption is that this wall formed
part of a temple dedicated to Isis,
which was built by the pontiff-
king Pinedjem, the third of the
twenty-first dynasty, who reigned
about 1043 b.c. ; and this hypo-
thesis is borne out by the fact that
the signification of the ancient
Egyptian name of the town, Isem-
bheb, is "the Isis of Heb," thus
indicating that the locality was
one sacred to the goddess, and
adorned doubtless by a temple
which had been erected in her
honour by the priest -king Pined-
jem. The history of the dynasty
to which these kings belonged is
so obscure that it would be most
interesting if further light could be
thrown upon it ; and it is probable
that these ruins conceal records
which would be of great historical
value. It would appear from what
we do know, that during the dy-
nasty of the Kameses they exercised
supreme spiritual functions at Tanis,
the Zoan of the Bible, in Lower
Egypt, and at Thebes ; and that
when, owing to the weakness of the
sixteenth and last Kameses,* the
high priest Herhor, then chief
prophet of Ammon, succeeded in
overthrowing this dynasty, he
established himself upon the throne
of Egypt, and fixed the seat of
government at Tanis ; but the high

1881.]

priests of Thebes, in order to retain
the spiritual supremacy of that
ancient city, started a contempor-
aneous line, so that for some time
Upper and Lower Egypt were
governed independently of each
other. Lepsius gives only three
Tanite sovereigns and seven Theban,
from which it would appear that a
union must have taken place under
the latter, who, however, seem to
have reigned somewhat ingloriously.
The most vigorous of them appear
to have been Piankh and Pinedjem,
who was possibly the Pharaoh with
whom Solomon "made aflSnity"
by marriage ; " for Pharaoh king
of Egypt had gone up and taken
Gezer, and burnt it with fire, and
slain the Canaanites that dwelt in
the city, and given it for a pres-
ent unto his daughter, Solomon's
wife." And we read further that
Solomon built a house especially
for her, because she seems to have
retained the religion of her royal
father, the high priest of Ammon ;
therefore " Solomon brought up the
daughter of Pharaoh out of the
city of David unto the house he
had built for her : for he said, My
wife shall not dwell in the house
of David king of Isrsiel, because the
places are holy whereunto the ark
of the Lord hath come.'' It seems
odd that it should not have struck
Solomon that if his wife was too
unholy even to live in a sacred
city, she was too unholy to be his
wife; meantime his father-in-law,
who, if he was not Pinedjem, was
undoubtedly one of the priest-kings
of Ammon, was celebrating mysteri-
ous rites, possibly in this very temple
of Isis whose ruined walls we were
now identifying. Nor did these
religious scruples interfere with
intimate relations being kept up
between Egypt and Palestine dur-
ing the reign of Solomon and these
pontiff - kings, for we hear that

Part III.— Old and New.

215

" Solomon had horses brought out
of Egypt and linen yarn : the king's
merchants received the linen yarn
at a price. And a chariot came up
and went out of Egypt for six hun-
dred shekels of silver, and an horse
for an hundred and fifty." These
commercial relations came to an
end when Egypt was invaded by
the Assyrians under Sheshong the
First, and the dynasty of the Ammon
monarchs was overthrown. This
king is the Sesonchis of the Greeks,
and the Shishak of the Bible, with
whom Jeroboam took refuge when
he fled from Kehoboam, and who
afterwards "came up against Jeru-
salem, and took away the treasures
of the house of the Lord, and the
treasures of the king's house; he
took all : he carried away also the
shields of gold which Solomon had
made." An inscription on one of
the walls of the great hall at Kar-
nak commemorates this campaign
against Judah, and gives a list of
the conquered towns and districts.

It is worthy of note that the
modern name of bricks formed of
clay, and not requiring straw, should
be hay bee, as we found no straw in
the bricks of these ruins, which
now bear the same name, though
in some of the walls which formed
its fortifications are layers of reeds
in every fourth course, to serve
as binders. The bricks on which
we found the inscription of pro-
phet of Pinedjem were burnt ; so
that Sir Gardner Wilkinson is mis-
taken when he says " that burnt
bricks were not used in Egypt, and
when found they are known to be
of Eoman time."* The rest of his
notice on Egyptian brick -work,
however, applies so accurately to the
hay bee — which, with the exception
of those stamped, were all crude —
that it is worth quoting.

" Enclosures of gardens or granaries,
sacred circuits surrounding the courts

Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians, ii. 194.

216

Tlie Land of KheniL

[Aug.

of temples, walls of fortresses or towns,
dwelling-houses and tombs, and even
some few of the temples themselves,
were of crude brick, with stout col-
umns and gateways ; and bo great was
the demand, that the Government,
foreseeing the profit to be obtained
from a monopoly of them, imdertook
to supply the public at a moderate
price, thus preventing all unauthorised
persons from engaging in their manu-
facture. And in order more effectu-
ally to obtain this end, the seal of the
king, or of some privileged person, was
stamped upon the bricks at the time
they were made : and bricks so mark-
ed are found both in public and pri-
vate buildings, some having the ovals
of a king, and some the names and
titles of a priest, or other influential
person. Those which bear no charac-
ters either form part of a tale, of which
the first only were stamped, or were
from the brick-fields of individuals
who had obtained a licence from the
Government to make them for their
own consumption."

It is not unlikely that if excava-
tions were prosecuted at Hay bee
some interesting discoveries might
be made, and light thrown upon
the legends concerning the pontifiT-
kings of whose dynasties so little is
known. I believe that Brugsch
Pasha has visited the ruins, and
found a brick or tablet of Thotmes
the Third. There are also some
figures in the Museum at Cairo,
which have been sent from Hay-
bee; but they are not the re-
sult of organised examination, but
of quarrying operations, under-
taken for the construction of the
sugar - factories on the other side
of the river. When we got back
to the first tomb we had visited,
where we had set a couple of men
to dig, we found that they had
reached some sarcophagi; but
they were too tightly wedged in,
and OUT time was too limited, to
render it possible to got at their
contents. We afterwards found
some mortuary chambers hewn in
the rock ; and upon the lintel over
the entrance of one there was an

inscription, but it was too much
defaced to be deciphered.

The sun was now sinking behind
the Libyan hills, and we reluctantly
wended our way to the river-bank,
accompanied by a large retinue of
native followers. It was our first
experience of research of this de-
scription, and we had just done
enough of it to whet our appetites,
and to convince us that the field of
archosological exploration is far from
exhausted, and that the Egyptolo-
gist may yet look forward to win-
ning laurels in it For ourselves,
we proposed to go higher up the
river, in the hope of finding some
spot which might offer attractions
of the same description.

With this object principally in
view, we fixed our headquarters at
Minieh, a town of some importance
about 160 miles up the river from
Cairo, whose white houses and
relatively imposing appearance is
familiar to dahaheeya travellers
and Cook's tourists. Our abode
was on the bank of the river, and
the arrival of a Cook's steamer, with
its passengers streaming on shore
for an hour, and then posting off
not much wiser than when they
came, was an event which reminded
us from time to time that we were
within the pale of modem civilisa-
tion. Minieh is a town of about
20,000 inhabitants, the capital of
the province, and residence of the
mudir, and of the principal super-
intendent of the Daira Sanieh for
Upper Egypt. The only foreigners
resident here are two or three
French employees connected with
the large sugar-factory which stands
near the palace of the Khedive on
the banks of the river. To the
south of the town are the beautiful
and extensive gardens, belonging
principally to Sultan Pasha, the
largest landholder and most influ-
ential man in the province, whose
palace by the water-side is quite an
imposing feature ; while the elabo-

Part IIL—Old and New.

1881.]

rate pleasure-gounds and gardens
of tlie Khedive enclose the town on
the north. It thus lies between
the Kile in front, and the Ibrar
himieh Canal in rear, with groves of
dates and oranges, at once shady
and odorous, on both flanks — and is
one of the most agreeable residences
on the river. On the opposite or
eastern side of the Kile, rise, at a
distance of about a mile froip the
bank, the range of cliffs of nummu-
lite limestone,, with the precipitous
sides and fantastic forms of which
the Kile traveller is so familiar.
From time to time these cliffs are
rent by gorges similar to the one
we had already explored at Hay bee;
and in old time they were strategi-
cally of so much importance, that
the remains of fortiflcations are
nearly always to be found at them,
and often the mounds and tombs,
which indicate the previous exist-
ence of towns.

Nearly opposite the north end of
!&rinieh was a gorge of this descrip-
tion, upon which we cast longing
eyes, the more especially as we could
find no mention of it in any guide-
book ; and we accordingly determin-
ed to make it the object of our first
expedition. We were greeted on our
arrival on the opposite shore by
the sheikh of the small village at
which we landed, and followed
him under date-trees and across
wheat-fields to the base of the cliff.
As we approached it, we were
startled by the excited exclamation
on the part of my servant, Mahomet
Ahmed, who took a lively but some-
what ill-regulated interest in hiero-
glyphics, of " Dere's a 'scription ; "
and on looking up incredulously, we
observed, to our delight and sur-
prise, a series of hieroglyphics and
some pictorial representations cut on
the wall of rock — which was here
at least a hundred feet high — and
about fifty feet from its base. I had,
unfortunately, not brought my op-
era-glass, and could only make out

217

the characters, some of which had
been defaced by time, imperfectly.
However, it looked as if it would
be possible, by turning the angle
of the gorge, to scramble along a
narrow ledge which projected from
the wall of rock, and so reach them.
The face of the cliff — along the
base of which we now walked for
about half a mile — presented a most
singular appearance : it was fur-
rowed and pitted with holes, as
though it had been afflicted in for-
mer ages by a virulent attack of
smallpox; at its northern extremity,
where it was cleft by the gorge, it
was crowned by a projecting mass
of rock, most fantastic in form; and
immediately beneath this, and on the
shoulders which formed one side of
the gorge, we found the remains of an
ancient town. Our first instinct be-
fore examining it, however, was to
climb up the slope of brickbats and
potsherds, until we reached what we
calculated to be the level of the in-
scription, and then to find the ledge
by which it could be reached. This
proved to be about two feet wide,
with a horrible sloping surface of
small limestone gravel, and after I
had gone a few yards I found myself
clutching too affectionately to the
Arab in front of me for my peace
of mind. I had overestimated my
steadiness of head, and was com-
pelled to beat a hasty and igno-
minious retreat. I was partially
compensated for my humiliation
and disappointment by the ex-
treme interest and beauty of the
view from this elevated spot. The
amphitheatre was somewhat similar,
but superior in ruggedness of out-
line and boldness of character gen-
erally, to that of Hay bee. Looking
eastward, and bounding the pros-
pect in that direction, at a distance
of about half a mile, was a lofty cliff
of natural rock— a projecting mass
of which terminated abruptly on
a lower ridge. Along the summit
of this ridge, which, in its turn

218

The Land of Khtmi,

[Aug.

ended in a precipice sixty or seventy
feet high, ran a wall of crude brick
showing sharply against the sky-line.
As well as I could judge from the
distance at which I was, it was from
sixty to seventy yards long, and from
fifteen to twenty feet high, and was
evidently part of the outer fortifica-
tions of the town. In all probability
it formed a portion of the defensive
system which is said to have been
constructed by an ancient Egyptian
queen, whose name was Delooka,
and which extended from Assouan
along the whole length of the valley
of the Nile to the sea.

Diodorus says that Sesostris
** erected a wall along the eastern
side of Egypt to guard against the
incursions of the Syrians and Arabs,
which extended from Pelusium, by
the desert, to Heliopolis, being in
length 1500 stadia" (about 173
English miles). If this was neces-
sary as far as Heliopolis, there is
every reason to suppose that it was
no less essential to the safety of the
inhabitants further up the river, and
that, as an additional security, those
fortresses were built, the remains
of which I have seen at Haybee,
Tehneh, Kom el Kafara, and else-
where on the eastern bank of the
Nile. The Arabs told us there
were no mounds of a town beyond
the wall, but that there were caves
in the clifis beyond ; and I have no
doubt that they would repay in-
vestigation, as this neighbourhood
seems somehow to have escaped that
careful examination which has been
bestowed upon almost every mile of
the Nile valley.

There were a few native huts
among the mounds, and the " oldest
inhabitant " told us that half a
day's journey to the eastward there
were two caves, the extent of which
could never be explored, they were
so vast. He declared that he him-
self had been with lights the better
part of a day's journey in one of
them. That in the limestone for-

mation there may be natural caves
of some extent which have been
magnified by native imagination, is
highly probable, but I doubt whe-
ther they would repay a visit. The
population of the place we were
now exploring, and which is called
Kom el Kafara, assured us that
though so near Minieh, they had
never known of any foreigners hav-
ing investigated the ruins. They
could, in fact, only remember hav-
ing once seen two .who came to
shoot* We made them collect all
their treasures in the way of beads
and coins, the former of which the
women wear as necklaces, while the
latter are kept by the men under a
vague impression that they repres-
ent money of some sort. On one of
these necklaces I found a modern
button, a modern glass bead, and a
scarabaeus. The woman was evi-
dently under the impression that
the latter was the least valuable
of the three; she put a relatively
high price on the button and the
bead, but I got the scarabaeus for
twopence. The coins were com-
paratively modem, with Roman,
Arabic, and Cufic inscriptions,
but it by no means follows that
they were picked up on the spot.
In the low mud-wall of one of the
huts was the fragment of a marble
papyrus column about three feet
high ; near by in the mounds were
two circular limestone plinths about
four feet apart, and three feet in dia-
meter, which probably supported the
columns that formed the entrance
to a temple ; and a large circular
block of carved marble was so era-
bedded in the debris that we could
not determine its exact size. The
town was evidently a small one,
probably not much more than a
fortress, as the ruins only covered
about 300 acres. Many of the
walls of the houses, built of crude
brick, were still standing ; and
on the edge of a rude mummy-
pit we found a bundle still intact

Part IIL^Old and New.

1881.]

and tightly corded up. This we
eagerly untied ; the flax rope which
bound it was as strong as the day
it was first twisted round the brown
linen wrappages, layer after layer of
which we unwound, and which were
also in very g<V)d preservation. The
bundle, which was about eighteen
inches in diameter, contained, when
at last we reached its, enclosure, a
quantity of raw flax, a number of
small bones of some animal, and
some grains of wheat. There was no
skull, and certainly not nearly the
full complement of bones. After
this we wandered over the mounds
in search of antiques, but found
nothing of any value. There were
no fragments of glass, though a good
few of coloured glazed pottery;
but at last, to our joy, on turning
over the largest bricks, we found
some stamped with hierogly-
phics. It took us some time to
piece the most perfect of these
together, and our former experi-
ence at Haybee enabled us, with
the assistance of a hieroglyphic
alphabet, to decipher it as fol-
lows — " Xouter-hon-atep, Ra-men-
cheper," or "The High Priest of
Ammon Ra-men-cheper." The in-
terest of this discovery lay in the
fact that Ea-men-cheper was the
fourth king of the twenty -first
dynasty ; and I am not aware that
his name has been found upon any
monument before. It was a curious
thing that the brick we found at
Haybee, sixty miles lower down the
river on the same bank, in an
almost exactly similar gorge, should
have been inscribed with the name
of his immediate predecessor Pin-
ed jem. We know nothing about
Ba-men-cheper except his position
in the royal lists; and it is pos-
sible that excavations* here might
reveal some interesting records of
his reign, and of the dynasty of pon-
tiff kings to which he belonged.

At the mouth of the gorge, on
its northern side, is the tomb of a

219

sheikh ; and below this, near a few
date-trees, are two caves, one nat-
ural, about twenty feet high, but of
no great depth, and the other arti-
ficial, the entrance to which, cut
into the solid rock, was twelve feet
by six : the mortuary chamber
within was forty feet long by ten
wide, but there were no inscriptions
on its rock sides, and at one corner
was a perpendicular shaft, filled to
within three feet of the top with
sand. The roof of a lower chamber,
which is usually the receptacle of
sarcophagi, was just visible at this
point, and we lighted some straw
and found it was filled with sand
and rubbish to within a foot of the
roof. Under these circumstances
further investigation, except with a
gang of workmen, was impossible.
We had done enough to prove the
interest of the spot, and the only
thing still remaining to be accom-
plished, short of excavation, was
the deciphering of the inscription
on the cliff. I revisited it some
days after for this purpose, and
this time succeeded in getting along
the ledge to its base. I found it
to be about thirty feet long and
nine feet high. The name in-
scribed was that of Eameses the
Third ; but the upper parts of the
figures were so mutilated that I was
unable to conjecture what they
might signify until I visited the
cliffs near Tehneh, ten miles lower
down the river. Here I saw, occu-
pying the same position on the rock,
what appeared to be the same
three figures; but they were un-
mutilated, and have been decided,
by those competent to form an
opinion, to be a representation of
liameses the Third receiving a fal-
chion from the hand of the croco-
dile-headed god Savak, or Savak-Ra,
in the presence of Ammon. I feel
little doubt that the figures at Kom el
Kafara have the same signification.
The natives evidently regarded
the inscription with a good deal of

220

Tlie Land of KhemL

[Aug.

awe and superstition. The sheikh
assured me that I should find the
stone at the base of the inscription
would give forth a hollow sound if
I struck the rock, and told me that
there was a mysterious cavern with-
in, inhabited by efrites or devils,
to which no entrance had been
found, but that it was probably
behind a curious stone, which he
called a " monkey stone," the sin-
gular shape and black colour of
which contrasted curiously with
the white limestone. It looked like
black basalt ; but whether it was,
or how it got there, I can form no
definite opinion. It is certain, how-
ever, that, on striking the rock,
I failed to make it emit a hollow
sound. Eameses seems to have
had a propensity, in which he has
been imitated by the modern tour-
ist, of writing his name on rocks,
but he did it in a style so imperish-
able, that it has lasted just three
thousand years ; and perhaps, con-
sidering his great achievements both
in war and peace, his vanity may
be excused. He rivalled his great
predecessor and relative, Eameses
the Great, the Sesostris of the
Greeks, in his conquests, in the
benefits he conferred upon his
country, and in the monuments he
left behind him. Of these, the
temple of Medinet Habou, on
the plain of Thebes, is perhaps the
most remarkable. Among the in-
scriptions there, is one which men-
tions, for the first time in history,
several of the nations of Europe,
and his tomb is one of the finest
of " the tombs of the kings."

I described these facts to the faith-
ful Mahomet, who was extremely
anxious to know the interpretation
of the inscription he had been the
first to point out, and who piloted
me along the ledge to enable me to
copy it. "This is the name of the
great Eameses," I said. " You have
heard of his tomb!" "Yes, sir,"
he promptly replied. " Captain

Eamsay I know — he one English
gentleman ; he not buried here —
his tomb furdur up."

While our experiences so far had
satisfied us that the ancient land of
Khemi was far from exhausted as a
field for antiquarian research, we also
found, in the phase through which
the modern land of Egypt is passing,
much to interest in both its political
and material condition. Our mode
of life brought us more closely into
contact with the people of all
classes than usually falls to the lot
either of the tourist hurrying to
the First Cataract, or the valetudin-
arian leading a hotel life in Cairo.

I had myself visited Egypt upon
eight previous occasions, on flying
visits, and can therefore realise
how erroneous is the impression
produced upon the traveller who
sees it for the first time from the
windows of a railway carriage, or
the deck of a dahaheeya. The squal-
id aspect of the mud-villages, the
thinly clad ragged population clus-
tered round the holes which serv'^e
for entrances into their dung-daubed
hovels, and the poverty-stricken
aspect of the population, would lead
to a most incorrect conclusion, if it
was formed entirely on outward ap-
pearances. And indeed there has
been a time, and that not very re-
mote, when the external aspect of
the people did not belie their real
condition; when they were thrashed
and starved by a rapacious govern-
ment, crying, like ** the horse-leech,
'Give, give,' " and which never was
satisfied. It is only since the ex-
pulsion of the late Khedive that a
change has come over the spirit of
their dream — a change so great,
that they are bewildered by its
suddenness, and have not yet had
time to alter the outward habits of
the life to which they have so long
been accustomed, or to recover from
the sense of fear and mistrust by
which they were continually haunt-
ed. The character of the people

1881.]

Part II L— Old and New.

221

has been created by long periods
of misrule and oppression ; quali-
ties of apathy, suspicion, and deceit
have been engendered, which it
will take years of just and equit-
able administration to eradicate;
and it will probably be long before
they are stimulated by the steady
improvement in their economical
condition to rise to a higher con-
ception of the comforts of daily
life. No doubt the perfection of
the climate tends to militate against
any rapid change in this respect.
The mud-huts are good enough for
a country in which it never rains ;
the thin ragged gowns warm enough
for a temperature which is always
pleasant. The land is so fruitful
that it does not require the amount
of labour which is necessary upon
a more ungrateful soil to be made
to yield of its abundance ; and the
people may have money enough in
their pockets to build better houses
and buy finer clothes, long before it
will enter into their heads to do so.
There is a strong and very nat-
ural propensity to hoard among
them ; and the possession of wealth
having always been synonymous
with persecution, when it was dis-
covered, has led to habits of se-
crecy in regard to it; so that the
first instinct of a peasant who, by
some fortunate accident, acquires a
sum of money, is to bury it, and not
disclose its existence, even to his
wife and family. Under the oven
is a favourite hiding-place, as there
is a certain security in a fire being
generally burning over it. Even
to the last, men have been known
to guard the secret, dying with it
unrevealed ; and there can be little
doubt that a good deal of money
has been lost in this way, and that,
if we add the stores of the ancients
to those of modem times, the
country must contain a consider-
able amount of hidden treasure.
This is confirmed to some extent
by the fact that the ideas of the

peasantry are always running upon
hidden treasure. I received a
curious evidence of this upon one
occasion when I was trying to in-
duce a man to sell me some an-
tiques which he had dug out of a
mound. Among them he inadvert-
ently said there was a large earthen
jar — on which his wife interrupted
him, and a violent argument took
place between them. She objected
strongly to her husband selling the
jar, on the ground that if it came
to the ears of the Government they
would certainly be accused of hav-
ing stolen the treasure which it
contained, and be forced to pay
money by way of restitution.

In spite of all this suspicion and
reluctance to reveal the possession
of money, by spending it, we have
but to look a little closely to see
the evidences of an increasing ma-
terial prosperity all through Egypt.
In many of the smaller towns
new houses are springing up rapid-
ly ; at Medinet el Fayoum, Minieh,
Ehoda, and other places which I
visited, this was observable; land
which had been allowed to run out
was being taken back into cultiva-
tion; the Fayoum especially has
taken a marvellous start within the
last two years. I was, perhaps, the
more struck by the marked evi-
dences, everywhere visible, of a
growing prosperity, by the contrast
which the country afiforded to
Turkey, where I had passed the
previous year. It was the differ-
ence between a house in process of
construction and a house crumbling
to decay. The unfortunate feature
in the situation is, that the new
house is being built under the very
shadow of the old, by the same
builders who are actually engaged
in helping to pull down the old,
and who are only " constructing "
in harmony now, for interested
and private motives, which must
conflict whenever the scramble
begins for the remains of what

222

The Land of KhemL

[Aug.

they are about to* demolish. Un-
der these circumstances, though
the present aspect is encouraging,
the conviction that its prosperity-
depends upon a combination of
external powers, with rival and
selfish ends in view, seriously de-
tracts from what would otherwise
be a most hopeful prospect for the
future. This, indeed, is believed,
that the unfortunate people will
just have tasted enough of relief
from oppression and of material
prosperity, to make the relapse
into the general chaos which must
ensue upon the dismemberment of
Turkey doubly painful to them;
and they will find their suspicion
and distress of the future, and the
sort of instinct which prevails that
the present state of things is too
good to last, well founded. Mean-
time they seem to believe in ^' mak-
ing hay while the sun shines."
Every man has already learnt
exactly how much his annual tax
amounts to, and refuses to be
squeezed out of a piastre more.
The old officials, who used to line
their pockets out of extortions from
the peasantry, under pretext of
collecting taxes, which varied with
the squeezability of the tax-payer,
can do so no longer without dis-
covery ; for the peasant has learnt
from experience, to his astonish-
ment, that appeal to the proper
quarter secures protection and re-
dress. A consciousness which is,
on the other hand, apt to produce
a reaction, and make him insub-
ordinate and untractable in matters
where he lias certain duties to per-
form, and to which he was com-
pelled in old days by a free use of
the kurbash.

In a country dependent for its
prosperity upon its irrigation sys-
tem being kept in good repair,
it is evident that every human
being is personally interested in
the state of the sluices and irrigat-
ing canals; and from the earliest

times the population were com-
pelled to contribute their labour
gratuitously for their up-keep, just
as in the United States every farm
in the country is compelled to con-
tribute its quota of labour, without
payment, to the maintenance of
the roads. The same system has
always prevailed in Egypt ; and the
canals were kept up by a corvee of
the inhabitants, who endeavoured,
by every means in their power, to
evade it, and were only compelled
to obedience by the liberal use of
the stick. Now, however, the* use
of the stick or kurbash is abol-
ished, but the men are none the
less expected to keep the irrigation
works in repair by gratuitous labour.
In some mudirates the peasantry
are compelled to work thus without
payment on the dikes and canals
for six months in the year, in
others for one hundred and twenty
days. Nor can they exempt them-
selves by payment, — as even, if the
money were forthcoming, it would
not be possible to find the requisite
amount of labour. In addition to
this, the men are often obliged to
work at a distance of one or two
days* journey from their homes,
thus involving them in consider-
able extra expense, to escape which
they not un frequently bribe the
minor employees. Indeed, although
legally they cannot buy exemption,
in practice it is not so very diffi-
cult; for money, skilfully applied,
generally provides a means of escape
from most dilemmas. It is evident
that no people in the world will
willingly stand being forced to
work six months of the year with-
out pay ; and now that they are no
longer bastinadoed into it, they are
getting difficult to manage, and the
canals are suffering in consequence.
The simple and manifest solution
of the difficulty would be to clean
them by machinery. There is
something at once grotesque and
pathetic in this nineteenth century

1881.]

Part III.— Old and New.

223

in the sight of five thousand men,
almost entirely naked, standing
waist-deep in the soft mud, and
scooping it out with no better in-
strument than their hands. One
can scarcely conceive a more dis-
agreeable operation, though it re-
minds one how little the habits of
the people are changed since those
ancient times when the huge monu-
ments, which at this day challenge
our admiration, were created by the
application of physical force upon a
vast scale. By the introduction of
dredgers this great multitude might
be largely released, and enabled to
devote themselves to the culture
of their own lands. At the same
time, the maintenance of dikes
and other irrigation works would
always render a certain amount
of forced labour necessary; and
though it is repugnant to our feel-
ings to force them to work by beat-
ing them, still, as their own sal-
Tation depends upon their fulfil-
ling this duty, it is a question
how fax this sentiment should pre-
vail in a matter of such vital in-
terest to the country, among a
population who have always been
accustomed to this mode of coercion,
and who feel no disgrace attaching
to it. A curious illustration of
this came under my notice while
staying with a friend who was en-
gaged in keeping the canals in good
repair. A man who had persist-
ently evaded his duties, seemed to
be pricked by his conscience, and
voluntarily came to him one day,
and said that he was prepared to
go to work on the canal, but that
he could not do so without beiug
compelled. He had never in his
life worked on a canal until he had
been beaten, and there was appar-
ently something repugnant to his
feelings in going to work upon'one,
even for pay, voluntarily ; he there-
fore requested that a hundred
blows of the kurbash should be

VOL. OXXX. — NO, DCOXC.

administered to him upon the soles
of his feet. My Mend reluctantly
acceded to his request, thereby
breaking the law ; but the man re-
ceived the required stimulus with-
out a groan, and went to his work
in a peaceful and contented frame of
mind, as one who had relieved his
conscience of a heavy load. One
could scarcely require a stronger
proof of the extent to which a
population may be dSnaturee by
a long course of oppression than
this instance, which is perfectly
authentic, furnishes.

From the illustration I have given
of the value of the hurhash it will
be seen that it has too strong a hold
upon the people to be readily aban-
doned ; and indeed, although it is
nominally prohibited by law, its
use is largely resorted to, mh roaa,
by the native minor officials, more
especially in the detection of crime.
On one occasion, alighting from the
train at a small town* where I was
going to spend a few days, I observ-
ed five prisoners, heavily chained
by the neck and arms, being
escorted by a guard of soldiers
out of one of the rear carriages.
The leading man was a negro, with
by no means a bad cast of counte-
nance, who was smiling defiantly
at the crowd which had assembled
to see them pass. The others fol-
lowed his example in a display of
contempt and indifference to their
position, and some of them were
truculent - looking fellows enough.
On inquiring as to their crime, I
was informed that a few days be-
fore they had burglariously entered
the house of a small Greek trader
in the town, whom they had fired
at and severely wounded, decamp-
ing with a considerable sum of
money, shooting and killing on
their way a policeman who at-
tempted to interfere. It was sus-
pected that they formed part of a
large band who were credited with
p

224

The Land of Khemi,

[Aug.

a series of burglaries and other acts
of violence in the neighbourhood.
They had been arrested owing to
a curious train of circumstances
too long to recount, but I was
anxious to follow them to the office
of the vaJdl in order to hear them
cross-examined. I was requested,
however, to refrain from doing so,
as the authorities would have hesi-
tated to apply the kurbash in my
presence ; and without it, it would
be impossible to discover the names
and hiding-places of their accom-
plices, one of whom had been ac-
tually guilty of the murder. I was
therefore obliged to content myself
with receiving an accurate report of
what passed from one who was pre-
sent. He told me that the black
man, who was one of the ring-
leaders, and had been a slave,
received a hundred blows of the
kurbash, bellowing loudly during
the whole of the process, before he
announced himself willing to con-
fess. When he did so, his revela-
tions were most important. All
his comrades were similarly treat-
ed — one receiving in silence and
in perfect indifference 1500 blows
of the kurbash without confessing.
The executioner told my informant
that the man's feet were so hard he
felt as if he was beating iron. He was
then put to various kinds of torture,
but remained obdurate to the end.
As a result of what was discovered,
however, all the remaining mem-
bers of the band, numbering in all
twenty-two, were arrested, and six
murders, accompanied by assassina-
tion, were confessed with all their
details, besides numerous minor
offences. The fear of the peasantry,
and their reluctance to testify in
cases where the band is powerful
and influential by virtue of its con-
nection by blood with a large dis-
trict of country, would have ren-
dered it impossible to bring this
gang of malefactors to justice with-
out resorting to these severe meas-

ures. In the case in question, one
girl proved an exception to this
rule, and showed as much courage
in giving her evidence as nerve
and presence of mind at the time
of the burglary. It seems that the
black slave came to her as she lay
bound on the ground for the pur-
pose of cutting her throat, on which
she said, " If you want to cut my
throat in order to get my bracelets
and earrings, here they are, and
welcome. I only gave two piastres
for the bracelets, and one for the
earrings," — ^and she took them off
and threw them to him ; on which
the chief of the band, picking
them up, threw them back to
her with the remark, " We don't
want your false rubbish," and
called off his black comrade. They
were really solid gold, and the
clever wench saved her life and
her jewels by her ready wit Not
uncommonly the police are in league
with the robbers; and this must
have been the case in this instance,
for out of 110 town guardians, only
two were proved to have been on
duty on the night of the occurrence,
and of these one was shot Hence
there was no possibility of institut-
ing a pursuit at the time.

It is an unfortunate fact that the
common people seem to get demor-
alised in proportion as they are
brought in contact with foreigners.
Thus the servants in the large
towns, and the Nile boatmen, are
among the most dishonest classes in
the population. An instance of the
moral code prevalent among the
latter came under my notice one
day, lying wind-bound moored to a
sandy islet in the river. A large
dahabeeya, laden with grain, came
and moored alongside, and I ob-
served the crew busy apparently
throwing the grain in the air to
clean it Upon my inquiring why
they chose the time and place for
this operation, I was informed that
the boat was consigned to some

Part III.— Old and New.

1881.]

f oTeign honse in Cairo, but that the
reis was making a little speculation
-oat of the cargo on his own ac-
-count, and having sold some of it
at a neighbouring town, was now
-engaged making up the deficient
weight with fine sand. When the
whole was thoroughly mixed he
would damp it a little, so as to in-
crease the bulk and weight of his
•cargo to the requisite extent. This
proceeding was carried on openly
under the eyes of our crew, who
considered it a perfectly natural
one. Merchants who are convers-
ant with frauds of this kind,
constantly practised by the crews
of Xile boats, usually send a trust-
worthy person as a watchman. The
great amount of European travel on
the river of late years, the lavish
expenditure of backsheesh, and the
opportunities which exist for swind-
ling the unsophisticated traveller,
have made the Kile boatmen a
greedy, rapacious, and, unless they
are kept well in hand, an insolent
class of the community. Neverthe-
less, taken as a whole, the people
are peaceable and easily managed,
contented with little, and grateful
for kind treatment, though lacking
in enterprise or energy, — a defect
which, however, may rather be due
to a long course of bad government
than to the inherent absence of those
qualities. Kow that they are regu-
larly paid for their day's labour by
the Daira Sanieh and Domaine ad-
ministrations, they show themselves
industrious enough; and there is
no difficulty in getting labour where
they feel they can rely upon the
moufietish. There is, however, a
^eat contrast in the methods in
which the estates of the Daira
Sanieh are administered, depending
on the individual capacity and
honesty of the mouffetishes. Each
of these functionaries administers a
ifi/tish or farm, varying in size from
50,000 to 10,000 acres,— the whole
Daira Sanieh lands amounting to

225

about half a million of acres. Of
these, 200,000 lie in a strip extend-
ing for eighty miles along the banks
of the Kile to a point about twenty
miles above Minieh; 50,000 are sit-
uated above Luxor ; 76,000 are in
the Fayoum; and the rest in Lower
Egypt. On this land there are 375
miles of agricultural railway, the
plant, rolling stock, and appurte-
nances of which are valued at about
a million sterling. There are nine
sugar-mills in operation, and three
in full working orider,but these latter
are closed for want of a sufficient sup-
ply of cane. These mills are valued at
about £200,000 a piece ; and there
is one which is not quite finished,
but the building materials for it
are all on the spot. Besides the
sagar, there are sundry cotton mills,
which are not at work. The ex-
Khedive is responsible for all this
extravagance of investment in ma-
chinery; and it is melancholy to
see the quantity of good material,
of great value, lying about the fields,
which is destined never to be used.
Huge iron wheels, boilers, cylinders,
fragments of steam-ploughs, seem to
strew the country ; while the long
iron funnels of the sugar-factories
disfigure it. If these returned a
large profit on the expenses of
working them, it would be some
consolation; but at present the
Daira lands do not do much more
than pay their expenses together
with the charges upon them, and
in some years do not do that. This
is to some extent due to defective
cultivation. The furrows in which
the cane is planted are not nearly
deep enough ; the rows, unlike
those I have seen in the Southern
States of America, are single instead
of double, and are only about half
as far apart; and the cane is not
banked up. The present adminis-
tration has no doubt much to con-
tend with. First, it has the
legacy of all the corruption and
evils which tainted every depart-

226

The Land o/KJiejni.

[Aug.

ment under the late Government,
and these were especially rife in
the Daira Sanieh, which offered an
exceptionally good field for plunder ;
then it has to bear the pressure of
the bondholders, who cannot wait
for a process of reform, and to sub-
mit to the trying of experiments
which are incidental to a new sys-
tem, but which must of necessity
take time and money. It may be
that by degrees these experiments
may be introduced; for there can
be no doubt that, with certain
changes in the present system and
a judicious expenditure jof capital,
especially on irrigation works, the
Daira Sanieh property might be
made to 3rield a very large return.
It is due to Ismail Pasha to ac-
knowledge that he planned a system
of irrigation which possesses great
merit, and which only requires to
be perfected to confer a still greater
benefit upon the country than it
already does. "With a view of com-
pletely controlling and utilising to
their fullest extent the waters of the
Kile, he constructed the canal known
as the Ibrahimieh Canal, which is
called after his son. It rims parallel
with the Kile, and generally within
a mile distant from it, and extends
from a little above Ehoda to Beni-
Sae£ It was originally intended to
be carried into the Kile below that
place, but instead of this it dwindles
away to nothing, and the canal to
a great extent fails to do the work
for which it was designed, and be
a large full-flowing river throughout
its whole course. One of the most
important public works awaiting
accoiaplishment is the completion
of this canal. In addition to this
most valuable adjunct to the system
of irrigation, the late Khedive built
a huge dike, also extending from
Ehoda to Eeni-Suef, a distance of
more than a hundred miles j and the
land between the Ibrahimieh Canal
and this dike, on the other side
of which is the Bahr Youssef, forms

practically the whole ctdtivable area
of the western bank of the Kile
for that distance. It is divided
into basins, into which the water
is conducted by the canaL These
basins store the inundation for as
long a time as is required, and the
ceremony of opening the sluice-
gates to admit the water from one
mudirate to another is quite an
imposing function. The two mudirs
meet at the gate, and the one
formally hands over the water to
the other, who signs a written receipt
for it. The only natural overflows
which now take place are that of
the waters of the Kile over the nar-
row strip on its left bank, and that of
the Bahr Youssef, which runs behind
the dike. The whole of the rest
of the country is divided into basins
which are flooded as desired; and the
impression of one's youth, therefore,
that the whole country was sub-
merged at once by uncontrolled
inundation is erroneous. It is a
question whether this plan of storing
the water and allowing it to stagnate
before it is led on into other basins,
does not deprive it of its fertilis-
ing qualities, as it necessarily has
not so much mud to deposit as the
constant fresh supply which came
down with the natural overflow.
This would not be the case if the
Ibrahimieh Canal was finished, as
the waters would then run off, and
the fresh flood could be carried over
the land. As it is, the stagnation
of the water produces infiltration,
which causes the saline properties
in the soil to rise. Partly owing to
this cause, partly to the exhaust-
ing qualities of sugar-cane and the
neglect of a proper rotation of crops,
and partly to the deleterious effects
in the long-run of the nitrous soil
which is excavated from the old
mounds and used as manure, the
land will lose much of its produc-
tive capacity ere long, unless steps
are taken to remedy these evils.
Altogether the system, not only of

PaH III.— Old and New.

1881.]

irrigation but of cnltivation, leaves
much to be desired ; and there can
be no doubt that the introduction
of foreign enterprise and capital
would develop the resources of the
country -with far greater rapidity
and success than a Government
department can, however well ad-
ministered. Unfortunately, there
seems a disposition on the part of
the Government to exclude agri-
cultural enterprise, for fear, possi-
bly, of the foreign influence which
must follow in its train, — and per-
haps one can hardly blame them.
Wbat with their Domaine lands
hypothecated to foreigners in one
du^ction, and their Daira Sanieh
lands in another, and all the prin-
cipal departments of the Govern-
ment under foreign control, one has
no reason to wonder at a reluctance
to see foreigners appropriating the
very soil. I only know of one in-
stance of a considerable tract of land
being farmed by a private individual
who is a foreigner, and he has no
cause to regret his venture; but
he has had much prejudice to
contend with on the part of the
natives, and had great difficulty in
making his purchase in the first in-
stance.

This prejudice, so far as the pea-
santry are concerned, is soon over-
come. They have every reason to
be thankful for the system under
which the Government is at pres-
ent administered ; and foreigners,
and especially English, are de-
cidedly popular among them.
Among the upper classes the sen-
timent is different. The Turkish
official element is as bitterly op-
posed to the foreigner as in Turkey
itself; whilst the sympathy of the
higher officials of Egyptian origin,
^ind of the Copts, is French rather
than English. This is partly owing
to the great preponderance of the
French population in Egypt over
the English, — to the much greater
proportion of employees in the Gov-

227

emment service which belong to
the former nationality, and to the
fact that the official language is
French. AH the Arab papers in the
country but one support the French.
In fact, Egypt is becoming rapidly
Frenchified moraUy, and under the
present contrivance of an Anglo-
French administration its influence
is increasing. But in Egypt, as else-
where in Eastern countries which
are more or less under the domi-
nation of the Porte, a' feeling of
national independence is gradually
growing. This is the case both in
Egypt and Syria, though from the
fact that both countries have lost all
traditions of a national independent
existence, it is a plant of slow and
tender growth, and will not dare to
find expression until the central
Turkish 'power is shaken to its
foundations. I think we may then
see, both in Syria and Egypt,
an anti-Turkish movement, which
the old conquering race, whose su-
premacy is now only based upon
its prestige, will be no longer able
to resist. When such a movement
takes place, the relations which these
two countries hold towards Eng-
land and France will have to be
determined, and it will probably
then be found that the best solu-
tion would be an arrangement by
which Syria, excluding Palestine,
should be placed under the protec-
torate of France, and Egypt under
that of England. The national
party in both countries would hail
such a change with delight, and in-
deed are already so far familiarised
with the idea of obtaining their
freedom from the domination of
Turkey by some arrangement of the
Western Powers, that the only prac-
tical difficulties in the way of a
solution in this sense would arise,
not from the countries to be dealt
with, but from the suspicions and
jealousies of those great Powers
whose function it must be ere long
to shape their destinies.

228 Holidays. — Sunset on the Lomonds. [Aug..

HOLIDAYS.

OxcE more, once more again

On me, from city cares -who fly,
Lochleven, like a loving eye,
Looks round the shoulder of the hills,
And all life's artificial ills

Pass from me with their pain !

The smoke mil leave a stain;

In absence of the cleansing shower
The dust wiil dim the freshest flower:
Happy the heart on whom the dust
Of active life (for blow it must)

Grows not a thing in grain !

Xor are those ills in vain:

They come upon our passions here

Like winter rigours on the year —

The purer are the daisies' dyes

When spring comes round, bluer the skies.
And welcomer the rain !

To some the breezy main;

To some the moors and burns; to some,
"Who cannot go, sweet thoughts will come;
To me, enfranchisement from ills
When gleams, as now, between the hills

Lochleven o'er the plain !

SUNSET ON THE LOMONDS.

See where into the sunset far
The terraced mountains rise.
The cresset of a single star
Just o'er them in the skies !
Oh that to me a dove's meek eyes

And snowy wings were given
To reach yon hills, and realise
The calm they have from heaven !
My soul is o'er the vale of Leven
(Though here in streets I stray)
Till fades the holy golden even :
The wish, too, dies away !
Alas for earth ! that all it may.

Is but a mood in me;
And that, when heaven withdraws its ray^
The mood should cease to be !

J. LOGIE EOBERTSOX.

1881.]

AtUohiographies.

229

AUTOBIOGRAPHIES.

NO. IV. — EDWARD GIBBON.

The last antobiographer whom
we bionglit before the reader was
the most romantic and fantastic of
noble ladies. We have now a sub-
ject more sedate. Those picturesque
and troublous days were over, and
the reign of the conventional had
come in, when Edward Gibbon, Esq.,
a comely, well-bred, and well-dress-
ed gentleman of the Georgian era,
bethought him that it would be
well, haying neither chick nor child,
but only a big book to make him
known to posterity, if he left also
for the instruction of the world a
personal account of himself and all
his ways. He had a happy confi-
dence that this narrative would be
received with all the interest which
it deserved, and was very well aware
that his was no insignificant figure,
but one in every respect important
enough to be contemplated by suc-
cessive generations, and to give the
world assurance of a man and a
historian such as appears but rarely
to its view. He was not noble or
beautiful, or the head of a family
such as might be supposed to derive
at once importance and guidance
from the example of an ancestor so
distinguished. He does not write,
as Lord Herbert does, for the in-
struction of his particular house-
hold, but, with a complacency which
is not unbecoming to him, and per-
fectly natural, he dispenses with all
secondary motives, and with sin-
cerity and modest self-appreciation
presents himself, as one worthy of
its study, to the universe. And his
confidence has been entirely justi-
fied. No chapter in his great work
has been more read and admired
than that which tells his own
story, and how that great work
came to . be written. There are

passages in it which are as familiar
to our ears as proverbial expres-
sions. The words in which the
comfortable fat gentleman dis-
closes and describes that event-
ful moment when the idea of
writing a history of Eome first
dawned upon hun, and those in
which he sets forth his sensations
at the moment of concluding it, are
as well known as any passages in
the English language. Thus we
prove over again what has been so
often said, Uiat a glimpse into a
man's mind, a real portrait of a
human creature great or small, is
one of the greatest pleasures we can
receive. It is not necessary even
that the portrait should be of an
elevated and remarkable person, or
of one already known to us, or tiiat
the life should contain great and
varied interests. There is a picture
in our National Gallery at which
many a spectator gazes with sym-
pathy and interest. It is a por-
trait without any name — a pen-
sive face disclosing a character
somewhat feeble, weak-kneed, in-
articulate. The original does not
seem to have found his life a very
satisfactory one. No wonder, for
he was but a tailor; and though
the medieval times in which he
lived must have furnished many
alleviations in rich colour and quaint
design to the monotony of the
trade, its disabilities were probably
greater in those aristocratical ages
than now. But we look at him
with more than mere admiration
for a picture, with a distinct sense
of human fellowship. To see him,
with his scissors, looking out at us,
modestly, humbly, with a depreca-
tory consciousness of being but a
poor sort of fellow to have survived

230

Autohiographiea.

[Aug.

80 many yiciBsitiides and centuries,
is, humble though he be, a touching
sight. And who is there who
could resist that loftier counte-
nance, in the same collection — ^the
dark, soft, pathetic, almost beseech-
ing face of the Florentine Andrea,
the great painter but feeble soul,
whose sad story of vacillation and
moral failure, deepened by a never-
failing consciousness of the higher
truth he could not hold by, is writ-
ten in his eyes ? Such studies from
the life are above Art. Our
steady-going historian has nothing
in him of the poem of self-abase-
ment and moral despair which is in
the looks of Andrea, and it would
be unworthy of Mr Gibbon's dig-
nity to compare him to Moroni's
inoffensive tailor ; but nevertheless
his sketch is like them, — valuable,
not for the kind of being it depicts,
but because it does depict a real
kind of being, bringing us into
distinct contact with him, and afford-
ing a clear perception of his qualities.
The figure is a dapper figure,
neither heroic nor melancholy, but
self-sufficient, self-approving, thor-
oughly comfortable and satisfied
with a world which, on the whole,
had proved to him the best of all
possible worlds, though it gave him
not very much, no supreme joy or
rapture, nothing beyond a reason-
able level of wdlbeing, with plenty
of food for the intellectual curiosity
which was in him, and excellent
prose compensation for his labours.
This is not enough for many
smaller persons ; but it was enough
for Gibbon, who had no fantastic
desires or imaginations. He was
the son of a family which, without
any brag of its importance or an-
tiquity, he is able to trace back
with satisfaction for a few genera-
tions. His grandfather was a di-
rector of the South Sea Company,
and as such was forced by Act of
Parliament to give up almost the
whole of his fortune in satisfaction

of the claims upon that chief of
bubble companies. We are not in-
formed how it was that the action
of Parliament in the matter was
necessary, or whether this was the
beginning of that liability which
has produced so much ruin in our
own day, and against which the de-
vice of a responsibility ^'limited^has
been invented to afford a safeguard.
The Gibbon of the South Sea Com-
pany was, however, it is evident,
one of those irrepressible mercan-
tile men who seem to thrive upon
failure, for he ended as rich as he
was before, having fully re-estab-
lished his fortunes. His son, as
was natural, was of another temper,
and spent what the father had
gained. He sat in Parliament for
many years, joining the Tory party,
as Gibbon explains, out of the vig-
orous hatred he had for Sir Robert
Walpole and the party which had
confiscated his father's goods for
the advantage of his creditors.
''Without acquiring the fame of
an orator or statesman, he eager-
ly joined in the great opposition
which, after a seven years' chase,
hunted down Sir Eobert Walpole ;
and in the pursuit of a populi^
Minister he gratified a private re-
venge against the oppressor of his
family in the South Sea persecu-
tion." The historian finds this sen-
timent very legitimate, and states
it with historical calm. He was
himself the only surviving child
of this avenger of family wrongs,
whose position, notwithstanding an
over-prodigality in youth, was good
enough to secure all the advan-
tages of a luxurious bringing-up to
his son. His reflections upon his
oym good fortune in the article
of birth are of the most edifying
kind. Dr Watts has expressed the
sentiment in a more popular form,
but the delightful complacency of
his Christian child in respect to its
own antecedents is identical with the
satisfaction of the great bistorian.

1881.]

No, IV. — Edward Gibbon.

231

** My lot," says Gibbon, " might
have been that of a slave, a savage,
or a peasant : nor can I reflect with-
out pleasure on the bounty of
nature, which cast my birth in a
free and civilised country, in an
age of science and philosophy, in
a family of honourable rank and
decently endowed with the gifts
of fortune." A gentle regret crosses
bis mind on looking back. His
five brothers he does not pretend
to lament, but the sister who died
also in infancy calls up in him a
sense of want. The relation of a
brother and sister is a beautiM
tie. It is 'Hhe sole species of
Platonic love that can be in-
dulged in with truth and without
danger," he says; and he regrets
that this tender and delightful com-
panionship never fell to his lot. It
IB the only regret he expresses.
But the circumstances of his child-
hood were somewhat peculiar. His
mother had not time to bestow
upon her sickly boy. She died
early, and during her lifetime was
frequently ill, and she had '* an
exclusive passion for her husband."
But she had at the same time — an
institution which careless mothers
should cultivate — a sister, '' at whose
name," says the great writer of fifty-
two, ''I feel a tear of gratitude
trickle down my cheek." " If there
be any, as I trust there are some,"
he adds, ^' who rejoice that I live,
to that dear and excellent woman
they must hold themselves indebt-
ed." His aunt was the mother of
his mind and the salvation of his
delicate frame. He was a weakly
boy, for whom education of the usual
kind was impracticable. School
was tried, but in vain. Like Cow-
per, he remembered with horror the
direful experiences of that inefiec-
tual and interrupted training : like
Buckle, he learned to read and
think and discuss, at a very early
age, books which are in general
left to mature intellects. ''Every

time I have since passed over
Putney Common," he tells us,
''I have always noticed the spot
where my mother, as we drove
along in the coach, admonished
me that I was now going into
the world, and must learn to think
and act for myself." He was but
eight years old when this crisis
arrived. At ten he was brought
home again upon the death of his
mother, and recalls his first meet-
ing with his father, with all the
distant distinctness of a childish
memory, bewildered and awestrick-
en by a grief he was too young to
comprehend, as a scene he could
never forget. " The awful silence ;
the room hung with black ; the mid-
day tapers; his sighs and tears; his
praises of my mother, a saint in
heaven ; his solemn adjuration that
I would cherish her memory and
imitate her virtues; and the fer-
vour with which he kissed and
blessed me as the sole surviving
pledge of their loves." Perhaps a
man requires to be a celibate, with-
out after-ties that take the place of
those early ones, or the chance of
seeing his own childhood obliter-
ate itself in the more interesting
childhood of his child, to preserve
this clear far-off freshness of recol-
lections, those scenes like pictures,
in which he himself stands bewil-
dered, yet so profoundly conscious.
It is curious to note how much more
keen is the memory, how much more
distinct all the personal details of
recollection, in the minds of those
who have kept themselves intact, so
to speak, and have never lost their
childish individuality. The man,
and more especially the woman,
who has married, and confused
the remembrance of early days
with so many recollections more
poignant — has a memory of a totally
different quality from that of the
virginal old age which has never
retraced its first impressions with
others more important. Gibbon

232

Autobiographies,

[Aug.

and Cowper and Buckle are' all of
this Btamp. To leave our pensive
poet between these two brother
philosophers is unfortunate; but
in this one particular they resem-
ble each other. But Gibbon was
happier than Cowper. His aunt
took for him the place of the
mother, whom already she had
supplanted in the child's life ; and
was made happy and delightftd by
her companionship. The sickly
little boy shot upwards like an im-
prisoned plant towards the light,
and came to premature growth and
blossom. He read not only fairy
tales, but works of classic inspira-
tion under her soft and genial
shadow.

" Her indulgent tenderness, the
frankaeas of her temper, and my
innate rising curiosity, soon removed
all distance oetween us. Like friends
of an equal age, we freely conversed
on every topic, familiar or abstruse ;
and it was her delight and reward to
observe the first shoots of my young
ideas. Pain and languor were often
soothed by the voice of instruction and
amusement ; and to her kind lessons
I ascribe my early and invincible love
of reading, which I would not ex-
change for the treasures of India. . . .
Before I left Kingston School I was
well acquainted with Pope's Homer
and the 'Arabian Nights Entertain-
ments,* two books which will always
please by the moving picture of hu-
man manners and specious miracles:
nor was I then capable of discerning
that Pope's translation is a portrait
endowed with every merit excepting
that of likeness to the originaL The
verses of Pone accustomed my ear to
the sound of poetic harmony : in the
death of Hector and the shipwreck of
Ulysses I tasted the new emotions of
terror and pity, and seriously disputed
with my aunt on the vices and virtues
of the heroes of the Trojan war. . . .
My grandfather^s flight unlocked the
door of a tolerable library : and I turn-
ed over many English pages of poetry
and romance, of history and travels.
Where a title attracted my eye, without
fear or awe I snatched tne volume
from the shelf ; and Mrs Porten, who

indulged herself in moral and religious
speculations, was more prone to encour-
age than to check a curiosity above the
strength of a boy."

The group thus described is singu-
larly attractive : the woman, middle-
aged by this time, who had found
in " the perusal of the best books
in the English language " training
and entertainment for an active
and fine mind, at leisure from the
more absorbing occupations of life,
but with many of its cares upon
her shoulders, and probably with-
out much companionship that could
satisfy her higher nature ; and
the half-invalid child, precociously
sharpened in all his intellectusd
faculties, abstracted altogether from
the realities, and existing in the
ideal as only a child can, with en-
tire good faith and realisation of
every imaginative detail, " serious-
ly disputing" over the merits of
Homer's heroes, and forgetting Put-
ney, where the sky was overcast
with coming troubles, — make a
pretty picture. Very soon, how-
ever, the catastrophe came. The
grandfather, of whom we have
no further particulars, was ruined
in trade, and Gibbon's aunt, Cather-
ine, '* the true mother of his soul,"
as he calls her, was left destitute.
Whether it was with special refer-
ence to her invalid boy or not, it is
at least certain that the high-spirited
woman, looking about for some way
to maintain herself, fixed upon that
of keeping a boarding-house for
Westminster School, where the
little Edward was placed under her
care, and an attempt made to keep
him at the ordinary studies there.
ITotwithstandiDg his aunt's care,
however, the attempt failed. He
adds various sententious remarks as
to the character of public schools,
to the account of his own failure ;
but perhaps a youth to whom
school was a weariness, was not
best adapted to form a judgment.
Hia health made the studies of

.1881.]

No. IV.— Edward Gibbon.

23S.

TVestminster, whether good or had
in themselves, impossible^ and the
boy was transferred to a private
tutor. When this tutor was found
incapable, the father, bewildered,
and evidently losing his head in
his perplexity, suddenly carried off
his ailiDg uneducated son to Oxford,
of all places in the world, where he
matriculated and became a gentle-
man-commoner at Magdalen Col-
lege, in the fifteenth year of his age.
Such things have been before now;
and the young prodigies who took
this position before they were out
of their childhood, have developed
into great scholars, as their natural
bias led them. But Gibbon was
no scholar. He had little Latin,
and less Greek, when he invaded
prematurely these classic shades.
A strange little student ! with his
head fall and running over with
the lore which was to be his future
occupation in life, but all untrained
in the classical instruction which
was the special distinction of the
university. Never was a child more
emphatically the fstther of the man.
He had read greedily every histori-
cal work that had fallen into his
hands, receiving all kinds of hetero-
geneous food, and the theories of
adverse historians, of which he was
too young to comprehend even the
complete diversity. " Instead of
repining," he says, *'at my long
and frequent confinement to the
chamber or the couch, I secretly
rejoiced in these infirmities, which
delivered me from the exercises of
the school and the society of my
equals." How were tame lessons
and dreary lexicons to be sup-
ported by an intelligence which
already felt itself free to rove as
an equal, as a critic and judge,
among the great authorities of his-
torical science? '^In my childish
balance," he confesses, '' I presumed
to weigh the systems of Scaliger
and Petavius, of Marsham and of
I^ewton^ which I could seldom

study in the originals; and my sleep
has been disturbed by the difficulty
of reconciling the Septuagint with
the Hebrew computation. I ar-
rived at Oxford with a stock of
erudition that might have puzzled
a doctor, and a degree of ignorance
of which a schoolboy would have
been ashamed."

The reader will find in the life
of Buckle almost an exact reproduc-
tion of this precocious, presumptuous
young reader, leaping over all the-
early discipline by which the mind
is strengthened and restrained, and
setting up with the temerity of
childhood a standard of his own.
Buckle, too, had the sprightly intelli-
gence of a woman, his most tender
nurse and protector, to stimulate and
encourage him, and shared his
studies with his mother, as Gibbon
did with his aunt. Fortunately,,
however, for the latter, he was de-
livered from the crude opinions and
self-willed theories which have
taken so much from the weight of
Buckle's often brilliant but always
one-sided philosophy, by an interval
of compulsory self-denial and hard
work. This was not, it is hardly
necessary to say, at Oxford. Gibbon
describes his entry into the life of
the famous university with a mix-
ture of suppressed spite and desire
to appear candid and to be just

"At the distance of forty years,"
he says, "I still remember my first
emotions of surprise and satisfaction.
In my fifteenth year I found myself
suddenly raised from a boy to a man ^
the persons whom I respected as mv
superiors in age and academical rank
entertained me with every mark of
attention and civility ; and my vanity
was flattered bv the velvet cap and
silk gown whicn distinguish a gentle-
man-commoner from a plebeian student
A decent allowance, more money than
a schoolboy had ever seen, was at my
own disposal. . . . A key was delivered
into my hands, which cave me the free
use of a numerous and learned librarv :
my apartment consisted of three ele-
gant and well-furnished rooms in the

Autobiographies,

[Aug.

new building — a stately pile — of Mad-
dalen College ; and the adjacent walks^
had they been frequented by Plato's
disciples, might have been compared
to the Attic shade on the banks of
the Ilissus." '

In that fine scene, with so many
classic associations, — the walks to
which Addison's name gives a
gentle charm of pensive thoughts ;
the slowly flowing, silent stream
stealing by to Isis; the stately
deer-park behind ; the grey tower,
so finely poised and full of grace,
crowning the sacred chapel and
studious chambers; and nothing
but learned seclusion and tranquil-
lity about, — could there be a more
perfect home of wisdom and science)
But when one recalls the little,
fastidious, self-willed, sickly boy,
too young to feel the charm, left
alone in his three elegant rooms,
with his pile of English books and
detested manuals of the classic
languages, perplexed and lonely,
and out of his element, it is im-
possible to think of him otherwise
than with pity. He spent fourteen
months in the midst of these ac-
cessories, which were far too much
for the instruction they accom-
panied, or were supposed to accom-
pany. Even at so long a distance
of years it is difficult for him to
abstain from a murmur of irritation.
" To the University of Oxford I
acknowledge no obligation/' he
cries, calling upon the reader to
decide between the school and the
scholar: "I cannot affect to be-
lieve that nature had disqualified
me for all literary pursuits. " When-
ever he approaches this subject there
is a tone of resentment in his voice.
His description of the college life
of his time is penetrated by this dis-
dainful irritation : —

" The Fellows or monks of my time
were decent easy men, who supinely
enjoyed the gifts of the founder : their
days were filled by a series of uni-
form employments — the chapel and

the hall, the coffee-house and the com-
mon-room, till they retired, weary and
well satisfied, to a long slumber. From
the toil of reading, writing, or think-
ing, they had absolved their con-
sciences ; and the first shoots of learn-
ing and ingenuity withered on the
ground, without yielding any fruits
to the owners or the public. As a gen-
tleman-commoner, I was admitted to
the society of the Fellows, and fondly
expected that some questions of liter-
ature would be the amusing and in-
structive topics of their discourse.
Their conversation stagnated in a
round of college business, Tory poli-
tics, ][>ersonal anecdotes, and private
scandal : their dull and deep potations
excused the brisk intemperance of
youth."

This description is touched with
an underlying sense of grievance
which it is curious to note. The
irritating sense that the university,
which so many of her disciples
praise, was to him nothing at all —
the waste of those means, which
should have been of so much ad-
vantage to him — ^weighs upon his
mind; even when he has out-
grown all its harm, the conscious-
ness of injury still hangs about
him. '' It is whimsical enough, that
as soon as I left Magdalen Col-
lege my taste for bookis began to
revive," he says. In the long va-
cation he even began to write ; but
on returing to college gave up " The
Age of Sesostris," which was the
ambitious subject he had chosen.
The state of things which he de-
scribes has long ceased to be; no
privileged gentlemen - commoners
with velvet cap or gold tuft, are
now to be seen among the glades of
Maudlin ; the dons are of a very dif-
ferent class &om those whose ''dull
and deep potations " astonished the
boy. But still there are some, no
doubt, who find their ''taste for
books begin to revive " when they
get clear of the venerable spires,
and leave the atmosphere of learn-
ing for that of common life. Why
this should be is not a question to

1881.]

No. lY.— Edward Gibbon.

235

be here discussed ; but it is aston-
ishing and strange to note how
many of the great names in litera-
ture are unadorned by any academ-
ical degree. Gibbon's was precisely
the kind of mind, one would have
thought, to take kindly to university
life. Perhaps he would have done
so had he entered the university at
a more suitable age. As it is, he
adds another to the long list of
eminent names which have derived
neither advantage nor credit from
their temporary connection with the
acknowledged fountain - heads of
learning.

Gibbon's departure from Oxford
was precipitated by what is one of
the most remarkable episodes in his
life. He— the future sceptic and
philosopher, the great critic of
Christianity and reviler of its teach-
ings — ^in after -days an impersona-
tion of the angry and contemptuous
unbelief of his century, — was for
once in his life the subject of an
attack of religious enthusiasm, such
as might have befallen a youth of
Newman's days, drawn into the
sweeping current of influence which
marked that great man's track.
There never was a more unlikely
disciple ; and the manner in which
the youth was led to this develop-
ment of faith was as improbable as
the fact. No proselytising influ-
ence of the common sort comes
into view at all in the process. He
knew nobody, saVe " a young gen-
tleman of our college," who had
any Eoman Catholic tendency; and
was soiiar from being persuaded by
any priest, that he had to ask a
bookseller in London to introduce
him to the unknown ecclesiastic
who, somewhat reluctantly, admit-
ted him to the Church of Eome —
for this was the direction in which
the current of his youthful impulse
set. Dr Middleton's 'Vindication
of Free Inquiry ' had " sounded an
alarm in the theological world;"
and Oxford, frightened and heated.

but feeble and inconclusive, had
risen in defence of the faith, awak-
ening at least a general stir on the
subject. Young Gibbon, glad of
any pretext to escape from Greek
and Latin, and "fond" from his
childhood **of rehgious disputa-
tions," was greatly moved by the
quarrel. "The blind activity of
idleness urged me to advance with-
out armour into the dangerous mazes
of controversy," he says. He read
the sceptic's book; and it would
have been very natural to suppose
that it was this which determined
the views of his after-life. But
nothing could be further from the
real case. Catherine Porten's pupil,
who had talked with that tender
guardian on every subject in earth
and heaven, and no doubt with
the sympathetic feeling of a child,,
had shared many a pensive aspir-
ation towards those skies in wHch
sorrow and partings are no more,
— had all the warmth of youthful
certainty in spiritual wonders, and
held by miracles and divine agency
as the foundation of faith. Dr
Middleton's assault upon these su-
pernatural proofs of the truth of
Christianity, instead of persuading,
revolted the young reader, and sent
him in the recoil to the other
extremity. He was offended and
horrified by animadversions upon the
saints, and only so far convinced,
in a sense totally different from
that intended by the writer, as to
perceive that these saints and sages
were more closely identified with
the Eomish creed than he had been
led to believe. The inferences
he drew were not that they were
wrong, but that the Church of
Kome was right ; and when he
turned to the works of Bossuet,
which he procured from that
" young gentleman of our college,"
his conviction was complete. " I
surely fell by a noble hand," he
says finely, looking back upon him-
self with an indulgent smile. And,

336

Autobiographies,

[Aug.

once convinced, it was natuial, at
once to his ndnd and his age, to
make his convictions puhlic One
can imagine the fine sense of opposi-
tion, of individuality, of nohle inde-
pendence, which moved the youth as
he took this step so prejudicial to
his futuie. Ko one had anything to
do with it in the way of persuasion
or personal influence. Just as we
have all felt, after an unnecessary
and laborious defence of some point
of doctrine from the pulpit, a mo-
mentary inclination to adopt the
contrary belief ourselves, so iMid-
dleton's attack upon miracles, saints,
and all the wonders of inspira-
tion, drove young Gibbon into the
Church which made the greatest
demand upon the faith of its dis-
ciples. It is a most curious episode
in his life, and it drove him finally
from his college : for Oxford, which
could support with equanimity
idleness, folly, and insubordination
— even comfortable deism, or more
ardent and conspicuous still, the
creed of an atheist — could not put
up with a Eoman Catholic con-
vert ; its tendencies that way were
all to come.

Gibbon's father took the event
with natural indignation and fury.
He was wildly angry at the boy
who was standing in his own
light so dismally, and with whom,
no doubt, he would have the worst
of the argument, did he try to bring
him round in that way. What he
did was to convey his son to "the
house of his friend Mr !Mallet," who
had brought out the works of Bol-
ingbroke, and was an advocate of
free inquiry like Middleton, pro-
fessing deistical opinions, or " some-
thing more," says the commenta-
tors — ^meaning, we presume, some-
thing lees. No doubt the angry
father supposed this violent alter-
ative to be of a beneficial charac-
ter, not suspecting that it was
scepticism which had brought his
son to be a Roman Catholic.

The boy of sixteen, elevated thus
into a martyr for the faith, was
"rather scandalised than reclaim-
ed " by the very contrary philos-
ophy into which he was plunged ;
and it would seem that the ex-
periment, if ever intended to be
carried on, was so unsuccessful as
to be very soon abandoned. But
Eomanism was in these days a
thing to be got rid of at aU costs,
and the new destination of the boy
was scarcely less remarkable. The
son of a wealthy or apparently
wealthy Englishman of the old
ChWch and King pattern, stand-
ing by the Church as he did by
all other old institutions, young
Gibbon was now despatched into
a nest of Puritanism and republi-
can principles, the narrow circle of
a little Swiss town, and the spare
and unlovely living of a poor Swiss
minister's house. In the calm of
his narrative, the sensations with
which he made this change are set
forth without any but the faintest
reflection of the emotions which
must have accompanied it ; with that
half-humoroua, half-regretful pleas-
ure in the recollection of feelings
so vivid, which is natural in a
mature mind when surveying the
sentiments of its youth.

"The first marks of my father's
displeasure rather astonished than
aflfccted me. When be threatened to
banish and disown and disinherit a
rebellious son, I cherished a secret
hope that he would not be able or
willing to effect his menaces ; and the
pride of conscience encouraged me to
sustain the honourable and important
part I was now acting. My spirits
were raised and kept alive by the rapid
motion of my journey, the new and
various scenes of the Continent, and
the civility of Mr Frey [who accom-
panied him], a man of sense, who was
not ignorant of books and of the world.
But after he had resigned me into
Pavilliard's hands, and I was fixed in
my new habitation, I had leisure to
contemplate the strange and melan-
choly prospect before me."

1881.]

iVb. IV.— Edward Gibbon.

237

Thus the boy's despair and an-
gaisli is softened down in the tran-
quil contemplation of the man of
Sity, who IB aware that but for this
painful change in his fortunes there
never might have been a history of
the Eoman Decline and FalL But
it is easy to imagine what the real
state of his feelings was when, after
the excitements of the journey, and
the '^honourable and important
part " he had been acting in face of
the opposition, so to speak, of the
entire world, he found himself
settled down — a mere rebellious
schoolboy, to whom nobody paid
any special respect — in a strange
country, in an altogether different
mode of living, turned back half-
a-dozen years at least in his youth-
ful career, admired by nobody, re-
strained and impoverished, a man
no longer, but only a petulant and
unsatisfactory child. The fact that
he did not ^ow the language add-
ed the last touch of sharpness to
the poignancy of this downfall.

"When I was thus suddenly cast
on a foreign Iwid, I found myself de-
prived of the use of speech and hear-
mg, and during some weeks incapable,
not only of enjoying the pleasures of
conversation, but even of asking or
answering a question in the common
intercourse of life. To a homebred
Englishman every object, every cus-
tom was offensive ; but the native of
any country might have been dis-
(^ted with the general aspect of his
lodging and entertainment. I had
now exchanged mv elegant apartment
in Magdalen College for a narrow,
gloomy street, the most unfrequented
of an unhandsome town, for an old
inconvenient house, and for a small
chamber Ul contrived and ill fur-
nished, which, on the approach of
winter, instead of a companionable
fire, must be warmed by the dull,
invisible heat of a stove. From a
man I was again degraded to the
dependence of a schoolboy. M. Pa-
viUiard managed my expenses, which
had been reduced to a diminutive
state. I received a small monthly
allowance for my pocket-money ; and,

helpless and awkward as I have ever
been, I no longer enjoyed the indis-
pensable comfort of a servant. My
condition seemed as destitute of hope
as it was devoid of pleasure. I was
separated for an indefinite, which ap-
peared an infinite, time from my
native country ; and I had lost all
connection with my Catholic friends."

This trenchant and radical pro-
cess, carried out with such inexor-
able firmness, fully answered its
purpose. In all its republican
bareness and rigid imlovely life,
the little old Swiss town became
home to the young Englishman.
When he was free to choose his
dwelling long after, it was there he
settled himself. His dearest friends
and warmest likings were there ;
and Lausanne, the place where his
life took its permanent shape,
where his first aspirations were
changed and his mind turned into
a different channel, and which he
eventually selected as "the most
grateful retreat for the decline of
my life" — is for ever associated
with Gibbon's name. The noble-
ness of the surrounding scenery,
the great lake, the greater moun-
tains, and, in the midst, the quaint
little unsympathetic town, keeping
itself well up upon its banks with
its garments gathered round it, in
sublime human egotism and supe-
riority to the landscape, bears an
amusing likeness to the man and
his subjects. The character of his
genius, if it cannot be said to be
shaped by the locality, at least fell
in with it in wonderful harmony ;
and it is difficult not to see a
whimsical type of the great his-
torian pursuing his vast and splen-
did subject in orderly composure
without excitement or enthusiasm,
in the dull little town with its little
coteries, its local intellectualisma
and clevernesses, turning its back
with something of the contempt of
familiarity upon Lake Leman and
^lont Blanc. The hard-headed

238

Autobiographies,

[Aug.

Swiss soon cured young Gibbon of
that one little romantic-polemical
episode of his life, his youthful
adherence to the Eoman Catholic
Church; and no doubt the same
revulsion of the mind from a sub-
ject too much pressed upon it, the
turn and twist of a fastidious tem-
per which made the perusal of a
sceptical book his starting-point for
Borne, turned the religiosity and
rigid doctrine of the little Swiss
circle into a school of hostility and
aversion to Christian teaching alto-
gether, in a mind so keen and un-
sympathetic. But this was not an
influence that told immediately.
Almost as soon as the shock of
the change was over, it became
evident that Gibbon's father had
been soundly inspired in his choice
of the place and the man to give
to his self-willed son the training
which neither Westminster nor
Oxford had been able to give. His
new tutor understood the youth;
appreciated his appetite for read-
ing, and used it as his best instru-
ment, leading him easily through
his own favourite subjects to other
necessary if harder and less con-
genial themes, and finally awaken-
ing in him a true sense of his own
deficiencies, and of the indispen-
sable foundations of all knowledge.
He gives an interesting account of
his progress, from history, always
his favourite subject, to the French
and Latin classics, and so gradually
to the confines of Greek, which he
himself at last perceived to be not
only needful but highly desirable.
" It was now," he says, *' that I re-
gretted the early years which had
been wasted in sickness and idle-
ness, or mere idle reading ; that I
condemned the perverse method of
our schoolmasters, who, by first
teaching the mother language,
might descend with so much ease
and perspicuity to the origin and
etymology of a derivative idiom."
He was happily only nineteen when

he reached this point, so that on
the whole not very much harm was
done ; but he never seems to have
forgotten his grudge against the
modes of instruction in use at home
which had retarded his education.
His elaborate acknowledgment that
it is possible the University of Ox-
ford may have amended its waya
since his time remains a very keen
piece of satire. ** It will perhaps
be asserted," he says, " that in the
lapse of forty years many improve-
ments have taken^ place. I am not
unwilling to believe that some
tutors might have been found more
active than Dr Waldegrave and lesa

contemptible than Dr ." And

he goes on to compliment gravely
Sir William Scott, " whose lectures
on history would compose, if they
were given to the public, a most val-
uable treatise " — the only one appa-
rently which in all that long period
Oxford had produced — and to record
the better regulations which, '* I am
told," have been introduced at
Christ Church. " A course of clas-
sical and philosophical studies is
proposed and even pursued in that
numerous seminary; learning has
been made a duty, a pleasure, and
even a fashion ; and several young
gentlemen do honour to the college
in which they have been educated."
It would be difficult to stigma-
tise with keener severity the fail
ure of an institution than by this
serious and polite commendation
of the '' seveial young gentlemen "
who had done honour to the col-
lege in the course of forty years,
and the one valuable treatise which,
if given to the public, it might
have produced. It is the tend-
ency of unsuccessful men to hold
up the old schools, which have
not succeeded in training them, to
reprobation; but few men who
have gained such laurels as Gibbon,
take the trouble to put such grudges
on record. This is how Lausanne
exalted itself over Oxford. Private

1881.]

No, IV.—Edward Oihhon.

239

education will always have its tri-
umphs over public ; but it is very
seldom that there is not a little de-
spite, a certain anger, a sense of
unjust inferiority and wrong in the
4xinmpb.

More things than education
brightened his Swiss life to the
youth who had been a sickly boy,
with a gloomy father, and a shut-
up house, at home — knowing no
genial companionship but that of
his aunt, who was absorbed in the
labours of a dame's house at West-
minster, and had been, during all
this Oxford episode, separated from
him. When he had got over the
first unfavourable impression of the
*< unhandsome town," the gloomy
street and inconvenient house in
which he found himself planted at
Lausanne, he found society open
upon him. At the first glance
there is nothing more bare, more
devoid of all grace and lightness,
than the life of such a house ; and
there are many queer pictures in
literature of the dingy rooms and
uninviting table, the theological
talk and narrow dogmas, of house-
holds of this description ; but the
pastor was a man of learning and
intelligence, quick to understand,
and cunning to take the young self-
confident spirit in its own snare.
And when an able and curious
mind has been delivered out of
idleness, and has a wholesome cen-
tre of work put into it, amusement
comes infinitely easier. Gibbon
tried for a short time, he tells us,
to indemnify himself for his ban-
ishment by seeking the company
of other idle young Englishmen on
this vacant way about the Conti-
nent; but he soon tired of those
vapid companions, and, after the
departure of his first acquaintance
of the kind, was " cold and civil "
to their successors. " My unfitness
to bodily exercise reconciled me to
a sedentary life; and the horse, the

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCXO.

favourite of my countrymen," he
adds, with his usual keen but quiet
satire, "never contributed to the
pleasure of my youth." But, on
the other hand, he acquired the
habit of social life as yet unknown
to him. He " frequented, for the
first time, assemblies of men and
women." He did not profit as he
might have done in his dancing,
but he learned to talk — perhaps a
more lasting delight. And there he
found a friendship which was the
solace of his life. His friend never
came to any reputation in the world,
perhaps was not an intellectual
person at all. He joined in young
Gibbon's studies " with equal zeal,
though not with equal persever-
ance." But he was of as much
advantage to the English youth as
if he had been a Cicero. " To him
every thought, every composition
was instantly communicated ; with
him I enjoyed the benefits of a free
conversation on the topics of our
common studies." Long afterwards
when Gibbon was alone, and the
master of his own movements, it was
to this friend of youth, M. Dey ver-
dun, that he turned ; and they lived
together in the same house in bro-
therly amity till the Swiss gentle-
man died, and the self-exiled Eng-
lishman was left alone in the world.
A man capable of forming such a
friendship must have had some
warmth of affection in him. Gibbon
had to all appearance a nature en-
tirely without passion, but he must
have been faithful and kind. If
love was not for liim, yet friendship
was strong in him. It is difficult to
choose between the two which has
the finer influence upon character.
If love is more profound it is often
narrower, shutting up the mind
within a limited circle, and absorb-
ing it in the welfare of a family.
But not to make comparisons, the
heart, which, with no self-interest
involved, is capable of the lifelong

240

Autobiographies,

[Aug,

alliance of a Eupreme friendship^
must haTe depths and tenderness
in it "which it is difficult to connect
with the fonnal sedateness and self-
occupation of the historian. This
was the poetical side of his nature.
He did not get through youth,
however, without one small inevit-
able chapter of romance. '' I hesi-
tate/' he says in his sententious
way, " from the apprehension of
ridicule, when I approach the deli-
cate subject of my early love j " and
he explains with a little serious
flourish what he means by love, —
not gallantry, which is " interwoven
with the texture of French man-
ners," but a passion *' which is in-
flamed by a single female, which
prefers her to the reat of her sex,
and which seeks her possession as
the supreme or the sole happiness
of our being." This neat eight-
eenth century-definition of the sen-
timent does not lead us to expect
any profound absorption in it j and
the air of gentle complacency with
which Gibbon contemplates the in-
cident across the long interval of
placid years is extremely character-
istic. He is pleased with himseK
that he was capable of '' such a pure
and exalted sentiment,'' and is hap-
py to remember that he has no oc-
casion to blush when he recalls the
object of his choice. It was such
a choice as a young man of his pre-
tensions ought to have made. " The
personal attractions of Mademoiselle
Susan Curchod were embellished
by the virtues and talents of her
mind." Her father, another pastor,
had bestowed " a liberal and even
learned education on his only daugh-
ter." " In her short visits to some
relations at Lausanne, the wit, the
beauty, and erudition of Made-
moiselle Curchod were the theme
of universal applause." She was
^'learned without pedantry, lively
in conversation, pure in sentiment,
■aud elegant in manners." Such
a gentle and faultless being might

have furnished Ecusseau with a
model for her countrywoman Julie,
or Mrs Eadcliffe with a heroine for
one of those novels which contain
so many types of feminine perfec-
tion, along with their wonders and
mysteries. Perhaps the most sat-
isfactory proof of Mademoiselle
Susan's charms and endowments,
and the one which most pleasantly
excites the grateful complacency of
her early suitor, is that she became
afterwards the wife of Necker, and
a very considerable personage. But
no doubt, when they met in the
little assemblies at Lausanne, the
English lad, whose curiosity was
awakened " by the report of such a
prodigy," felt his youth stir in him
underneath his laced coat, when he
made his formal bow to the wise
Swiss maiden in her hoop and
patches, if such vanities were per-
mitted in the pastor's household.
They added, no doubt, some follies
of their age to the strain of fine
sentiment and eloquent discussion
which flowed around ; and by-and-
by the happy young man was per-
mitted to visit her in her father's
house, among the wild and pastoral
heights of Eurgundy, where he was
accepted as a suitor not unworthy,
— and the parents " honourably en-
couraged the connection.'' " In a
calm retirement," says the hero of
this chapter of inefiectual love-
making, falling into fictitious in-
flation of wordB in the conscious
insincerity of the story, "the gay
vanity of youth no longer fluttered
in her bosom ; she listened to the
voice of truth and passion, and I
might presume to hope I had made
seme impression on a virtuous
heart." But alas ! when he returned
to England he found the vanity o£
his hopes. His father " would not
hear of this strange alliance \ " and
without his father Gibbon had no-
thing. He was not the man to
beard fortune under any impulse,
however strenuous; and he has left

1881.]

No, IV.— Edward Gibbon,

241

no record of any great mental com-
motion on the subject The words
in which he narrates the end of the
episode are very well known. " Af-
ter a painful struggle I yielded to
my fate. I sighed as a lover ; I
obeyed as a son."

In this fine antithesis the reader
will not, we fear, see much impres-
sion of real feeling. A young lover
who gives up his Susan so easily, gets
little sympathy, even from those
who would wish their sons in simi-
lar circumstances to prove equally
philosophical. The little rhetorical
effort perhaps consoled him, but
there is an indefinable consciousness
that he was but a sorry fellow after
all, though he makes the best of it
in the tale. " My wound," he adds,
''was insensibly healed by time,
absence, and the habits of a new
life. My cure was accelerated by a
faithful report of the tranquillity
and cheerfulness of the lady her-
self, and my love subsided in
friendship and esteem." But when
he goes on to say that her father
died, and that Susan had to come
to Geneva and " earn a hard sub-
sistence " for herself and her mother
by teaching, while he at home lived
an easy life, and grew fat and com-
fortable, without apparently the
slightest impulse towards the wo-
man that he had supposed himself
to love, Gibbon's historical calm
grows somewhat odious. '' In her
lowest distress," he adds, with an
approval which, if the reader is of
a warm temper, will make him
long for a possibility of kicking the
shade of the historian, even though
there may not be de qnoi, "she
maintained a spotless reputation,
and a dignified behaviour." One
wonders what Susan thought of it,
earning her hard subsistence in
Geneva, and remembering perhaps
by times how the young English-
man at parting had vowed and
promised — who now was piously
glad to hear that she behaved her-

self so well in her misfortunes.
But luckily Susan said nothing,
and after a while married that rich
banker in Paris, who " had the good
fortune and the good sense to
discover and possess this inestim-
able treasure," says Gibbon, doing
his praise handsomely, let us hope
to conceal a little inward sense
that he himself cut a poor figure in
the business, — and became Mad-
ame I^ecker, and entertained her
old love amicably and splendidly
in after-days, with excellent friend-
liness, and perhaps a little secret
contempt, as women will.

This is the only incident in Gib-
bon's calm and comfortable exist-
ence which could have made his
pulse beat quicker than its habitual
pace. He returned to England at
twenty-one, so that he had the ex-
cuse of youth for faults supposed to
be the opposite of those to which
youth is prone ; but it would seem
to have been some time after, prob-
ably years, before Susan's fate was
settled, and time, absence, and new
habits had healed the young man's
not very severe wound. He re-
turned with everything done that
his father had desired : his Eoman-
ism gone like a dream, and prob-
ably a good deal more with it, the
departure of which was not di-
vined at the time : his education
advanced, his morals improved — a
highly respectable Swiss young
gentleman, with only the little
drawback that he had ''ceased to
be an Englishman." This is not a
result which would be at all likely
to be wrought now, by the absence
of a youth from sixteen to twenty-
one; but Switzerland was as far off
England then as America is now,
and much more unlike. His views,
even his prejudices, had been altered
by his absence. He passed the
middle portion of his life in Eng-
land, and did what was required of
him, even to the length of serving
in a militia regiment, of which he

242

Autobiographies.

[Aug.

was captain and his father major,
with all dutiful regard to the legit-
imate expectations of his firiends.
Bat when circumstances gave him
an excuse to retire from the insular
world in which he had never been
quite happy, he took advantage of
the chance to return to his beloved
Switzerland, to the very spot where
he had been sent in disgrace and
banishment in his early youth.

We cannot attempt to enter into
the record of his reading and studies,
which were infinite. The man
himself, more interesting, is but
vaguely revealed to us in his for-
mality and old-fashioned method-
ical precision. He was eagerly
delighted to see his aunt once more ;
very dutiful to his father, and
friendly to the step-mother who had
in the meantime been added to the
household ; ready to respond to all
the calls of the two latter upon
him, and doing his best to conceal
his impatience of their demands
upon his time, and the tedium of
their rustic existence, far from town
and its delights. Days broken in
upon by interminable meals ; by the
fact that " after breakfast Mrs Gib-
bon expected my company j . . .
after tea my father claimed my
conversation and the perusal of the
newspapers ; " studies of ancient his-
toric relics, "abruptly terminated
by the militia drum** — make up
the record, and prove that though
he was incapable of sacrificing his
worldly welfare to love, he had the
heart to make a great many daily
sacrifices to the comfort of his home,
and possessed in reality many
amiable qualities. When he (with
some trouble, for his family had
settled out of town, and he had got
out of the knowledge of his friends)
made his way into society, he was
not without popularity, though he
was somewhat inclined to lay down
the law. His appearance in the
club, in the society of Johnson, to
whom he made an excellent pen-

dant and contrast, has been de-
scribed with considerable effect.
" In a suit of flowered velvet, with
a bag and sword,'* fine in clothes
and elegant in manners, he '' tapped
his snuff-box, smirked and smiled,
and rounded his periods" with
a ''mouth mellifluous as Plato's,**
but in appearance like "a round
hole nearly in the centre of his
visage.** Sometimes when spending
solitary evenings over his books in
his London lodging, and hearing
the carriages roll outside, his studr
ies would be ** interrupted with
a sigh which I breathed towards
Lausanne." And twice he broke
away from his duties and occupa-
tions, and visited the Continent,
where he spent a month or two on
both occasions with much enjoy-
ment in Paris. Before his first
visit, he had published his first
literary work, which was written
in French, the 'Essai sur Tetude
de la Litt^rature ; * and this compli-
ment, paid to the politest of nations,
gained him favour, as well as the
recommendations he carried. The
description we have of him in the
capital of good manners is agree-
able enough. He was not a modest
man, but his vanity was never
offensive. He secui^ the atten-
tion which he considered his due
in the most legitimate way by
''a conversation animated, spright-
ly, and full of matter.*' If the tone
of his discourse was authoritative,
it seemed rather the result of con-
fidence in himself than of a wish
to domineer over others. His talk
was formal, and arranged in carefnl
periods, never carrying any one
away; but it was the talk of a
considerable person, fully aware of
his claim to be listened to; and
that claim was fully acknowledged
in many of the best circles.

From Paris he went back, ever
hankering after that favourite
abode, to Lausanne, where Susan,
it would appear from a letter of

1881.]

No. IV,— Edward Oibbon,

243

Eousseau's, looked for Ids appear-
ance still with a little trepida-
tion, and her friends with in-
dignant alarm. But Susan is not
80 much as mentioned in the
record, though the visitor pauses
with much complacency to describe
''the innocent freedom of Swiss
manners," and his "favourite so-
ciety" there, '' which had assumed,
from the age of its members, the
proud denomination of the spring
(la socUU du printempd). It con-
sisted of fifteen or twenty youog
unmarried ladies of genteel though
not of the very first families, the
eldest perhaps about twenty, all
agreeable, several handsome, and
two or three of exquisite beauty.
At each other's house they as-
sembled almost every day, without
the control or even the presence
of a mother or an aunt. They were
trusted to their own prudence among
a crowd of young men of every
nation in Europe." He hastens to
assure us that this liberty was
never marred by licence, nor sullied
by a breath of scandal; but the
pretty company and their light-
hearted amusements — for ''they
laughed, they sang, they danced,
they played cards, they acted come-
dies " — were delightful to the young
man of letters, feeling himself, after
his long banishment in his native
country, to be once more at home.
Eousseau's letter already referred to
gives a less delightful glimpse of the
visitor. "The coldness of Mr Gibbon
makes me think ill of him," he says.
" I cannot think him well adapted
to Mademoiselle Curchod. He that
does not know her value is unworthy
of her j he that knows it, and can
doubt her, is a man to be despised."
Susan was toiling, making her "hard
subsistence," in Geneva, within easy
reach, while her former lover was
amusing himself with the gay 8(h
cUU du printemps. He had long
ceased " to sigh as a lover," but he
evidently had not yet made it plain

that he meant to obey as a son.
The reader who has accepted Gib
bon's explanation, and concluded
his love-affair to be long over, will
probably feel a sensation of disgust
for the man who had not feeling
enough at least to keep out of the
way and avoid a contrast so odious.
It would be difficult to imagine
anything more heartless; but pro-
bably the self-complacent English-
man, delighted with his gay young
companions, was really unaware of
this, and incapable of perceiving
any harm in it. Next time he
visited the Continent he was re-
ceived by Madame JSTecker in her
Parisian drawing-room, and ex-
pressed with still greater compla-
cency and self-sati^action the ad-
miration he had always entertained
for her.

It was on this first tour that the
idea of writing his great History
occurred to him. An intention of
producing some historical work had
long been in his mind, and he had
thought of various subjects, among
which the history of the Swiss
nation was the one that pleased
him beet; but his first essay on
this subject was a failure : and
when he went to Italy the ques-
tion was quickly decided. "It
was at Home," he says, "on the
15th of October 1764, that I
sat musing amongst the ruins of
the Capitol, while the barefooted
friars were singing vespers in the
Temple of Jupiter, when the idea of
writing the Decline and Eall of the
city first started to my mind." We
can contemplate the historian in
this scene with greater respect and
S3rmpathy than among the village
junketings of Lausanne. That
magical city, all fallen and low, in
deep eighteenth-century decadence,
lay at lus feet, a slave of all nations,
she who had been the Queen of the
world at one time, and the arbi-
trator of Christendom at another.
Small sympathy had he for Rome

244

Autobiographies.

[Aug.

in that later development, yet the
chant of the Franciscans struck his
ear as adding to the picturesque
effect, the pathos and solemnity of
the scene. Ko douht the sun was
sinking and the skies all aglow — a
background of flame to those mel-
ancholy memorials of greatness —
as the vesper song stole on the
enchanting air. For the moment
the smug Englishman had a vision
and inspiration. He returned to
England next year, and for some
time longer to his old bondage
of domestic life, the country, the
militia, and all his other hin-
drances. But in 1770 his father
died, and Gibbon was released. He
settled in London as soon as cir-
cumstances permitted, collected his
books around him, and set to work.
His French Essay — a curious be-
ginning for an Englishman — had
got him a little reputation; and
the world of critics was already
prepared to accept something of
greater pretension from him. His
beginning was laborious and anx-
ious in the extreme. He could not
please himself either in the arrange-
ment of his subject or the style of
his diction. " Many experiments
were made before I could hit the
middle tone between a dull chron-
icle and a rhetorical declamation :
three times did I compose the first
chapter, and thrice the second and
third, before I was tolerably satis-
fied with their effect." He was by
this time a man of thirty-five, in
the full prime of his life, and fully
alive to the gravity of the work he
was undertaking. Though he was
eager to take advantage of every
aid, '* I was soon disgusted," he
says, ''with the modest practice
of reading my manuscript to my
frienda Of such friends, some will
praise from politeness, and some
will criticise from vanity. The
author himself is the best judge of
his own performance: no one has
so deeply meditated on the subject ;

no one is so sincerely interested in
the event." The first volume was
published in 1776. ** So moderate
were our hopes, that the original
impression had been stinted to five
hundred, till the number was doubled
by the prophetic tasteof Mr Strahan,"
But the author was not kept long
in the suspense, which he declares
''was neither elated by the ambition
of fame, or depressed by the ap-
prehension of contempt." '' I am at
a loss," he says, " how to describe
the success of the work, without
betraying the vanity of the writer.
The first impression was exhausted
in a few days ; a second and third
edition were scarcely adequate to
the demand, and the bookseller's
property was twice invaded by the
pirates of Dublin. [N.B. — It was
the Irish— and also Scotch — pub-
lishers who pirated literature in
those days. America has scarcely
as yet developed to this stage.]
My book was on every table,
and almost on every toilette; the
historian was crowned by the
fashion or taste of the day; nor
was the general voice disturbed
by the barking of any profane
critic." To be sure, those Oxford
dignitaries for whom Gibbon had
so great and bitter a contempt,
and the leaders of orthodoxy
everywhere, rose up immediately
against him; and with the in-
genuous wonder of so many candid
souls, when they have attacked
what other men hold most dear,
he was astonished that the Church
and the serious classes should mind
his assault upon Christianity.
''Let me £rankly own that I was
startled at the first discharge of the
ecclesiastical ordnance," he says;
" but as soon as I found that this
empty noise was mischievous only
in the intention, my fear was con-
verted into indignation : and any
feeling of indignation and curiosity
has long since subsided in pure
and placid indifference.''

1681.]

No, IV,— Edward Gihhm.

245

The indignation here expressed
seems a litUe out of place from a
man who had opened the assault
by so fierce and nncompromising
an attack upon the Christian faith
and traditions; but Gibbon was
one of those men to whom their
own acts are always lawful and
natural, and those of their oppo-
nents unjustifiable. He belonged
to a period which recognised scepti-
cism as the highest frame of mind.
But while he treats his enemies
with this contemptuous composure,
his satisfieuition with himself and
his work grows.

" When I resumed my task I felt my
improvement," he says. " I was now
master of my style and subject, and
while the measure of my daily per-
formance was enlarged, I discovered
less reason to cancel or correct. It
has always been my practice to cast a
long paragraph in a single mould, to
tiy it by my ear, to deposit it in my
memory, but to suspend the action of
the pen untU I had given the last

r)lisn to my work. Shall I add that
never found my mind more vigorous,
nor my composition more happy, than
in the winter hurry of society and
Parliament?"

This brings us to the other side of
his life. He had been in Parlia-
ment for some years, and though he
had not enough courage, or too much
fastidiousness, to take any promi-
nent part in politics, his steady,
silent Tote, and his distinction in
literature, indicated him naturally
as the holder of a sinecure. He
was appointed a commissioner of
the Boturd of Trade, an appointment
which enlarged his private income
'''by a clear addition of between
eeven and eight hundred pounds a-
year;" and though " hostile orators "
assailed this luxurious idleness with
abuse. Gibbon, like most other
kolders of such posts, turned a
deaf ear to their remonstrances.
*^ It must be allowed," he says
humorously, ''that our duty was
not intolerably severe." But days

less bright were dawning. When
the second and third volumes were
published, the author, astonish-
ed, perceived a certain "coldness
and even prejudice of the town."
They " insensibly rose in style and
reputation to a level with the first j"
but he owns with candour that ''the
public is seldom wrong," and that
he is inclined to believe they were
more prolix and less entertaining
than the first — which is a rare in-
stance of open-mindedness. This
little chill which came over him, as
an author, was heightened in effect
by the political troubles of the
time. The Board of Trade was
abolished, and Gibbon's "conven-
ient salary " was lost ; and though,
when the famous Coalition was
formed, and all the landmarks of
party were removed. Gibbon ad-
hered to the Government " from a
principle of gratitude," he adds that
" my vote was counted in the day of
battle, but I was overlooked in the
division of the spoil" Probably he
was offended by this neglect, perhaps
moved by a nobler sense of the
superior importance of those labours
which it was in his power to pur-
sue without reference to any Min-
istry, without dangling in any ante-
chamber. London had grown irk-
some to him, and without that " con-
venient salary," of which he had
been deprived, he could not make
such a figure as satisfied him in
the dearest of capitals. In these cir-
cumstances his heart flew again, as
his imagination so often wandered,
to the sunny banks of Lake Leman
and the shelter of his youth — which
he had "always cherished a secret
wish might become the retreat of
his age." His early friend, Deyver-
dun, who had been with him fre-
quently in England, and with whom
he had always maintained the clos-
est relations, was now settled in
Lausanne, in a "pleasant habita-
tion," which had been left to him
by a relative. The accurate and

246

AfUobiograpliies,

[Aug,.

precise historian specifies the terms
on which their future living was
arranged, and the shares they mutu-
ally took in the maintenance of
the joint - establishment ; and in
1782 Gibbon left London, and
carrying his library with him,
and the manuscript of his fourth
volume, abandoned finally that Eng-
land which he had never very heartily
loved, and returned to Lausanne, to
his village society, his tea-parties,
his little coteries, to leave them no
more.

And here we come to a serene
and tranquil picture of evening time
and declining life, — although he was
only forty-five when he returned to
Lausanne, so that there is little
occasion for the air of age and de-
cline which is in the scene. He
never repented his change ; but on
the contrary, with all his old com-
placence describes himself and his
quiet ways and society as if there
was nothing in the world so de-
lightful as the dulness of old
Lausanne. People have wondered,
Gibbon allows, that after having
conversed with the first men of the
first cities in the world, he should
be content with what he found
there ; and it is with a curious pique
and partisanship that he does
battle for the superior attractions
of his favourite place : —

" I am too modest or too proud to
rate my own value by that of my asso-
ciates ; and whatever may be the fame
of learning or genius, experience has
shown me that the cheaper qualifica-
tions of politeness and good sense are
of more useful currency in the com-
merce of life. By many conversation
is esteemed as a theatre or school ; bat
after the morning has been consumed
in the labours of the library, I wish to
unbend rather than exercise my mind :
and in the interval between tea and
supper I am far from disdaining the
innocent amusement of a game at
cards. Lausanne is peopled by a nu-
merous gentry, whose compamonable

idleness is seldom disturbed by the
pursuits of avarice or ambition ; the
women, though confined to a domestic
education, are endowed for the most
part with more taste and knowledge
than their husbands and brothers, but
the decent freedom of both sexes is
equally remote from the extremes of
simplicity and refinement.''

Thus it is evident there was
no such place in the world as this
cluster of homely roofs to Gibbon.
" I enjoyed at every meal, at every
hour, the free and pleasant conver-
sation of the friend of my youth."
He had an innocent elderly freedom
of intercourse with the Swiss ladies,
who no doubt gave him much of
that incense which his soul loved.
Neighbours came in to make up his
game, to tell him all those simple
news which are so important in a
village. And, in shorty Gibbon in
his library, with his friend, and
with his surroundings just as he
liked them, was as happy as it was
in his nature to be. Here he com-
posed the concluding volumes of
his History, — a labour which gave
zest to his life; and formed hi»
judgment of the whole with an
impartiality which is impressive.
His record of the end of this great
work is one of those passages which
all the world knows. Here is the
serene and dignified picture, just
touched with a becoming sadness^
of the end of the great work and
the completion of hw life : —

"I have presumed to mark the
moment of conception. I shall now
commemorate the hour of my final
deliverance. It was on the day, or
rather night, of the 27th of June 1787,.
between the hours of eleven and
twelve, that I wrote the last lines of
the last page, in a summer-house in my

frden. After laying down my pen,
took several turns in a herceau or
covered walk of acacias, which com-
mands a prospect of the country, the
lake, and the mountains. The air was
temperate, the sky was serene, the
silver orb of the moon was reflected

1881.]

No, IV.—Eduard Giblon,

247

£rom the waters, and all nature was
silent. I will not dissemble the first
emotions of joy on recovery of my
freedom, and, perhaps, the establish-
ment of my fame. But my pride
was soon humbled, ai^d a sober melan-
choly was spread over my mind by
the idea that I had takem an everlast-
ing leave of an old and agreeable com-
panion, and that, whatsoever might be
the future fate of my history, the life
of the historian must be short and pre-
carious."

Such were the thoughts that
occupied his mind, and the sum of
his natural, sad, yet not unpleasing
reflections. This was all of which
Gibbon's life was capable, and per-
haps we have no right to think
it smalL A big book, a pleasant
house and garden, a dear friend —
what could man desire more ? and
the kind neighbours coming in, the
women who had more taste and
knowledge than their husbands : the
grapes ripening in the vineyards,
the snow glistening on the moun-
tain-tops against the sky, and all
the noises and strifes of the world
at a distance shut out from the
chastened yet homely calm.

This was all Gibbon's life. K
some of the keener joys of which
humanity is capable were absent
from it, it was sensible of no poig-
nancy of sorrow. Later, he lost his
friend; but being able to make an
arrangement which kept him in
possession of their joint - dwel-
ling was comforted. As he closes
the record of these uneventful
years, he adds a few sentences
which, in their quiet destitution
of hope, would be profoundly sad,
if we did not feci confident that
the historian-philosopher was able
to put them aside for the enjoy-
ment of his dinner or his whist,
as soon as the hour came for these
sober delights. Here are the re-
flections of the sage upon the end
of his own life.

^^ The present is a fleeting moment,,
the past is no more, and our nrospect
of futurity is dark and doubtful. This
day may pomhly be my last ; but the
laws of probability, so true in genera],
so fallacious in particular, still allow
about fifteen years. I shall soon enter
into the period which, as the most
agreeable of his long life, was selected
by the judgment and experience of
the sage Fontenelle. His choice is
approved by the eloquent historian of
nature [Buffon], who fixes our moral
happiness to the mature season in
which our passions are supposed to
be calmed, our duties fulfilled, our
ambition satisfied, our fame and for-
tune established on a solid basis. In
private conversation that great and
amiable man added the weight of
his own experience — and this au-
tumnal felicity may be exemplified
in the lives of Voltaire, Hume, and
many other men of letters. I am far
more inclined to embrace than to dis-
pute this comfortable doctrine. I will
not suppose any premature decay of
the mind or body, but I must reluc-
tantly observe that two causes — the
abbreviation of time and the failure of
hope — will always tinge with a browner
shade the evening of fife."

Autobiography can go no further.
We leave the man, mature and
famous, amid the still surroundings
which he loved, an example far
greater than he ever thought to
oiBfer, of the imperfection of life.
He had what he wanted —comfort,
ease, society, congenial labour, and
fame; but like other men, his
little life is rounded, before the
sleep, with a sigh. Instead of the
fifteen years for which he looked
he had but five : but that mattered
little; he had attained all he de-
sired or dreamt of, and additional >
years would have added nothing
to him. " My .nerves are not trem-
blingly alive, and my temper is so-
happily framed that I am less sen-
sible of pain than of pleasure." In
this sober negation is embodied the
happiness of Gibbon's life.

^48

The Meiningen Company and the London Stage,

[Aug.

THE MEININGEN COirPANY AND THE LONDON STAGE.

" Shakespeare nnd Kein' Ende"
was, if we remember rightly, the
name of a little sketch by Goethe,
to whom the everlasting talk about
the great poet had become intoler-
able. But what would he have
^d had he lived to see the flood of
Shakespeare literature with which
the press, and especially the Ger-
man press, has continued to be
deluged from his day down to the
present 1 Forty-five closely-printed
octavo pages of the last volume
of the 'Annual of the German
Shakespeare Society ' (Weimar,
1881), scarcely suffice to contain
the appalling catalogue of the
additions to Shakespearian biblio-
graphy which have appeared with-
in 1879 and 1880. Ten pages
are filled with the chronicle of
merely German contributions to
this " too, too solid " mass of com-
mentary and analysis. But hap-
pily for Germany, this activity has
not been confined to the library.
It has extended to the stage ; and
in the same volume a catalogue is
given of the performances of Shake-
speare's plays in Germany from the
Ist of July 1879 to the Slst of
December 1880, from which it
appears that within that period
1143 performances of Shakespeare's
plays had been given on the
various stages of the German em-
pire and of the German-speaking
portions of Austria. " Hamlet" had
been given 139 times, "Othello"
113, "The Merchant of Venice"
104. Next in popularity seems
to have been " The Taming of the
Shrew," which was acted 95 times,
and at 60 different theatres ; whilst
lowest on the list comes the Second
Part of " King Henry VI.," which
did not reach a second performance.
It is remarkable that while " The

Midsummer Night's Dream " found
a footing in 30 theatres, and was
played 82 times, " King Lear " was
only performed 40 times, and "Mac-
beth" 29, the former at 22 theatres,
the latter at 1 7. " Much Ado About
Nothing" and "Twelfth Night"
appear to run each other dose in
popularity, the former having been
played 46, and the latter 45 times.
But the finest comedy of all, " As
You Like It," does not appear in
the list. This says much for the
good sense of German managers;
for a Eosalind in the hands of such
actresses as the Grerman stage can
boast at the present time would
be too painful to contemplate. Oh
that some of our English managers
would profit by the example, and
repress the ill-advised ambition
which prompts so many young
ladies to don the doublet and hose
of "heavenly Rosalind" without
one of the qualities of soul or of
person by which she brought sun-
shine into the shady places, and
filled with an atmosphere of en-
chantment the woodl^md glades of
the forest of Arden !

At the head of this movement to
make Shakespeare known on the
stage, where alone he can be truly
known, seems to have been the
Meiningen Company. For years the
world has heard much of what these
actors had been doing in this way
in the little capital of their Duchy;
and the result of their labours has
within the past three or four years
been communicated to many of the
leading towns of Germany. * ' Julius
C«e3ar," " The Winter's Tale," and
" Twelfth Night," have apparently
commanded the greatest success,
having been acted during the last
two years respectively 32, 29, and 13
times at 8 different theatres. The

1881.] Tlie Meiningen OoTrvpany and the London Stage.

249

•echo of the Meiningen Company's re-
putation had reached England, and
had been caught up with the alacrity
with which we are apt to believe
in the dramatic skill of every nation
but our own. When, therefore, the
Ducal Company opened their cam-
paign at Drury Lane, expectation
was highly pitched, and a welcome
of more than wonted cordiality was
given to the propagators of what we
had been widely told was the true
faith in regard to our great poet.

It was delightful to see the mag-
nificent stage of Drury Lane, best
of all stages for the display of the
qualities of a fine actor, filled in a
manner which to many recalled per-
formances that in past years had
charmed the imagination and the
heart, and to which they still cling
with grateful remembrance. To
the great body of the audience, who
had no remembrances to look back
upon, there was a novel charm in the
completeness of the mise en sckie
— the beauty of the costumes, the
picturesque grouping, the thorough-
ness with which the intentions of
whoever presided over the getting
up of the plays were carried out by
all the performers. Under the in-
fluence of this charm they were
carried away into enthusiasm ; and
everywhere one heard that never
had so much been done to illustrate
Shakespeare and to show him to the
best advantage. Li their first ex-
citement, people forgot that Shake-
speare appeals to the heart and to the
imagination j that he trusted little
or nothing to what scenic accessories
could do for his work; and that
amid all this exuberance of scenic
decoration, this restless activity
of those picturesque crowds that
thronged the stage and distracted
attention from the central figures
of the play, there was no little
danger of overwhelming the poet in
the splendour of the trappings with
which he was invested.

In falling into this excess of
scenic illustration, the Meiningen
presiding spirit has made the same
mistake which has more than once
been committed on the English stage.
Until the days of John Kemble no
attempt was made there either at
archaeological accuracy or at fulness
of illustration. Costume and scenery
wore both of secondary consider-
ation; and it speaks volumes for
the genius of Mrs Pritchard, of
Garrick, and others, that their audi-
ences were so absorbed in the spirit
of the scene by the actors' powers
of expression, that they found no
incongruity in Lady Macbeth ap-
pealing, in a modem .hoop, to the
''spirits that tend on murderous
thoughts," to unsex her and turn
her "woman's milk to gallj" or
in Hamlet, following, pale, breath-
less, horror-struck, his father's ghost
to the battlements of Elsinore, in
a black velvet Court suit and a tie-
wig. The souls of the audience were
riveted to the action of the scene, —
voice, look, gesture were true to the
situation. What the actor wore
was of small account. But this
was a state of things which could
not last as men came to know
more of the history of costume and
the proprieties of scenic decoration.
It was felt, that as a fine picture
profits by an appropriate frame, so
good acting was set off by adjuncts
which gave local or historical truth
to the scene, if only these were
kept in due subordination. But the
great size of the two patent theatres
of Covent Garden and Drury Lane
were in themselves a snare to those
who wished to work a reform in
this direction; for the temptation
naturally was to make the scenery
magnificent, and to fill the vast
spaces of the stage with crowds of
supernumeraries.

Erom this snare even John
Kemble, despite his educated taste,
seems not to have escaped. His

230

The Meiningen Company and i?ie London Stage.

[Aug.

friend and warm admirer, Sir
TV'alter Scott^ in his admirable
review of Boaden's *Life of Kemble/
admits this much, and finds it not
amiss to remind the playgoers of that
day of the principle by which the
treatment of such details ought to
be regulated.

"The muse of painting," he says,
'^ should be on the stage the hand-
maid, not the rival, of her sister of the
drama. Each art should retain its due
preponderance within its own proper
region. Let the scenery be as well
painted, and made as impressive, as a
moderate -sized stage will afford ; but
when the roof is raised to give the
scene-painter room to pile Pelion
upon Ossa ; when the stage is widened
that his forests may be extended or
deepened, that his oceans may flow
in space apparently interminable, — the
manager who commands these decora-
tions IS leaving his proper duty, and
altering entirely the purpose or the
stage."

Again, in the same essay, while
admitting that the use of " dresses
suited to the time and country,
and of landscape and architecture
equally coherent," must be of ad-
vantage, Scott qualifies his admis-
sion by insisting '' that this part
of the theatrical business ^all
be kept in due subordination to
that which is strictly dramatic.
Processions and decorations," he
adds, '' belong to the same province
as scenes and dresses, and should
be heedfully attended to, hd at the
same time kept under, that they may
relieve the action of the scene, instead
of shouldering aside the dramatic
interest"

If, as seems to have been the case,
John Kemble occasionally over-
stepped the boundary which true
taste would have prescribed, he
avoided this error as a rule in the
plays of Shakespeare. Only in
"Julius CflBsar" and in "Corio-
lanus" did he fill the stage with
crowds The management of his

mob in " Julius Gsesar " was ad-
mitted to be excellent by Ludwig
Tieck, who did not admire Kem-
ble's Brutus, which he thought, in
the teeth of the opinion of all other
critics, "was not acted, but only
declaimed with intelligence." The
scene of the mob, " the great Forum
scene," he writes, " with its swaying
to and fro from turbulence to <^dm,
was extremely well given" ('Drama-
turgische Blatter '). The costumes,
too, he admitted, were excellent.
But according to the same shrewd
critic, Shakespeare was " shouldered
aside " in "Coriolanus " for the sake
of mere pageantry and spectacle,
laige and important portions of the
play being cut out for the sake "of a
procession with trophies and eagles,
which, entering at the back of the
stage, and extending over its whole
expanse, consumed a great deal of
time." This procession, however,
for which no fewer than 240 super-
numeraries were employed, was in
its day regarded as a perfect mir-
acle of scenic splendour. People
raved about it, as people raved last
winter about the scenery and cos-
tumes at the Lyceum in Tennyson's
"Cup." But when it was first
presented, with Mrs Siddons as the
Yolumnia, there was something be-
yond the mere pageant to justify
their delight

" In this procession," writes the
Rev. J. C. Youuff, in his Memoirs of
his Father, Charles Young (2d ed., p.
40), " and as one of the central figures
in it, Mrs Siddons had to walk. At
the time, as she often did, she forgot
her own identity. She was no longer
Sarah Siddons, tied down to the direc-
tions of the promptei's book — or tram-
melled by old traditions — ^but the proud
mother of a proud son and conquering
hero ; so that, instead of dropping ea<m
foot at equi-distance in its ^tace, with
mechanical exactitude, and m cadence
subservient to the orchestra, deaf to
the guidance of her woman's ear, but
sensitive to the throbbings of her
haughty mother's heart, with flashing

1881.] The Meiningen Company and the London Stage,

eye, and proudest smile, and head
erect, and nands pressed firmly to her
bosom, as if to repress by manual force
its triumphant swellings, she towered
above all around, and rolled, and al-
most reeled across the stage, her very
soul, as it were, dilating and reeling
in its exultation, until her action lost
all grace, and yet became so true to
nature, so picturesque, and so descrip-
tive, that pit and gallery sprang to
their feet electrified by the transcen-
dent execution of an original concep-
tion."

Without this feature, it is easy
to conceive how tedious and mis-
placed this interpolated pageant,
for which Shakespeare gives no
warrant, must have seemed in the
eyes of a critic like Tieck ; and yet
we have heard the splendour and
effect of this same procession de-
scribed by eye-witnesses as casting
into the shade everything of the
same kind which was subsequently
done either by Macready or by
Charles Kean. Certainly no man
had a finer eye for stage arrange-
ments of this kind than Macready j
no man could better put into his
stage mob all the fluctuations of
feeling, of passion, and of unreason
by wMch the mobs of Shakespeare
are swayed. In 1838 he got up
"Coriolanus" at Covent Garden,
when for the last time it was
worthily presented in England. See
what Miss Frances Williams Wynn
says of the stage arrangements —
and she had seen it under John
Eemble's management, with his
distinguished sister as the Volum-
nia: —

" I never saw a play so beautifully,
so correctly got up. It was not only
the costume, the scenery, the number-
less accessories that were carefully
attended to, but the far more difficult
task of regulating the by-play of the
inferior actors was also accomplished.
The effect given by the number of the
mob, by the variety of action, which
seemed to give Shakespearian indi-
viduality to every meniber of it, is

251

indescribable. The cowed, degraded
appearance of the Volscians in the
•mumph was very striking. Corio-
lanus sitting at the hearth of Aufidius,
was as fine a picture as can be im-
agined." — ' Diaries of a Lady of
Quality.' London, 1864, p. 304.

Those who remember the Shake-
spearian revivals by Mr Macready
during his too brief tenure of Drury
Lane Theatre, will recall many
other instances of his powers as a
stage director. His love of the
picturesque was governed by a true
sense of proportion. His acces-
sories were kept in their place, not
allowed to interrupt the action or
intrude upon the higher interests of
the scene. The movements and the
general disposition of his crowds
were as varied as those of a real
crowd would be, while they all
tended to stimulate and give ex-
pression to the feeling with which
the poet intended to animate the
spectators. For it should not be
forgotten that when Brutus or
Marc Antony, for example, addresses
the Eoman mob, it is to us, the
spectators in stalls and boxes and
galleries, that their words are ad-
dressed. If we are not made to
feel and to be swayed by their
rhetoric, the primary purpose of
the poet is missed, and all the
agitation and tumult, the way-
wardness and the shouting of the
stage mob appeal to our eyes and
other senses with comparatively
trifling effect. Macready thoroughly
understood this fundamental prin-
ciple of good stage management;
and in the latest instance in which
his skill in this direction was called
into play — the management of the
tumultuous mob of Ghent in Sir
Henry Taylor's " Philip van Arte-
velde," — his fine perception of the
point to which scenic accessories
can be carried without injury to
the higher interest of a drama was
pre-eminently conspicuous.

252

The Meiningen Company and the London Stage.

[Aug.

In this quality Charles Kean was
not less pre-eminently deficient, al-
thongh for a time he took the town
by storm with the redundant splen-
dour of pageantry and spectacle,
under which all that is most pre-
cious in Shakespeare was smothered
and obscured. Play after play was
produced, in which every resource
of the carpenter, the antiquarian,
and the costumier was exhausted.
The stage groaned under masses
of supernumeraries too vast to be
manageable, and only capable of
following with dismal monotony
the stereotyped action of leaders,
alihost as guiltless as themselves
of Intelligence and poetical feeling.
Fascinating at first to audiences
who sought only to l)e amused,
this species of entertainment ended
in palling even upon them, for it
was impossible to find fresh stimu-
lus to tastes that had been surfeited
with the mere excitements of page-
antry and costume. But this was
not the only evil that resulted from
a system, which was indeed " quite
from the purpose of playing." Fine
acting was absolutely incompatible
with all this gorgeous splendour
and mere appeal to the senses.
The better class of spectators, those
who reverenced their Shakespeare,
were .driven from the theatre j while
actors who aimed at moving the
imaginations of an audience by the
graces of speech and action, and
by the careful development of the
poet's purpose, were discouraged.
\Vhat the effect has been upon the
English school of actors has long
been apparent in the all but total
disappearance from among us of the
power to put upon the stage any of
Shakespeare's plays in a manner for
which an educated Euglishman does
not blush.

To how low a pitch the standard
of English acting in the higher
drama is reduced was never more ap-
parent than in "Hamlet," Othello,"

and ^' King Lear,'' as presented at
the Princess's Theatre last winter,
during the performances given there
by America's finest actor, Mr Edwin
Booth. With very few excep-
tions, the performers were such
as twenty years ago would not have
found engagements at any of the es-
tablished provincial theatres, much
less have been tolerated on a Lon-
don stage of any pretensions. None
of the characters were made out,
because none of them were under-
stood by the actors themselves.
The rhythmic value of blank verse
was an idea which seemed never
to have entered into their minds ;
nay, the very rudiments of the
actor's art — the management of the
voice, articulate speech, appropriate
grace or dignity of deportment, as-
sumption of individual character —
had not only never been mastered,
but to all appearance were not even
aimed at. And yet it was said at
the time that every effort had been
made, and no expense spared, by
the manager to find the strong-
est troupe that could be got to-
gether to support Mr Booth. If
this were so, pitiful indeed must
be the resources available to any
one who aspires to re-establish the
old reputation of the English stage
for the acting of a poetical drama.
How grievously Mr Booth suffered
frcm the incompetence of those
around him, needs not to be told.
Even genius on the stage cannot
show itself at its best, when all
around is feeble or absolutely bad.
But to an actor of his stamp^
who charmed not by the flashes of
genius, but rather by finish and high
accomplisLmcnt, wrought of careful
study and long experience, aided by
a fine voice, admirable elocution,
genuine sensibility, and the natural
grace of a well-balanced and elastic
figure, the results were simply disas-
trous. Kept in a constant ttate of
irritation by the bad actirg of those

1881.]

The Meiningen Company and the London Stage.

25a

who snrrounded him, the public were
not always in the mood to do him
justice, and visited upon him the
sins for which he was not respon-
sible. It indeed spoke volumes
for the genuine merits of Mr Booth,
that, in spite of every disadvantage,
he established himseK in the esteem
of the best judges of his art ; and
indeed in certain passages — such as
the mad scenes of King Lear — he
rose to a height of excellence which
explained and justified his great
reputation throughout jAmerica.
Xot for many a day has there been
seen on our stage so fine an ex-
ample as these scenes afforded of
what the actor can do to irradiate
the pages of the dramatist The
most thorough student of Shake-
speare would be the foremost to
admit that Mr Booth threw a flood
of fresh light upon these great
scenes. His action, as he sat watch-
ing the simulated vagaries of Edgar,
with looks which, by their very in-
teuseness of credulity and wonder,
showed how his own reason was
beginning to totter, — "my wits be-
gin to turn," — was in the best style
of the actor's art ; but there was an
approach to genius— that rarest of
gifts — in the portrayal of actual mad-
ness in the subsequent scene, and
in the way the actor used the hand-
ful of straws which he carried to
give to it the semblance of com-
plete reality. At one time it
became in his hand the bow to
"draw me a clothier's yard," and
send it home to the " clout ; " at
another, each separate straw seem-
ed to be to the poor mad king a
livisg creature, against whom he
launched the shafts of his sarcasm
and railing. Such acting, once
seen, becomes a permanent boon to
the student. It clings to the mem-
ory like something witnessed in act-
ual life, being, as it is, a living com-
mentary on the text, which, when
cf this quality of excellence and

truth to nature, outweighs all that
can be done in the way of exposi-
tion by the subtlest or most eloquent
of critics. Admirable ap, in the
main, Mr Booth's King Lear was,
it did not maintain this high level
of excellence throughout ; but this
seemed to be due not so much to-
any defect of conception as to a
weakness of physique, possibly
temporary, which prevented him
from giving full force to the out-
bursts of way ward anger, or adequate
depth of pathos to the overflowings
of passionate tenderness, which are
demanded for a wholly satisfactory
rendering of this character. We
have called this weakness " possi-
bly temporary," because it was well
known that during the latter por-
tion of this gentleman's perfor-
mances he was suffering from a
domestic anxiety calculated to im-
pose a very severe strain upon a
nature obviously most sensitive.

It was fortunate for Mr Booth
that he did not leave England
without an opportunity of being
seen under more favourable condi-
tions at the Lyceum Theatre, where
he alternated with Mr Irving the
characters of Othello and lago.
Very far short of excellence as the
general performance of ** Othello"
was at that theatre, still it con-
trasted favourably with the cast of
the same play at the Princess's
Theatre. The Cassio, it is true,
was colourless and commonplace;
but the Cassio of the Princess's
was simply an outrage upon pro-
priety. On the other hand, the
Koderigo of the Princess's was as
far above the Roderigo of the Ly-
ceum as an actor of average ability^
trained upon good models, is above
one whose ability, such as it was,
had obviously enjoyed no such ad-
vantage. For Mr Irving and Miss
Ellen Teny, it is needless to say,
there were no count erpaits at the
Princess's ; and in the Brabantio of

^54

The Meiningen Company and the London Stage.

[Aug.

Mr Mead — a good specimen of an
actor of the old school — a striking
contrast was afforded to the Braban-
tio of the Princess's — an actor who,
with some of the virtues, has jnst
those vices into which the disciples
of that school fall, who are without
the sensibility and the fine intelli-
gence which distinguished its lead-
ers. Little as Brabantio has to do
and say, that little, especially in the
scene of the Venetian Council, is of
radical importance; and in Mr
Mead's hands not a point was lost
He was just the father who, while
by his own coldness and want of
sympathy he had driven Desdemona
to seek sympathy elsewhere, yet was
cut to the very heart when he woke
up to find that she had chosen a
husband and a future for herself.
When we heard, at the end of the
play, that he had died of grief, we
remembered how consistent such
an ending was with the heart-
stricken look and quivering tones
of the actor, as he spoke the few
significant words with which he
resigned his daughter to Othello.

Ko more marked contrast of styles
could well be imagined than that be-
tween the styles of Mr Irving and
Mr Booth. The lago and the Othello
of Mr Irving were both more calcu-
lated to strike the imagination than
those of Mr Booth, for in concep-
tion no less than in treatment they
were full of novelty, and enlivened
by a minuteness of detail which ran
over at times into something border-
ing on extravagance. If Mr Booth's
Othello wanted fire and force, Mr
Irving's was without the exqui-
site tenderness and the native dig-
nity by which Othello maintains his
hold upon our sympathies, in spite
of the all but incredible credulity
with which he allows himself to be
made the dupe of lago. But of
the two, Mr Irving's conception,
upon the whole, seemed as though
it would have come nearer to the

Othello whom Shakespeare drew, if
only nature had endowed him with
the power to give utterance to that
intense and concentrated emotion
which is demanded for the volcanic
passion of the Moor. As lago,
however, Mr Booth's impersonation
was much more likely than Mr
Irving's to impress those around
him with the belief of his ^' exceed-
ing honesty." It had the outward
semblance of frankness and geni-
ality by which people are thrown
off their guard, while the utter hard-
ness of heart, and unscrupulous
selfishness of the man, who has
Siid to himself, "evil, be thou my
good," flashed out upon occasions
with tenfold force by contrast with
the careless ease of his general
bearing. Every word told without
having undue stress laid upon it.
Mr Booth's soliloquies were those
of a man really thinking aloud, and
they let the audience into the secret
of lago's character, without any of
those conscious asides and knittings
of the brows in which only stage
lagos ever indulge. About Mr
Irving's lago, on the other hand,
there was too much effort^ too much
" affectation of a bright-eyed ease,"
too palpable a simulation of foppish
jauntiness not consistent either with
lago's character or position, too con-
stant a desire to provoke attention
when others were by. Along with
this, the actor, it seemed to us, had
recourse in his soliloquies to an ex-
cess of little artifices, intended to
give an appearance of spontaneous-
uess to the act of thinking, but
which produced exactly the oppo-
site effect, while throughout there
was too much of the crafty restless
look and of the cynical self-gratu-
lation, which are more appropriate
to the villain of melodrama than to
the smooth and ingrained hypocrite
of the Machiavellian type.

One advantage Mr Booth had in
both characters over his brilliant

1881.] The Mdningen Company and tlie London Stage,

255

coadjutor in his clear and musical
utterance of Shakespeare'd verse.
Nor was his example without a bene-
ficial influence on Mr Irving, who,
under it, seemed to shake off in
no small degree that affectation —
for affectation it is — of a mode of
delivery which, however attractive
to some, is a great drawback to his
best performances. In Tennyson's
" Cup," Mr Irving seemed to us to
have already entered upon a new
course in this respect. It was well
for the poet that he did so ; for to
our thinking not one of the resources
of the actor's art but was necessary
to give attraction to what, as a
mere piece of dramatic writing, was
of very ordinary merit. With the
critics, Miss Ellen Terry's Camma
carried off the honours ; but, with
all deference to their infallibility,
the poet owed much less to the
Camma than to the Synorix of
the Lyceum. In ordinary hands
Synorix would have been revolting :
this Mr Irving's skill prevented.
He had obviously taken immense
pains over it, and his performance
was full of nice points of detail,
which showed how much the actor
had done to strengthen the work
of the poet where it was weakest.
The part of Camma is as gracious
as that of Synorix is the reverse ;
and the actress is assured of the
sympathy of the audience from the
first. Moreover, the poet has given
her in the last scene a splendid op-
portunity for that silent acting which
is the test of true histrionic power
— an opportunity, however, of which
only an actress gifted with a poetic
imagination could take advantage.
Of the strange and deadly revenge
devised by Camma, no hint in words
can be given by the poet — for to do so
would be fatal to the interest of the
denouement But what the dramat-
ist dared not do, the actress might
and ought to have done, by making
the audience feel through all the

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCXC.

early portions of the scene that she
is possessed by some great purpose
which shall explain the mystery of
her consent to marry the profligate
Tetrarch, the assassin of her hus-
band. Again, when the poison she
has shared with Synorix begins to
take efl'ect upon Camma's brain,
and she imagines she hears the
voice of Sinnatus calling to her,
voice and look and gesture should
be such as to convey to the audi-
ence the impression of a mind be-
ginning to waver from the eff'ects of
the draught, and of a frame slowly
penetrated by the paralysing in-
fluence of the poison. But on the
occasions of our visits to the
theatre, we looked in vain, in the
impersonation of the actress, for any
such clues to the language or pur-
pose of the poet. What an actress
of genius might have made of this
scene it is impossible to say, but
great effects have been produced
in much less striking situations.
As it was, however, not only this
scene, but the whole play, viewed
as a drama, was singularly ineffec-
tive ; and but for the unrivalled
beauty of the scenery, and the gen-
eral excellence of the mise en sctne^
not even the curiosity and admir-
ation with which ^Ir Tennyson's
name invests all his work could
have made it keep its hold upon the
stage for any time. The Sinnatus
of Mr Terriss was of great value in
the general efl'ect of the piece. It
was a thoroughly well made out
sketch, and showed the abilities of
this promising actor at their best.

Since the dajs when Mr Mac-
ready produced " Acis and Galatea "
at Drury Lane, with Stanfield'a
scenery, nothing so beautiful in
mere scenic adjuncts has been seen
in England. Nor was the selection
of the costumes, and the disposi-
tion of the priestesses of Artemis,
who thronged her temple, less to 1 e
admired. The latter would cer-

25G

The Meiningen Company and the London Stage,

[Aug.

tainly have been improved by a
little of that variety of action, and
of that highly developed skill in
gronplDg, for which the Meiningen
Company are conspicuous. And the
accomplished director of that estab-
lishmenty Herr Chronegk, has his
company too well in hand for such
a thing to be possible as that the
high priestess of Artemis should,
like her representative at the
Lyceum, indulge her peculiar no-
tions of the dignity which befits
that office by sitting on the altar
steps hugging her knees while a
solemn ceremony is going forward.
Keading, as the public had done,
of Gamma's matchless grace and
elevation — of the way in which
she '' fell, as if by chance, into
positions which rival the best
of the Greek sculptures," — an ac-
tion so contrary to every notion of
what was appropriate to the char-
acter and the situation, must have
had a rather bewildering effect upon
that portion of the audience who
take au seneiix the commentaries of
theatrical critics.

In former days there was always,
we have understood, some control-
ling power in every leading London
theatre, which would have made
such an impropriety impossible,
even if it had been attempted to be
indulged in — which is most improb-
able — ^by any member of the com-
pany. There are innumerable signs
that in most of our theatres no such
control is exercised now ; and yet,
without an authoritative voice to
regulate every arrangement of the
stage, one can very well see how
vain it is to hope for that general
excellence which, if it cannot in-
spire an audience with enthusiasm
— for this only genius can do^will
at least send them away instructed
and content It would be unjust,
however, not to admit that such
managers as Mr Hare and Mr Ban-
croft do not merely recognise the

necessity for such a control, but
exercise it with rigour, and with
the best results, to the reputa-
tion of their theatres, and in
the gratification of their audiences.
" The study of perfection " would
seem to be their law. What is the
consequence] Simply this, that
nowhere, not even in Paris, are
pieces to be seen put upon the stage
or acted with greater finish or vrai-
semblance than at the St James's
Theatre or the Hay market. The
pieces themselves may be slight ;
but, such as they are, they are ad-
mirably given, and with a spirit,
freshness, and individuality suffi-
cient to show that, under favour-
able conditions, a school of acting
might be revived in England,
capable of holding its own against
any in Europe.

One hopeful sign is, that our
best managers and actors seem not
to be above learning whatever of
good their foreign rivals have to
teach them. Lessons from abroad
they have had in plenty during the
last three or four years. Italy,
France, and Holland have all sent
to London excellent specimens of
their various schools — ^none more
excellent than the little troupe of
Dutch actors who, last summer, sur-
prised their much too scanty audi-
ences by performances in which the
fine qualities and great artistic skill
of the leading artists were scarcely
more conspicuous than the indivi-
duality of character and pantomime
by which every minor actor, down to
the merest supernumerary, gave an
air of reality to the scene as delight-
ful as it is unwonted. By this
example some of our theatres have
already profited; and if English
histrionic art has anything to learn
from the Meiningen Company, it is
in this direction also.

Grermany, like England, has at
this moment but few actors of mark
in the poetic drama, and the price

1881.] TUe Mdningen Company and the London Stage.

257

set upon the services of those few,
there as here, puts out of the ques-
tion any attempt to concentrate
them in any one estahlishment.
The Grand Duke of Meiningen has
therefore wisely confined his e£forts
in the cause of the drama to mak-
ing the most of such talent as can
he made availahle upon easier
terms. lie has hrought together a
company of actors of more than
average ahility. He has given to
them permanent engagements and
every motive for working together
in the friendly rivalry of true ar-
tists, under the discipline of a stage
director of paramount authority.
Each is honnd to co-operate in
giving strength to the cast of the
pieces produced, hy taking, if neces-
sary, a subordinate part in them, —
a condition impossible in England,
where actors judge of themselves
and are judged of by the public
according to the nominal import-
ance of the parts in which they ap-
pear; but practicable in Germany,
where no such rule prevails, and
where Schroder, the greatest actor
of his time, when at the height of
his fame, thought the Ghost in
" Hamlet " a part not unworthy of
his powers. No pains, apparently,
are spared to make the members of
this company respect themselves
and the art which they profess.
All that a liberal subvention can
do is done to give richness and
local colour to the appointments of
the stage, and these are selected
with a skill, and applied with an
energy, which helps to keep alive in
the establishment a spirit of emula-
tion, and a wholesome pride in the
successful results of a common effort.
It was a bold enterprise to trans-
fer to London not merely the actors,
but all the scenic appointments of
a theatre conducted upon such prin-
ciples, and to place London play-
goers in a position to judge of its
merits and defects, as favoorable

as though they had made a pilgrim-
age to Meiningen itself. In the
spacious area of the Drury Lane
stage, the qualities in which these
representations chiefly excel had
ample opportunities for display.
For, as already indicated, the
strength of the Meiningen theatre
lies not in the pre-eminent excel-
lence of its actors, so much as in
the pomp and prodigality of the
scenic accessories. For this mode
of treatment " Julius Caesar " afl'oids
the fullest scope, especially during
the three first acts. In them the
mob of Kome play a not insignifi-
cant part, and Herr Chronegk
turned to the best account the
opportunity of making them serve
as a striking background to the
main action. The wholesome opera-
tion of a system which allows no
point, however small, to be slighted,
was at once brought home to the
audience in the spirit and individu-
ality given to those of the mob, to
whom Shakespeare has assigned
short speeches at the opening of
the play. They were represented
by actors well studied in their art,
fit mouthpieces for the shallow,
unstable mob, who were made visi-
bly to wince under the taunts of
Marcellus for the fickleness which
had led them to bestow on Cresar
the same acclamations they had so
recently given to his rival Pompey.
The key-note was well struck for
what was to follow in the proces-
sional entry of Cajsar, with an
array of attendants wellnigh regal;
and the striking figure of the sooth-
sayer, with his single sentence,
" Beware the Ides of March ! "
admirably delivered, was a further
proof of the care taken to give due
efi'ect to the smallest incidents of
the play by placing every character
in competent hands. As the play
advanced, the working of the same
principle was everywhere apparent.
In the scene with Portia (Act II.

258

The Meiningen Company and the London Stage,

[Ang.

sc. 4), and asrain in the Senate
House (Act III. 80. 1), the sooth-
sayer became a most imposing
figure. Scarcely less admirable was
the small part of Artemidorus ; and
although the minor characters of
Lucius, of CsBsar's servant, and
other attendants, were intrusted to
young women, probably from the
impossibility of getting boys to fill
them, the parts were really acted,
the words were well spoken — not
walked through and mumbled as
is almost invariably the case upon
our stage. Indeed, several of them
were represented by actresses who
subsequently acquitted themselves
with distinction in important char-
acters in the other plays of the
Meiningen repertoire.

For all this, every true lover of
the drama felt grateful ; and scarce-
ly less so for the beauty of tlie
scenic arrangements — a very futile
and misplaced attempt to depict
what should have been left to the
imagination, "the tempest drop-
ping fire," and the general electrical
disturbance, described by Casca, on
the night before Caesar's death, ex-
cepted. IN'othing but good, how-
ever, is to be said of the manner
in which the scene in Caesar's
house and that of his assassination
were presented, or of the way in
which the grouping and action of
the characters were described and
carried out The actors wore their
Eoman dresses well, and maintained
each his own individuality in broad
and marked lines. These scenes, so
splendidly conceived by the poet,
were, in short, presented in a way
at once to stimulate and to satisfy
the imagination. Not do we re-
member to have seen a more im-
pressive picture than when Marc
Antony, left alone upon the stage,
went up to the dead Ciesar as he
lay swathed in his purple robe?,
and, standing at his head, poured

out his hitherto suppressed anguish
and purpose of revenge in the
speech, admirably spoken by Herr
Barnay, beginning —

** Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of
earth," ic

In all this the stage director had
given true assistance to both actor
and poet, and we were again re-
minded of the excellence of the
Meiningen system in the genuine
pathos which the young lady who
played Antony's servant threw into
the exclamation, " Oh, Caesar ! " as
she caught a sight of his body, and
fell on her knees beside it It is
by little touches of this kind, quite
as much as by elaborate accessories,
that the Meiningen company jus-
tify their claims as reformers of the
stage. These touch the heart, and
foster the proper mood for appre-
ciating the purpose of the poet ;
whereas there is always danger that
this mood may be disturbed, if the
appeals to the eye be too frequent
or too vivid.

Something of this danger was
incurred in the immediately fol-
lowing scene in the Forum. Every
resource of the establishment was
called into play in order to give a
sense of reality to this scene — a
scene in which Shakespeare's genius
grappled, and successfully grappled,
with what was certainly one of the
most striking events in Eoman
story.- In the various costumes of
the vast crowd which filled the
stage, the student of antiquity was
delighted to see the results of the
most scholarly research ; while the
artist's eye was gladdened by con-
trasts of colour and variety of group-
ing, in which there were suggestions
for many pictures. The general
disposition of the scene was ex-
cellent, and quite sufficient for all
dramatic purpose?. But it was in
the way that the crowd became a

1881.]

The Meim'ngen Company and the Loftdon Stage.

259

living, seething mass of illinstruct-
ed, excitable^ passionate human
creatuies, — " a fierce democratic
Bway'd at will" by the rhetoric
first of Brutus and then of Antony,
— that the presiding spirit of the
company made his power felt. Not
a hint given by Shakespeare in the
interjected speeches of the first,
second, third, and fourth citizens,
but was turned to profit. The re-
presentatives seized and directed
the variable moods of the mob with
admirable skiU, moving in and out
among them, and driving home
their speeches with the tones
and action of accomplished actors.
The crowd itself, moreover, listened
to the two great orators as if, in-
deed, a portentous issue hung upon
their words, and step by step it
was wrought up to the frenzy of
]»assion, which in Shakespeare finds
vent in the words —

** Sec. CtY.— Go fetch fire!

Third Cit. — Pluck down benches !

Fourth at. — Pluck down the forms,
windows, anything ! "

and which in reality made the
Koman populace lay hold of every
inflammable thing within their
reach, musical instruments included,
to make a funeral pyre for Caesar's
body in the Forum, not three hun-
dred yards from the spot where
Marc Antony spoke his craftily
devised harangue.

But the very vividness with
which all this was acted could not
fail to do some violence to Shake-
speare, who naturally throws more
stress upon Brutus and Antony as
the moving spirits of the scene than
upon those whom they address,
whereas upon the stage they were
somewhat overshadowed by the
prominence of the mob. An actor
of less power and accomplishment
than Herr Bamay would have run
great r\&k of being utterly eclipsed.

Only his imposing voice and pre-
sence enabled him to tower over all
the weltering turbulence of the
scene, and, despite the somewhat
too frequent interruptions of assent
from the crowd, to keep the atten-
tion of the audience fixed upon
himself as the cential figure. It
was in this scene, as in the previous
scene in the Senate House, that
Herr Barnay — who, we hear, is not a
permanent member of the Meinin-
gen troupe — proved himself to be of
a far higher order than those with
whom he was associated. His elocu-
tion, unforced and incisive, aided
by a flexible penetrating voice, and
by the graces of free and appropri-
ate action, told with immense
effect. When he descended from
the Eostru^I to a place beside the
bier, his tall and commanding flgure
prevented him from being dwarfed,
as otherwise he must have been, by
the crowd which was allowed to
press too closely and eagerly upon
him. !Not soon will be forgotten
by those who saw it, the admirable
way in which he illuminated with
voice and action the speech be-
ginning, "If you have tears, pre-
pare to shed them now ! " — work-
ing up his audience to the highest
pitch of sympathy, till he had pre-
pared them for the climax of his
rhetoric, as he threw back the
mantle from Csesar's face, with the
words —

** Kind souls, what, weep you when you

but behold
Our Csesar's vesture wounded? Lcok

you here, —
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with

traitors. "

By this time he had moved the
audience in front, as well as those
upon the stage. He sent the same
thrill through them by showing to
their eyes that " poor and bleeding
piece of earth," to which the civil-

260

The Meinlngen Company and the London Stage,

[Aug.

ised world had but the day before
been bowed in homage.

The Casaius of Herr Teller was a
performance of great merit. He
had "the lean and hungry look"
of the ascetic republican, who
"thought too much," and filled
Caesar with distrust. An actor
of large experience, trained in the
light of good traditions, he threw
himself into the part with the sin-
cerity of a true artist. His Cassius
was therefore a figure to remember;
a ad this all the more that in sub-
sequent performances, the same
actor proved himself as much at
home in comedy, as in the higher
poetical drama. The Brutus was
not so satisfactory, — lacking the
dignity of an ardent nature, dis-
ciplined to self-command, which
Shakespeare has so wonderfully
drawn. In the beautiful scene
with Portia, the absence of this
characteristic became most promin-
ent; and its absence had an evil
effect upon the Portia who, beside a
Brutus of the highest stamp, would
not, as she did, address her re-
monstrances to him with a noisy
vehemence, strangely discordant
ivith the mingled dignity and ten-
derness which breathes through
every word that Shakespeare has
placed in her mouth. And yet
the actress, Fraiilein Haverland,
showed herself a mistress of her
art in the only other scene where
Portia appears (Act 11. sc. 5), where
she is hurried into the street by her
anxiety to learn the news of the
attempt she knows is about to bo
made on Csesar's life. Into this
scene she threw an intensity which
carried the audience by storm, and
to which they delighted to give a
hearty recognition.

In " The Winter's Tale," which
almost rivalled " Julius Caesar " in
popularity, a severer test was ap-
plied to the powers of the Mein-

ingen system to do justice to the
finer poetical elements of the
Shakespearian drama. The play
affords scope in Leontes and in
Hermione for the subtlest histri-
onic power ; while the episode of
Florizel and Perdita, sweetest of
idyls, demands the most delicate
handling, not only in their repre-
sentatives, but also in the portrayal
of the ideal pastoral life in which
their story is set. The Drury Lane
audience were better able to form a
comparative judgment in this case,
for the play has been seen, and at no
very distant date, on both the Lon-
don and provincial stages. In ex-
quisite beauty of costumes and of
grouping, the Meiningen perfor-
mance left nothing to be desired.
At every turn it seemed as if some
of the great pictures of the Venetian
school had come to life. The scen-
ery, too, with one exception, was
all that could be wished ; and every-
where was apparent the same fine
sense of colour, of picturesque ar-
rangement, of the value of little in-
cidents of detail, as in the " Julius
Caesar," carried in some respects to
even a higher pitch of excellence.
As a mere piece of scenic splendour
and stage effect, it would be difficult
to imagine anything superior to the
scene of Hermione's trial, and the
effect upon the awestruck crowd of
the thunderbolt that sweeps from
heaven, in answer to Leontes' sac-
rilegious words —

" There is no truth at all i' the oracle"—

that has just proclaimed Hermione's
innocence. But how dearly was
the triumph of such a scene pur-
chased by the violation of truth to
Shakespeare, and to all probability !
Shakespeare places the scene in " a
court of justice." Here it was in
a public street. No doubt Her-
mione complains of having been
hurried

1881.]

T/ie Meiningen Company and the London Stage,

261

"Here to this place, i' the open air,

before
I have got strength of limb " —

but this merely means that she, in
her yet delicate state, has been hur-
ried " through the open air " to the
place of trial. The temptation to
strain the words of the poet had,
however, been obviously too great,
for it gave the stage- director the
opportunity of bringing in his well-
drilled crowds to express, by looks
and exclamation, their sympathy
with the unhappy queen, and to
keep up a running commentary of
byplay upon the words of the lead-
ing actors. But the mischief did not
stop here. From the desire to com-
pose his groups well, he subjected
Hermione to an act of unmanly
rigour, of which not even Leontes
would have been guilty ; for in place
of being conducted to a seat, as be-
fitted a woman fresh from child-
bed, and that woman an Emperor^s
daughter, and herself a queen, she
was made to stand on a raised
platform, almost jostled by a mob
of bystanders, throughout a scene
of more than ordinary length.
Placed in such circumstances, it
was perhaps not strange that the
speeches of Hermione were given
by Fraiilein Haverland with an
almost masculine energy* of tone
and gesture, little suited to ex-
press that touching combination of
wounded dignity and tenderness
with martyr -like sweetness and
heart-searching pathos which Shake-
speare has infused into every line
of this scene.

In this mode of treating a scene
of exceptional poetic value, we
must decline to adopt the teaching
of the Meiningen school, for it is,
in the worst sense, a '^ shouldering
aside of the dramatic interest " for
the sake of what is of no moment
whatever to the right understand-
ing of the play — nay, more, for

what, by its intrusive prominence,
actually impedes the performers
from giving due effect to the con-
ception of the poet.

The same absence of sympathy
with Shakespeare's purpose was not
less conspicuous in the last scene
of the play, where, after sixteen
years spent by Leontes in mourning
for the wrong he has done to the
wife whom he believes to be dead,
she is restored to him by Paulina.
The situation is one of the finest in
Shakespeare j he has been at pecu-
liar pains to invest it with every
circumstance of solemnity. Her-
mione, sanctified by long years of
seclusion and grief, through which
she has been sustained only by the
promise of the oracle that her lost
daughter shall be restored to her,
is to be given back to the husband,
all whose remorse could not, until
that child was found, win her again
to his arms, so wide was the gulf
which had been placed between
them by the outrage done to her as
wife, as mother, and as queen.
Like a strain of sad sweet music,
the scene brings all the pain
and misunderstanding of the ear-
lier acts to a harmonious close. So
anxious has Shakespeare been to
indicate the way he wished it to be
treated, that he places it in " a
chapel in Paulina's house." How
great, then, was the surprise of those
who knew this, when the curtain
rose upon one of those impossible
fairy groves of rainbow lines which
precede the transformation scene of
a pantomime; and this, although
the text in as many words indicates
that the curtained recess to which
Paulina leads Leontes stands at the
end of a picture-gallery along which
she has just brought him ! If the
stage-director had not felt the situ-
ation, as little did the actors seem
to do so. Hermione, not robed to
resemble a statue, but wearing

262

The Meiniugen Company and the London Stage,

[Au^

the royal apparel in which she had
appeared in the first act, inspired
no reverence, for she wore no trace
on her looks of the " woman, bright
with something of an angel light,"
with which long years of holy
meditation had sufifused them.
Here, too, Herr Barnay as Leontes
proved quite unequal to the situa-
tion. Where were the amazement,
the awe, the pang of remembrance,
the welling-up of the old passion-
ate love at the sight of his much-
wronged queen, which finds vent
in the words —

** Oh, thus she stood,
Even with such life of majesty, warm life,
As now it coldly stands, when first I
woo'd her ? "

"Where, too, was all the trembling
ecstasy of mingled hope and fear,
as, while he gazed, the figure before
him seemed to stir with life ] Ee-
membering what this scene was, as
last it was seen in London, with
Macready as Leontes, and what its
efl*ect upon the audience was, we
felt that our German visitors have
yet much to learn before they can
interpret worthily what is best and
highest in the Shakespearian drama.
What waste of power, too, — what
disregard of tlie sense of proportion
— to expend so much labour and
wealth of illustration on all the pre-
ceding portions of the play, and
then to let it come to a close so flat
and unimpressive !

Space fails us, otherwise we
might further illustrate this blind-
ness to the finer poetic aspects of the
play by the manner in which the
episode of Florizel and Perdita was
treated. Hard indeed, we own,
must it always be to find a young
actor and actress equal to parts of
such ideal beauty; and if their
Meiningen representatives "were
little like what the imagination
pictures, one is too much accus-

tomed to such disappointments to
complain. But the scenes where
they are the central figures were
overlaid by the introduction of a
great deal too many figures, by too
many garish dresses, and dames of
the ballet type, which merely de-
layed the action, and distracted
attention from what was of more im-
portance. All praise, however, was
due here, as in "Julius Coesar," to
the care taken with the minor parts
throughout the play. This exemp-
lary quality, indeed, distinguished
all the performances ; and set be-
fore those who take upon them-
selves the respoDsibility of conduct-
ing a theatre an example which, if
followed, may do much to raise the
character of the English stage.

We must not close our remarks on
theplay without a word of warm com-
mendation for the Paulina of Friiu-
lein von ^loser-Spemer, into which
the actress threw all that intensity
of fteling which the part requires,
and with the skill of emphasis and
action which only an accomplished
artist can command. Eesults of
an average excellence so marked as
in the case of the Meiningen Com-
pany, speak volumes for the in-
dustry and modestly artistic spirit
with which they must have worked
through many years to produce so
prevailing a completeness of en-
semhle. For it is only by years of
work pursued in this spirit that
such results are to be obtained.
There is no royal road to excellence
on the stage, any more than in any
other art. Yet when we see how
far short of what could be wished
is what even these patient, intellig-
ent, and practised artists can achieve,
we may well wonder at the courage
of those young gentlemen from
Oxford who seem to have deemed
it to be their vocation to show
London, at the Imperial Theatre, a
few weeks ago, how "Komeo and

1881.] The Mtintpgen Com2^ar>y and the London Stage.

263

Juliet " ought to be acted. In the
" Agamemnon " of iEscLylus, "with
-which they entertained their
friends last year, they were safe
irom criticism. Nine-tenths of their
audience did not understand a word
of spoken Greek, and the other tenth
were very tolerant of an attempt
-which had at least the merit of
being novel, if not amusing. A
little common-sense — which, how-
ever, does not always accompany a
knowledge of Greek — might have
taught these young gentlemen to
distrust the praises of such lenient
Clitics, and to return, with laurels
all untarnished, to " strictly medi-
tate the thankless Muse," or to pro-
secute those other pursuits which
their Alma Mater is supposed to
foster. Instead of this, they have
rushed before the town in the play
which perhaps of all others in
Shakespeare imposes the very high-
est demands upon those who would
embody it on the stage. The fool-

ish praise of personal friends has no
doubt not been wanting to gratify
the vanity which prompted an at-
tempt, the audacity of which amounts
to mere impertinence. But it would
be idle to waste criticism upon the
outcome of what had no doubt ab-
sorbed an infinite quantity of time,
unwisely taken from more fitting
pursuits. Of all arts, as Voltaire
long ago said, the art of acting is
the most difficult. "When will
amateurs learn to realise this truth %
If act they must, let them do so by
all means ; but let them first qualify
themselves by all the hard study,
and still harder practice, which the
art demands. If the young Oxford
amateurs wish to find out whether
nature meant them for the stage,
let them take to it as a profession.
Judged by what was seen of them
at the Imperial Theatre, they will
scarcely provoke very eager compe-
tition at present amongst managers
for their serv^ices.

264

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[Aug.

BESIEGED IN THE TRANSVAAL.

THE DEFENCE OF STANDERTON. — Concluded.

A WORD about our position will
explain much of that which fol-
lows.

The Vaal river is a considerable
stream, running, roughly speaking,
east and west. On approaching
Standerton from Newcastle the tra-
veller sees in front of him the Vaal,
and beyond it the town stretching
out towards the north for half a
mile. Immediately before him is
the deep cutting which leads to
the "drift;" on the left, a mile
away, on rising ground, is the camp
and fort. The town itself lies in a
basin, about a mile square, the rim
of which, to begin on the right of
the " drift," runs away north, when
it turns toward a high, flat- topped
hill on the left — Slander's Kop.
Between this hill and the camp the
ground appears tolerably level.

This rim is dotted with koppies,
tiny hills of boulders here and there.
The first, on the right of the town,
is called Graveyard Koppie, because
of the graveyard below it ; a mile
further on is another. Hotel Kop-
pie ; a little beyond is North Kop-
pie; thence the ridge, cut by the
line of the Heidelberg road, trends
west to a koppie, a spur of Stan-
dards Kop, called by us Froom's
Koppie; then a mile of flat and
the fort. Outside this line of kop-
pies the open veldt stretches to the
horizon.

A curious incident of the siege
occurred on the 7th January. At
daybreak we saw that an earthwork
had been put up in the night on the
high ground across the river, 900
yards distant from, and threatening
the town, as well as all the ground
between it and the fort. Already
two sides were exposed to fire, and

now this work closed up the third,
besides commanding our line of
road with the town, where our
water lay ; and the perplexity thus
caused us may be imagined. The
earthwork was large enough to hold
fifty men, lay on the top of a ridge
against which our advance would
be up a bare slope, perfectly adapted
to defensive fire, and was command-
ed by the stony koppie to the left,
which the Boers held. We had
been warned against traps, and this
looked a veritable one. So we
set to work to put up traverses
against it, changing round the
openings in our defended houses,
intending to wait and see what
was to come.

That afternoon two natives vol-
unteered to cross the river and
burn a house near the "drift" which,
if occupied by the Boers, would
have caused no great mischief; and
this done, finding no notice taken
of them by the new work, which
was just above, the pair ran on to
it, crouching much, and with their
guns ready, reached it, only to find
it empty. We watched them pull-
ing it down, throwing the sods
right and left; in ten minutes it
was level, and they turned back,
the Dutch on the koppie walking
up just too late, and firing at them
as they came down, which they did
in safety, bringing with them two
spades left to finish the work that
night, — and got a^good subscription
from the townspeople for their
daring.

I expected that they would try to
build it up again during the night,
and fixed two rifles on a rest, lay-
ing them on the spot, having first
got the range with half- a- dozen

18S1.]

The Defence of Standerfon, — Concluded,

2C5

shots, and fired them at intervals
through the night, with the desired
effect, for next morninfj no fresh
trace was to he seen. Thus one of
the most formidahle features of the
siege ended. We heard afterwards
that the work was constructed for a
couple of guns provided hy the Free
State, which, however, never came.

Very frequently we saw the
rehels with a waggon cutting
down the telegraph-poles, a long
way off; hut as soon as we went
after them, they left, and got away
hefore we could get up. These poles
stood up to within 1200 yards
north of the town, counting from
our most advanced post ; across the
river they disappeared much nearer,
as we could not get ahout there so
easily. The mention of traverses
reminds me of another incident.
Outside the fort I left the tents
standing through the siege to show
the Boers that we cared so little for
their fire. The men were not in
them, hut this the Boers were not
expected to know, although at first
I had great trouble to keep the men
from using them ; and it was not
till two had been severely wounded
when sitting under canvas that the
order was obeyed.

With the officers it was different,
their tents were a little further off,
partly protected by the fort; and
they were used to dress in of a morn-
ing. But even for that short time
in them we were not safe ; the ene-
my knew when we went into them,
and fired at them all the time, 80
that in a short while there was
not one but what showed several
bullet-holes. I had a narrow escape
myself; a bullet cutting through the
tent at my back, striking the carpet
on which my feet rested, and flying
up to lodge underneath the table
on which my glass stood — I was
shaving at the time.

To lessen this danger, most of
us made traverses of boxes inside.

One more ingenious than the rest
fixed his in the shape of the letter
V, each side parallel to the hill that
commanded it, and from the secure
position of the apex enjoyed his
tub and laughed at bullets. These
traverses got well riddled to show
how many lives they saved, the
bullets playing strange freaks with
the owner's clothes inside. They
would go through half-a-dozen ar-
ticles, making as many holes in
each as there were folds. One I
remember went through an Ulster
coat, some towels, a dress-suit, some
underclothing, and a blanket — lodjr-
ing in the last, which was too much
for it.

There was an opening in the
wall dividing the fort just large
enough to creep through by stoop-
ing, and one day the fellows oppo-
site must have discovered it, for all
at once four bullets came through
it in as many minutes. Inside was
our sleeping-shed and dining-room,
a place about ten feet square,
usually full; fortunately no one
was hit, but we at once put up a
traverse and saved ourselves from
fresh visitors. All the shots were
fired at the forts ; the town was
saved from them by these, which
kept the Boers at a respectful dis-
tance. This was what I wanted,
as there were women there and
little children ; and, putting sen-
timent aside, a wounded woman
would have tried us sadly.

One bullet is recorded to have
hit the town, and became historical
from its eccentric course. It came
one night. The parson, who was
strolling round, heard it but did
not tumble do"\vn, for two reasons :
it did not hit him ; and if he had
fallen, men, thinking him wounded,
might have rushed out to pick
him up, thus exposing more to fresh
bullets. It then went into a man*s
trousers-pocket, ran round outside
him out at the other ; hit a volun-

266

Bedeged in the Transvaal :

[Aug.

tcer on the boot, not vitally; struck
the roof of the Court-house, nearly
killing a sergeant on the door-step,
and then went on another four
hundred yards, where it hopped
about on the roof of the hotel, and
finally disappeared. But that was
an exception to most of our bul-
lets, which were not all so comical.

On the 8 th January the fire from
Stander's Kop got troublesome, and
a man having been shot from there,
we threw up in the night our first
rifle-pit against that position, — a
pit which grew bit by bit until it
became our most formidable out-
work, garrisoned night and day with
fifteen men, well provided with food
and ammunition. It could only
possibly be relieved during the dark,
on account of the fire it was always
exposed to. Soon after its construc-
tion a second pit was made, fiank-
ing it on the left, and held as was
the first; and to these two works
out on the open vehU was, I think,
to be attributed our ability to hold
the place as we did. This fact was
well recognised by the men in them,
and very proud of them they were.
They made a Union-jack, and hoist-
ed it under a volley of cheers and
bullets. On these dropping near,
they would run out and pretend to
pick them up, shouting "Play up!"
Indeed I had to check their fond-
ness for the pame — it was too
dangerous. Often the right work
was knee- deep in water, drainage
being hopeless; yet the men lived
on and never grumbled. Towards
the end of the siege a bit of the
parapet fell in owing to the inces-
sant rain, and from it (it was no
bigger than a tea-tray) they picked
out 300 bullets. So much for the
fire it had stood.

During the armistice the Boers
wanted to come down the hill op-
posite to a garden, the same we
had occupied on our first sortie ;
but at the first sign of a man try-

ing to descend he g6t a warning
bullet, and ran back faster than
he came. Thinking it a pity the
stuff they came down for should
be wasted (it grew in neutral ground
of no use to either side), I told the
men to let the Boers know they
might come down and pick it. On
this a man of voice, elected by his
comrades, put his handkerchief on
his ramrod, walked out half-way,
and shouted in a voice strongly
provincial, which no Boer could
possibly have understood, " Come
down, Johnnie, and pick yer scofi";
we won't shoot ye !" which de-
livered, ho returned quite pleased
with the success of his mission.
The result was that the Dutch,
thinking it at least an offer of sur-
render, sent off for their general,
who came in post-haste, under a
bigger flag than ours, to receive
the conditions ; and very much dis-
gusted he was to find how little
there was in the invitation.

A few days later we set up a
heliograph, made out of some look-
ing-glasses purchased in the town,
and directed the flash on Paade Kop,
a hill thirty miles on the road to
Newcastle, hoping that it would
catch the eyeot the expected column
under Sir George Colley; the men
being instructed to flash out as
soon as it was returned, ** Stander-
ton all well — shall I come out to
meet youl" Very hopeful were
we in these early days, little dream-
ing that it would be just two
months before we heard a word in
reply, and then only a vague sug-
gestion of disasters from the ofiicer
who relieved us with supplies, after
the first armistice. The Dutch,
cunning people, used to light fires
in a circle when they saw the flash,
and often obscured it ; but we beat
them in the end, and their firt-s
went out, while our flash never
ceased.

The days now began to pass so

1881.1

The Defence of Sianderton. — Concluded.

267

like one another that the entries
in my diary could be summed up in
such remarks as — " Eighteen wag-
gons passing to east. Movement on
Free State road. Party of fifty men
advanced on koppie, but retired on
finding us prepared. Brisk firing
all day, two men wounded,"

On January 17th, I find the
firat mention of reduced rations —
biscuit twice a-week, and one pound
of wood per man ; not anything
serious, but warning us of what
miprht come.

On the same day a group of horse-
men rode up to the top of Stand er's
Kop, — one in front evidently a
person of authority, — and for some
hours appeared engaged in devis-
ing an attack. This, as it happened,
came to nothing; but we heard after-
wards that the man in front was
Joubert, and that the attack then de-
vised included the placing of a gun
in position somewhere on the hill.
The attack was to be made by nearly
3000 men, a force being sent from
Heidelberg to strengthen the one
already investing us; but matters
jost then looked so threatening that
the men were ordered to go on to
the "Nek" instead, and we were
let off. We were quite ready for
them, and perhaps the Dutch would
have got as warm a reception as
they cared for.

I find my diary says, jotted
down at the minute : —

" Made arrangements for a counler-
attack against theirs ; thirty men from
town to hold koppie S.-W. 58th rein-
forced to forty-nve men, holding rifle-
pit in force, with groups of sentries in
smaller pits, — rest in support. Myself
with fifty men ready to move against
the Kop for a front attack, both Hanks
being well assured. Moun ted in fan try
saddled up in readiness to go out.
Mounted spy at midnight rode to the
Kop to ascertain if any work was in
course of construction at the place
chosen by the rebels, in which case I
shall attack and destroy it."

However, as we know, the attack
came to nothing, and the spy re-
ported all as it should be, no work
being visible; so we lay down
again to sleep in our boots, which
was comfortable enough after a hard
day's work, though it sounds a little
the reverse to those used to feather-
beds and sheets. This sleeping in
our clothes and boots became quite
second nature : some of us had
been at it since we landed for the
Zulu war. Hardly one had slept
between sheets in South Africa;
and it was amusing to watch the
various ways we had of turning in
on our stretchers. One would ar-
range his blankets like a bag, and
gradually wriggle into it, till only
his nose appeared outside; another,
Spartan- like in his disregard of
comfort, lay with his jack-boots,
inside which were his feet, sticking
out at one end, while his head, in
a red night - cap, appeared at the
other. When it rained, our roof
was none too clever at keeping it
out; the drops had an irritating
way of getting through every hole
and cranny, dividing into spray,
and sprinkling us as if from the
rose of a watering-pot. On these
occasions waterproof sheets were in
requisition, and when pulled over
the sleepers below, gave them a
striking resemblance to as many
corpses laid out for burial.

We held the kopjyie just above
the town with a mixed force of our
own men and volunteers. It waw
quite the key of the position, and
could be reinforced very shortly in
caso of an attack. To lose it was
to lose the town.

One afternoon a good deal of
firing was heard about this critical
little hill : stray shots first, then
volleys from the Jcoppie, answered
by more distant ones from the
Dutch, till the firing became gen-
eral. I could see our men in the
shelters holding it, and blazing

2G8

Btsieged in the Transvaal :

[Aug.

away, so we put out a picket in
readiness to help them ; hut by the
sound of the answering reports it
was plain the attack was not very
pronounced. Judge of my disgust
when I saw them running hack by
twos and threes, making for the
town ! The Boers must have made
a feint with a small body to con-
ceal the real attack by the main
force, which mast be showing all of
a sudden from another point. It
looked like it, and every moment
I expected to see the hill crowned
with Boers; and the town, alive
with silly people, women and chil-
tlren, whites and blacks, seemed to
think so too, and gaped in anticipa-
tion of so novel a raree-show — all
at the mercy of the bullets. But
the officer in charge of the town
saw his men retreating, and at
once got out a reinforcement, tak-
ing it up the hill at the "double,"
and reaching it before the Dutch,
who, suspecting a trap as usual, were
by no means too anxious to be there
till quite certain we had left it. They
occupied the koppie 1000 yards in
front, and made fair shooting from
the cover of the stones ; but after a
little steady practice on our side,
they thought better of it and stole
away. We counted 150 of them
in one koppie^ and no doubt had
they found our hill not held they
would have rushed in and given us
some trouble, as it must have been
retaken, — and retaking koppies is
nasty work.

The mixture of soldiers and
volunteers did not work well, as this
affair showed ; and from that time
each did their duty separately, the
men holding their positions and
the volunteers others ; and both
behaved excellently. With whom
the scare started was not easy to
determine. Certainly a volunteer
had made himself conspicuous in
his haste to reach the town, and
was made an example of. At a

parade next day he was dismissed
the corps, his arms taken from
him, and a speech delivered not
altogether flattering to his courage
as an Englishman. On the same
occasion two others of the corps
received my thanks for their be-
haviour during the scare — thanks
they never ceased to deserve till
the end of the siege. About the
soldiers who misbehaved at the
same time, and their fate, I need
not speak.

The tendency of the civilians,
the women especially, to run out
of their houses and look on when
any firing was heard, just as if
securing the best seats in a theatre,
was a more serious matter, and
called for stringent measures. It
would be terrible to have a woman
hit before the men ; and every inch
of hospital space was wanted. So the
Lauddrost was put in charge of the
women and natives, with instruc-
tions to see them all under cover
at the first sign of an attack ; and
the arrangement worked admirably,
though not without remonstrance
from the fair creatures who were
thus deprived of their woman's
right — the exercise of curiosity.

The Boers used to jump up on
rocks behind which they fired, and
shout, and wave, making insulting
gestures to the men, which put us
about a bit, as we had to prevent
our people from answering back:
they thought they were bound to do
so as soldiers. We did not know it
then, but the tidings of each defeat
of the column was passed on to us
with these signs of delight and
intimidation. One man was par-
ticularly good at this game, his
speech being so full of barrack-
slang that we had little doubt but
that he was a deserter from our
side. Many such were known to
be fighting against us. That de-
serters are not all of such a class,
the following incident will show : —

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton, — Concludtd.

2G9

A man deserted from the troops
at StandertOQ some time before, and
got dear away, setting up in business
in a town in the Free State, where
he was doing yery well, till, hear-
ing that war was imminent between
his countrymen and the Boers, he
left his business, came back to
Standerton, and gave himself up.
He was put in prison until the case
was reported, when I released him,
pending an application to the Gen-
eral for a free pardon. This I had
the pleasure of handing to him soon
after the siege, the poor fellow's
lips trembling so with pleasure and
anxiety that he had not the power
to thank me.

" There's something up, they are
so quiet ;" or " There's a great deal
of movement round us, something
must be brewing," were common
sentences with all of us; but on
January 28th I find entered,
" Stander's Kop occupied by par-
ties all along watching us ; evident-
ly some plan is being hatched by
the rebels. '^ And then extra pre-
cautions as usual.

Next morniDg came confirmation
that we were not far wrong. Curi-
ously enough, on that day I had
reconnoitred one of their laagers
which was up the river. We could
count eight waggons in it ; the
<:^round about was favourable, and
I resolved to attack it in the early
morning. But the activity just
mentioned induced me to put it off
for a day. And it was a piece of
luck that I did, for that morning
my scouts brought in word that this
laager was on the move — forty-nine
waggons, with 200 men, — so well
do the laagers conceal their podi-
tions, and the force holding them.
I should have gone with eighty men
to attack a position I expected was
held by sixty at the outside, and
should have met my match, per-
haps a bit more. So, on the prin-
ciple enunciated by a character in

Dickens, I scored a victory through
having saved myself from suffering
a defeat.

The morning of this doubtful
victory I was lying asleep on my
stretcher (we all turned out about
three o'clock until fall daylight,
when those who had been potter-
ing about through the night took a
nap : I was indulging in this), when
I was awoke by a somewhat truc-
ulent specimen of my mounted vol-
unteers, evidently with a load of
importance on his mind to deliver.

He was a grizzly man, strung
round with cartridges, clutching
his carbine, and much out of breath.
The tip of his snub nose was red ;
and he had the reputation of
a murder, more or less, on his
shoulders. A short time previous
he had brought me a horse to sell ;
I was mounting the troop. It was
an old favourite, had carried him
in the Sekukuni war, and was cheap
at twenty-five pounds. In the end
I offered him twenty, when he
shook his head and went away in
disgust, to return with the horse,
and accept my offer, provided that
he might keep him as his own
mount. To this I again objected,
when I got the animal at my own
terms. I learnt subsequently the
horse had been intrusted to him by
one of the townspeople to sell
for twenty pounds, anything above
that sum which he could get being
his own. Hence the Sekukuni
story and its additions.

This was the man who now came
in upon me and began his tale.

He had been out on vedette at
daybreak, and had seen a native in
the distance coming towards him,
" when," he added with a heroic air,
'' I made for him at once, sir, and
captured him, and brought him in.
He says he wants to see you, and
no one else."

A black youth with a pleasant
face, shivering with cold and wet,

270

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[Aur.

here peeped in with the usual
kosSy accompanied by the arm
raised, and began to laugh as all
natives, Zulus more than others, do
when they wish to be serious.

"Well, Johnnie; what do you
want?"

"M!e want general, saro; you
general, sare 1 "

" He says he wanta to see the
Commandant, sir," slid in the grizz-
ly one,

"Yes, that's me; now what is
itr'

" Ho won't tell you, sir ; he says
he wants to see you alone."

" Well, we are alone, go on."

" No, sare, oder gentlemans here,"
said the Zulu, pointing to my
friends the doctor and one of the
captains, who were sitting upon
their stretchers on either side of
mp.

" They are nothin:^ — they are
only friends; go on."

**No, sare; see you by self, not
here if you please, sare."

" He says he must see you qaite
alone, sir," echoed the escort. So
I had to get up and go into the
office-tent, into which followed the
Zulu, also the volunteer. The pair
then with much secrecy pulled the
curtain down, hooked up the sides,
and closed the door. We only
wanted the " Conspirators' Chorus "
to make the scene perfect.

The Zulu had a small bundle of
clothes over his shoulder, supported
by a stick run through the knot ;
this he took down, and pulling out
the stick, offered it to me.

" Yes, all right, but where is the
letter, if that is what you have
brought 1" I asked.

He replied by tapping the stick,
still holding it out to me.

" He means it's in the stick, sir.
Here, Johnnie, where is it, this end
or that 1 " continued the volunteer,
pulling out his clasp - knife and
cutting away at one end.

And so it turned out The stick
had been hollowed out, and a smill
roll of paper inserted, the hole be-
ing filled with a plug, when it was
quite impossible to detect that it
had been tampered with. The roll
of paper contained a despatch from
Pretoria, photographs of general
orders, and a map of the road, all
microscopic, and containing in a
space smaller than a child's little
finger a whole budget of news.
It was addressed to Sir George
Colley, commanding the troops at
Standerton, where it was fully be-
lieved that he would be by the
time the stick arrived. It was, as
we learned long after, the day of
Laing's Nek, when he tried so well
to redeem his word and to be with
us.

The secret of the Zulu being
given up, he went outside, and at
once became the centre of an ad-
miring crowd of soldiers, to whom
his adventures were like a page
from the 'Arabian Nights' after
their newsless life. He was the
hero of the hour. One man gave
him a pair of trousers, another a
coat, and a third an old wide-
awake, which was immediately
adorned with a tuft of black ostrich-
feathers, from under which his face
peered out with an air of self-com-
placency most amusing.

The news he brought in his stick
was nothing, however, to that which
he told us. For three days he had
been a prisoner with the Dutch
laager from Potchefstroom, which
had left that place, and was mov-
ing on to unite with the Boers
before Standerton to attack us. It
counted 160 waggons, which, at
seven men apiece, the usual aver-
age, gave a reinforcement of 1100
men. The sudden move of the
laager which we had noticed, ap-
peared to back up the statement,
as it had gone in the direction in
which the new one was advancing,

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton, — Concluded,

271

taking up its fresh position not
far from the Heidelberg road.

Here was another menace threat-
ening my weakest side, and fresh
measures to meet it must be taken
without delay. The advancing
waggons had been left at Waterfall
Eiver, twenty miles distant, on the
previous day, and would be here
the same evening, giving us just
the day for preparations.

Breakfast over, we occupied the
two koppies lying to the north of
the town, about a mile distant, one
on either side of the road, and some
1200 yards apart, and commenced
a work on each in readiness for
occupation that evening; a third
was also started on Graveyard
Koppie, thus surrounding the town
on two sides with a line of small
forts, the main work covering the
third, and the river the fourth.
An officer and twenty men held
each of the new forts, while I was
ready to start with one hundred
men to the assistance of any that
required it. This left a bare hun-
dred to hold the fort and town ;
but I calculated, that if driven
back from the outworks, the men
would retire on the central defences,
and form their garrisons.

All day the mounted men were
scouting about ; we should have at
least twenty minutes' warning did
the Boers come on. A second field-
work was traced in front of the
fort to assist the one already made,
and was begun that night, as the
place was under fire ; and until
cover was obtained all work had
to be done in the dark. It was
a day of real hard work, the
officers and men toiling in their
shirt-sleeves, neglecting meals in
their determination to be a match
for the Dutch; and so well did
they succeed, that by nightfall the
koppies were each topped by a
stout work, loopholed, and strong
enough to resist any ordinary at-

VOL. CXXX. — NO. DCCXC.

tack. The garrisons were told off,
and slept in each from that day
till the proclamation of peace with-
out changing, — a plan the men
liked, and one I always found
worked better than any other. In
the end we heard that the expected
waggons had turned off within ten
miles of us, and had made for a
" drift " across the Vaal higher up.
But the report of its advance did
good service, pointing out our
weak places, and so enabling us to
strengthen the position, until noth-
ing but guns or accident could
have forced it from us.

That afternoon I read out the
greater part of the Kafir's despatch
to the townspeople, much after the
style of the town crier ; but still it
was the shortest and easiest way of
letting every one know the truth.
When people literally hunger for
news it is best to tell them what
you know, or the result will be
rumours and reports both false and
dispiriting.

The Zulu promised to go on again
after a day's rest ; so a fresh stick
was got ready, another despatch
added, and himself provided with
some money and food, and allowed
to strut about as the hero of the hour
— a role he played to perfection.

The question ever present was
food, and every day forced it more
to the front. The soldiers I could
keep under my hand, but waste
and extravagance were too prevalent
among the civilians. They had un-
limited confidence in my ability to
produce supplies. So I suddenly
seized all provisions in the town,
going through every store and cart-
ing away the things taken ; enter-
ing people's houses, and obtaining
either a declaration that they could
last so long without coming to me,
or else taking everything and put-
ting them on the ration-list. The
food, when collected, was placed in
a store under care of the Landdrost,

272

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[Aug.

with my former friend, who swoie
allegiance, rather than be shot, as
store keeper - general. A scale of
rations was drawn up : mighty scan-
ty it was — the highest eight ounces
for a woman, either sago or meal,
soon reduced to half ; for children
a mere mouthful.

The principal storekeeper, a man
who drove his carriage, and so
a magnate among the rest, elected
to find himself. So after a lecture
on economy, and the necessity of
keeping to his bargain of holding
out for the time he had given in,
he was allowed his own way. A
few days later I happened to call
in, when he said : —

" Ah, major, I've taken to heart
what you said, and have stopped all
waste. Even yesterday I went
into the kitchen and found a lot of
crusts and bits of stale bread, which
we usually give to the Kafirs, and I
had them all put into a pudding for
dinner to-day." So much for the
straits which we starving people
endured.

However, to make things fair for
every one, the same day we reduced
our own rations again, getting a
mouthful of bread twice a -week,
biscuit the remainder. As an in-
stance of what children soldiers are,
a little after this reduction, it being
bread day, a deputation went to the
" orderly officer," with a complaint
that the bread was heavy, and they
would like it changed for biscuit,
— and this when every pound of
bread-stuff meant ability to hold out.

Our Zulu meantime found he
had fallen on such pleasant times
that he thought he should like to
stay permanently with us, and it
wanted some pressure to induce
him to go on. I think he saw that
his popularity was on the wane,
and so at last consented. A second
native volunteered to go with him.
He got a big -coat, money, scoff —
that is, food for the journey — his

precious stick, — and, after much
delay, at last started. To conclude
his history at once: Three days
later he returned, c^est-fallen, wet,
and draggled — he had lain out in
the open six miles away, within a
few yards of the Dutch ; the coun-
try was infested by them \ patrols
and sentries were everywhere ; it
was impossible to get through. He
expected to return, as before, a
hero. But we were all disgusted
at being sold, and he was un-
noticed — the men no longer asked
him for his adventures; two Hot-
tentot women at the waggons were
said to have spat at him in scorn.
He was broken-hearted, and came
humbly enough after a day of it to
ask to be allowed to try again. On
this being granted, he made a fresh
plan, got put across the river with
his friend on a horse, and made off.
It turned out that they were soon
made prisoners by some Kafirs, and
brought back to the Dutch laager
just across the river, where he was
kept for five days, being armed with
an assegai with which he promised to
kill the English if they attacked.
One night, I remember, we did
return their fire rather sharply — we
knocked over nine of them ; another,
every Dutchman, seized with panic,
bolted out of the laager, thinking
that we had got dynamite in by
some mysterious dodge. At last,
by the most artful lies, he so im-
posed on the poor simple Dutch
that they gave him a pass to the
Free State, for which he set out,
taking with him the precious stick,
and getting through all right. In
my despatch I asked Sir George
CoUey if he could reward the brave
fellow with ten cows, and he ac-
tually received thirty pounds, the
value of the cows. The Zulu sub-
sequently turned up as servant to
the correspondent of the * Standard,'
and on arriving at Standerton made
straight for me, once more a hero.

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton. — Concluded,

273

And this was the only message we
got through in the whole three
months.

One dodge — we were full of dodges
— ^is worth relating, as it was every-
thing to magnify our force as much
as possible. It was our habit to
relieve the night garrisons of the
two forts about 3 a.m. with the men
who held them during the day, as
attacks might be expected about
that time, and to meet them the
garrison was doubled in the manner
stated, when the men had orders to
show themselves as much as they
could, so that the Boers, counting
them up, would be under the im-
pression that what they saw was
always in garrison.

A second dodge was accidental,
and did no harm. It happened
that the attacks we made took place
on rainy mornings, and in conse-
quence a rainy morning never came
round - but we saw the patrols
doubled, searching about with extra
diligence, heedless of wet and cold,
expecting us; and many a laugh
we had at the poor fellows' anxiety.
But the best dodge of all was our
gun. There was a large coffee-mill
in camp, worked with two fly-wheels,
and one evening the men turned
this out on its side, making pre-
tence it was a gun, running it about,
loading and firing with great de-
light. The idea was a capital one,
and we at once got a wooden gun
made, mounted on a pair of waggon-
wheelsy when, unless close to it,
no one could tell the difference.
This was run out one morning by
a regular gun detachment, loaded,
rammed, and the action of firing
gone through, as if the party was
at drill. Up ran the Dutch to their
look-out places, glasses were pointed,
and when the truth dawned on
them, bang came a dozen volleys at
the unwelcome stranger. And to
our gun we always put down the
reason of the respectful distance

kept by the Boers when it was
visible.

The day peace was proclaimed
Joubert rode up with his staff to
shake hands, and tell me he was
going round his posts to order his
men to disperse. The gun stood
opposite the front face of the fort,
behind it was a small-arm ammuni-
tion-cart. The take-in was perfect,
and I saw the Boers looking at it
most anxiously. After the inter-
view they rode away, but not near
enough to detect the sham ; and
several kept looking over their
shoulders, and discussing it in
perfect seriousness.

The four natives who were in pri-
son on suspicion of the murder of the
volunteer, above related, afforded
us a little excitement. It appeared
that they had been conspiring to
escape to the enemy ; and one day,
when working further from the town
than they should have been, they
suddenly made a bolt for Stander's
Kop. The native guard made after
them, and our men opened fire
without effect. Three of them man-
aged to escape, reaching the top,
where we saw them met by the
rebels and taken away. The fourth
was not so fast, and after getting an
assegai through his leg, was cap-
tured and brought back. I sent
him for examination before the
Landdrost, and his guilt being
proved, I determined to shoot him
as an example. He was a tall, re-
pulsive-looking black, with fierce
eyes, unkempt hair, and the blood
still trickling from the wound in
his thigh. At 4 p.m. the guard
led him away, quite unconscious, to
the place selected for the execution,
where a party had already dug a
grave. Facing this, at a short dis-
tance, were drawn up in line the
whole native population, about
three hundred, dressed in their
best clothes, beads, and ornaments,
as if for a holiday. Between them

274

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[Aug.

and the grave stood the firing-party
of twelve men under a sergeant.
On the far side of the grave rose a
rocky koppie hiding us from the
enemy.

As soon as the doomed wretch
saw the grave, the line of natives,
and the firing-party, he recognised
his position, and covered his head
with his hands, the only sign of
emotion he made. The Landdrost
made a speech to the natives in
Dutch, translated hy the interpreter
in energetic language and gestures,
interrupted by loud responses, after
the Kafir custom ; and this done,
the prisoner, still hiding his face, was
led to the side of the grave, a cloth
tied round his head, and left alone ;
on which he squatted on the heap
of earth thrown up, his side towards
the party — not a sound, not a move-
ment in his body. A clear word of
command — the rattle of the breech-
loaders — a line of rifles pointed — a
sharp report — and the body rolled
quietly over, and lay still for ever.
Death was instantaneous. I walked
up to ascertain if he was dead :
three of the bullets had pierced the
head — there was no further need to
look. The men marched ofiF, the
natives dispersed, leaving some of
them to bury the corpse, and all
was done. This execution had a
wonderful effect on all classes. On
several occasions when ill- doers
were sent up before me, I saw their
eyes fixed on me most despairingly;
they trembled with terror when
brought up for judgment. One
man, the town scoundrel, when up
for stealing, was a study, so cowed
was his manner. On my asking
him what he thought I should do
to him for the crime, he faltered
out, ** You can shoot me, sir. Oh,
sir, have mercy, and don't do it ! "
He was left in suspense till the
evening, and then released — his face
a picture ; never was transition from
abject fear to life and joy so well
portrayed.

The Dutch, who had been in the
habit on early mornings of creeping
in the long grass to within a few
hundred yards of the vedettes and
firing on them, at last managed to
hit a horse, the man coming in un-
harmed. This game was annoying,
and made the men unsteady. So
I arranged a counter-plan to show
them that I could creep as well as
they. Their main laager was about
two miles outside our line of forts,
in the direction of Heidelberg, a by-
road from the town leading past it.
Between our position and this laa-
ger was a slight valley, and at the
bottom a line of pans, water-holes ;
half a mile beyond this line was
their laager, the ground sloping
down to the valley on either side.
To the right, about two miles away,
was the position they had left on
the morning when we built our
forts, now occupied by a small
work and some sixty Dutch. My
plan was to conceal a body of
men on the edge of this valley,
while the mounted men made a
feigned attack on the work to the
right. This I hoped would draw
the Boers across my front, as the
nearest line they could take when
going to the assistance of their
friends.

The evening before I had gone
out with the officer commanding
the mounted men, and had thor-
oughly inspected the ground, using
some discretion, as there were ve-
dettes opposite with eyes like hawks.
The men were to move along the
road leading to the laager, to a cer-
tain spot which was marked by a
rope stretched across it, to bring
me up in the dark, when all were
to turn off to the right, advance for
300 paces, and lie down in the long
grass.

We mustered about seventy men,
mostly from the fort ; the rest were to
be picked up on our way through the
town. It was three in the morning
when we started — pitchy dark, not

1881.]

The Defence of Stande^ion. — Concluded.

275

a star in the sky — and I lost my
way almost at the start : the road
was as black as the grass, — you
could not see a yard either way.
However, I picked it up luckily,
and got down the hill towards the
town. Between us lay a nasty
spruit, passable only at certain
places on account of deep mud;
and we made for one of them
by the telegraph-poles; but even
these failed me in the darkness,
and for a second time I found that
I had lost my way. I knew the
spruit was on the right, and so in-
clined that way till I came upon
the dim glint of the water close
below me, at the place I thought
I was making for. Towards it I
went, and at once tumbled down a
small precipice, only just escaping
the filthy water at the bottom. It
was not the " drift " after all ; still
it was one, though a bad one. My
tumble, however, stopped the men ;
and I got up, and felt about till I
found a place they could come down,
when we floundered across on to the
small knoll which lies at the far end
of the town. Across it we went. I
had an idea there was a big drain
cut through it : but time was valu-
able ; so we chanced the drain, and
soon saw a white house in front
which we knew. From it we could
turn and steer a straight course for
the Court-house, where the rest of
the party was waiting. They had
hardly fallen in when it began to
rain — a cold, sharp drizzle — in our
faces, looking as if it would con-
tinue; and it was touch and go
about turning back. But we were
wet already, and the worst bit was
done ; so after explaining to the men
what they had to do {nd commands
could be given), we moved off.

Stumbling as little as possible,
hardly breathing — the old game of
silence over again — we stole along
the road out into the open veldt
— the only sound a low ** hush " —
when some unfortunate coughed

above his breath. It seemed a
long way, though really little over
a mile, and the ruts were deep and
very crooked. I began to think
the rope would never trip me up.
It was raining bitterly in addition,
but walking kept us warm. On our
left was one of the forts, not a hun-
dred yards distant ; yet we passed
it unperceived, although a couple of
sentries were on the look-out for us.
There was barely light enough to
see the track we were on ; but after
a bit the colour of the soU changed,
getting black, and then the ruts
came in handy. We led by stoop-
ing down continually, and liter-
ally feeling our way. At last the
welcome rope tripped me up, and
I was all but on my nose. The
men halted where they were, till an
officer standing on the road -side
told them off one by one, when
they gradually formed a line of
skirmishers and advanced.

What had been cold and wet on
the road became doubly so in the
grass ; and the men's feet brushing
through it made a dreadful noise.
We had 300 paces to go, and hardly
any breath left to count them with ;
so it was a relief to find them gone
and the final spot reached. But
here the difficulty of making night
attacks was shown. The movement
had been simple enough ; the points
had been carefully laid down ; and
everything seemed to have gone
exactly as it ought. And yet
here .we were, as it turned out,
with our backs just where our faces
should have been. Just as the line
was extended, and the men were
going to lie down, one of the officers
came up and said that he was sure
something had gone wrong, — that
we were facing to our rear.

** Impossible ! " I said.

"Well, there is Slander's Kop
staring us in the face."

And so it was — just visible
against the sky, its fiat top cutting
the grey dawn unmistakably. An

276

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[Aug.

hour before we had left this behind,
and now we were facing it. Never
was any one more puzzled; worse
— one felt almost hopelessly lost.
There was little time for ddibera-
tion, light was growing in the east,
what had to be done must be done
quickly. So I faced the men about,
passing the word in whispers, and
went straight to our rear for two
hundred yards. Luckily the move
was the right one, and we hit off
the edge of the valley just where
we wanted, the men still facing to
their rear, now the front.

The grass was almost up to our
knees, and when the men lay down
covered them entirely. Strict or-
ders had been issued against raising
the head ; firing was to be expected
from our own men, and no one was
to peep when it came. Great-coats
were not allowed — they made us
bigger marks for the enemy; we
lay down just as we were in that
cold sloppy grass, and tried to keep
warm.

What a weary wait it was ! I
remember shivering quite audibly,
and thinking that the men would
hear me, and say I was funking it.
One man began to snore, and was
poked awake with a neighbour's
ramrod. The rain had stopped,
and the grey in the east began to
show streaks of red ; but with the
dawn came a bitter wind, and it
grew colder still.

Curiously enough, although lying
in an ambush into which the enemy
were at any minute expected to be
drawn, the thought of it hardly
crossed my mind ; all that was
there was the wretched cold, and
the longing for a dry change of
clothes.

Still the day crept on, the ob-
jects around lost their indistinct-
ness and happily showed that we
were just in the right place. About
a thousand yards to our right front
was a solitary house occupied by
the Dutch ; exactly in front the

smoke from their laager rose; the
slope between was vacant ; the ex-
pected vedettes were not there.
It was quite light enough for the
mounted men to attack, but all was
as still as death ; the sun would be
up before there was a shot fired,
and we wanted to begin and be off,
— anything better than this horrible
cold.

But we waited on, and the sun
rose, and the birds began to
twitter, and still no sign. I be-
gan to think something had mi8>
carried, and that we might as well
go home. Never was patience more
tried.

At length, not far from seven
o'clock, when we had been four
hours at it, a welcome shot rang
out on our right, then a few more,
answered faintly, followed by a
volley waking up the sleeping
scene; then more volleys crashing
across the veldt, and startling the
friends we were waiting for. I
could see the hill over the laager
black with figures running out to
see what was up ; others were after
their horses out grazing. A couple
rode out first, crossing our front;
then came more in threes and fours
streaming across the slope, a party
of a dozen heading towards oar
right. .Straight on they came; I
thought they would ride over us ;
but the sly fellows stopped short
of us by fifty yards, just hiding in
the valley where they dismounted,
and we could hear them jabbering
in Dutch, "Wait here, and we
shall catch them." This was in-
deed ambush on ambush.

Still the firing kept up briskly
on our flank, the mounted men
were making it hot for the Dutch
in that direction, and they buzzed
off towards it like wasps that have
been poked up by a mischievous
boy.

My attention thus far had been
taken up with what was going on
upon the right ; I had hardly turned

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton, — Condvded,

277

my head since the fight hegan. It
was lucky that eomething juat then
made me look round. What met
my eyes as I peered ovei the grass
stalks was startling. A big Dutch*
man on a horse, with his rifle ready,
was walking slowly along our front,
looking at us, but evidently not
seeing us. He was a fine man with
a thick, dark beard, a brown coat ;
and he was also excellently mounted.
Beyond him, in a patch of green,
was a man on a grey horae, well
known to us by sight as one of
their most energetic generals, with
some fifty mounted Boers behind
him. Another instant and we
should be discovered.

Lifting my head the least bit I
whispered in a voice delightfully
stagey, to the men nearest me —
" Look out men, point - blank,
and straight in front — ready —
when I shout, up on the knee and
let them have it — ^Fire ! "

The Dutchman saw me as I rose
in the grass, he heard my voice
shout out the order, and bending
double over his horse's neck, rode
for dear life. Crack went a dozen
rifles after him, but he gallopped on
unhurt, and in a few seconds reach-
ed the valley in safety. The men,
cold and numbed, fired wildly ; it
was as much as they could manage
to hold the rifles, and starting sud-
denly from the grass they did not
know what they were firing at.
For many a day that Dutchman's
face will haunt me : never was
death more plainly written on any
man's face than on his.

All this took place in half a
minute ; all the men were on the
knee now, and firing steadily at the
man on the grey horse and the men
with him. Several loose horses
were galloping away, their riders
on the ground; our fire must
have been deadly at the distance.
Straight for us dashed the troop,
the grey horse leading, and I
thought they would try to charge

us. But they rode for the valley,
in which they were under cover,
horses and men, and in a marvel-
lously short space out of the long
grass fringing it came a line of
puffs of smoke, about a hundred
yards in front of us — puffs, too, from
the right, where our friends were in
waiting to ** catch them." To all of
which we replied promptly, aiming
at the puffs as they blew off, put-
ting them out, sometimes shifting
them a little as it got too hot be-
hind them; bullets whizzing fast
all round, and no one hit as yet.
Their laager was now saddled up,
and a great cloud of men were col-
lecting in support of their advanced
parties. We had done what we
came out for, and had caught them
fairly. Nothing else remained but
to get the men safely away before
they could bring their whole force
against us.

So one-half of the men retired
skirmishing, the other half remain-
ing on the knee facing the Dutch,
and keeping down their fire, till
the first line had gone back a little
way, when they in turn took up
the fire and the front line fell
back.

It was really a pretty sight : the
sun's rays slanting across the grass,
glistening with raindrops ; the red
coats, — many in wideawakes, which
showed less in work like this than
the helmets, — walking along as
steadily as on the parade ground,
dropping on the knee and sending
out a sharp crack ; the puffs of
smoke all rouDd and very general,
hanging heavy in the damp air;
one young officer with his cap off
made the picture look quite like a
battle-piece. A fat-faced boy in the
Ordnance Department, out without
leave, I fancy, stuck close to me
and fired most steadily, his stolid
face looking into mine for orders,
adjusting his sight to the distance
I gave him, taking deliberate aim,
and after firing watching where the

278

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[Aug.

bullet hit, as cool aud as fat as if it
were all greens and bacon.

Another thing that forced itself
upon one was the noisy way in
which bullets, fired at you, do their
work. They are so spiteful, even
when they hit the ground, sound-
ing like a boy's cheek when he gets
a good sound box on the ear — ^they
dig into it as if trying which can
get in the deepest, and fling up
clouds of dust as if in scorn of the
fellow just before them. Those in
the air are always in such a hurry,
they can't stop a second, but buzz,
and scream, and vanish singing in
the distance. Those that hit men
do it quietly as if ashamed ; a poor
fellow lies on the grass writhing,
and you know that a bullet has
done it, that is alL

We had kept up this game for
about twenty minutes, sometimes
retiring, halting now and then to
shut up their fire, when we heard
firing on our left, and some bullets
came in hastily, crossing the others,
and making the men fire at this
new attack.

"Don't fire," I shouted; "they
are our own men." I had put a
party on this very hill, expecting
the enemy might bother us from
it.

" No, sir, they's Boers," replied
the fat-faced one; and as he spoke
down fell a man beside me, the
first one hit.

It was a^bit nasty. That they
were Boers was now plain; how
they got there was a mystery. I
could see about twenty-five of them
blazing away, the bullets hitting
all about us. So we faced round
and went at the place. Four hun-
dred yards I gave as the distance,
and it was just the thing. The
Dutch are capital shots at buck,
but let the animal have a rifie and
know how to use it, and they will
go without venison for that day.

Their fire slackened before we had
gone a hundred yards, the Boers

skulking under stones. Then they
came out, collecting in a group, fir-
ing hardly at all, almost stupefied
as it seemed. Then after a minute
or more they ran behind the koppie
where their horses were, and rode
away. Several pools of blood upon
the koppie told us a little later of
the cause of their stupidity.

This was the last of it, bullets
from long ranges dropped about,
and we counted about 600 horse-
men on the hill which we had left.
These had collected within the
hour from their posts many miles
apart, thus showing what excellent
organisation they possessed. I drew
off the men, the wounded man re-
fusing to be carried — he was shot
through the arm — and the whole
laughing and telling their own
stories until we got under cover of
the fire of one of the forts, the one
we had passed in the dark, its gar-
rison on tip- toe on the parapet get-
ting what view they could of our
battle. A quick walk home to the
fort, a cup of coffee, and a change
of clothes left us none the worse
for our outing, wet and dismal as
it had been.

This skirmish taught the Dutch
a lesson — it sent them back ano-
ther mile, made them respect our
vedettes, and mistrust every patch
of grass that grew. When we met
them on the proclamation of peace,
they admitted that we had knocked
over eleven of their own men ; but,
as I said to the man on the grey
horse, "we did not get you."

" No, meinheer; but I tried very
hard for you." A pleasant bit of
rejoinder, showing that even war-
fare has its amenities.

One fine day we saw two fine bul-
locks strolling towards the " drift,"
followed by a lot of Boers at a dis-
tance; but these notdaring to come
within range, we soon had the plea-
sure of seeing a party of our own
men cross the river, and drive them
in as spoils of war. Excellent beef

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton, — Conclvded.

279

they made, the marks on them be-
ing those of a noted rebel who was
known to be shooting at us.

A frequent cause of suspicion
was the display of lights at night
in the town. All lights had to be
out when the bugle sounded ^'lights
out;" but there were lights that con-
tinually defied orders, and, as it
sometimes seemed, were answered
by others on the hills round, though
these turned out more than once to
be only a setting star magnified in
the sentry's imagination into a sig-
nal light. That traitors were in our
midst I think was undoubted, but
they kept so quiet that we never
discovered one. We occasionally
sent out after these same lights,
only once catching the ofiender in
the act, when with all due caution
a party crept down towards one
that flashed distinctly enough, to
put all doubt out of the question.
Without the slightest noise they
stole along, over walls and ditches,
the tell-tale light always in front,
till they could see that it came
from a house in the very centre of
the town ; the ground was more
level, and they quickened their
pace, and ran it to earth at last,
to find the ''signal light" came
through a loop-hole in the court-
house, on the other side of which
the gallant captain who defended
it lay reading in bed.

Another night I was roused out
to look at some rockets thrown up
by the relieving column. Excite-
ment was intense. Cries of " There
they go ! " " There's another !" were
heard all round, — with remarks of
the good things in store to-morrow
for the poor hungry fellows. The
rockets were only a star rising, but
all day I was beset by the towns-
people with questions about the
column, and the news the rockets
had sent in.

Heavy rain set in towards the end
of February, making sad breaches
in our walls, and giving us plenty

of work at putting them up again.
One particularly rainy morning the
mist cleared for a little, and our
vedette found himself close to a
Kafir who was trudging along the
road towards town. On being
questioned he showed a Dutch
pass, and a letter which he was
taking to his master in the main
laager, and on being told that he
was going all right, followed the
volunteer quite unsuspecting. Soon,
however, a mounted infantry man
wearing a red coat rode up, and the
Kafir discovered his mistake with a
loud yell, thinking that instant death
would be his lot. On seeing the
houses of Standerton he was fairly
aghast, the Boers having told him
that it was destroyed, and all the
English killed. As a specimen of
Dutch letter - writing the note is
worth copying : —

"Loving Husband, — We are all
quite well, for which we cannot thank
the Lord enough, and hope to hear the
same from my loving husband; and
if it is otherwise with you, it would

frieve me exceedingly much, loving
usband. I have no news to write you,
only that I long very much, my loving
husband, to see you. Sammie can
walk already, and the children long
very much for their papa. Dear, I
send you tobacco and one loaf of bread.
Dear, everything is all right, and papa
sends you a man. Dear, I wish you
God's blessing and health. Now I
shall close with the pen, but never with
the heart. Farewell, from your loving
wife and children."

And these were the people who
day and night tried to kill us.

Amongst the garrison was a
colour-sergeant, somewhat of a fire-
eater. Ilis animosity against the
Dutch was intense, and he longed
to do something to satisfy it. His
wrath was directed principally
against Stander's Kop — it was his
company which held it in check.
For many a day they had endured
the taunts of the Dutch upon it.
Several times he hinted to me that

280

Besieged in tJie Transvaal :

[Aug.

its captnre was easy, and that he
was leady to go at it; but the
scheme did not suit me, and so
dropped. He was a teetotaller,
but one day he indulged in a few
glasses, and they took effect, as
was natural after long abstinence.
In the canteen that evening the
conversation got on the everlasting
subject of Stander's Kop, and some
commissariat men being present,
one of these declared himself ready
to take it with ten men. This put .
the sergeant's back up, and he
replied that he would do it with
only five, leaving shortly afterwards.
He went straight to his hut, called
for five volunteers, not saying what
for, and set out with them about
9 o'clock in the direction of the
Kop. Two hours after this I was
roused by a man with a message
from him. He was close up to the
top of the hill, and wanted rein-
forcements. A party was sent out
with an officer to bring him back,
but they retired at daylight, not hav-
ing found any trace of them, and I
feared that he must have fallen into
the hands of the Dutch. Shortly
after daylight, however, we heard
a volley, followed by an undoubted
cheer from the top of the hiU, then
a couple more volleys, and all was
still. The truth now became ap-
parent : he had climbed into the
" sconce " the Boers occupied, find-
ing it empty, and lying there
through the night till they came
up for the day, when he greeted
them with a volley.

It was an awkward position.
They were sure to come up in
strength — it was their principal
position, and they would do any-
thing rather than lose it ; yet there
were our five men on the top, more
than a mile from camp. I got out
all the men and sent them skirmish-
ing towards the hill, with orders to
open fire if the enemy appeared,
and bring the men in under its
cover.

And appear they did, riding up
cautiously along the top with about
fifty, another lot of the same
strength showing round the base to
cut us off that way, the whole firing
at us down below in the open ; and
very hot it was, our men replying
with a wilL We could see the
tiny group of our men scrambling
down the rocks to the garden- wall
spoken of before, under which they
lay hid till our skirmishers, coming
on, kept up so hot a fire that they
were able to come out and rejoin
them unhurt, though fired at inces-
santly.

Their story was what we ex-
pected. Once in the little " sconce,"
they lay down waiting for the
Dutch, receiving the twenty odd
men that came up with a volley
which knocked over three, the rest
bolting as hard as they could at the
unwelcome surprise. The hero of
this exploit was rather astonished
to find that he had done wrong ; it
seemed only a necessary feature of
the siege to take the Kop, and to
be put under arrest for doing his
duty was not what he had calculated
on. However, the General in the
end released him, with a caution
not to take Kops again on his own
responsibility.

We had our jokes, bullets or no
bullets, — stale, probably, but always
fresh among us besieged ones. A
never-failing one was the habitual
fear of the Dutch which seized us
all about noon every day — so terri-
ble, indeed, that wer became weak
and prostrated — and only saved our-
selves from sending out a white flag
with an offer of surrender by turn-
ing into the mess-shed and taking
a glass of "square-face" all round.
And this joke went on every day
for three months.

Our only playmates were two
cats, each named by the men, as is
usual, from their place of abode.
One, a tabby, was the "laager cat;"
the other, a tortoise-shell, the "hut-

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton. — Concluded,

281

cat ; " and the latter was tlie strang-
est of her kind. She preferred to
lie in the wet grass to a blanket ;
folloj^ed the men about like a dog ;
slept in a loop-hole in the advanced
work, and was never known to
purr. Her society was not agree-
able to the " laager cat," who lived
in the mess; quarrels, with much
spitting and swearing, were the con-
sequence of a visit : our cat was
an officers' cat, and would not mix
with a soldiers' cat. Rations formed
the only exception, and then both
sat on mealie bags, facing one
another, and chewed away at huge
chunks of raw beef.

We had also many dogs, all curs
of a genus which appears only in
South Africa. A wonderful mixture
of every dog, known and unknown,
used generally to run down wound-
ed buck, or to hunt up partridges
or other game. To all dogs the term
"footsack" is familiar, always an-
ticipated, invariably obeyed. It
means in Dutch " be off ; " and
according to the tone in which
it is uttered, so does the dog
obey. Used conversationally, he
slinks off with his tail between
his legs; authoritatively, and he
runs, looking behind him fearfully ;
savagely, and he is gone with a yell
before the accompanying stone can
reach him.

Our pack was no exception to
the rule. There were pointers,
greyhounds, setters, mastiffs, deer-
hounds, bull - dogs, and even a
poodle. This was a small black
cur which a soldier had shaved into
a sham poodle : his head was like a
weak-minded lion, each foot carried
a boss of hair, and his tail ended in
a black tuft, and in this the charac-
ter of the animal came out. iSTever
was a row between the other curs
but the poodle made for it hot-
footed, yelping vigorously, his tail
revolving like the screw of a steam-
boat as if to give him fresh impetus.
Once at the row he joined in with

a will, till his turn coming, he was
seen flying before the pack, his tail
still going round with redoubled
energy. Poor poodle ! as his hair
grew and the exigencies of the siege
prevented his master from reshav-
ing him, he gradually pined, his
spirits left him, and his tail hung
limp and tuftless, in readiness for
the all -dreaded "footsack." The
dogs not being allowed in the fort,
were exposed to the incessant fire,
and three of them were wounded,
showing the shower of bullets un-
der which we lived ; but all, strange
to say, recovered.

After the siege the officers put
their dogs into a scratch pack to
hunt possible hares — each owner
riding to the meet with his whip-
thong tied round his dog's neck,
who dragged behind in danger of
strangulation. Once a hare was
found, and the whole started in
pursuit, the master crying out in
agony, — " For goodness sake, gen-
tlemen, don't crack your whips,
or they'll all run home."

On February 28th there was con-
siderable anxiety among the Boers,
their vedettes stretching across the
^Newcastle road for miles. We
thought it must be on account of
news of the column, and so it was,
but not of the kind we were look-
ing for. The day before had taken
place the defeat of the Amajuba ;
perhaps it was as well that we did
not know of it.

On March 7th we repulsed a
determined attack from the south,
the Boers occupying a long hill
1000 yards from our advanced
works, and firing furiously for two
hours. So galling was their fire
that I put all the men under cover,
and let the enemy blaze away, rein-
forcing the works facing them with
difficulty, — the 58th running into
them under a hail of lead, and then
gradually driving them off. I always
dreaded that they would occupy that
position, as it completely enfiladed

282

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[Ang.

the fort, and it was quite impossi-
ble to toke it without heavy loss,
owing to its steepness, and the
fact that Stander's Kop commanded
it. The cause of the attack was
to secure a punt which had been
cut away from Standerton before
the siege, and had floated down
during the floods to the Boer lines.
They had got it afloat on the previ-
ous night, but could not get it far
enough away before daylight, when
we opened Are on them, making
them let it go again, when it floated
down the river and was of no further
use to them.

The end was now drawing near.

On the 11th March we saw a
number of waggons coming along
the Newcastle road, nearer to us
than was customary, till they turn-
ed off and were hidden in a valley
under the Dutch position, barely
1500 yards from our fort. It
looked nasty, and the general im-
pression was that a fresh laager
was being formed for the final
attack, which we knew would cer-
tainly precede the column. The
Dutch began to show on the kop-
pie opposite, looking out and tak-
ing in our position. . Stander's Kop
was crowded; they hardly seemed
to care for our shots, which, accord-
ing to custom, we fired now and
then to make them keep in ; they
bobbed and then came out again.
On the koppie across the river,
where their strongest laager was,
they were swarming, some coming
down to pick up lead in the shape
of our bullets. So, as it was getting
too much of a good thing, I told the
sergeant in charge of the marks-
men on the roof of our shed to fire
a shot, and to our delight a Boer
dropped and was carried in by two
of his comrades, evidently badly hit.
It was the last shot of the siege.
Hardly had we knocked the man
over when two Boers rode out of
the koppie heading towards the
town "drift," and, to our horror,

carrying high over their heads a
big white flag.

The Boers now covered the hill,
on horses and without, sitting about
on the stone parapets they had been
firing fromj they seemed to know
that the flag made them safe.

Still on came the flag. It was a
bad quarter of an hour. The men
stood about with eyes wide open
till I sent them to their posts to get
rid of them. It could only be one
thing. The column was beaten,
and this was a demand to surrender,
now further resistance was useless.
Every one of us thought so, but
no one spoke his thoughts. In all
the three months, that was the
worst time we had.

Determined to be ready for any
stratagem, I occupied all our forts,
crowded the men into the defences
at the drift, and lined the koppie
above it, till, when the Boers came
down, at least one hundred rifles
were pointing at them unseen.

They were met by an officer sent
down, and held up a letter, the
fatal summons ; and a native was
sent across swimming — the river
was too high to ford — and brought
it up to the fort. I never loathed
a letter so much in my life, and did
not open it altogether as eagerly as
a man who has not had one for
three months might do. Our fears,
as it turned out, were groundless \
the letter containing a note from
the Dutch general before me, writ-
ten on a scrap of paper lined for
accounts, a copy of the first armis-
tice, and a private note from the
officer who had brought the sup-
plies. "We did not want the armis-
tice a bit, and in my reply I told
the Dutchman as much. They
wanted me to send over for the
provisions, and to tell them if I
had any wounded whom I wished
to send away. I said as long as
they did not come an inch nearer
the town than they were now I
would not fire on them; that if

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton. — Concluded,

283

they sent the provisions to me I
-would receive them; and that if
the officer came personally to me, I
would tell him what I chose ahout
my wounded, if I had any; and
with this answer the flag went
back, and we heard no more of it
that day.

Bat in the town consternation
reigned, and bets were made that
we were the victims of a hoax. The
most awfol things were predicted,
and I was looked upon as a poor
fool, so I heard afterwards. Yet
when morning came four waggons
were seen " trekking " towards the
" drift," with ten Boers, unarmed, as
I had said I would permit, follow-
ing; and in rear of all the officer
of our own regiment. The towns-
people paid up their bets and said
no more ; the waggons came down
to a place I pointed out, and com-
menced to "ojff-load," — the officer
asking that I might be sent for, as
he had the Boer generaVs permis-
sion to talk to me. So down I
rode, and stood on the river's bank
opposite to him, the Boer guard
staring curiously at the man they
had been trying to shoot for the
last three months in vain. It
was a pretty sight. The Vaal be-
tween us, rolling fast and deep;
the Boers long-haired and dirty,
squatting round and watching
every movement ; and myself, with
another officer, and a mounted
orderly with his carbine on his
thigh, upon the other. "What
questions rose to our lips but died
again 1 How we longed to hear if
there was a column, where it was,
and what were the troops that
formed it? "We knew nothing,
absolutely nothing. One word let
drop told us of the death of the
General — ^bad news that sent a thrill
through all of us ; a bare suspicion
that we had been defeated down
below came across our minds. It
was hardly a pleasant meeting.

Again a native swam across and

brought back the papers signed.
We saw the Dutch questioning him,
and found afterwards that he had
humbugged them.

"Are they dying of starvation?
Have not we killed a loti We
never see them out, so we know
they are dead. We know that we

shot young G that day you

came out, and his body lies up
behind there." Just then young

G himself came down to me

with a message, and the Boers
looked like fools. To all their
queries the native said yes.

The Boer spokesman shouted
that they had no liquor, so we sent
him across a bottle of whisky,
when the crew gave a weak cheer,
and said they would drink Mein-
heer's health. The officer asked if
we could spare him some stores,
and we sent him some tins of beef
and milk and jam, and half a dozen
"square-face; " it was nearly the last
we had, and the Dutchmen stared :
starving men to have so many
things to spare — something was
not quite right here.

Before the relief we had made
a punt by lashing eight barrels to-
gether with telegraph wire, and
putting a platform on them; and
this came in handy now, for
though we did not tell the Boers,
we wanted provisions badly. The
next day we had a bite of brecwi,
and very nice it was.

There was a history about that
punt. A few days before the relief,
the river rose in flood about twenty
feet, and down went our poor punt
till it stuck under the hill which the
Dutch held, only a few hundred
yards from it. Fortunately the bank
was high, and it rested on the slope
where they could not see it, while
our fire kept them from coming
down. But we wanted it badly ; and
so a dozen men who could swim
were made ,to get across some dis-
tance higher up, and sneak down
under the bank to where it lay.

284

Besieged in the Transvaal :

[Aug.

We chose a foggy evening, through
which we could see the Boer
" sconces," with their sentries mov-
ing ahout, dimly. It was touchy
work — twelve naked men on their
side, a raging torrent hetween them
and us, while I stood on this hank
directing them. One man might
pass unnoticed, more and they
would open fire, and the punt
would be lost. So the naked men
worked hard, making no noise, till
they got the punt into the water
and hauled it up stream for a mile,
until it was in our own water, and
was safe. It took all that evening
long after dark, and we rewarded
the willing fellows with a "tot"
apiece of Cape rum, which they
thought ample reward. Four hours
nakedness, with the enemy close at
hand ready to kill you at the slight-
est sound, all for a glass of rum !

Throughout the siege we had
given a girl's name for the counter-
sign. The men liked it. Every
night some of them felt that the
garrison was watched over by her
he loved best, and it came to be
the evening's topic with them who
she was to be when the orders
were read out. It put us about a
little to find names, but we did it,
only standing out against Jemima,
and published a fresh name every
night. The first name we hit upon
was Alice. Many of us had an
Alice we loved at home, so we put
her in the front rank. Later on,
when the fort was clean enough,
we christened it after her, and
Fort Alice is now the official title
of the fort which held Standerton.

Many were the discussions the
men had over these names. Violet
was one, and I remember hearing
an obstinate fellow silenced, on ob-
jecting that it was a fiower, not a
" gal," by a comrade, who explained
that " Violet is the flower, we all
know that, but a girl's called Vio-
lette, with an Jie." Another time,
when the password was Mag, the

following conversation took place
ontside the fort between a sentry
and a late comer : —

Sentry, " Who comes there ? "
Late-comer. " Friend."
Sentry, "Stand, friend. Advance
one, and give the countersign."
Late-comer, **I don't know it."
Sentry. " Why, it's Mag ! "
Late-comer. ** Oh, Mag."
Sentry. " Pass, Mag, all's well."
The outcome of the news of the
armistice would have perplexed the
Dutch not a little. It was an order
saying that it must have been ar-
ranged by the General to gain time
to bring up his troops, and that we
must in consequence be prepared to
last another month at least. As it
was issued in perfect good faith, it
is worth copying here.

" Standerton, March 23, 1881.

" From information received it ap-
pears that the column under Sir G.
Colley was engaged with the enemv at
the Ingogo river about the end of last
month, and has remained some six
miles in advance of that river in posi*
tion ; General Wood, in command on
the death of Sir G. Colley, probablv
thinking it desirable to wait until fresh
troops arrive before attacking the
strong position the rebels hold on the
top of the Drakensberg Range.

"The reinforcements are now on
their way out from England, and a
further column is at Newcastle ; but
as the final advance may not take
place until the arrival of the reinforce-
ments, it will be safer not to anticipate
any relief until the end of April at the
earliest. Up to that date supplies on
the present scale have been calculated ;
our forts are completed ; ammunition
is ample ; and the health of the gar-
ri:3on and town is excellent.

"Under these circumstances the
commanding officer trusts to meet
with the same cheerfulness and prompt-
itude in carrying out his orders as has
been hitherto the case ; in all ranks,
military and civil, he has great pleas-
ure in saying that he has found every
one bearing the irksomeness and te-
dium of the long confinement without
a murmur.

"The store-keepers have lent him

1881.]

The Defence of Standerton. — Concluded,

285

their aid in preserving discipline and
acting strictly up to his injunctions as
to the sale of liquor, and he has full
confidence in their continuing to act
as they already have done to the end.
In conclusion, he must add that as the
weariness increases, a certain amount
of slackness is apt to creep in, and he
wishes to remina every one under his
command that he will continue to en-
force the strictest attention to disci-
pline and obedience, and will not hesi-
tate to check any deviation therefrom
-with the utmost severity permissible
by military law."

The armistice would finish on
Wednesday night at twelve, and in
the forenoon of that day we made
extra preparations to meet an at-
tack at the hour when it closed,
anticipating an attempt at surprise.
Eat about noon out came another
flag of truce, with a letter, which told
UB of the renewal of the armistice.
Shortly after arrived a second re-
lieving officer with more provisions,
all which we treated as we had done
the first. On the fourth day of the
second armistice a third flag came
down, requesting me to meet the
Boer general, which I agreed to,
and went out to a spot out of sight
of our defences to meet him.

I was accompanied by my orderly
officer, and bugler, — the Dutch party
consisting of a very fat and very
dirty man, of some five feet, any
way you measured him, introduced
as General Otto; Mr Cronje, the
man on the grey horse I had tried
to shoot ; a thin fellow, Van Buck-
stroom, the interpreter; and an old,
frowsy-looking thing who carried
the flag. They brought a letter,
also on a scrap of account-paper,
from Joubert, saying peace had
been made. This they read out
to me, saying at once, without
waiting for me to Answer, " Of
course you don't believe it, but we
wish to tell you what we know."

To which I replied that I could
only act on an order from my own
general, but would consent to allow

matters to go on as they had done,
and not fire so long as they did not
come near. This satisfied them,
and we parted.

Early on the morning of 26th
March, I was roused by the news
that the Dutch were crowding
down to the " drift." We went up
to the hill above it, and saw about
two hundred of them, with their
waggons inspanning, evidently about
to cross. A few indeed had come
down to the .river and crossed
while I was looking. They were
all unarmed. I saw that it was as
had been said ; peace was pro-
claimed, and these were the Boers
going home.

But I wished to show them that
it was not yet all their own way ;
at least Standerton was stUl an
English town which they had not
been able to take from us ; so the
mounted troop rode off to the "drift,"
and drew up across the road with
their carbines ready. The men
occupied their places in the de-
fences facing the river; and the
Boers were sent back much quicker
than they had come. The whole
crowd of them then squatted on
the further bank in sulky silence.
Their oxen were outspanned, and
they evidently made up their minds
to stop there all day.

At eight A.M., the officers bear-
ing the official message from Sir
Evelyn Wood rode in and delivered
it, when we had breakfast, and
then rode down to the town. The
volunteers were formed up for the
last time, and disbanded ; the gar-
rison was moved up to camp as
sharp as possible ; the men were
withdrawn from the defences ; civil
law in the person of the Landdrost
once more established ; and last of
all, word was sent to the Dutch on
the river's bank that the "drift"
was open.

Over they came in troops, crowd-
ing the stores in search of "French,"
as they call brandy. Our best efforts

286

Besieged in the Transvaal,

[Aug. 1881.

had been used to clean up the town
for the arrival of the column, and
it was spotless ; before evening it
had regained its original state, and
was as filthy as the dirtiest Dutch-
man could wish.

So ended the siege