PAGES FROM A JOURNAL, WITH OTHER PAPERS. 

Contents: A Visit to Carlyle in 1868 Early Morning in January March June August The End of October November The Break-up of a Great Drought Spinoza Supplementary Note on the Devil Injustice Time Settles Controversies Talking about our Troubles Faith Patience An Apology Belief, Unbelief, and Superstition Judas Iscariot Sir Walter Scott's Use of the Supernatural September, 1798 Some Notes on Milton The Morality of Byron's Poetry. "The Corsair" Byron, Goethe, and Mr. Matthew Arnold A Sacrifice The Aged Three Conscience The Governess's Story James Forbes Atonement My Aunt Eleanor Correspondence between George, Lucy, M. A. , and Hermione Russell, B. A. Mrs. Fairfax

A VISIT TO CARLYLE IN 1868

On Saturday, the 22nd of March, 1868, my father and I called on Carlyleat 5, Cheyne Row, Chelsea, with a message from one of his intimatefriends. 

We were asked upstairs at once, and found Carlyle at breakfast. Theroom was large, well-lighted, a bright fire was burning, and the windowwas open in order to secure complete ventilation. Opposite thefireplace was a picture of Frederick the Great and his sister. Therewere also other pictures which I had not time to examine. One of themCarlyle pointed out. It was a portrait of the Elector of Saxony whoassisted Luther. The letters V. D. M. I. AE. ("Verbum Dei Manet inAEternum") were round it. Everything in the room was in exact order, there was no dust or confusion, and the books on the shelves werearranged in perfect EVENNESS. I noticed that when Carlyle replaced abook he took pains to get it level with the others. The furniture wassolid, neat, and I should think expensive. I showed him the letter hehad written to me eighteen years ago. It has been published by Mr. Froude, but it will bear reprinting. The circumstances under which itwas written, not stated by Mr. Froude, were these. In 1850, when theLatter-day Pamphlets appeared--how well I remember the eager journey tothe bookseller for each successive number!--almost all the reviewsunited in a howl of execration, criticism so called. I, being young, and owing so much to Carlyle, wrote to him, the first and almost theonly time I ever did anything of the kind, assuring him that there wasat least one person who believed in him. This was his answer:-

"CHELSEA, 9th March, 1850. 

"MY GOOD YOUNG FRIEND, --I am much obliged by the regard you entertainfor me; and do not blame your enthusiasm, which well enough beseems youryoung years. If my books teach you anything, don't mind in the leastwhether other people believe it or not; but do you for your own behooflay it to heart as a real acquisition you have made, more properly, as areal message left with you, which YOU must set about fulfilling, whatsoever others do! This is really all the counsel I can give youabout what you read in my books or those of others: PRACTISE what youlearn there; instantly and in all ways begin turning the belief into afact, and continue at that--till you get more and ever more beliefs, with which also do the like. It is idle work otherwise to write booksor to read them. 

"And be not surprised that 'people have no sympathy with you'; that isan accompaniment that will attend you all your days if you mean to leadan earnest life. The 'people' could not save you with their 'sympathy'if they had never so much of it to give; a man can and must savehimself, with or without their sympathy, as it may chance. 

"And may all good be with you, my kind young friend, and a heart stoutenough for this adventure you are upon; that is the best 'good' of all. 

"I remain, yours very sincerely, "T. CARLYLE. "

Carlyle had forgotten this letter, but said, "It is undoubtedly mine. It is what I have always believed . . . It has been so ever since I wasat college. I do not mean to say I was not loved there as warmly bynoble friends as ever man could be, but the world tumbled on me, and hasever since then been tumbling on me rubbish, huge wagon-loads ofrubbish, thinking to smother me, and was surprised it did not smotherme--turned round with amazement and said, 'What, you alive yet?' . . . While I was writing my Frederick my best friends, out of delicacy, didnot call. Those who came were those I did not want to come, and I sawvery few of them. I shook off everything to right and left. At lastthe work would have killed me, and I was obliged to take to riding, chiefly in the dark, about fourteen miles most days, plunging andfloundering on. I ought to have been younger to have undertaken such atask. If they were to offer me all Prussia, all the solar system, Iwould not write Frederick again. No bribe from God or man would temptme to do it. "

He was re-reading his Frederick, to correct it for the stereotypededition. "On the whole I think it is very well done. No man perhaps inEngland could have done it better. If you write a book though now, youmust just pitch it out of window and say, 'Ho! all you jackasses, comeand trample on it and trample it into mud, or go on till you aretired. '" He laughed heartily at this explosion. His laughter struckme--humour controlling his wrath and in a sense ABOVE it, as if thefinal word were by no means hatred or contempt, even for the jackass. ". . . No piece of news of late years has gladdened me like the victoryof the Prussians over the Austrians. It was the triumph of Prussianover French and Napoleonic influence. The Prussians were a valiant, pious people, and it was a question which should have the most power inGermany, they or Napoleon. The French are sunk in all kinds of filth. Compare what the Prussians did with what we did in the Crimea. TheEnglish people are an incredible people. They seem to think that it isnot necessary that a general should have the least knowledge of the artof war. It is as if you had the stone, and should cry out to anytravelling tinker or blacksmith and say, 'Here, come here and cut me forthe stone, ' and he WOULD cut you! Sir Charles Napier would have been agreat general if he had had the opportunity. He was much delighted withFrederick. 'Frederick was a most extraordinary general, ' said SirCharles, and on examination I found out that all that Sir Charles hadread of Frederick was a manual for Prussian officers, published by himabout 1760, telling them what to do on particular occasions. I was verypleased at this admiration of Frederick by Sir Charles . . . 

"Sir John Bowring was one of your model men; men who go about imaginingthemselves the models of all virtues, and they are models of somethingvery different. He was one of your patriots, and the Government toquiet him sent him out to China. When he got there he went to war witha third of the human race! He, the patriot, he who believed in thegreatest-happiness principle, immediately went to war with a third ofthe human race!" (Great laughter from T. C. ) "And so far as I can makeout he was all wrong. 

"The Frederick is being translated into German. It is being done by aman whose name I have forgotten, but it was begun by one of the mostfaithful friends I ever had, Neuberg. I could not work in the rooms inthe offices where lay the State papers I wanted to use, it brought onsuch a headache, but Neuberg went there, and for six months worked allday copying. He was taken ill, and a surgical operation was badlyperformed, and then in that wild, black weather at the beginning of lastyear, just after I came back from Mentone, the news came to me one nighthe was dead. "

On leaving Carlyle shook hands with us both and said he was glad to haveseen us. "It was pleasant to have friends coming out of the dark inthis way. "

Perhaps a reflection or two which occurred to me after this interviewmay not be out of place. Carlyle was perfectly frank, even to us ofwhom he knew but little. He did not stand off or refuse to talk on anybut commonplace subjects. What was offered to us was his best. And yetthere is to be found in him a singular reserve, and those shallowpersons who taunt him with inconsistency because he makes so much ofsilence, and yet talks so much, understand little or nothing of him. Inhalf a dozen pages one man may be guilty of shameless garrulity, andanother may be nobly reticent throughout a dozen volumes. Carlyle feelsthe contradictions of the universe as keenly as any man can feel them. He knows how easy it is to appear profound by putting anew the riddleswhich nobody can answer; he knows how strong is the temptation towardsthe insoluble. But upon these subjects he also knows how to hold histongue; he does not shriek in the streets, but he bows his head. He hasfound no answer--he no more than the feeblest of us, and yet in hisinmost soul there is a shrine, and he worships. 

Carlyle is the champion of morals, ethics, law--call it what you like--of that which says we must not always do a thing because it is pleasant. There are two great ethical parties in the world, and, in the main, buttwo. One of them asserts the claims of the senses. Its doctrine isseductive because it is so right. It is necessary that we should in ameasure believe it, in order that life may be sweet. But nature hasheavily weighted the scale in its favour; its acceptance requires noeffort. It is easily perverted and becomes a snare. In our day nearlyall genius has gone over to it, and preaching it is rather superfluous. The other party affirms what has been the soul of all religions worthhaving, that it is by repression and self-negation that men and Stateslive. 

It has been said that Carlyle is great because he is graphic, and he issupposed to be summed up in "mere picturesqueness, " the silliest ofverdicts. A man may be graphic in two ways. He may deal with hissubject from the outside, and by dint of using strong language may"graphically" describe an execution or a drunken row in the streets. But he may be graphic by ability to penetrate into essence, and toexpress it in words which are worthy of it. What higher virtue thanthis can we imagine in poet, artist, or prophet?

Like all great men, Carlyle is infinitely tender. That was what struckme as I sat and looked in his eyes, and the best portraits in somedegree confirm me. It is not worth while here to produce passages fromhis books to prove my point, but I could easily do so, specially fromthe Life of Sterling and the Cromwell. {10} Much of his fierceness isan inverted tenderness. 

His greatest book is perhaps the Frederick, the biography of a heroreduced more than once to such extremities that apparently nothing butsome miraculous intervention could save him, and who did not yield, butstruggled on and finally emerged victorious. When we considerFrederick's position during the last part of the Seven Years' War, wemust admit that no man was ever in such desperate circumstances orshowed such uncrushable determination. It was as if the Destinies, inorder to teach us what human nature can do, had ordained that he who hadthe most fortitude should also encounter the severest trial of it. Overand over again Frederick would have been justified in acknowledgingdefeat, and we should have said that he had done all that could beexpected even of such a temper as that with which he was endowed. Ifthe struggle of the will with the encompassing world is the stuff ofwhich epics are made, then no greater epic than that of Frederick hasbeen written in prose or verse, and it has the important advantage ofbeing true. It is interesting to note how attractive this primaryvirtue of which Frederick is such a remarkable representative is toCarlyle, how MORAL it is to him; and, indeed, is it not the sum andsubstance of all morality? It should be noted also that it was due tono religious motive: that it was bare, pure humanity. At times it isdifficult not to believe that Carlyle, notwithstanding his piety, lovesit all the more on that account. It is strange that an example sosalutary and stimulating to the poorest and meanest of us should be setby an unbelieving king, and that my humdrum existence should be secretlysupported by "Frederick II. Roi de Prusse. "

* * *

Soon after Carlyle died I went to Ecclefechan and stood by his grave. It was not a day that I would have chosen for such an errand, for it wascold, grey, and hard, and towards the afternoon it rained a slow, persistent, wintry rain. The kirkyard in Ecclefechan was dismal anddepressing, but my thoughts were not there. I remembered what Carlylewas to the young men of thirty or forty years ago, in the days of thatnew birth, which was so strange a characteristic of the time. His bookswere read with excitement, with tears of joy, on lonely hills, by theseashore and in London streets, and the readers were thankful that itwas their privilege to live when he also was alive. All that excitementhas vanished, but those who knew what it was are the better for it. Carlyle now is almost nothing, but his day will return, he will be putin his place as one of the greatest souls who have been born amongst us, and his message will be considered as perhaps the most important whichhas ever been sent to us. This is what I thought as I stood inEcclefechan kirkyard, and as I lingered I almost doubted if CarlyleCOULD be dead. Was it possible that such as he could altogether die?Some touch, some turn, I could not tell what or how, seemed all that wasnecessary to enable me to see and to hear him. It was just as if I wereperplexed and baffled by a veil which prevented recognition of him, although I was sure he was behind it. 

EARLY MORNING IN JANUARY

A warm, still morning, with a clear sky and stars. At first the hillswere almost black, but, as the dawn ascended, they became dark green, ofa peculiarly delicate tint which is never seen in the daytime. Thequietude is profound, although a voice from an unseen fishing-boat cannow and then be heard. How strange the landscape seems! It is not avariation of the old landscape; it is a new world. The half-moon rideshigh in the sky, and near her is Jupiter. A little way further to theleft is Venus, and still further down is Mercury, rare apparition, justperceptible where the deep blue of the night is yielding to the greenwhich foretells the sun. The east grows lighter; the birds begin tostir in the bushes, and the cry of a gull rises from the base of thecliff. The sea becomes responsive, and in a moment is overspread withcontinually changing colour, partly that of the heavens above it andpartly self-contributed. With what slow, majestic pomp is the daypreceded, as though there had been no day before it and no other wouldfollow it!

MARCH

It is a bright day in March, with a gentle south-west wind. Sittingstill in the copse and facing the sun it strikes warm. It has alreadymounted many degrees on its way to its summer height, and is regainingits power. The clouds are soft, rounded, and spring-like, and the whiteof the blackthorn is discernible here and there amidst the underwood. The brooks are running full from winter rains but are not overflowing. All over the wood which fills up the valley lies a thin, purplish mist, harmonising with the purple bloom on the stems and branches. The budsare ready to burst, there is a sense of movement, of waking after sleep;the tremendous upward rush of life is almost felt. But how silent theprocess is! There is no hurry for achievement, although so much has tobe done--such infinite intricacy to be unfolded and made perfect. Thelittle stream winding down the bottom turns and doubles on itself; adead leaf falls into it, is arrested by a twig, and lies there content. 

JUNE

It is a quiet, warm day in June. The wind is westerly, but there isonly just enough of it to waft now and then a sound from the far-offtown, or the dull, subdued thunder of cannon-firing from ships or fortsdistant some forty miles or more. Massive, white-bordered clouds, greyunderneath, sail overhead; there was heavy rain last night, and they arelifting and breaking a little. Softly and slowly they go, and one ofthem, darker than the rest, has descended in a mist of rain, blottingout the ships. The surface of the water is paved curiously in green andviolet, and where the light lies on it scintillates like millions ofstars. The grass is not yet cut, and the showers have brought it upknee-deep. Its gentle whisper is plainly heard, the most delicate ofall the voices in the world, and the meadow bends into billows, grey, silvery, and green, when a breeze of sufficient strength sweeps acrossit. The larks are so multitudinous that no distinct song can be caught, and amidst the confused melody comes the note of the thrush and theblackbird. A constant under-running accompaniment is just audible inthe hum of innumerable insects and the sharp buzz of flies darting pastthe ear. Only those who live in the open air and watch the fields andsea from hour to hour and day to day know what they are and what theymean. The chance visitor, or he who looks now and then, neverunderstands them. While I have lain here, the clouds have risen, havebecome more aerial, and more suffused with light; the horizon has becomebetter defined, and the yellow shingle beach is visible to its extremestpoint clasping the bay in its arms. The bay itself is the tenderestblue-green, and on the rolling plain which borders it lies intensesunlight chequered with moving shadows which wander eastwards. The windhas shifted a trifle, and comes straight up the Channel from theillimitable ocean. 

AUGUST

A few days ago it was very hot. Afterwards we had a thunderstorm, followed by rain from the south-west. The wind has veered a pointnortherly, and the barometer is rising. This morning at half-past fivethe valley below was filled with white mist. Above it the tops of thetrees on the highest points emerged sharply distinct. It wasmotionless, but gradually melted before the ascending sun, recallingPlutarch's "scenes in the beautiful temple of the world which the godsorder at their own festivals, when we are initiated into their ownmysteries. " Here was a divine mystery, with initiation for those whocared for it. No priests were waiting, no ritual was necessary, theservice was simple--solitary adoration and perfect silence. 

As the day advances, masses of huge, heavy clouds appear. They are welldefined at the edges, and their intricate folds and depths arebrilliantly illuminated. The infinitude of the sky is not so impressivewhen it is quite clear as when it contains and supports great clouds, and large blue spaces are seen between them. On the hillsides thefields here and there are yellow and the corn is in sheaves. The birdsare mostly dumb, the glory of the furze and broom has passed, but theheather is in flower. The trees are dark, and even sombre, and, wherethey are in masses, look as if they were in solemn consultation. Afore-feeling of the end of summer steals upon me. Why cannot I banishthis anticipation? Why cannot I rest and take delight in what is beforeme? If some beneficent god would but teach me how to take no thoughtfor the morrow, I would sacrifice to him all I possess. 

THE END OF OCTOBER

It is the first south-westerly gale of the autumn. Its violence isincreasing every minute, although the rain has ceased for awhile. Forweeks sky and sea have been beautiful, but they have been tame. Now forsome unknown reason there is a complete change, and all the strength ofnature is awake. It is refreshing to be once more brought face to facewith her tremendous power, and to be reminded of the mystery of itsgoing and coming. It is soothing to feel so directly that man, notwithstanding his science and pretentions, his subjugation of steamand electricity, is as nothing compared with his Creator. The air has afreshness and odour about it to which we have long been strangers. Ithas been dry, and loaded with fine dust, but now it is deliciously wetand clean. The wind during the summer has changed lightly through allthe points of the compass, but it has never brought any scent save thatof the land, nothing from a distance. Now it is charged with messagesfrom the ocean. 

The sky is not uniformly overcast, but is covered with long horizontalfolds of cloud, very dark below and a little lighter where they turn upone into the other. They are incessantly modified by the storm, andfragments are torn away from them which sweep overhead. The sea, lookedat from the height, shows white edges almost to the horizon, andalthough the waves at a distance cannot be distinguished, the tossing ofa solitary vessel labouring to get round the point for shelter shows howvast they are. The prevailing colour of the water is greyish-green, passing into deep-blue, and perpetually shifting in tint. A quarter ofa mile away the breakers begin, and spread themselves in a white sheetto the land. 

A couple of gulls rise from the base of the cliffs to a height of abouta hundred feet above them. They turn their heads to the south-west, andhover like hawks, but without any visible movement of their wings. Theyare followed by two more, who also poise themselves in the same way. Presently all four mount higher, and again face the tempest. They donot appear to defy it, nor even to exert themselves in resisting it. What to us below is fierce opposition is to them a support and delight. How these wonderful birds are able to accomplish this feat nomathematician can tell us. After remaining stationary a few minutes, they wheel round, once more ascend, and then without any effort go offto sea directly in the teeth of the hurricane. 

NOVEMBER

A November day at the end of the month--the country is left to those wholive in it. The scattered visitors who took lodgings in the summer inthe villages have all departed, and the recollection that they have beenhere makes the solitude more complete. The woods in which they wanderedare impassable, for the rain has been heavy, and the dry, baked clay ofAugust has been turned into a slough a foot deep. The wind, what thereis of it, is from the south-west, soft, sweet and damp; the sky isalmost covered with bluish-grey clouds, which here and there give wayand permit a dim, watery gleam to float slowly over the distantpastures. The grass for the most part is greyish-green, more grey thangreen where it has not been mown, but on the rocky and broken groundthere is a colour like that of an emerald, and the low sun when it comesout throws from the projections on the hillside long and beautifullyshaped shadows. Multitudes of gnats in these brief moments of sunshineare seen playing in it. The leaves have not all fallen, down in thehollow hardly any have gone, and the trees are still bossy, tinted withthe delicate yellowish-brown and brown of different stages of decay. The hedges have been washed clean of the white dust; the roads have beenwashed; a deep drain has just begun to trickle and on the meadows lielittle pools of the clearest rainwater, reflecting with added lovelinessany blue patch of the heavens disclosed above them. The birds aresilent save the jackdaws and the robin, who still sings hisrecollections of the summer, or his anticipations of the spring, orperhaps his pleasure in the late autumn. The finches are in flocks, andwhirl round in the air with graceful, shell-like convolutions as theydescend, part separating, for no reason apparently, and forming a secondflock which goes away over the copse. There is hardly any farm-workgoing on, excepting in the ditches, which are being cleaned in readinessfor the overflow when the thirsty ground shall have sucked its fill. Under a bank by the roadside a couple of men employed in carting stonefor road-mending are sitting on a sack eating their dinner. The roof ofthe barn beyond them is brilliant with moss and lichens; it has not beenso vivid since last February. It is a delightful time. No demand ismade for ecstatic admiration; everything is at rest, nature has nothingto do but to sleep and wait. 

THE BREAK-UP OF A GREAT DROUGHT

For three months there had been hardly a drop of rain. The wind hadbeen almost continuously north-west, and from that to east. Occasionally there were light airs from the south-west, and vapour rose, but there was nothing in it; there was no true south-westerly breeze, and in a few hours the weather-cock returned to the old quarter. Notinfrequently the clouds began to gather, and there was every sign that achange was at hand. The barometer at these times fell gradually dayafter day until at last it reached a point which generally broughtdrenching storms, but none appeared, and then it began slowly to riseagain and we knew that our hopes were vain, and that a week at leastmust elapse before it would regain its usual height and there might be achance of declining. At last the disappointment was so keen that theinstrument was removed. It was better not to watch it, but to hope fora surprise. The grass became brown, and in many places was killed downto the roots; there was no hay; myriads of swarming caterpillarsdevoured the fruit trees; the brooks were all dry; water for cattle hadto be fetched from ponds and springs miles away; the roads were brokenup; the air was loaded with grit; and the beautiful green of the hedgeswas choked with dust. Birds like the rook, which fed upon worms, werenearly starved, and were driven far and wide for strange food. It waspitiable to see them trying to pick the soil of the meadow as hard as arock. The everlasting glare was worse than the gloom of winter, and thesense of universal parching thirst became so distressing that the housewas preferred to the fields. We were close to a water famine! TheAtlantic, the source of all life, was asleep, and what if it shouldnever wake! We know not its ways, it mocks all our science. Close tous lies this great mystery, incomprehensible, and yet our very breathdepends upon it. Why should not the sweet tides of soft moist air ceaseto stream in upon us? No reason could be given why every green herb andliving thing should not perish; no reason, save a faith which was blind. For aught we KNEW, the ocean-begotten aerial current might forsake theland and it might become a desert. 

One night grey bars appeared in the western sky, but they had too oftendeluded us, and we did not believe in them. On this particular eveningthey were a little heavier, and the window-cords were damp. The airwhich came across the cliff was cool, and if we had dared to hope weshould have said it had a scent of the sea in it. At four o'clock inthe morning there was a noise of something beating against the panes--they were streaming! It was impossible to lie still, and I rose andwent out of doors. No creature was stirring, there was no sound savethat of the rain, but a busier time there had not been for many a longmonth. Thousands of millions of blades of grass and corn were eagerlydrinking. For sixteen hours the downpour continued, and when it wasdusk I again went out. The watercourses by the side of the roads had alittle water in them, but not a drop had reached those at the edge ofthe fields, so thirsty was the earth. The drought, thank God, was at anend!

SPINOZA

Now that twenty years have passed since I began the study of Spinoza itis good to find that he still holds his ground. Much in him remainsobscure, but there is enough which is sufficiently clear to give adirection to thought and to modify action. To the professionalmetaphysician Spinoza's work is already surpassed, and is absorbed insubsequent systems. We are told to read him once because he ishistorically interesting, and then we are supposed to have done withhim. But if "Spinozism, " as it is called, is but a stage of developmentthere is something in Spinoza which can be superseded as little as theImitation of Christ or the Pilgrim's Progress, and it is this whichcontinues to draw men to him. Goethe never cared for set philosophicalsystems. Very early in life he thought he had found out that they wereuseless pieces of construction, but to the end of his days he clung toSpinoza, and Philina, of all persons in the world, repeats one of thefinest sayings in the Ethic. So far as the metaphysicians arecarpenters, and there is much carpentering in most of them, Goethe wasright, and the larger part of their industry endures wind and weatherbut for a short time. Spinoza's object was not to make a scheme of theuniverse. He felt that the things on which men usually set their heartsgive no permanent satisfaction, and he cast about for some means bywhich to secure "a joy continuous and supreme to all eternity. " Ipropose now, without attempting to connect or contrast Spinoza withDescartes or the Germans, to name some of those thoughts in his books bywhich he conceived he had attained his end. 

The sorrow of life is the rigidity of the material universe in which weare placed. We are bound by physical laws, and there is a constantpressure of matter-of-fact evidence to prove that we are nothing butcommon and cheap products of the earth to which in a few moments oryears we return. Spinoza's chief aim is to free us from this sorrow, and to free us from it by THINKING. The emphasis on this word isimportant. He continually insists that a thing is not unreal because wecannot imagine it. His own science, mathematics, affords him examplesof what MUST be, although we cannot picture it, and he believes thattrue consolation lies in the region of that which cannot be imaged butcan be thought. 

Setting out on his quest, he lays hold at the very beginning on the ideaof Substance, which he afterwards identifies with the idea of God. "BySubstance I understand that which is in itself and is conceived throughitself; in other words, that, the conception of which does not need theconception of another thing from which it must be formed. " {34a} "ByGod, I understand Being absolutely infinite, that is to say, substanceconsisting of infinite attributes, each one of which expresses eternaland infinite essence. " {34b} "God, or substance consisting of infiniteattributes, each one of which expresses eternal and infinite essence, necessarily exists. " {34c} By the phrases "in itself" and "by itself, "we are to understand that this conception cannot be explained in otherterms. Substance must be posited, and there we must leave it. Thedemonstration of the last-quoted proposition, the 11th, is elusive, andI must pass it by, merely observing that the objection that no ideainvolves existence, and that consequently the idea of God does notinvolve it, is not a refutation of Spinoza, who might rejoin that it isimpossible not to affirm existence of God as the Ethic defines him. Spinoza escapes one great theological difficulty. Directly we begin toreflect we are dissatisfied with a material God, and the noblerreligions assert that God is a Spirit. But if He be a pure spiritwhence comes the material universe? To Spinoza pure spirit and purematter are mere artifices of the understanding. His God is theSubstance with infinite attributes of which thought and extension arethe two revealed to man, and he goes further, for he maintains that theyare one and the same thing viewed in different ways, inside and outsideof the same reality. The conception of God, strictly speaking, is notincomprehensible, but it is not CIRCUM-prehensible; if it were it couldnot be the true conception of Him. 

Spinoza declares that "the human mind possesses an adequate knowledge ofthe eternal and infinite essence of God" {36}--not of God in Hiscompleteness, but it is adequate. The demonstration of this propositionis at first sight unsatisfactory, because we look for one which shallenable us to form an image of God like that which we can form of atriangle. But we cannot have "a knowledge of God as distinct as thatwhich we have of common notions, because we cannot imagine God as we canbodies. " "To your question, " says Spinoza to Boxel, "whether I have asclear an idea of God as I have of a triangle? I answer, Yes. But ifyou ask me whether I have as clear an image of God as I have of atriangle I shall say, No; for we cannot imagine God, but we can in ameasure understand Him. Here also, it is to be observed that I do notsay that I altogether know God, but that I understand some of Hisattributes--not all, nor the greatest part, and it is clear that myignorance of very many does not prevent my knowledge of certain others. When I learned the elements of Euclid, I very soon understood that thethree angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles, and I clearlyperceived this property of a triangle, although I was ignorant of manyothers. " {37a}

"Individual things are nothing but affections or modes of God'sattributes, expressing those attributes in a certain and determinatemanner, " {37b} and hence "the more we understand individual objects, themore we understand God. " {37c}

The intellect of God in no way resembles the human intellect, for wecannot conceive Him as proposing an end and considering the means toattain it. "The intellect of God, in so far as it is conceived toconstitute His essence, is in truth the cause of things, both of theiressence and of their existence--a truth which seems to have beenunderstood by those who have maintained that God's intellect, will, andpower are one and the same thing. " {37d}

The whole of God is FACT, and Spinoza denies any reserve in Him ofsomething unexpressed. "The omnipotence of God has been actual frometernity, and in the same actuality will remain to eternity, " {38} notof course in the sense that everything which exists has always existedas we now know it, or that nothing will exist hereafter which does notexist now, but that in God everything that has been, and will be, eternally IS. 

The reader will perhaps ask, What has this theology to do with the "joycontinuous and supreme"? We shall presently meet with some deductionswhich contribute to it, but it is not difficult to understand thatSpinoza, to use his own word, might call the truths set forth in thesepropositions "blessed. " Let a man once believe in that God of infiniteattributes of which thought and extension are those by which Hemanifests Himself to us; let him see that the opposition between thoughtand matter is fictitious; that his mind "is a part of the infiniteintellect of God"; that he is not a mere transient, outside interpreterof the universe, but himself the soul or law, which is the universe, andhe will feel a relationship with infinity which will emancipate him. 

It is not true that in Spinoza's God there is so little that is positivethat it is not worth preserving. All Nature is in Him, and if theobjector is sincere he will confess that it is not the lack of contentsin the idea which is disappointing, but a lack of contents particularlyinteresting to himself. 

The opposition between the mind and body of man as two diverse entitiesceases with that between thought and extension. It would be impossiblebriefly to explain in all its fulness what Spinoza means by theproposition: "The object of the idea constituting the human mind is abody" {39}; it is sufficient here to say that, just as extension andthought are one, considered in different aspects, so body and mind areone. We shall find in the fifth part of the Ethic that Spinoza affirmsthe eternity of the mind, though not perhaps in the way in which it isusually believed. 

Following the order of the Ethic we now come to its more directlyethical maxims. Spinoza denies the freedom commonly assigned to thewill, or perhaps it is more correct to say he denies that it isintelligible. The will is determined by the intellect. The idea of thetriangle involves the affirmation or volition that its three angles areequal to two right angles. If we understand what a triangle is we arenot "free" to believe that it contains more or less than two rightangles, nor to act as if it contained more or less than two. The onlyreal freedom of the mind is obedience to the reason, and the mind isenslaved when it is under the dominion of the passions. "God does notact from freedom of the will, " {40a} and consequently "things could havebeen produced by God in no other manner and in no other order than thatin which they have been produced. " {40b}

"If you will but reflect, " Spinoza tells Boxel, "that indifference isnothing but ignorance or doubt, and that a will always constant and inall things determinate is a virtue and a necessary property of theintellect, you will see that my words are entirely in accord with thetruth. " {40c} To the same effect is a passage in a letter toBlyenbergh, "Our liberty does not consist in a certain contingency norin a certain indifference, but in the manner of affirming or denying, sothat in proportion as we affirm or deny anything with less indifference, are we the more free. " {41a} So also to Schuller, "I call that thingfree which exists and acts solely from the necessity of its own nature:I call that thing coerced which is determined to exist and to act in acertain and determinate manner by another. " {41b} With regard to thisdefinition it might be objected that the necessity does not lie solelyin the person who wills but is also in the object. The triangle as wellas the nature of man contains the necessity. What Spinoza means is thatthe free man by the necessity of his nature is bound to assert the truthof what follows from the definition of a triangle and that the strongerhe feels the necessity the more free he is. Hence it follows that thewider the range of the intellect and the more imperative the necessitywhich binds it, the larger is its freedom. 

In genuine freedom Spinoza rejoices. "The doctrine is of service in sofar as it teaches us that we do everything by the will of God alone, andthat we are partakers of the divine nature in proportion as our actionsbecome more and more perfect and we more and more understand God. Thisdoctrine, therefore, besides giving repose in every way to the soul, hasalso this advantage, that it teaches us in what our highest happiness orblessedness consists, namely, in the knowledge of God alone, by which weare drawn to do those things only which love and piety persuade. " {42a}In other words, being part of the whole, the grandeur and office of thewhole are ours. We are anxious about what we call "personality, " but intruth there is nothing in it of any worth, and the less we care for itthe more "blessed" we are. 

"By the desire which springs from reason we follow good directly andavoid evil indirectly" {42b}: our aim should be the good; in obtainingthat we are delivered from evil. To the same purpose is the conclusionof the fifth book of the Ethic that "No one delights in blessednessbecause he has restrained his affects, but, on the contrary, the powerof restraining his lusts springs from blessedness itself. " {43a} Thisis exactly what the Gospel says to the Law. 

Fear is not the motive of a free man to do what is good. "A free manthinks of nothing less than of death, and his wisdom is not a meditationupon death, but upon life. " {43b} This is the celebrated sixty-seventhproposition of the fourth part. If we examine the proof which directlydepends on the sixty-third proposition of the same part--"he who is ledby fear, and does what is good in order that he may avoid what is evil, is not led by reason"--we shall see that Spinoza is referring to thefear of the "evil" of hell-fire. 

All Spinoza's teaching with regard to the passions is a consequence ofwhat he believes of God and man. He will study the passions and notcurse them. He finds that by understanding them "we can bring it topass that we suffer less from them. We have, therefore, mainly tostrive to acquire a clear and distinct knowledge of each affect. " {43c}"If the human mind had none but adequate ideas it would form no notionof evil. " {44a} "The difference between a man who is led by affect oropinion alone and one who is led by reason" is that "the former, whetherhe wills it or not, does those things of which he is entirely ignorant, but the latter does the will of no one but himself. " {44b} THEY KNOWNOT WHAT THEY DO. 

The direct influence of Spinoza's theology is also shown in histreatment of pity, hatred, laughter, and contempt. "The man who hasproperly understood that everything follows from the necessity of thedivine nature, and comes to pass according to the eternal laws and rulesof nature, will in truth discover nothing which is worthy of hatred, laughter, or contempt, nor will he pity any one, but, so far as humanvirtue is able, he will endeavour to DO WELL, as we say, and toREJOICE. " {44c} By pity is to be understood mere blind sympathy. Thegood that we do by this pity with the eyes of the mind shut ought to bedone with them open. "He who lives according to the guidance of reasonstrives as much as possible to repay the hatred, anger, or contempt ofothers towards himself with love or generosity. . . . He who wishes toavenge injuries by hating in return does indeed live miserably. But hewho, on the contrary, strives to drive out hatred by love, fightsjoyfully and confidently, with equal ease resisting one man or a numberof men, and needing scarcely any assistance from fortune. Those whom heconquers yield gladly, not from defect of strength, but from an increaseof it. " {45a}

"Joy is the passion by which the mind passes to a greater perfection:sorrow, on the other hand, is the passion by which it passes to a lessperfection. " {45b} "No God and no human being, except an envious one, is delighted by my impotence or my trouble, or esteems as any virtue inus tears, sighs, fears, and other things of this kind, which are signsof mental impotence; on the contrary, the greater the joy with which weare affected, the greater the perfection to which we pass thereby; thatis to say, the more do we necessarily partake of the divine nature. "{46} It would be difficult to find an account of joy and sorrow whichis closer to the facts than that which Spinoza gives. He lived amongstpeople Roman Catholic and Protestant who worshipped sorrow. Sorrow wasthe divinely decreed law of life and joy was merely a permittedexception. He reversed this order and his claim to be considered inthis respect as one of the great revolutionary religious and moralreformers has not been sufficiently recognised. It is remarkable that, unlike other reformers, he has not contradicted error by anexaggeration, which itself very soon stands in need of contradiction, but by simple sanity which requires no correction. One reason for thispeculiarity is that the Ethic was the result of long meditation. It waspublished posthumously and was discussed in draft for many years beforehis death. Usually what we call our convictions are propositions whichwe have not thoroughly examined in quietude, but notions which have justcome into our heads and are irreversible to us solely because we arecommitted to them. Much may be urged against the Ethic and on behalf ofhatred, contempt, and sorrow. The "other side" may be producedmechanically to almost every truth; the more easily, the more divinethat truth is, and against no truths is it producible with less genuinemental effort than against those uttered by the founder of Christianity. The question, however, if we are dealing with the New Testament, is notwhether the Sermon on the Mount can be turned inside out in a debatingsociety, but whether it does not represent better than anything whichthe clever leader of the opposition can formulate the principle ortemper which should govern our conduct. 

There is a group of propositions in the last part of the Ethic, which, although they are difficult, it may be well to notice, because they wereevidently regarded by Spinoza as helping him to the end he had in view. The difficulty lies in a peculiar combination of religious ideas andscientific form. These propositions are the following:- {47}

"The mind can cause all the affections of the body or the images ofthings to be related to the idea of God. "

"He who clearly and distinctly understands himself and his affects lovesGod, and loves Him better the better he understands himself and hisaffects. "

"This love to God above everything else ought to occupy the mind. "

"God is free from passions, nor is He affected with any affect of joy orsorrow. "

"No one can hate God. "

"He who loves God cannot strive that God should love him in return. "

"This love to God cannot be defiled either by the effect of envy orjealousy, but is the more strengthened the more people we imagine to beconnected with God by the same bond of love. "

The proof of the first of these propositions, using language somewhatdifferent from that of the text, is as follows:- There is no affectionof the body of which the mind cannot form some clear and distinctconception, that is to say, of everything perceived it is capable offorming a clear and adequate idea, not exhaustive, as Spinoza is carefulto warn us, but an idea not distorted by our personality, and one whichis in accordance with the thing itself, adequate as far as it goes. Newton's perception that the moon perpetually falls to the earth by thesame numerical law under which a stone falls to it was an adequateperception. "Therefore, " continues the demonstration (quoting thefifteenth proposition of the first part--"Whatever is, is in God, andnothing can either be or be conceived without God"), "the mind can causeall the affections of the body to be related to the idea of God. "Spinoza, having arrived at his adequate idea thus takes a further stepto the idea of God. What is perceived is not an isolated externalphenomenon. It is a reality in God: it IS God: there is nothing moreto be thought or said of God than the affirmation of such realities asthese. The "relation to the idea of God" means that in the affirmationHe is affirmed. "Nothing, " that is to say, no reality "can be conceivedwithout God. "

But it is possible for the word "love" to be applied to the relationshipbetween man and God. He who has a clear and adequate perception passesto greater perfection, and therefore rejoices. Joy, accompanied withthe idea of a cause, is love. By the fourteenth proposition this joy isaccompanied by the idea of God as its cause, and therefore love to Godfollows. The demonstration seems formal, and we ask ourselves, What isthe actual emotion which Spinoza describes? It is not new to him, forin the Short Treatise, which is an early sketch for the Ethic, he thuswrites:- "Hence it follows incontrovertibly that it is knowledge whichis the cause of love, so that when we learn to know God in this way, wemust necessarily unite ourselves to Him, for He cannot be known, nor canhe reveal Himself, save as that which is supremely great and good. Inthis union alone, as we have already said, our happiness consists. I donot say that we must know Him adequately; but it is sufficient for us, in order to be united with Him, to know Him in a measure, for theknowledge we have of the body is not of such a kind that we can know itas it is or perfectly; and yet what a union! what love!" {50}

Perhaps it may clear the ground a little if we observe that Spinozaoften avoids a negative by a positive statement. Here he may intend toshow us what the love of God is not, that it is not what it is describedin the popular religion to be. "The only love of God I know, " we mayimagine him saying, "thus arises. The adequate perception is thekeenest of human joys for thereby I see God Himself. That which I seeis not a thing or a person, but nevertheless what I feel towards it canbe called by no other name than love. Although the object of this loveis not thing or person it is not indefinite, it is this only which isdefinite; 'thing' and 'person' are abstract and unreal. There was alove to God in Kepler's heart when the three laws were revealed to him. If it was not love to God, what is love to Him?"

To the eighteenth proposition, "No one can hate God, " there is ascholium which shows that the problem of pain which Spinoza has leftunsolved must have occurred to him. "But some may object that if weunderstand God to be the cause of all things, we do for that very reasonconsider Him to be the cause of sorrow. But I reply that in so far aswe understand the causes of sorrow, it ceases to be a passion (Prop. 3, pt. 5), that is to say (Prop. 59, pt. 3) it ceases to be a sorrow; andtherefore in so far as we understand God to be the cause of sorrow do werejoice. " The third proposition of the fifth part which he quotesmerely proves that in so far as we understand passion it ceases to be apassion. He replies to those "who ask why God has not created all menin such a manner that they might be controlled by the dictates of reasonalone, " {52} "Because to Him material was not wanting for the creationof everything, from the highest down to the very lowest grade ofperfection; or, to speak more properly, because the laws of His naturewere so ample that they sufficed for the production of everything whichcan be conceived by an infinite intellect. " Nevertheless of pain wehave no explanation. Pain is not lessened by understanding it, nor isits mystery penetrated if we see that to God material could not havebeen wanting for the creation of men or animals who have to endure itall their lives. But if Spinoza is silent in the presence of pain, soalso is every religion and philosophy which the world has seen. Silenceis the only conclusion of the Book of Job, and patient fortitude in thehope of future enlightenment is the conclusion of Christianity. 

It is a weak mistake, however, to put aside what religions andphilosophies tell us because it is insufficient. To Job it is notrevealed why suffering is apportioned so unequally or why it exists, butthe answer of the Almighty from the whirlwind he cannot dispute, andalthough Spinoza has nothing more to say about pain than he says in thepassages just quoted and was certainly not exempt from it himself, itmay be impossible that any man should hate God. 

We now come to the final propositions of the Ethic, those in whichSpinoza declares his belief in the eternity of mind. The twenty-secondand twenty-third propositions of the fifth part are as follows:-

"In God, nevertheless, there necessarily exists an idea which expressesthe essence of this or that human body under the form of eternity. "

"The human mind cannot be absolutely destroyed with the body, butsomething of it remains which is eternal. "

The word "nevertheless" is a reference to the preceding propositionwhich denies the continuity of memory or imagination excepting so longas the body lasts. The demonstration of the twenty-third proposition isnot easy to grasp, but the substance of it is that although the mind isthe idea of the body, that is to say, the mind is body as thought andbody is thought as extension, the mind, or essence of the body, is notcompletely destroyed with the body. It exists as an eternal idea, andby an eternal necessity in God. Here again we must not think of thatpersonality which is nothing better than a material notion, an imagefrom the concrete applied to mind, but we must cling fast to thought, tothe thoughts which alone makes us what we ARE, and these, says Spinoza, are in God and are not to be defined by time. They have always been andalways will be. The enunciation of the thirty-third proposition is, "The intellectual love of God which arises from the third kind ofknowledge is eternal. " The "third kind of knowledge" is that intuitivescience which "advances from an adequate idea of the formal essence ofcertain attributes of God to the adequate knowledge of the essence ofthings; {54} "No love except intellectual love is eternal, " {55a} andthe scholium to this proposition adds, "If we look at the common opinionof men, we shall see that they are indeed conscious of the eternity oftheir minds, but they confound it with duration, and attribute it toimagination or memory, which they believe remain after death. " Theintellectual love of the mind towards God is the very "love with whichHe loves Himself, not in so far as He is infinite, but in so far as Hecan be manifested through the essence of the human mind, consideredunder the form of eternity; that is to say, the intellectual love of themind towards God is part of the infinite love with which God lovesHimself. " {55b} "Hence it follows that God, in so far as He lovesHimself, loves men, and consequently that the love of God towards menand the intellectual love of the mind towards God are one and the samething. " {55c} The more adequate ideas the mind forms "the less itsuffers from those affects which are evil, and the less it fears death"because "the greater is that part which remains unharmed, and the lessconsequently does it suffer from the affects. " It is possible even "forthe human mind to be of such a nature that that part of it which we haveshown perishes with its body, in comparison with the part of it whichremains, is of no consequence. " {56a}

Spinoza, it is clear, holds that in some way--in what way he will notventure to determine--the more our souls are possessed by theintellectual love of God, the less is death to be dreaded, for thesmaller is that part of us which can die. Three parallel passages maybe appended. One will show that this was Spinoza's belief from earlyyears and the other two that it is not peculiar to him. "If the soul isunited with some other thing which is and remains unchangeable, it mustalso remain unchangeable and permanent. " {56b} "Further, this creativereason does not at one time think, at another time not think [it thinkseternally]: and when separated from the body it remains nothing butwhat it essentially is: and thus it is alone immortal and eternal. Ofthis unceasing work of thought, however, we retain no memory, becausethis reason is unaffected by its objects; whereas the receptive, passiveintellect (which is affected) is perishable, and can really thinknothing without the support of the creative intellect. " {57a} The thirdquotation is from a great philosophic writer, but one to whom perhaps weshould not turn for such a coincidence. "I believe, " said Pantagruel, "that all intellectual souls are exempt from the scissors of Atropos. They are all immortal. " {57b}

I have not tried to write an essay on Spinoza, for in writing an essaythere is a temptation to a consistency and completeness which arecontributed by the writer and are not to be found in his subject. Thewarning must be reiterated that here as elsewhere we are too desirous, both writers and readers, of clear definition where none is possible. We do not stop where the object of our contemplation stops for our eyes. For my own part I must say that there is much in Spinoza which is beyondme, much which I cannot EXTEND, and much which, if it can be extended, seems to involve contradiction. But I have also found his worksproductive beyond those of almost any man I know of that acquiescentiamentis which enables us to live. 

SUPPLEMENTARY NOTE ON THE DEVIL

Spinoza denies the existence of the Devil, and says, in the ShortTreatise, that if he is the mere opposite of God and has nothing fromGod, he is simply the Nothing. But if a philosophical doctrine be true, it does not follow that as it stands it is applicable to practicalproblems. For these a rule may have to be provided, which, although itmay not be inconsistent with the scientific theorem, differs from it inform. The Devil is not an invention of priests for priestly purposes, nor is he merely a hypothesis to account for facts, but he has beenforced upon us in order that we may be able to deal with them. Unlesswe act as though there were an enemy to be resisted and chained, if wefritter away differences of kind into differences of degree, we shallmake poor work of life. Spinoza himself assumes that other commandsthan God's may be given to us, but that we are unhesitatingly to obeyHis and His only. "Ad fidem ergo catholicam, " he says, "ea solummodopertinent, quae erga Deum OBEDIENTIA absolute ponit. " Consciousnessseems to testify to the presence of two mortal foes within us--oneDivine and the other diabolic--and perhaps the strongest evidence is notthe rebellion of the passions, but the picturing and the mentalprocesses which are almost entirely beyond our control, and oftengreatly distress us. We look down upon them; they are not ours, and yetthey are ours, and we cry out with St. Paul against the law warring withthe law of our minds. Bunyan of course knows the practical problem andthe rule, and to him the Devil is not merely the tempter to crimes, butthe great Adversary. In the Holy War the chosen regiments of Diabolusare the Doubters, and notwithstanding their theologic names, theycarried deadlier weapons than the theologic doubters of to-day. Thecaptain over the Grace-doubters was Captain Damnation; he over theFelicity-doubters was Captain Past-hope, and his ancient-bearer was Mr. Despair. The nature of the Doubters is "to put a question upon everyone of the truths of Emanuel, and their country is called the Land ofDoubting, and that land lieth off and furthest remote to the northbetween the land of Darkness and that called the Valley of the Shadow ofDeath. " They are not children of the sun, and although they are notsinners in the common sense of the word, those that were caught inMansoul were promptly executed. 

There is nothing to be done but to fight and wait for the superior helpwhich will come if we do what we can. Emanuel at first delayed his aidin the great battle, and the first brunt was left to Captain Credence. Presently, however, Emanuel appeared "with colours flying, trumpetssounding, and the feet of his men scarce touched the ground; they hastedwith such celerity towards the captains that were engaged that . . . There was not left so much as one Doubter alive, they lay spread uponthe ground dead men as one would spread dung on the land. " The deadwere buried "lest the fumes and ill-favours that would arise from themmight infect the air and so annoy the famous town of Mansoul. " But itwill be a fight to the end for Diabolus, and the lords of the pitescaped. 

After Emanuel had finally occupied Mansoul he gave the citizens someadvice. The policy of Diabolus was "to make of their castle awarehouse. " Emanuel made it a fortress and a palace, and garrisoned thetown. "O my Mansoul, " he said, "nourish my captains; make not mycaptains sick, O Mansoul. "

INJUSTICE

A notion, self-begotten in me, of the limitations of my friend isanswerable for the barrenness of my intercourse with him. I set himdown as hard; I speak to him as if he were hard and from that which ishard in myself. Naturally I evoke only that which is hard, althoughthere may be fountains of tenderness in him of which I am altogetherunaware. It is far better in conversation not to regulate it accordingto supposed capacities or tempers, which are generally those of somefictitious being, but to be simply ourselves. We shall often findunexpected and welcome response. 

Our estimates of persons, unless they are frequently revived by personalintercourse, are apt to alter insensibly and to become untrue. Theyacquire increased definiteness but they lose in comprehensiveness. 

Especially is this true of those who are dead. If I do not read a greatauthor for some time my mental abstract of him becomes summary andfalse. I turn to him again, all summary judgments upon him becomeimpossible, and he partakes of infinitude. Writers, and people who arein society and talk much are apt to be satisfied with an algebraicsymbol for a man of note, and their work is done not with him but withx. 

TIME SETTLES CONTROVERSIES

We ought to let Time have his own way in the settlement of our disputes. It is a commonplace how much he is able to do with some of our troubles, such as loss of friends or wealth; but we do not sufficiently estimatehis power to help our arguments. If I permit myself to dispute, Ialways go beyond what is necessary for my purpose, and my continualiteration and insistence do nothing but provoke opposition. Much betterwould it be simply to state my case and leave it. To do more is notonly to distrust it, but to distrust that in my friend which is my bestally, and will more surely assist me than all my vehemence. Sometimes--nay, often--it is better to say nothing, for there is a constanttendency in Nature towards rectification, and her quiet protest andpersuasiveness are hindered by personal interference. If anybody verydear to me were to fall into any heresy of belief or of conduct, I amnot sure that I ought to rebuke him, and that he would not sooner beconverted by observing my silent respect for him than by preaching tohim. 

TALKING ABOUT OUR TROUBLES

We may talk about our troubles to those persons who can give us directhelp, but even in this case we ought as much as possible to come to aprovisional conclusion before consultation; to be perfectly clear toourselves within our own limits. Some people have a foolish trick ofapplying for aid before they have done anything whatever to aidthemselves, and in fact try to talk themselves into perspicuity. Theonly way in which they can think is by talking, and their speechconsequently is not the expression of opinion already and carefullyformed, but the manufacture of it. 

We may also tell our troubles to those who are suffering if we canlessen their own. It may be a very great relief to them to know thatothers have passed through trials equal to theirs and have survived. There are obscure, nervous diseases, hypochondriac fancies, almostuncontrollable impulses, which terrify by their apparent singularity. If we could believe that they are common, the worst of the fear wouldvanish. 

But, as a rule, we should be very careful for our own sake not to speakmuch about what distresses us. Expression is apt to carry with itexaggeration, and this exaggerated form becomes henceforth that underwhich we represent our miseries to ourselves, so that they are therebyincreased. By reserve, on the other hand, they are diminished, for weattach less importance to that which it was not worth while to mention. Secrecy, in fact, may be our salvation. 

It is injurious to be always treated as if something were the matterwith us. It is health-giving to be dealt with as if we were healthy, and the man who imagines his wits are failing becomes stronger andsounder by being entrusted with a difficult problem than by all theassurances of a doctor. 

They are poor creatures who are always craving for pity. If we aresick, let us prefer conversation upon any subject rather than uponourselves. Let it turn on matters that lie outside the dark chamber, upon the last new discovery, or the last new idea. So shall we seemstill to be linked to the living world. By perpetually asking forsympathy an end is put to real friendship. The friend is afraid tointrude anything which has no direct reference to the patient'scondition lest it should be thought irrelevant. No love even can longendure without complaint, silent it may be, an invalid who is entirelyself-centred; and what an agony it is to know that we are tended simplyas a duty by those who are nearest to us, and that they will really berelieved when we have departed! From this torture we may be saved if weearly apprentice ourselves to the art of self-suppression and sternlyapply the gag to eloquence upon our own woes. Nobody who really caresfor us will mind waiting on us even to the long-delayed last hour if weendure in fortitude. 

There is no harm in confronting our disorders or misfortunes. On thecontrary, the attempt is wholesome. Much of what we dread is really dueto indistinctness of outline. If we have the courage to say toourselves, What IS this thing, then? let the worst come to the worst, and what then? we shall frequently find that after all it is not soterrible. What we have to do is to subdue tremulous, nervous, insanefright. Fright is often prior to an object; that is to say, the frightcomes first and something is invented or discovered to account for it. There are certain states of body and mind which are productive ofobjectless fright, and the most ridiculous thing in the world is able toprovoke it to activity. It is perhaps not too much to say that anycalamity the moment it is apprehended by the reason alone loses nearlyall its power to disturb and unfix us. The conclusions which are soalarming are not those of the reason, but, to use Spinoza's words, ofthe "affects. "

FAITH

Faith is nobly seen when a man, standing like Columbus upon the shorewith a dark, stormy Atlantic before him, resolves to sail, and althoughweek after week no land be visible, still believes and still sails on;but it is nobler when there is no America as the goal of our venture, but something which is unsubstantial, as, for example, self-control andself-purification. It is curious, by the way, that discipline of thiskind should almost have disappeared. Possibly it is because religion isnow a matter of belief in certain propositions; but, whatever the causemay be, we do not train ourselves day by day to become better as wetrain ourselves to learn languages or science. To return from thisparenthesis, we say that when no applause nor even recognition isexpected, to proceed steadily and alone for its own sake in the work ofsaving the soul is truer heroism than that which leads a martyrcheerfully to the stake. 

Faith is at its best when we have to wrestle with despair, not only ofourselves but of the Universe; when we strain our eyes and see nothingbut blackness. In the Gorgias Socrates maintains, not only that it isalways better to suffer injustice than to commit it, but that it isbetter to be punished for injustice than to escape, and better to diethan to do wrong; and it is better not only because of the effect onothers but for our own sake. We are naturally led to ask what support arighteous man unjustly condemned could find, supposing he were about tobe executed, if he had no faith in personal immortality and knew thathis martyrdom could not have the least effect for good. Imagine him, for example, shut up in a dungeon and about to be strangled in it andthat not a single inquiry will be made about him--where will he look forhelp? what hope will compose him? He may say that in a few hours hewill be asleep, and that nothing will then be of any consequence to him, but that thought surely will hardly content him. He may reflect that heat least prevents the evil which would be produced by his apostasy; andvery frequently in life, when we abstain from doing wrong, we have to besatisfied with a negative result and with the simple absence (whichnobody notices) of some direct mischief, although the abstention maycost more than positive well-doing. This too, however, is but coldconsolation when the cord is brought and the grave is already dug. 

It must be admitted that Reason cannot give any answer. Socrates, whenhis reasoning comes to an end, often permits himself to tell a story. "My dialectic, " he seems to say, "is of no further use; but here is atale for you, " and as he goes on with it we can see his satyr eyes gleamwith an intensity which shows that he did not consider he was inventinga mere fable. That was the way in which he taught theology. Perhaps wemay find that something less than logic and more than a dream may be ofuse to us. We may figure to ourselves that this universe of souls isthe manifold expression of the One, and that in this expression there isa purpose which gives importance to all the means of which it availsitself. Apparent failure may therefore be a success, for the mind whichhas been developed into perfect virtue falls back into the One, havingserved (by its achievements) the end of its existence. The potential inthe One has become actual, has become real, and the One is the richerthereby. 

PATIENCE

What is most to be envied in really religious people of the earlier typeis their intellectual and moral peace. They had obtained certainconvictions, a certain conception of the Universe, by which they couldlive. Their horizon may have been encompassed with darkness; experiencesometimes contradicted their faith, but they trusted--nay, they knew--that the opposition was not real and that the truths were not to beshaken. Their conduct was marked by a corresponding unity. Theydetermined once for all that there were rules which had to be obeyed, and when any particular case arose it was not judged according to thecaprice of the moment, but by statute. 

We, on the other hand, can only doubt. So far as those subjects areconcerned on which we are most anxious to be informed, we are sure ofnothing. What we have to do is to accept the facts and wait. We musttake care not to deny beauty and love because we are forced also toadmit ugliness and hatred. Let us yield ourselves up utterly to themagnificence and tenderness of the sunrise, though the East End ofLondon lies over the horizon. That very same Power, and it is no other, which blasts a country with the cholera or drives the best of us tomadness has put the smile in a child's face and is the parent of Love. It is curious, too, that the curse seems in no way to qualify theblessing. The sweetness and majesty of Nature are so exquisite, sopure, that when they are before us we cannot imagine they could bebetter if they proceeded from an omnipotently merciful Being and nopestilence had ever been known. We must not worry ourselves withattempts at reconciliation. We must be satisfied with a hint here andthere, with a ray of sunshine at our feet, and we must do what we can tomake the best of what we possess. Hints and sunshine will not bewanting, and science, which was once considered to be the enemy ofreligion, is dissolving by its later discoveries the old grossmaterialism, the source of so much despair. 

The conduct of life is more important than speculation, but the lives ofmost of us are regulated by no principle whatever. We read our Bible, Thomas a Kempis, and Bunyan, and we are persuaded that our salvationlies in the perpetual struggle of the higher against the lower self, thespirit against the flesh, and that the success of the flesh isdamnation. We take down Horace and Rabelais and we admit that the bodyalso has its claims. We have no power to dominate both sets of books, and consequently they supersede one another alternately. Perhaps lifeis too large for any code we can as yet frame, and the dissolution ofall codes, the fluid, unstable condition of which we complain, may be anecessary antecedent of new and more lasting combinations. One thing iscertain, that there is not a single code now in existence which is notfalse; that the graduation of the vices and virtues is wrong, and thatin the future it will be altered. We must not hand ourselves over to adespotism with no Divine right, even if there be a risk of anarchy. Inthe determination of our own action, and in our criticism of otherpeople, we must use the whole of ourselves and not mere fragments. Ifwe do this we need not fear. We may suppose we are in danger becausethe stone tables of the Decalogue have gone to dust, but it is moredangerous to attempt to control men by fictions. Better no chartwhatever than one which shows no actually existing perils, but warns usagainst Scylla, Charybdis, and the Cyclops. If we are perfectly honestwith ourselves we shall not find it difficult to settle whether we oughtto do this or that particular thing, and we may be content. The newlegislation will come naturally at the appointed time, and it is notimpossible to live while it is on the way. 

AN APOLOGY

In these latter days of anarchy and tumult, when there is no gospel offaith or morals, when democracy seems bent on falsifying everyprediction of earlier democratic enthusiasts by developing worse dangersto liberty than any which our forefathers had to encounter, and when themisery of cities is so great, it appears absurd, not to say wrong, thatwe should sit still and read books. I am ashamed when I go into my ownlittle room and open Milton or Shakespeare after looking at a newspaperor walking through the streets of London. I feel that Milton andShakespeare are luxuries, and that I really belong to the class whichbuilds palaces for its pleasure, although men and women may be starvingon the roads. 

Nevertheless, if I were placed on a platform I should be obliged to say, "My brethren, I plainly perceive the world is all wrong, but I cannotsee how it is to be set right, " and I should descend the steps and gohome. There may be others who have a clearer perception than mine, andwho may be convinced that this way or that way lies regeneration. I donot wish to discourage them; I wish them God-speed, but I cannot helpthem nor become their disciple. Possibly I am doing nothing better thandevising excuses for lotus-eating, but here they are. 

To take up something merely because I am idle is useless. The messagemust come to me, and with such urgency that I cannot help delivering it. Nor is it of any use to attempt to give my natural thoughts a forcewhich is not inherent in them. 

The disease is often obvious, but the remedies are doubtful. Theaccumulation of wealth in a few hands, generally by swindling, isshocking, but if it were distributed to-morrow we should gain nothing. The working man objects to the millionaire, but would gladly become amillionaire himself, even if his million could be piled up in no otherway than by sweating thousands of his fellows. The usurpation ofgovernment by the ignorant will bring disaster, but how in these dayscould a wise man reign any longer than ignorance permitted him? Theeverlasting veerings of the majority, without any reason meanwhile forthe change, show that, except on rare occasions of excitement, theopinion of the voters is of no significance. But when we are asked whatsubstitute for elections can be proposed, none can be found. So withthe relationship between man and woman, the marriage laws and divorce. The calculus has not been invented which can deal with suchcomplexities. We are in the same position as that in which Leverrierand Adams would have been, if, observing the irregularities of Uranus, which led to the discovery of Neptune, they had known nothing but thefirst six books of Euclid and a little algebra. 

There has never been any reformation as yet without dogma andsupernaturalism. Ordinary people acknowledge no real reasons for virtueexcept heaven and hell-fire. When heaven and hell-fire cease topersuade, custom for a while is partly efficacious, but its strengthsoon decays. Some good men, knowing the uselessness of rational meansto convert or to sustain their fellows, have clung to dogma withhysterical energy, but without any genuine faith in it. They havefailed, for dogma cannot be successful unless it be the INEVITABLEexpression of the inward conviction. 

The voices now are so many and so contradictory that it is impossible tohear any one of them distinctly, no matter what its claim on ourattention may be. The newspaper, the circulating library, the freelibrary, and the magazine are doing their best to prevent unity ofdirection and the din and confusion of tongues beget a doubt whetherliterature and the printing press have actually been such a blessing tothe race as enlightenment universally proclaims them to be. 

The great currents of human destiny seem more than ever to move byforces which tend to no particular point. There is a drift, tremendousand overpowering, due to nobody in particular, but to hundreds ofmillions of small impulses. Achilles is dead, and the turn of theMyrmidons has come. 

"Myrmdons, race fecondeMyrmidons, Enfin nous commandons:

Jupiter livre le mondeAux Myrmidons, aux Myrmidons. 

Voyant qu' Achille succombe, Ses Myrmidons, hors des rangs, Disent: Dansons sur sa tombeSes petits vont etre grands. "

My last defence is that the Universe is an organic unity, and so subtleand far-reaching are the invisible threads which pass from one part ofit to another that it is impossible to limit the effect which even aninsignificant life may have. "Were a single dust-atom destroyed, theuniverse would collapse. "

" . . . Who of men can tellThat flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swellTo melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweetIf human souls did never kiss and greet?"

BELIEF, UNBELIEF, AND SUPERSTITION

True belief is rare and difficult. There is no security that thefictitious beliefs which have been obtained by no genuine mentalprocess, that is to say, are not vitally held, may not be discarded forthose which are exactly contrary. We flatter ourselves that we havesecured a method and freedom of thought which will not permit us to bethe victims of the absurdities of the Middle Ages, but, in fact, thereis no solid obstacle to our conversion to some new grotesque religionmore miraculous than Roman Catholicism. Modern scepticism, distinguishing it from scholarly scepticism, is nothing but stupidity orweakness. Few people like to confess outright that they do not believein a God, although the belief in a personal devil is considered to be asign of imbecility. Nevertheless, men, as a rule, have no ground forbelieving in God a whit more respectable than for disbelief in a devil. The devil is not seen nor is God seen. The work of the devil is asobvious as that of God. Nay, as the devil is a limited personality, belief in him is not encumbered with the perplexities which arise whenwe attempt to apprehend the infinite Being. Belief may often be tested;that is to say, we may be able to discover whether it is an activebelief or not by inquiring what disbelief it involves. So also the testof disbelief is its correspondent belief. 

Superstition is a name generally given to a few only of those beliefsfor which it is imagined that there is no sufficient support, such asthe belief in ghosts, witches, and, if we are Protestants, in miraclesperformed after a certain date. Why these particular beliefs have beenselected as solely deserving to be called superstitious it is not easyto discover. If the name is to be extended to all beliefs which we havenot attempted to verify, it must include the largest part of those wepossess. We vote at elections as we are told to vote by the newspaperwhich we happen to read, and our opinions upon a particular policy arebased upon no surer foundation than those of the Papist on theauthenticity of the lives of the Saints. 

Superstition is a matter of RELATIVE evidence. A thousand years ago itwas not so easy as it is now to obtain rigid demonstration in anydepartment except mathematics. Much that was necessarily the basis ofaction was as incapable of proof as the story of St. George and theDragon, and consequently it is hardly fair to say that the dark ageswere more superstitious than our own. Nor does every belief, even insupernatural objects, deserve the name of superstition. Suppose thatthe light which struck down St. Paul on his journey to Damascus was dueto his own imagination, the belief that it came from Jesus enthroned inthe heavens was a sign of strength and not of weakness. Beliefs of thiskind, in so far as they exalt man, prove greatness and generosity, andmay be truer than the scepticism which is formally justified inrejecting them. If Christ never rose from the dead, the women whowaited at the sepulchre were nearer to reality than the Sadducees, whodenied the resurrection. 

There is a half-belief, which we find in Virgil that is notsuperstition, nor inconstancy, nor cowardice. A child-like faith in theold creed is no longer possible, but it is equally impossible tosurrender it. I refer now not to those who select from it what theythink to be in accordance with their reason, and throw overboard theremainder with no remorse, but rather to those who cannot endure totouch with sacrilegious hands the ancient histories and doctrines whichhave been the depositaries of so much that is eternal, and who dreadlest with the destruction of a story something precious should also bedestroyed. The so-called superstitious ages were not merelytransitionary. Our regret that they have departed is to be explainednot by a mere idealisation of the past, but by a conviction that truthshave been lost, or at least have been submerged. Perhaps some day theymay be recovered, and in some other form may again become our religion. 

JUDAS ISCARIOT--WHAT CAN BE SAID FOR HIM?

Judas Iscariot has become to Christian people an object of horror moreloathsome than even the devil himself. The devil rebelled because hecould not brook subjection to the Son of God, a failing which was noblecompared with treachery to the Son of man. The hatred of Judas is notaltogether virtuous. We compound thereby for our neglect of Jesus andHis precepts: it is easier to establish our Christianity by cursing thewretched servant than by following his Master. The heinousness also ofthe crime in Gethsemane has been aggravated by the exaltation of Jesusto the Redeemership of the world. All that can be known of Judas issoon collected. He was chosen one of the twelve apostles, and receivedtheir high commission to preach the kingdom of heaven, to heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, and cast out devils. He wasappointed treasurer to the community. John in telling the story of theanointing at Bethany says that he was a thief, but John also makes himthe sole objector to the waste of the ointment. According to the otherevangelists all the disciples objected. Since he remained in office itcould hardly have been known at the time of the visit to Bethany that hewas dishonest, nor could it have been known at any time to Matthew andMark, for they would not have lost the opportunity of adding such atouch to the portrait. The probability, therefore, is that the robberyof the bag is unhistorical. When the chief priests and scribes soughthow they might apprehend Jesus they made a bargain with Judas to deliverHim to them for thirty pieces of silver. He was present at the LastSupper but went and betrayed his Lord. A few hours afterwards, when hefound out that condemnation to death followed, he repented himself andbrought again the thirty pieces of silver to his employers, declaredthat he had sinned in betraying innocent blood, cast down the money attheir feet, and went and hanged himself. 

This is all that is discoverable about Judas, and it has been consideredsufficient for a damnation deeper than any allotted to the worst of thesons of Adam. Dante places him in the lowest round of the ninth or lastof the hellish circles, where he is eternally "champed" by Satan, "bruised as with ponderous engine, " his head within the diabolic jawsand "plying the feet without. " In the absence of a biography withdetails, it is impossible to make out with accuracy what the real Judaswas. We can, however, by dispassionate examination of the factsdetermine their sole import, and if we indulge in inferences we candeduce those which are fairly probable. As Judas was treasurer, he musthave been trusted. He could hardly have been naturally covetous, for hehad given up in common with the other disciples much, if not all, tofollow Jesus. The thirty pieces of silver--some four or five pounds ofour money--could not have been considered by him as a sufficient bribefor the ignominy of a treason which was to end in legal murder. Heought perhaps to have been able to measure the ferocity of anestablished ecclesiastical order and to have known what would have beenthe consequence of handing over to it perfect, and therefore heretical, sincerity and purity, but there is no evidence that he did know: nay, we are distinctly informed, as we have just seen, that when he becameaware what was going to happen his sorrow for his wicked deed took avery practical shape. 

We cannot allege with confidence that it was any permanent loss ofpersonal attachment to Jesus which brought about his defection. It camewhen the belief in a theocracy near at hand filled the minds of thedisciples. These ignorant Galilean fishermen expected that in a veryshort time they would sit on twelve thrones judging the twelve tribes ofIsrael. The custodian of the bag, gifted with more common sense thanhis colleagues, probably foresaw the danger of a collision with Rome, and may have desired by a timely arrest to prevent an open revolt, whichwould have meant immediate destruction of the whole band with women andchildren. Can any position be imagined more irritating that that of acareful man of business who is keeper of the purse for a company ofheedless enthusiasts professing complete indifference to the value ofmoney, misunderstanding the genius of their chief, and looking out everymorning for some sign in the clouds, a prophecy of their immediateappointment as vicegerents of a power that would supersede the awfulmajesty of the Imperial city? He may have been heated by a long seriesof petty annoyances to such a degree that at last they may have ended inrage and a sudden flinging loose of himself from the society. It is theimpulsive man who frequently suffers what appears to be inversion, andJudas was impulsive exceedingly. Matthew, and Matthew only, says thatJudas asked for money from the chief priests. "What will ye give me, and I will deliver Him unto you?" According to Mark, whose account ofthe transaction is the same as Luke's, "Judas . . . Went unto the chiefpriests to betray Him unto them. And when they heard it, they wereglad, and promised to give him money. " If the priests were thetempters, a slight difference is established in favour of Judas, butthis we will neglect. The sin of taking money and joining in that lastmeal in any case is black enough, although, as we have before pointedout, Judas did not at the time know what the other side of the bargainwas. Admitting, however, everything that can fairly be urged againsthim, all that can be affirmed with certainty is that we are in thepresence of strange and unaccountable inconsistency, and that an apostlewho had abandoned his home, who had followed Jesus for three yearsamidst contempt and persecution, and who at last slew himself in self-reproach, could be capable of committing the meanest of sins. Is theco-existence of irreconcilable opposites in human nature anything new?The story of Judas may be of some value if it reminds us that man isincalculable, and that, although in theory, and no doubt in reality, heis a unity, the point from which the divergent forces in him rise isoften infinitely beyond our exploration; a lesson not merely inpsychology but for our own guidance, a warning that side by side withheroic virtues there may sleep in us not only detestable vices, butvices by which those virtues are contradicted and even for the timeannihilated. The mode of betrayal, with a kiss, has justly excitedloathing, but it is totally unintelligible. Why should he have takenthe trouble to be so base when the movement of a finger would havesufficed? Why was any sign necessary to indicate one who was so wellknown? The supposition that the devil compelled him to superfluousvillainy in order that he might be secured with greater certainty andtortured with greater subtlety is one that can hardly be entertainedexcept by theologians. It is equally difficult to understand why Jesussubmitted to such an insult, and why Peter should not have smitten downits perpetrator. Peter was able to draw his sword, and it would havebeen safer and more natural to kill Judas than to cut off the ear of thehigh priest's servant. John, who shows a special dislike to Judas, knows nothing of the kiss. According to John, Jesus asked the soldierswhom they sought, and then stepped boldly forward and declared Himself. "Judas, " adds John, "was standing with them. " As John took suchparticular notice of what happened, the absence of the kiss in hisaccount can hardly have been accidental. It is a sound maxim incriticism that what is simply difficult of explanation is likely to beauthentic. An awkward reading in a manuscript is to be preferred to onewhich is easier. But an historical improbability, especially if nocorroboration of it is to be found in a better authority, may be setaside, and in this case we are justified in neglecting the kiss. Whatever may have been the exact shade of darkness in the crime ofJudas, it was avenged with singular swiftness, and he himself was theavenger. He did not slink away quietly and poison himself in a ditch. He boldly encountered the sacred college, confessed his sin and theinnocence of the man they were about to crucify. Compared with thesepious miscreants who had no scruples about corrupting one of thedisciples, but shuddered at the thought of putting back into thetreasury the money they had taken from it, Judas becomes noble. Hisremorse is so unendurable that it drives him to suicide. 

If a record could be kept of those who have abjured Jesus through loveof gold, through fear of the world or of the scribes and Pharisees, weshould find many who are considered quite respectable, or have even beencanonised, and who, nevertheless, much more worthily than Iscariot, areentitled to "champing" by the jaws of Sathanas. Not a single scrap fromJudas himself has reached us. He underwent no trial, and is condemnedwithout plea or excuse on his own behalf, and with no cross-examinationof the evidence. No witnesses have been called to his character. Whatwould his friends at Kerioth have said for him? What would Jesus havesaid? If He had met Judas with the halter in his hand would He not havestopped him? Ah! I can see the Divine touch on the shoulder, thepassionate prostration of the repentant in the dust, the hands gentlylifting him, the forgiveness because he knew not what he did, and theseal of a kiss indeed from the sacred lips. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT'S USE OF THE SUPERNATURAL IN THE "BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR"

The supernatural machinery in Sir Walter Scott's Monastery is generallyand, no doubt, correctly, set down as a mistake. Sir Walter fails, notbecause the White Lady of Avenel is a miracle, but because beingmiraculous, she is made to do what sometimes is not worthy of her. This, however, is not always true, for nothing can be finer than thechange in Halbert Glendinning after he has seen the spirit, and thegreat master himself has never drawn a nobler stroke than that in whichhe describes the effect which intercourse with her has had upon Mary. Halbert, on the morning of the duel between himself and Sir PiercieShafton, is trying to persuade her that he intends no harm, and that heand Sir Piercie are going on a hunting expedition. "Say not thus, " saidthe maiden, interrupting him, "say not thus to me. Others thou may'stdeceive, but me thou can'st not. There has been that in me from theearliest youth which fraud flies from, and which imposture cannotdeceive. " The transforming influence of the Lady is here just what itshould be, and the consequence is that she becomes a reality. 

But it is in the Bride of Lammermoor more particularly that the use ofthe supernatural is not only blameless but indispensable. We begin torise to it in that scene in which the Master of Ravenswood meets Alice. "Begone from among them, " she says, "and if God has destined vengeanceon the oppressor's house, do not you be the instrument. . . . If youremain here, her destruction or yours, or that of both, will be theinevitable consequence of her misplaced attachment. " A little furtheron, with great art, Scott having duly prepared us by what has preceded, adds intensity and colour. He apologises for the "tinge ofsuperstition, " but, not believing, he evidently believes, and we justlysurrender ourselves to him. The Master of Ravenswood after the insultreceived from Lady Ashton wanders round the Mermaiden's Well on his wayto Wolf's Crag and sees the wraith of Alice. Scott makes horse as wellas man afraid so that we may not immediately dismiss the apparition as amere ordinary product of excitement. Alice at that moment was dying, and had "prayed powerfully that she might see her master's son and renewher warning. " Observe the difference between this and any vulgar ghoststory. From the very first we feel that the Superior Powers are againstthis match, and that it will be cursed. The beginning of the curse liesfar back in the hereditary temper of the Ravenswoods, in the intriguesof the Ashtons, and in the feuds of the times. When Love intervenes wediscover in an instant that he is not sent by the gods to bring peace, but that he is the awful instrument of destruction. The spectralappearance of Alice at the hour of her departure, on the very spot "onwhich Lucy Ashton had reclined listening to the fatal tale of woe . . . Holding up her shrivelled hand as if to prevent his coming more near, "is necessary in order to intimate that the interdict is pronounced notby a mortal human being but by a dread, supernal authority. 

SEPTEMBER, 1798. "THE LYRICAL BALLADS. "

The year 1798 was a year of great excitement: England was alone in thestruggle against Buonaparte; the mutiny at the Nore had only just beenquelled: the 3 per cent. Consols had been marked at 49 or 50; theGazettes were occupied with accounts of bloody captures of French ships;Ireland may be said to have been in rebellion, and horrible murders werecommitted there; the King sent a message to Parliament telling it thatan invasion might be expected and that it was to be assisted by"incendiaries" at home; and the Archbishop of Canterbury and elevenbishops passed a resolution declaring that if the French should land, ora dangerous insurrection should break out, it would be the duty of theclergy to take up arms against an enemy whom the Bishop of Rochesterdescribed as "instigated by that desperate malignity against the Faithhe has abandoned, which in all ages has marked the horrible character ofthe vile apostate. "

In the midst of this raving political excitement three human beings wereto be found who although they were certainly not unmoved by it, wereable to detach themselves from it when they pleased, and to secludethemselves in a privacy impenetrable even to an echo of the tumultaround them. 

In April or May, 1798, the Nightingale was written, and these are thesights and sounds which were then in young Coleridge's eyes and ears:-

"No cloud, no relique of the sunken dayDistinguishes the West, no long thin slipOf sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuring: it flows silently, O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showersThat gladden the green earth, and we shall findA pleasure in the dimness of the stars. "

We happen also to have Dorothy Wordsworth's journal for April and May. Here are a few extracts from it:-

April 6th. --"Went a part of the way home with Coleridge. . . . Thespring still advancing very slowly. The horse-chestnuts budding, andthe hedgerows beginning to look green, but nothing fully expanded. "

April 9th. --"Walked to Stowey . . . The sloe in blossom, the hawthornsgreen, the larches in the park changed from black to green in two orthree days. Met Coleridge in returning. "

April 12th. --" . . . The spring advances rapidly, multitudes ofprimroses, dog-violets, periwinkles, stitchwort. "

April 27th. --"Coleridge breakfasted and drank tea, strolled in the woodin the morning, went with him in the evening through the wood, afterwards walked on the hills: the moon; a many-coloured sea and sky. "

May 6th, Sunday. --"Expected the painter {101} and Coleridge. A rainymorning--very pleasant in the evening. Met Coleridge as we were walkingout. Went with him to Stowey; heard the nightingale; saw a glow-worm. "

What was it which these three young people (for Dorothy certainly mustbe included as one of its authors) proposed to achieve by their book?Coleridge, in the Biographia Literaria, says (vol. Ii. C. 1): "Duringthe first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbours, ourconversations turned frequently on the two cardinal points of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherenceto the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest of noveltyby the modifying colours of imagination. The sudden charm, whichaccidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset diffused over aknown and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the practicabilityof combining both. These are the poetry of nature. The thoughtsuggested itself--(to which of us I do not recollect)--that a series ofpoems might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the agents andincidents were to be, in part at least, supernatural; and the excellenceaimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by thedramatic truth of such emotions, as would naturally accompany suchsituations, supposing them real. And real in this sense they have beento every human being who, from whatever source of delusion, has at anytime believed himself under supernatural agency. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life; the characters andincidents were to be such as will be found in every village and itsvicinity, where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek afterthem, or to notice them, when they present themselves. 

"In this idea originated the plan of the LYRICAL BALLADS; in which itwas agreed, that my endeavours should be directed to persons andcharacters supernatural, or at least romantic; yet so as to transferfrom our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truthsufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willingsuspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself as hisobject, to give the charm of novelty to things of everyday and to excitea feeling ANALOGOUS TO THE SUPERNATURAL, {103} by awakening the mind'sattention to the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the lovelinessand the wonders of the world before us; an inexhaustible treasure, butfor which, in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfishsolicitude we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not, and heartsthat neither feel nor understand. 

"With this view I wrote THE ANCIENT MARINER, and was preparing, amongother poems, THE DARK LADIE and the CHRISTABEL, in which I should havemore nearly have realised my ideal, than I had done in my firstattempt. "

Coleridge, when he wrote to Cottle offering him the Lyrical Ballads, affirms that "the volumes offered to you are, to a certain degree, ONEWORK IN KIND" {104a} (Reminiscences, p. 179); and Wordsworth declares, "I should not, however, have requested this assistance, had I notbelieved that the poems of my Friend would in a great measure HAVE THESAME TENDENCY AS MY OWN, {104b} and that though there would be found adifference, there would be found no discordance in the colours of ourstyle; as our opinions on the subject of poetry do almost entirelycoincide" (Preface to Lyrical Ballads, 1800). 

It is a point carefully to be borne in mind that we have the explicitand contemporary authority of both poets that their aim was the same. 

There are difficulties in the way of believing that The Ancient Marinerwas written for the Lyrical Ballads. It was planned in 1797 and wasoriginally intended for a magazine. Nevertheless, it may be assertedthat the purpose of The Ancient Mariner and of Christabel (which wasoriginally intended for the Ballads) was, as their author said, TRUTH, living truth. He was the last man in the world to care for a storysimply as a chain of events with no significance, and in these poems thesupernatural, by interpenetration with human emotions, comes closer tous than an event of daily life. In return the emotions themselves, bymeans of the supernatural expression, gain intensity. The texture is sosubtly interwoven that it is difficult to illustrate the point byexample, but take the following lines:-

"Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea!And never a saint took pity onMy soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful!And they all dead did lie:And a thousand thousand slimy thingsLived on; and so did I. 

* * * *

The self-same moment I could pray:And from my neck so freeThe Albatross fell off, and sankLike lead into the sea. 

* * * *

And the hay was white with silent lightTill rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. 

A little distance from the prowThose crimson shadows were:I turned my eyes upon the deck -Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood!A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. "

Coleridge's marginal gloss to these last stanzas is "The angelic spiritsleave the dead bodies, and appear in their own forms of light. "

Once more from Christabel:-

"The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, She nothing sees--no sight but one!The maid, devoid of guile and sin, I know not how, in fearful wise, So deeply had she drunken inThat look, those shrunken serpent eyes, That all her features were resignedTo this sole image in her mind:And passively did imitateThat look of dull and treacherous hate. "

What Wordsworth intended we have already heard from Coleridge, andWordsworth confirms him. It was, says the Preface of 1802, "to presentordinary things to the mind in an unusual way. " In Wordsworth themiraculous inherent in the commonplace, but obscured by "the film offamiliarity, " is restored to it. This translation is effected by theimagination, which is not fancy nor dreaming, as Wordsworth is carefulto warn us, but that power by which we see things as they are. Theauthors of The Ancient Mariner and Simon Lee are justified in claiming acommon object. It is to prove that the metaphysical in Shakespeare'ssense of the word interpenetrates the physical, and serves to make ussee and feel it. 

Poetry, if it is to be good for anything, must help us to live. It isto this we come at last in our criticism, and if it does not help us tolive it may as well disappear, no matter what its fine qualities may be. The help to live, however, that is most wanted is not remedies againstgreat sorrows. The chief obstacle to the enjoyment of life is itsdulness and the weariness which invades us because there is nothing tobe seen or done of any particular value. If the supernatural becomesnatural and the natural becomes supernatural, the world regains itssplendour and charm. Lines may be drawn from their predecessors toColeridge and the Wordsworths, but the work they did was distinctlyoriginal, and renewed proof was given of the folly of despair even whenfertility seems to be exhausted. There is always a hidden conduit openinto an unknown region whence at any moment streams may rush and renewthe desert with foliage and flowers. 

The reviews which followed the publication of the Lyrical Ballads werenearly all unfavourable. Even Southey discovered nothing in The AncientMariner but "a Dutch attempt at German sublimity. " A certain learnedpig thought it "the strangest story of a cock and bull that he ever sawon paper, " and not a single critic, not even the one or two who had anypraise to offer, discerned the secret of the book. The publisher was soalarmed that he hastily sold his stock. Nevertheless Coleridge, Wordsworth, and his sister quietly went off to Germany without the leastdisturbance of their faith, and the Ballads are alive to this day. 

SOME NOTES ON MILTON

Much of the criticism on Milton, if not hostile, is apologetic, and itis considered quite correct to say we "do not care" for him. Partlythis indifference is due to his Nonconformity. The "superior"Englishman who makes a jest of the doctrines and ministers of theEstablished Church always pays homage to it because it is RESPECTABLE, and sneers at Dissent. Another reason why Milton does not take hisproper place is that his theme is a theology which for most people is nolonger vital. A religious poem if it is to be deeply felt must embody aliving faith. The great poems of antiquity are precious to us inproportion to our acceptance, now, as fact, of what they tell us aboutheaven and earth. There are only a few persons at present who perceivethat in substance the account which was given in the seventeenth centuryof the relation between man and God is immortal and worthy of epictreatment. A thousand years hence a much better estimate of Milton willbe possible than that which can be formed to-day. We attribute to himmechanic construction in dead material because it is dead to ourselves. Even Mr. Ruskin who was far too great not to recognise in part at leastMilton's claims, says that "Milton's account of the most important eventin his whole system of the universe, the fall of the angels, isevidently unbelievable to himself; and the more so, that it is whollyfounded on, and in a great part spoiled and degraded from, Hesiod'saccount of the decisive war of the younger gods with the Titans. Therest of his poem is a picturesque drama, in which every artifice ofinvention is visibly and consciously employed; not a single fact beingfor an instant conceived as tenable by any living faith" (Sesame andLilies, section iii. ). 

Mr. Mark Pattison, quoting part of this passage, remarks with justice, "on the contrary, we shall not rightly apprehend either the poetry orthe character of the poet until we feel that throughout Paradise Lost, as in Paradise Regained and Samson, Milton felt himself to be standingon the sure ground of fact and reality" (English Men of Letters--Milton, p. 186, ed. 1879). 

St. Jude for ages had been sufficient authority for the angelic revolt, and in a sense it was a reasonable dogma, for although it did notexplain the mystery of the origin of evil it pushed it a step furtherbackwards, and without such a revolt the Christian scheme does not wellhold together. So also with the entrance of the devil into the serpent. It is not expressly taught in any passage of the canonical Scriptures, but to the Church and to Milton it was as indisputable as the presenceof sin in the world. Milton, I repeat, BELIEVED in the framework of hispoem, and unless we can concede this to him we ought not to attempt tocriticise him. He was impelled to turn his religion into poetry inorder to bring it closer to him. The religion of every Christian if itis real is a poem. He pictures a background of Holy Land scenery, andhe creates a Jesus who continually converses with him and reveals to himmuch more than is found in the fragmentary details of the Gospels. WhenMilton goes beyond his documents he does not imagine for the purpose offilling up: the additions are expression. 

Milton belonged to that order of poets whom the finite does not satisfy. Like Wordsworth, but more eminently, he was "powerfully affected" onlyby that "which is conversant with or turns upon infinity, " and man is tohim a being with such a relationship to infinity that Heaven and Hellcontend over him. Every touch which sets forth the eternal glory ofHeaven and the scarcely subordinate power of Hell magnifies him. Johnson, whose judgment on Milton is unsatisfactory because he will notdeliver himself sufficiently to beauty which he must have recognised, nevertheless says of the Paradise Lost, that "its end is to raise thethoughts above sublunary cares, " and this is true. The other great epicpoems worthy to be compared with Milton's, the Iliad, Odyssey, AEneid, and Divine Comedy, all agree in representing man as an object of thedeepest solicitude to the gods or God. Milton's conception of God ishigher than Homer's, Virgil's, or Dante's, but the care of the MiltonicGod for his offspring is greater, and the profound truth unaffected byCopernican discoveries and common to all these poets is therefore moreimpressive in Milton than in the others. 

There is nothing which the most gifted of men can create that is notmixed up with earth, and Milton, too, works it up with his gold. Theweakness of the Paradise Lost is not, as Johnson affirms, its lack ofhuman interest, for the Prometheus Bound has just as little, nor isJohnson's objection worth anything that the angels are sometimescorporeal and at other times independent of material laws. Spiritscould not be represented to a human mind unless they were in a measuresubject to the conditions of time and space. The principal defect inParadise Lost is the justification which the Almighty gives of thecreation of man with a liability to fall. It would have been better ifMilton had contented himself with telling the story of the Satanicinsurrection, of its suppression, of its author's revenge, of theexpulsion from Paradise, and the promise of a Redeemer. But he wantedto "justify the ways of God to man, " and in order to do this he thoughtit was necessary to show that man must be endowed with freedom of will, and consequently could not be directly preserved from yielding to theassaults of Satan. 

Paradise Regained comes, perhaps, closer to us than Paradise Lostbecause its temptations are more nearly our own, and every amplificationwhich Milton introduces is designed to make them more completely oursthan they seem to be in the New Testament. It has often been urgedagainst Paradise Regained that Jesus recovered Paradise for man by theAtonement and not merely by resistance to the devil's wiles, butinasmuch as Paradise was lost by the devil's triumph through humanweakness it is natural that Paradise Regained should present the triumphof the Redeemer's strength. It is this victory which proves Jesus to bethe Son of God and consequently able to save us. 

He who has now become incarnated for our redemption is that same Messiahwho, when He rode forth against the angelic rebels, "into terror chang'dHis count'nance too severe to be beheld, And full of wrath bent on his enemies. "

It is He who

 "on his impious foes right onward drove, Gloomy as night:"

whose right hand grasped

 "ten thousand thunders, which he sentBefore him, such as in their souls infix'dPlagues. "(P. L. Vi. 824-38. )

Now as Son of Man he is confronted with that same Archangel, and heconquers by "strong sufferance. " He comes with no fourfold visage of acharioteer flashing thick flames, no eye which glares lightning, novictory eagle-winged and quiver near her with three-bolted thunderstored, but in "weakness, " and with this he is to "overcome satanicstrength. "

Milton sees in the temptation to turn the stones into bread a devilishincitement to use miraculous powers and not to trust the HeavenlyFather. 

"Why dost thou then suggest to me distrust, Knowing who I am, as I know who thou art?"(P. R. I. 355-6. )

Finding his enemy steadfast, Satan disappears, "bowing lowHis gray dissimulation, "(P. R. I. 497-8. )

and calls to council his peers. He disregards the proposal of Belial toattempt the seduction of Jesus with women. If he is vulnerable it willbe to objects

 "such as have more shewOf worth, of honour, glory, and popular praise, Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd;Or that which only seems to satisfyLawful desires of Nature, not beyond. "(P. R. Ii. 226-30. )

The former appeal is first of all renewed. "Tell me, " says Satan, "'if food were now before thee setWould'st thou not eat?' 'Thereafter as I likeThe giver, ' answered Jesus. "(P. R. Ii. 320-22. )

A banquet is laid, and Satan invites Jesus to partake of it. 

"What doubts the Son of God to sit and eat?These are not fruits forbidd'n. "(P. R. Ii. 368-9. )

But Jesus refuses to touch the devil's meat -

"Thy pompous delicacies I contemn, And count thy specious gifts no gifts, but guiles. "(P. R. Ii. 390-1. )

So they were, for at a word

"Both table and provision vanish'd quite, With sound of harpies' wings and talons heard. "(P. R. Ii. 402-3. )

If but one grain of that enchanted food had been eaten, or one drop ofthat enchanted liquor had been drunk, there would have been no Cross, noResurrection, no salvation for humanity. 

The temptation on the mountain is expanded by Milton through the closeof the second book, the whole of the third and part of the fourth. Itis a temptation of peculiar strength because it is addressed to anaspiration which Jesus has acknowledged. 

 "Yet this not allTo which my spirit aspir'd: victorious deedsFlam'd in my heart, heroic acts. "(P. R. I. 214-16. )

But he denies that the glory of mob-applause is worth anything. 

 "What is glory but the blaze of fame, The people's praise, if always praise unmixt?And what the people but a herd confus'd, A miscellaneous rabble, who extolThings vulgar, and, well weigh'd, scarce worth the praise?"(P. R. Iii. 47-51. )

To the Jesus of the New Testament this answer is, in a measure, inappropriate. He would not have called the people "a herd confus'd, amiscellaneous rabble. " But although inappropriate it is Miltonic. Thedevil then tries the Saviour with a more subtle lure, an appeal to duty. 

"If kingdom move thee not, let move thee zealAnd duty; zeal and duty are not slow;But on occasion's forelock watchful wait. They themselves rather are occasion best, Zeal of thy father's house, duty to freeThy country from her heathen servitude. "(P. R. Iii. 171-6. )

But zeal and duty, the endeavour to hurry that which cannot and must notbe hurried may be a suggestion from hell. 

"If of my reign prophetic writ hath toldThat it shall never end, so when beginThe Father in His purpose hath decreed. "(P. R. Iii. 184-6. )

Acquiescence, a conviction of the uselessness of individual or organisedeffort to anticipate what only slow evolution can bring, ischaracteristic of increasing years, and was likely enough to be thetemper of Milton when he had seen the failure of the effort to makeactual on earth the kingdom of Heaven. The temptation is developed insuch a way that every point supposed to be weak is attacked. "You maybe what you claim to be, " insinuates the devil, "but are rustic. "

"Thy life hath yet been private, most part spentAt home, scarce view'd the Galilean towns, And once a year Jerusalem. "(P. R. Iii. 232-4. )

Experience and alliances are plausibly urged as indispensable forsuccess. But Jesus knew that the sum total of a man's power for good isprecisely what of good there is in him and that if it be expressed evenin the simplest form, all its strength is put forth and its office isfulfilled. To suppose that it can be augmented by machinery is afoolish delusion. The

 "projects deepOf enemies, of aids, battles and leagues, Plausible to the world"(P. R. Iii. 395-3. )

are to the Founder of the kingdom not of this world "worth naught. "Another side of the mountain is tried. Rome is presented with Tiberiusat Capreae. Could it possibly be anything but a noble deed to

 "expel this monster from his throneNow made a sty, and in his place ascending, A victor people free from servile yoke!"(P. R. Iv. 100-102. )

"AND WITH MY HELP THOU MAY'ST. " With the devil's help and not withoutcan this glorious revolution be achieved! "For him, " is the Divinereply, "I was not sent. " The attack is then directly pressed. 

"The kingdoms of the world, to thee I give;For, giv'n to me, I give to whom I please, No trifle; yet with this reserve, not else, On this condition, if thou wilt fall downAnd worship me as thy superior lord. "(P. R. Iv. 163-7. )

This, then, is the drift and meaning of it all. The answer is takenverbally from the gospel. 

 "'Thou shalt worshipThe Lord thy God, and only Him shalt serve. '"(P. R. Iv. 176-7. )

That is to say, Thou shalt submit thyself to God's commands and God'smethods and thou shalt submit thyself to NO OTHER. 

Omitting the Athenian and philosophic episode, which is unnecessary anda little unworthy even of the Christian poet, we encounter not anamplification of the Gospel story but an interpolation which is entirelyMilton's own. Night gathers and a new assault is delivered in darkness. Jesus wakes in the storm which rages round Him. The diabolic hostilityis open and avowed and He hears the howls and shrieks of the infernals. He cannot banish them though He is so far master of Himself that He isable to sit "unappall'd in calm and sinless peace. " He has to endurethe hellish threats and tumult through the long black hours

 "till morning fairCame forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray, Who with her radiant finger still'd the roarOf thunder, chas'd the clouds, and laid the winds, And grisly spectres, which the Fiend had rais'dTo tempt the Son of God with terrors dire. But now the sun with more effectual beamsHad cheer'd the face of earth, and dri'd the wetFrom drooping plant, or dropping tree; the birds, Who all things now beheld more fresh and green, After a night of storm so ruinous, Clear'd up their choicest notes in bush and sprayTo gratulate the sweet return of morn. "(P. R. Iv. 426-38. )

There is nothing perhaps in Paradise Lost which possesses the peculiarquality of this passage, nothing which like these verses brings into theeyes the tears which cannot be repressed when a profound experience isset to music. 

The temptation on the pinnacle occupies but a few lines only of thepoem. Hitherto Satan admits that Jesus had conquered, but he had doneno more than any wise and good man could do. 

"Now show thy progeny; if not to stand, Cast thyself down; safely, if Son of God;For it is written, 'He will give commandConcerning thee to His angels; in their handsThey shall uplift thee, lest at any timeThou chance to dash thy foot against a stone. '"(P. R. Iv. 554-9. )

The promise of Divine aid is made in mockery. 

"To whom thus Jesus: 'Also it is written, Tempt not the Lord thy God. ' He said, and stood:But Satan, smitten with amazement, fell. "(P. R. Iv. 560-2. )

It is not meant, "thou shalt not tempt ME, " but rather, "it is notpermitted me to tempt God. " In this extreme case Jesus depends on God'sprotection. This is the devil's final defeat and the seraphic companyfor which our great Example had refused to ask instantly surrounds andreceives him. Angelic quires

 "the Son of God, our Saviour meek, Sung victor, and from heavenly feast refresh't, Brought on His way with joy; He unobserv'd, Home to His mother's house private return'd. "(P. R. Iv. 636-9. )

Warton wished to expunge this passage, considering it an unworthyconclusion. It is to be hoped that there are many readers of Milton whoare able to see what is the value of these four lines, particularly ofthe last. 

It is hardly necessary to say more in order to show how peculiarlyMilton is endowed with that quality which is possessed by all greatpoets--the power to keep in contact with the soul of man. 

THE MORALITY OF BYRON'S POETRY. "THE CORSAIR. "

[This is an abstract of an essay four times as long written many yearsago. Although so much has been struck out, the substance is unaltered, and the conclusion is valid for the author now as then. ]

Byron above almost all other poets, at least in our day, has been setdown as immoral. In reality he is moral, using the word in its propersense, and he is so, not only in detached passages, but in the generaldrift of most of his poetry. We will take as an example "The Corsair. "

Conrad is not a debauched buccaneer. He was not -

 "by Nature sentTo lead the guilty--guilt's worst instrument. "

He had been betrayed by misplaced confidence. 

"Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, And not the traitors who betray'd him still;Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better menHad left him joy, and means to give again, Fear'd--shunn'd--belied--ere youth had lost her force, He hated man too much to feel remorse, And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, To pay the injuries of some on all. "

Conrad was not, and could not be, mean and selfish. A selfish Conradwould be an absurdity. His motives are not gross -

 "he shuns the grosser joys of sense, "His mind seems nourished by that abstinence. "

He is protected by a charm against undistinguishing lust -

"Though fairest captives daily met his eye, He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by;"

and even Gulnare, his deliverer, fails to seduce him. 

Mr. Ruskin observes that Byron makes much of courage. It is Conrad, theleader, who undertakes the dangerous errand of surprising Seyd; it is hewho determines to save the harem. His courage is not the mereexcitement of battle. When he is captured -

"A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, "

and he is not insensible to all fear. 

"Each has some fear, and he who least betrays, The only hypocrite deserving praise. 

* * * * *

One thought alone he could not--dared not meet--'Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?'"

Gulnare announces his doom to him, hut he is calm. He cannot stoop evento pray. He has deserted his Maker, and it would be baseness now toprostrate himself before Him. 

"I have no thought to mock his throne with prayerWrung from the coward crouching of despair;It is enough--I breathe--and I can bear. "

He has no martyr-hope with which to console himself; his endurance is ofthe finest order--simple, sheer resolution, a resolve that with noreward, he will never disgrace himself. He knows what it is

"To count the hours that struggle to thine end, With not a friend to animate, and tellTo other ears that death became thee well, "

but he does not break down. 

Gulnare tries to persuade him that the only way by which he can savehimself from tortures and impalement is by the assassination of Seyd, but he refuses to accept the terms -

"Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life" -

and dismisses her. When she has done the deed and he sees the singlespot of blood upon her, he, the Corsair, is unmanned as he had neverbeen in battle, prison, or by consciousness of guilt. 

"But ne'er from strife--captivity--remorse--From all his feelings in their inmost force--So thrill'd--so shudder'd every creeping vein, As now they froze before that purple stain. That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek!"

The Corsair's misanthropy had not destroyed him. Small creatures aloneare wholly converted into spite and scepticism by disappointment andrepulse. Those who are larger avenge themselves by devotion. Conrad'slove for Medora was intensified and exalted by his hatred of the world. 

"Yes, it was Love--unchangeable--unchanged, Felt but for one from whom he never ranged;"

and she was worthy of him, the woman who could sing -

"Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, Lonely and lost to light for evermore, Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, Then trembles into silence as before. 

There, in its centre, a sepulchral lampBurns the slow flame, eternal--but unseen;Which not the darkness of despair can damp, Though vain its ray as it had never been. "

He finds Medora dead, and -

 "his mother's softness creptTo those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept. "

If his crimes and love could be weighed in a celestial balance, weightbeing apportioned to the rarity and value of the love, which woulddescend?

The points indicated in Conrad's character are not many, but they aresufficient for its delineation, and it is a moral character. We must, of course, get rid of the notion that the relative magnitude of thevirtues and vices according to the priest or society is authentic. Areversion to the natural or divine scale has been almost the sole dutypreached to us by every prophet. If we could incorporate Conrad withourselves we should find that the greater part of what is worst in uswould be neutralised. The sins of which we are ashamed, the dirty, despicable sins, Conrad could not have committed; and in these latterdays they are perhaps the most injurious. 

We do not understand how moral it is to yield unreservedly toenthusiasm, to the impression which great objects would fain make uponus, and to embody that impression in worthy language. It is rare tomeet now even with young people who will abandon themselves to a heroicemotion, or who, if they really feel it, do not try to belittle it inexpression. Byron's poetry, above most, tempts and almost compelssurrender to that which is beyond the commonplace self. 

It is not true that "The Corsair" is insincere. He who hears a note ofinsincerity in Conrad and Medora may have ears, but they must be thoseof the translated Bottom who was proud of having "a reasonable good earin music. " Byron's romance has been such a power exactly because menfelt that it was not fiction and that his was one of the strongest mindsof his day. He was incapable of toying with the creatures of the fancywhich had no relationship with himself and through himself withhumanity. 

A word as to Byron's hold upon the people. He was able to obtain ahearing from ordinary men and women, who knew nothing even ofShakespeare, save what they had seen at the theatre. Modern poetry isthe luxury of a small cultivated class. We may say what we like ofpopularity, and if it be purchased by condescension to popular sillinessit is nothing. But Byron secured access to thousands of readers inEngland and on the Continent by strength and loveliness, a feat seldomequalled and never perhaps surpassed. The present writer's father, acompositor in a dingy printing office, repeated verses from "ChildeHarold" at the case. Still more remarkable, Byron reached one of thiswriter's friends, an officer in the Navy, of the ancient stamp; and theattraction, both to printer and lieutenant, lay in nothing lower thanthat which was best in him. It is surely a service sufficient tocompensate for many more faults than can be charged against him thatwherever there was any latent poetic dissatisfaction with the vulgarityand meanness of ordinary life he gave it expression, and that he hasawakened in the PEOPLE lofty emotions which, without him, would haveslept. The cultivated critics, and the refined persons who haveschrecklich viel gelesen, are not competent to estimate the debt we oweto Byron. 

BYRON, GOETHE, AND MR. MATTHEW ARNOLD

(Reprinted, with corrections, by permission from the "ContemporaryReview, " August, 1881. )

Mr. Matthew Arnold has lately published a remarkable essay {133} uponLord Byron. Mr. Arnold's theory about Byron is, that he is neitherartist nor thinker--that "he has no light, cannot lead us from the pastto the future;" "the moment he reflects, he is a child;" "as a poet hehas no fine and exact sense for word and structure and rhythm; he hasnot the artist's nature and gifts. " The excellence of Byron mainlyconsists in his "sincerity and strength;" in his rhetorical power; inhis "irreconcilable revolt and battle" against the political and socialorder of things in which he lived. "Byron threw himself upon poetry ashis organ; and in poetry his topics were not Queen Mab, and the Witch ofthe Atlas, and the Sensitive Plant, they were the upholders of the oldorder, George the Third and Lord Castlereagh and the Duke of Wellingtonand Southey, and they were the canters and tramplers of the great world, and they were his enemies and himself. "

Mr. Arnold appeals to Goethe as an authority in his favour. In order, therefore, that English people may know what Goethe thought about ByronI have collected some of the principal criticisms upon him which I canfind in Goethe's works. The text upon which Mr. Arnold enlarges is theremark just quoted which Goethe made about Byron to Eckermann: "so balder reflectirt ist er ein Kind"--AS SOON AS HE REFLECTS HE IS A CHILD. 

Goethe, it is true, did say this; but the interpretation of the sayingdepends upon the context, which Mr. Arnold omits. I give the wholepassage, quoting from Oxenford's translation of the EckermannConversations, vol. I. P. 198 (edition 1850):-

"'Lord Byron, ' said Eckermann, 'is no wiser when he takes 'Faust' topieces and thinks you found one thing here, the other there. ' 'Thegreater part of those fine things cited by Lord Byron, ' Goethe replied, 'I have never even read; much less did I think of them when I waswriting "Faust. " But Lord Byron is only great as a poet; as soon as hereflects he is a child. He knows not how to help himself against thestupid attacks of the same kind made upon him by his own countrymen. Heought to have expressed himself more strongly against them. 'What isthere is mine, ' he should have said, 'and whether I got it from a bookor from life is of no consequence; the only point is, whether I havemade a right use of it. ' Walter Scott used a scene from my 'Egmont, 'and he had a right to do so; and because he did it well, he deservespraise. '"

Goethe certainly does not mean that Byron was unable to reflect in thesense in which Mr. Arnold interprets the word. What was really meant weshall see in a moment. 

We will, however, continue the quotations from the Eckermann:-

"We see how the inadequate dogmas of the Church work upon a free mindlike Byron's and how by such a piece ('Cain') he struggles to get rid ofa doctrine which has been forced upon him" (vol. I. P. 129). 

"The world to him was transparent, and he could paint by way ofanticipation" (vol. I. P. 140). 

"That which I call invention I never saw in any one in the world to agreater degree than in him" (vol. I. P. 205). 

"Lord Byron is to be regarded as a man, as an Englishman, and as a greattalent. His good qualities belong chiefly to the man, his bad to theEnglishman and the peer, his talent is incommensurable. All Englishmenare, as such, without reflection properly so-called; distractions andparty-spirit will not permit them to perfect themselves in quiet. Butthey are great as practical men. Thus, Lord Byron could never attainreflection on himself, and on this account his maxims in general are notsuccessful. . . . But where he will create, he always succeeds; and wemay truly say that, with him, inspiration supplies the place ofreflection. He was always obliged to go on poetizing, and theneverything that came from the man, especially from his heart, wasexcellent. He produced his best things, as women do pretty children, without thinking about it, or knowing how it was done. He is a greattalent, a born talent, and I never saw the true poetical power greaterin any man than in him. In the apprehension of external objects, and aclear penetration into past situations, he is quite as great asShakespeare. But as a pure individuality, Shakespeare is his superior"(vol. I. P. 209). 

We see now what Goethe means by "reflection. " It is the faculty ofself-separation, or conscious CONSIDERATION, a faculty which would haveenabled Byron, as it enabled Goethe, to reply successfully to a chargeof plagiarism. It is not thought in its widest sense, nor creation, andit has not much to do with the production of poems of the highest order--the poems that is to say, which are written by the impersonal thought. 

But again--

"The English may think of Byron as they please; but this is certain, that they can show no poet who is to be compared to him. He isdifferent from all the others, and for the most part, greater" (vol. I. P. 290). 

This passage is one which Mr. Arnold quotes, and he strives to diminishits importance by translating der ihm zu vergleichen ware, by "who ishis parallel, " and maintains that Goethe "was not so much thinking ofthe strict rank, as poetry, of Byron's production; he was thinking ofthat wonderful personality of Byron which so enters into his poetry. "It is just possible; but if Goethe did think this, he used words whichare misleading, and if the phrase der ihm zu vergleichen ware simplyindicates parallelism, it has no point, for in that sense it might havebeen applied to Scott or to Southey. 

"I have read once more Byron's 'Deformed Transformed, ' and must say thatto me his talent appears greater than ever. His devil was suggested bymy Mephistopheles; but it is no imitation--it is thoroughly new andoriginal; close, genuine, and spirited. There are no weak passages--nota place where you could put the head of a pin, where you do not findINVENTION AND THOUGHT [italics mine]. Were it not for hishypochondriacal negative turn, he would be as great as Shakespeare andthe ancients" (vol. I. P. 294). 

Eckermann expressed his surprise. "Yes, " said Goethe, "you may believeme, I have studied him anew and am confirmed in this opinion. " Theposition which Byron occupies in the Second Part of "Faust" is wellknown. Eckermann talked to Goethe about it, and Goethe said, "I couldnot make use of any man as the representative of the modern poetical eraexcept him, who undoubtedly is to be regarded as the greatest genius ofour century" (vol. I. P. 425). Mr. Arnold translates this word "genius"by "talent. " The word in the original is TALENT, and I will not disputewith so accomplished a German scholar as Mr. Arnold as to what is theprecise meaning of TALENT. In both the English translations ofEckermann the word is rendered "genius, " and after the comparisonbetween Byron, Shakespeare, and the ancients just quoted, we can hardlyadmit that Goethe meant to distinguish scientifically between the twoorders of intellect and to assign the lower to Byron. 

But, last of all, I will translate Goethe's criticism upon "Cain. " Sofar as I know, it has not yet appeared in English. It is to be found inthe Stuttgart and Tubingen edition of Goethe, 1840, vol. Xxxiii. P. 157. Some portions which are immaterial I have omitted:-

"After I had listened to the strangest things about this work for almosta year, I at last took it myself in hand, and it excited in meastonishment and admiration; an effect which will produce in the mindwhich is simply susceptible, everything good, beautiful, and great. . .. The poet who, surpassing the limit of all our conceptions, haspenetrated with burning spiritual vision the past and present, andconsequently the future, has now subdued new regions under his limitlesstalent, but what he will accomplish therein can be predicted by no humanbeing. His procedure, however, we can nevertheless in a measure moreclosely determine. He adheres to the letter of the Biblical tradition, for he allows the first pair of human beings to exchange their originalpurity and innocence for a guilt mysterious in its origin; thepunishment which is its consequence descending upon all posterity. Themonstrous burden of such an event he lays upon the shoulders of Cain asthe representative of a wretched humanity, plunged for no fault of itsown into the depths of misery. 

"To this primitive son of man, bowed down and heavily burdened, death, which as yet he has not seen, is an especial trouble; and although hemay desire the end of his present distress, it seems still more hatefulto exchange it for a condition altogether unknown. Hence we already seethat the full weight of a dogmatic system, explaining, mediating, yetalways in conflict with itself, just as it still for ever occupies us, was imposed on the first miserable son of man. These contradictions, which are not strange to human nature, possessed his mind, and could notbe brought to rest, either through the divinely-given gentleness of hisfather and brother, or the loving and alleviating co-operation of hissister-wife. In order to sharpen them to the point of impossibility ofendurance, Satan comes upon the scene, a mighty and misleading spirit, who begins by unsettling him morally, and then conducts him miraculouslythrough all worlds, causing him to see the past as overwhelmingly vast, the present as small and of no account, and the future as full offoreboding and void of consolation. 

"So he turns back to his own family, more excited, but not worse thanbefore; and finding in the family circle everything as he has left it, the urgency of Abel, who wishes to make him offer a sacrifice, becomesaltogether insupportable. More say we not, excepting that themotivation of the scene in which Abel perishes is of the rarestexcellence, and what follows is equally great and priceless. There nowlies Abel! That now is Death--there was so much talk about it, and manknows about it as little as he did before. 

"We must not forget, that through the whole piece there runs a kind ofpresentiment of a Saviour, so that the poet at this point, as well as inall others, has known how to bring himself near to the ideas by which weexplain things, and to our modes of faith. 

"Of the scene with the parents, in which Eve at last curses thespeechless Cain, which our western neighbour lifts into such strikingprominence, there remains nothing more for us to say: we have toapproach the conclusion with astonishment and reverence. 

"With regard to this conclusion, an intelligent and fair friend, relatedto us through esteem for Byron, has asserted that everything religiousand moral in the world was put into the last three words of the piece. "{143}

We have now heard enough from Goethe to prove that Mr. Arnold'sinterpretation of "so bald er reflectirt ist er ein Kind" is notGoethe's interpretation of Byron. It is to be remembered that Goethewas not a youth overcome by Mr. Arnold's "vogue" when he read Byron. Hewas a singularly self-possessed old man. 

Many persons will be inclined to think that Goethe, so far from puttingByron on a lower level than that usually assigned to him, has over-praised him, and will question the "burning spiritual vision" which thegreat German believed the great Englishman to possess. But if weconsider what Goethe calls the "motivation" of Cain; if we reflect onwhat the poet has put into the legend; on the exploration of theuniverse with Lucifer as a guide; on its result, on the mode in whichthe death of Abel is reached; on the doom of the murderer--the limitlesswilderness henceforth and no rest; on the fidelity of Adah, who, withthe true instinct of love, separates between the man and the crime; onthe majesty of the principal character, who stands before us as therepresentative of the insurgence of the human intellect, so that, if weknow him, we know a whole literature; if we meditate hereon, we shallsay that Goethe has not exaggerated. It is the same with the rest ofByron's dramas. Over and above the beauty of detached passages, thereis in each one of them a large and universal meaning, or rather meaningwithin meaning, precisely the same for no reader, but none the lesscertain, and as inexhaustible as the meanings of Nature. This is onereason why the wisdom of a selection from Byron is so doubtful. Theworth of "Cain, " of "Sardanapalus, " of "Manfred, " of "Marino Faliero, "is the worth of an outlook over the sea; and we cannot take a sample ofthe scene from a cliff by putting a pint of water into a bottle. ButByron's critics and the compilers tell us of failures, which ought notto survive, and that we are doing a kindness to him if we suppress theseand exhibit him at his best. No man who seriously cares for Byron willassent to this doctrine. We want to know the whole of him, his weaknessas well as his strength; for the one is not intelligible without theother. A human being is an indivisible unity, and his weakness IS hisstrength, and his strength IS his weakness. 

It is not my object now, however, to justify what Mr. Arnold calls theByronic "superstition. " I hope I could justify a good part of it, butthis is not the opportunity. I cannot resist, however, saying a word byway of conclusion on the manner in which Byron has fulfilled what seemsto me one of the chief offices of the poet. Mr. Arnold, although he isso dissatisfied with Byron because he "cannot reflect, " would probablyin another mood admit that "reflections" are not what we demand of apoet. We do not ask of him a rhymed book of proverbs. He should ratherbe the articulation of what in Nature is great but inarticulate. In himthe thunder, the sea, the peace of morning, the joy of youth, the rushof passion, the calm of old age, should find words, and men shouldthrough him become aware of the unrecognised wealth of existence. Byronhad the power above most poets of acting as a kind of tongue to Nature. His descriptions are on everybody's lips, and it is superfluous to quotethem. He represented things not as if they were aloof from him, but asif they were the concrete embodiment of his soul. The woods, the wilds, the waters of Nature are to him -

"the intenseReply of HERS to our intelligence. "

His success is equally marked when he portrays men or women whosecharacter attracts him. Take, for example, the girl in "The Island":-

"The sunborn blood suffused her neck, and threwO'er her clear nutbrown skin a lucid hue, Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave, Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. Such was this daughter of the southern seas, HERSELF A BILLOW IN HER ENERGIES. 

* * * * *

Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds passO'er lakes to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, WHOSE DEPTHS UNSEARCH'D, AND FOUNTAINS FROM THE HILL, RESTORE THEIR SURFACE, IN ITSELF SO STILL. "

Passages like these might be quoted without end from Byron, and theyexplain why he is and must be amongst the immortals. He may have beencareless in expression; he may have been a barbarian and not a e?f???, as Mr. Matthew Arnold affirms, but he was GREAT. This is the word whichdescribes him. He was a mass of living energy, and therefore he issanative. Energy, power, is the one thing after which we pine in thissickly age. We do not want carefully and consciously constructed poemsof mosaic. Strength is what we need and what will heal us. Strength istrue morality, and true beauty. It is the strength in Byron thatfalsifies the accusation of affectation and posing, which is broughtagainst him. All that is meant by affectation and posing was a meresurface trick. The real man, Byron, and his poems are perfectlyunconscious, as unconscious as the wind. The books which have lived andalways will live have this unconsciousness in them, and what ismanufactured, self-centred, and self-contemplative will perish. Theworld's literature is the work of men, who, to use Byron's own words -

"Strip off this fond and false identity;"

who are lost in their object, who write because they cannot help it, imperfectly or perfectly, as the case may be, and who do not sit down tofit in this thing and that thing from a commonplace book. Manynovelists there are who know their art better than Charlotte Bronte, butshe, like Byron--and there are more points of resemblance between themthan might at first be supposed--is imperishable because she speaksunder overwhelming pressure, self-annihilated, we may say, while thespirit breathes through her. The Byron "vogue" will never pass so longas men and women are men and women. Mr. Arnold and the critics mayremind us of his imperfections of form, but Goethe is right after all, for not since Shakespeare have we had any one der ihm zu vergleichenware. 

A SACRIFICE

A fatal plague devastated the city. The god had said that it wouldcontinue to rage until atonement for a crime had been offered by thesacrifice of a man. He was to be perfect in body; he must not desire todie because he no longer loved life, or because he wished for fame. Astatue must not be erected to his memory; no poem must be composed forhim; his name must not appear in the city's records. 

A few volunteers presented themselves, but none of them satisfied allthe conditions. At last a young man came who had served as the modelfor the image of the god in his temple. There was no question, therefore, of soundness of limb, and when he underwent the form ofexamination no spot nor blemish was found on him. The priest asked himwhether he was in trouble, and especially whether he was disappointed inlove. He said he was in no trouble; that he was betrothed to a girl towhom he was devoted, and that they had intended to be married thatmonth. "I am, " he declared, "the happiest man in the city. " The priestdoubted and watched him that evening, but he saw him walking side byside with this girl, and the two were joyous as a youth and a maidenought to be in the height of their passion. She sat down and sang tohim he played to her, and they embraced one another tenderly at parting. 

The next morning was the day on which he was to be slain. There was analtar in front of the temple, and a great crowd assembled, ranked roundthe open space. At the appointed hour the priest appeared, and with himwas the youth, holding his beloved by the hand, but she was blindfolded. He let go her hand, knelt down, and in a moment the sacrificial knifewas drawn across his throat. His body was placed upon the wood, and thepriest was about to kindle it when a flash from heaven struck it into ablaze with such heat that when the fire dropped no trace of the victimremained. The girl, too, had disappeared, and was never seen again. 

In accordance with the god's decree, no statue was erected, no poem wascomposed, and no entry was made in the city records. But tradition didnot forget that the saviour of the city was he who survived in the greatimage on which the name of the god was inscribed. 

THE AGED TREE

An aged tree, whose companions had gone, having still a little sap inits bark and a few leaves which grew therefrom, prayed it might see yetanother spring. Its prayer was granted: and spring came, but the oldtree had no leaves save one or two near the ground, and a great fungusfixed itself on its trunk. It had a dull life in its roots, but notenough to know that its moss and fungus were not foliage. It stoodthere, an unlovely mass of decay, when the young trees were allbursting. "That rotten thing, " said the master, "ought to have been cutdown long ago. "

CONSCIENCE

"Conscience, " said I, "her conscience would have told her. "

"Yes, " said my father. "The strongest amongst the many objections tothe Roman Catholic doctrine of confession is that it weakens ourdependence on the conscience. If we seek for an external command to dowhat ought to be done in obedience to that inward monitor, whose voiceis always clear if we will but listen, its authority will gradually belost, and in the end it will cease to speak. "

"Conscience, " said my grandmother musingly (turning to my father). "Youwill remember Phyllis Eyre? She was one of my best friends, and it isnow two years since she died, unmarried. She was once governess to thechildren of Sir Robert Walsh, but remained in the house as companion toLady Walsh long after her pupils had grown up. She was, in fact, morethan a companion, for Lady Walsh trusted her and loved her. She was bybirth a lady; she had been well educated, and, like her mistress, shewas devoutly and evangelically pious. She was also very handsome, andthis you may well believe, for, as you know, she was handsome as an oldwoman, stately and erect, with beautiful, undimmed eyes. When EvelinaWalsh, the eldest daughter, was about one and twenty, Charles Fysshe, the young heir to the Fysshe property, came to stay with her brother, and Phyllis soon discovered, or thought she discovered, that he was inlove with Evelina. He seemed to court her society, and paid herattentions which could be explained on one hypothesis only. Phyllis wasdelighted, for the match in every way was most suitable, and mustgladden the hearts of Evelina's parents. The young man would one day bethe possessor of twenty thousand acres; he had already taken a positionin the county, and his soul was believed to be touched with Divinegrace. Evelina certainly was in love with him, and Phyllis was notbackward in urging his claims. She congratulated herself, and withjustice, that if the marriage should ever take place, it would beacknowledged that she had had a hand in it. It might even be doubtedwhether Evelina, without Phyllis's approval, would have permittedherself to indulge her passion, for she was by nature diffident, and sobeset with reasons for and against when she had to make up her mind onany important matter, that a decision was always most difficult to her. 

"Charles stayed for about six weeks, and was then called home. Hepromised that he would pay another visit of a week in the autumn, whenSir Robert was to entertain the Lord Lieutenant and there were to begrand doings at the Hall. Conversation naturally turned upon him duringhis absence, and Phyllis, as usual, was warm in his praise. Oneevening, after she had reached her own room and had lain down to sleep, a strange apparition surprised her. It was something more than asuspicion that she herself loved Charles. She strove to rid herself ofthis intrusion: she called to mind the difference in their rank; thatshe was five years his senior, and that if she yielded she would beguilty of treachery to Evelina. It was all in vain; the more sheresisted the more vividly did his image present itself, and she wasgreatly distressed. What was the meaning of this outbreak of emotion, not altogether spiritual, of this loss of self-possession, such as shehad never known before? Her usual remedies against evil thoughts failedher, and, worst of all, there was the constant suggestion that theseparticular thoughts were not evil. Hitherto, when temptation hadattacked her, she was sure whence it came, but she was not sure now. Itmight be an interposition of Providence, but how would it appear toEvelina? I myself, my dears, have generally found that to resist thedevil is not difficult if I am quite certain that the creature before meis the devil, but it does tax my wits sometimes to find out if he isreally the enemy or not. When Apollyon met Christian he was not indoubt for an instant, for the monster was hideous to behold: he hadscales like a fish, wings like a dragon, feet like a bear, out of hisbelly came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of a lion. After some parleying he cast his dreadful dart, but Christian, withoutmore ado, put up his shield, drew his sword, and presently triumphed. If Satan had turned himself, from his head to his ankles, into a man, and had walked by Christian's side, and had talked with him, and hadagreed with him in everything he had to say, the bear's claws might havepeeped out, but Christian, instead of fighting, would have begun toargue with himself whether the evidence of the face or the foot was thestronger. He would have been just as likely to trust the face, and in afew moments he would have been snapped up and carried off to hell. Togo on with my story: the night wore on in sophistry and struggle, andno inner light dawned with the sun. Phyllis was much agitated, for inthe afternoon Charles was to return, and although amidst the crowd ofvisitors she might be overlooked, she could not help seeing him. Shedid see him, but did not speak to him. He sat next to Evelina atdinner, who was happy and expectant. The next day there was a grandmeet of the hounds, and almost all the party disappeared. Phyllispleaded a headache, and obtained permission to stay at home. It was alovely morning in November, without a movement in the air, calm andcloudless, one of those mornings not uncommon when the year begins todie. She went into the woods at the outer edge of the park, and hadscarcely entered them, when lo! to her astonishment, there was Charles. She could not avoid him, and he came up to her. 

"'Why, Miss Eyre, what are you doing here?'

"'I had a headache; I could not go with the others, and came out for astroll. '

"'I, too, was not very well, and have been left behind. '

"They walked together side by side. 

"'I wanted to speak to you, Miss Eyre. I wonder if you have suspectedanything lately. '

"'Suspected? I do not quite comprehend: you are very vague. '

"'Well, must I be more explicit? Have you fancied that I care more forsomebody you know than I care for all the world besides? I suppose youhave not, for I thought it better to hide as much as possible what Ifelt. '

"'I should be telling an untruth if I were to say I do not understandyou, and I trust you will pardon me if I tell you that a girl moreworthy of you than Evelina, and one more likely to make you happy, Ihave never seen. '

"'Gracious God! what have I done? what a mistake! Miss Eyre, it is youI mean; it is you I love. '

"There was not an instant's hesitation. 

"'Sir, I thank you, but I can answer at once. NEVER can I be yours. That decision is irrevocable. I admire you, but cannot love you. '

"She parted from him abruptly, but no sooner had she left him than shewas confounded, and wondered who or what it was which gave that answer. She wavered, and thought of going back, but she did not. Later on inthe day she heard that Charles had gone home, summoned by suddenbusiness. Two years afterwards his engagement with Evelina wasannounced, and in three years they were married. It was not what Ishould call a happy marriage, although they never quarrelled and hadfive children. To the day of her death Phyllis was not sure whether shehad done right or wrong, nor am I. "

THE GOVERNESS'S STORY

In the year 1850 I was living as governess in the small watering-placeS. , on the south coast of England. Amongst my friends was a youngdoctor, B. , who had recently come to the town. He had not bought apractice, but his family was known to one or two of the principalinhabitants, and he had begun to do well. He deserved his success, forhe was skilful, frank, and gentle, and he did not affect that mysterywhich in his elder colleagues was already suspected to be nothing butignorance. He was one of the early graduates of the University ofLondon, and representative of the new school of medical science, relyingnot so much upon drugs as upon diet and regimen. I was one of his firstpatients. I had a severe illness lasting for nearly three months; hewatched over me carefully and cured me. As I grew better he began totalk on other matters than my health when he visited me. We found thatwe were both interested in the same books: he lent me his and I lenthim mine. It is almost impossible, I should think, for a young man anda young woman to be friends and nothing more, and I confess that mysympathy with him in his admiration of the Elizabethan poets, and mygratitude to him for my recovery passed into affection. I am sure alsothat he felt affection for me. He became confidential, and told me allhis history and troubles. There was one peculiarity in his conversationwhich was new to me: he never talked down to me, and he was not afraidat times to discuss subjects that in the society to which I had beenaccustomed were prohibited. Not a word that was improper ever escapedhis lips, but he treated me in a measure as if I were a man, and I wasflattered that he should put me on a level with himself. It is truethat sometimes I fancied he was so unreserved with me because he wassure he was quite safe, for I was poor. And although I was not ugly Iwas not handsome. However, on the whole, I was very happy in hissociety, and there was more than a chance that I should become his wife. 

After six months of our acquaintanceship had passed, M. , an oldschoolfellow of mine, took lodgings near me for the summer. She was aremarkable girl. If she was not beautiful, she was better-looking thanI was, and she possessed a something, I know not what, more powerfulthan beauty to fascinate men. Perhaps it was her unconstrainednaturalness. In walking, sitting, standing--whatever she did--hermovements and attitudes were not impeded or unduly masked by artificialrestrictions. I should not have called her profound, but what she saidupon the commonest subjects was interesting, because it was so entirelyher own. If she disliked a neighbour, she almost always disliked herfor a reason which we saw, directly it was pointed out to us, to bejust, but it was generally one which had not been given before. Hertalk upon matters externally trivial was thus much more to me than manydiscourses upon the most important topics. On moral questions sheexpressed herself without any regard to prejudices. She did notcontrovert the authenticity of the ordinary standards, but neverthelessbehaved as if she herself were her only law. The people in R. , herlittle native borough, considered her to be dangerous, and I myself wasonce or twice weak enough to wonder that she held on a straight coursewith so little help from authority, forgetting that its support, in sofar as it possesses any vital strength, is derived from the sameinternal source which supplied strength to her. 

When she came to S. She was unwell, and consulted my friend B. He didnot at first quite like attending her, and she reported to me with greatlaughter how she had been told that he had made some inquiries about herfrom one of her neighbours at home with whom he happened to beacquainted, and how he had manoeuvred in his visits to get the servantsor the landlady into the room. I met him soon afterwards, and heinformed me that he had a new patient. When he heard that I knew her--Idid not say how much I knew--he became inquisitive, and at last, aftermuch beating about the bush, knitting his eyebrows and lowering hisvoice, he asked me whether I was aware that she was not quite--quiteABOVE SUSPICION! My goodness, how I flamed up! I defended her withvehemence: I exaggerated her prudence and her modesty; I declared, whatwas the simple truth, that she was the last person in the world againstwhom such a scandalous insinuation should be directed, and that she wassingularly inaccessible to vulgar temptation. I added thatnotwithstanding her seeming lawlessness she was not only remarkablysensitive to any accusation of bad manners, but that upon certainmatters she could not endure even a joke. The only quarrel I rememberto have had with her was when I lapsed into some commonplace jest abouther intimacy with a music-master who gave her lessons. The way in whichshe took that jest I shall never forget. If I had made it to any otherwoman, I should have passed on, unconscious of anything inconsistentwith myself, but she in an instant made me aware with hardly half adozen words that I had disgraced myself. I was ashamed, not so muchbecause I had done what was in the abstract wrong, but because it wassomething which was not in keeping with my real character. I hope itwill not be thought that I am prosing if I take this opportunity ofsaying that the laws peculiar to each of us are those which we are atthe least pains to discover and those which we are most prone toneglect. We think we have done our duty when we have kept thecommandments common to all of us, but we may perhaps have disgracefullyneglected it. 

Oh, how that afternoon with B. Burnt itself into my memory for ever! Iwas sitting on my little sofa with books piled round me. He removed afew of the books, and I removed the others. He sat down beside me, and, taking my hand, said he hoped I had forgiven him, and that I wouldremember that in such a little place he was obliged to be very careful, and to be quite sure of his patients, if they were women. He trusted Ishould believe that there was no other person IN THE WORLD (the emphasison that word!) to whom he would have ventured to impart such a secret. I was appeased, especially when, after a few minutes' silence, he tookmy hand and kissed it, the first and last kiss. He said nothingfurther, and departed. The next time I saw him he was more than usuallydeferential, more than ever desirous to come closer to me, and I thoughtthe final word must soon be spoken. 

M. Remained in S. Till far into the autumn, but I did not see much ofher. My work had begun again. B. Continued to call on me as my healthwas not quite re-established. We had agreed to read the same author atthe same time, in order that we might discuss him together whilst ourimpressions were still fresh. Somehow his interest in these readingsbegan to flag; he informed me presently that I had now almost, entirelyrecovered, and weeks often passed without meeting him. One afternoon Iwas surprised to find M. In my room when I returned from a walk with mypupils. She had been waiting for me nearly half an hour, and I couldnot at first conjecture the reason. Gradually she drew the conversationtowards B. And at last asked me what I thought of him. Instantly I sawwhat had happened. What I imagined was once mine had been stolen, stolen perhaps unconsciously, but nevertheless stolen, my sole treasure. She was rich, she had a father and mother, she had many friends andwould certainly have been married had she never seen B. I, as I havesaid, was almost penniless; I was an orphan, with few friends; he was myfirst love, and I knew he would be my last. 

I was condemned, I foresaw, henceforth to solitude, and that mostterrible of all calamities, heart-starvation. What B. Had said about M. Came into my mind and rose to my lips. I knew, or thought I knew, thatif I revealed it to her she would be so angry that she would cast himoff. Probably I was mistaken, but in my despair the impulse to discloseit was almost irresistible. I struggled against it, however, and whenshe pressed me, I praised him and strove in my praise to be sincere. Whether it was something in my tone, quite unintentional, I know not, but she stopped me almost in the middle of a sentence and said shebelieved I had kept something back which I did not wish her to hear;that she was certain he had talked to me about her, and that she wishedto know what he had said. I protested he had never uttered a word whichcould be interpreted as disparaging her, and she seemed to be content. She kissed me a little more vehemently than usual, and went away. Weought always, I suppose, to be glad when other people are happy, but Godknows that sometimes it is very difficult to be so, and that theirhappiness is hard to bear. 

The Elizabethan studies had now altogether come to an end. In about acouple of months I heard that M. And B. Were engaged. M. Went home, andB. Moved into a larger town. In a twelvemonth the marriage took place, and M. Wrote to me after her wedding trip. I replied, but she neverwrote again. I heard that she had said that I had laid myself out tocatch B. And that she was afraid that in so doing I had hinted there wassomething against her. I heard also that B. Had discouraged his wife'scorrespondence with me, no other reason being given than that he wouldrather the acquaintanceship should be dropped. The interpretation ofthis reason by those to whom it was given can be guessed. Did he fearlest I should boast of what I had been to him or should repeat hiscalumny? Ah, he little knew me if he dreamed that such treachery waspossible to me!

I remained at the vicarage for three years. The children grew up and Iwas obliged to leave, but I continued to teach in different familiestill I was about five-and-forty. After five-and-forty I could notobtain another situation, and I had to support myself by lettingapartments at Brighton. My strength is now failing; I cannot look aftermy servant properly, nor wait upon my lodgers myself. Those who have toget their living by a lodging-house know what this means and what theend will be. I have occasionally again wished I could have seen my waypartially to explain myself to M. , and have thought it hard to diemisrepresented, but I am glad I have not spoken. I should havedisturbed her peace, and I care nothing about justification ormisrepresentation now. With eternity so near, what does it matter?

INSCRIPTION ON THE ENVELOPE. 

"TO MY NIECE JUDITH, --You have been so kind to your aunt, the only humanbeing, at last, who was left to love her, that she could not refrainfrom telling you the one passage in her history which is of anyimportance or interest. "

JAMES FORBES

"It is all a lie, and it is hard to believe that people who preach it donot know it to be a lie. "

So said James Forbes to Elizabeth Castleton, the young woman to whom hewas engaged. She was the daughter of a clergyman, and James, who hadbeen brought up at Rugby and Oxford, was now in his last year at aLondon hospital, and was going to be a doctor. 

"I am sure my father does not know it to be a lie, and I do not myselfknow it to be a lie. "

"I was not thinking of your father, but of the clergy generally, and youDO know it to be a lie. "

"It is not true of my brother, and, excepting my father and brother, youhave not been in company with parsons, as you call them, for half anhour in your life. "

"Do you mean to tell me you have any doubts about this discreditedrubbish?"

"If I have I would rather not speak about them now. Jim, dear Jim, letus drop the subject and talk of something else. "

He was walking by her side, with his hands in his coat pockets. Shedrew out one of his hands; he did not return the pressure, and presentlyreleased himself. 

"I thought you were to be my intellectual companion. I have heard yousay yourself that a marriage which is not a marriage of mind is nomarriage. "

"But, Jim, is there nothing in the world to think about but this?"

"There is nothing so important. Are we to be dumb all our lives aboutwhat you say is religion?"

They separated and soon afterwards the engagement was broken off. Jimhad really loved Elizabeth, but at that time he was furious against whathe called "creeds. " He waited for three or four years till he hadsecured a fair practice, and then married a clever and handsome youngwoman who wrote poems, and had captivated him by telling him a wittystory from Heine. Elizabeth never married. 

Thirty years passed, and Jim, now a famous physician, had to go a longdistance down the Great Western Railway to attend a consultation. AtBath an elderly lady entered the carriage carrying a handbag with theinitials "E. C. " upon it. She sat in the seat farthest away from him onthe opposite side, and looked at him steadfastly. He also looked ather, but no word was spoken for a minute. He then crossed over, fell onhis knees, and buried his head with passionate sobbing on her knees. She put her hands on him and her tears fell. 

"Five years, " at last he said; "I may live five years with care. Shehas left me. I will give up everything and go abroad with you. Fiveyears; it is not much, but it will be something, everything. I shalldie with your face over me. "

The train was slackening speed for Bristol; she bent down and kissedhim. 

"Dearest Jim, " she whispered, "I have waited a long time, but I was surewe should come together again at last. It is enough. "

"You will go with me, then?"

Again she kissed him. "It must not be. "

Before he could reply the train was stopping at the platform, and agentleman with a lady appeared at the door. Miss Castleton stepped outand was at once driven away in a carriage with her companions. 

He lived three years and then died almost suddenly of the disease whichhe had foreseen would kill him. He had no children, but few relatives, and his attendant was a hospital nurse. But the day before his death alady appeared who announced herself as a family friend, and the nursewas superseded. It was Elizabeth: she came to his bedside, and herecognised her. 

"Not till this morning, " she said, "did I hear you were ill. "

"Happy, " he cried, "though I die to-night. "

Soon afterwards--it was about sundown--he became unconscious; she satthere alone with him till the morning broke, and then he passed away, and she closed his eyes. 

ATONEMENT

"You ask me how I lost my foot? You I see that dog?"--an unattractivebeast lying before the fire--"well, when I tell you how I came by himyou will know how I lost it;" and he then related the following story:-

I was in Westmoreland with my wife and children for a holiday and we hadbrought our dog with us, for we knew he would be unhappy with thestrangers to whom we had let our house. The weather was very wet andour lodgings were not comfortable; we were kept indoors for daystogether, and my temper, always irritable, became worse. My wife neverresisted me when I was in these moods and the absence of oppositionprovoked me all the more. Had she stood up against me and told me Iought to be ashamed of myself it would have been better for me. Oneafternoon everything seemed to go wrong. A score of petty vexations, not one of which was of any moment, worked me up to desperation. Ithrew my book across the room, to the astonishment of my children, anddetermined to go out, although it was raining hard. My dog, a brownretriever, was lying on the mat just outside the door, and I nearly fellover him. "God damn you!" said I, and kicked him. He howled with pain, but, although he was the best of house-dogs and would have brought downany thief who came near him, he did not growl at me, and quietlyfollowed me. I am not squeamish, but I was frightened directly the oathhad escaped my lips. I felt as if I had created something horriblewhich I could not annihilate, and that it would wait for me and do mesome mischief. The dog kept closely to my heels for about a mile and Icould not make him go on in front. Usually the least word ofencouragement or even the mere mention of his name would send himscampering with delight in advance. I began to think of something else, but in about a quarter of an hour I looked round and found he was notbehind me. I whistled and called, but he did not come. In a renewedrage, which increased with every step I took, I turned back to seek him. Suddenly I came upon him lying dead by the roadside. Never shall Iforget that shock--the reproach, the appeal of that poor lifelessanimal! I stroked him, I kissed him, I whispered his name in his ear, but it was all in vain. I lifted up his beautiful broad paw which hewas wont to lay on my knee, I held it between my hands, and when I letit go it fell heavily to the ground. I could not carry him home, andwith bitter tears and a kind of dread I drew him aside a little way upthe hill behind a rock. I went to my lodgings, returned towards duskwith a spade, dug his grave in a lonely spot near the bottom of awaterfall where he would never be disturbed, and there I buried him, reverently smoothing the turf over him. What a night that was for me!I was haunted incessantly by the vivid image of the dead body and by theterror which accompanies a great crime. I had repaid all his devotionwith horrible cruelty. I had repented, but he would never know it. Itwas not the dog only which I had slain; I had slain Divine faithfulnessand love. That GOD DAMN YOU sounded perpetually in my ears. TheAlmighty had registered and executed the curse, but it had fallen uponthe murderer and not on the victim. When I rose in the morning Idistinctly felt the blow of the kick in my foot, and the sensationlasted all day. For weeks I was in a miserable condition. A separateconsciousness seemed to establish itself in this foot; there was nothingto be seen and no pain, but there was a dull sort of pressure of which Icould not rid myself. If I slept I dreamed of the dog, and generallydreamed I was caressing him, waking up to the dreadful truth of thecorpse on the path in the rain. I got it into my head--for I was half-crazy--that only by some expiation I should be restored to health andpeace; but how to make any expiation I could not tell. Unhappy is thewretch who longs to atone for a sin and no atonement is prescribed tohim!

One night I was coming home late and heard the cry of "Fire!" I randown the street and found a house in flames. The fire-escape was at thewindow, and had rescued a man, his wife and child. Every livingcreature was safe, I was told, save a dog in the front room on theground-floor. I pushed the people aside, rushed in, half-blinded withsmoke, and found him. I could not escape by the passage, and droppedout of the window into the area with him in my arms. I fell heavily onTHAT foot, and when I was helped up the steps I could not put it to theground. "You may have him for your pains, " said his owner to me; "he isa useless cur. I wouldn't have ventured the singeing of a hair forhim. " "May I?" I replied, with an eagerness which must have seemed verystrange. He was indeed not worth half a crown, but I drew him closelyto me and took him into the cab. I was in great agony, and when thesurgeon came it was discovered that my ankle was badly fractured. Anattempt was made to set it, but in the end it was decided that the footmust be amputated. I rejoiced when I heard the news, and on the day onwhich the operation was performed I was calm and even cheerful. Our owndoctor who came with the surgeon told him I had "a highly nervoustemperament, " and both of them were amazed at my fortitude. The dog isa mongrel, as you see, but he loves me, and if you were to offer me tenthousand golden guineas I would not part with him. 

LETTERS FROM MY AUNT ELEANOR {180} TO HER DAUGHTER SOPHIA, AND AFRAGMENT FROM MY AUNT'S DIARY. 

January 31, 1837. 

My Dearest Child, --It is now a month since your father died. It was asore trial to me that you should have broken down, and that you couldnot be here when he was laid in his grave, but I would not for worldshave allowed you to make the journey. I am glad I forced you away. Thedoctor said he would not answer for the consequences unless you wereremoved. But I must not talk, not even to you. I will write againsoon. 

Your most affectionate mother, ELEANOR CHARTERIS. 

February 5, 1837. 

I have been alone in the library from morning to night every day. Howfoolish all the books look! There is nothing in them which can do meany good. He is NOT: what is there which can alter that fact? Had hedied later I could have borne it better. I am only fifty years old, andmay have long to wait. I always knew I loved him devotedly; now I seehow much I depended on him. I had become so knit up with him that Iimagined his strength to be mine. His support was so continuous and sosoft that I was unconscious of it. How clear-headed and resolute he wasin difficulty and danger! You do not remember the great fire? We werewaked up out of our sleep; the flames spread rapidly; a mob filled thestreet, shouting and breaking open doors. The man in charge of theengines lost his head, but your father was perfectly cool. He got onhorseback, directed two or three friends to do the same; they gallopedinto the town and drove the crowd away. He controlled all theoperations and saved many lives and many thousands of pounds. Is thereany happiness in the world like that of the woman who hangs on such ahusband?

February 10, 1837. 

I feel as if my heart would break if I do not see you, but I cannot cometo your Aunt's house just now. She is very kind, but she would beunbearable to me. Have patience: the sea air is doing you good; youwill soon be able to walk, and then you can return. O, to feel yourhead upon my neck! I have many friends, but I have always needed ahuman being to whom I was everything. To your father I believe I waseverything, and that thought was perpetual heaven to me. My love forhim did not make me neglect other people. On the contrary, it gave themtheir proper value. Without it I should have put them by. When a manis dying for want of water he cares for nothing around him. Satisfy histhirst, and he can then enjoy other pleasures. I was his first love, hewas my first, and we were lovers to the end. I know the world would bedark to you also were I to leave it. Perhaps it is wicked of me torejoice that you would suffer so keenly. I cannot tell how much of meis pure love and how much of me is selfishness. I remember my uncle'sdeath. For ten days or so afterwards everybody in the house lookedsolemn, and occasionally there was a tear, but at the end of a fortnightthere was smiling and at the end of a month there was laughter. I wasbut a child then, but I thought much about the ease and speed with whichthe gap left by death was closed. 

February 20, 1837. 

In a fortnight you will be here? The doctor really believes you will beable to travel? I am glad you can get out and taste the sea air. Icount the hours which must pass till I see you. A short week, and then--"the day after to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow of that day, " andso I shall be able to reach forward to the Monday. It is strange thatthe nearer Monday comes the more impatient I am. 

March 3, 1837. 

With what sickening fear I opened your letter! I was sure it containedsome dreadful news. You have decided not to come till Wednesday, because your cousin Tom can accompany you on that day. I KNOW you arequite right. It is so much better, as you are not strong, that Tomshould look after you, and it would be absurd that you should make thejourney two days before him. I should have reproved you seriously ifyou had done anything so foolish. But those two days are hard to bear. I shall not meet you at the coach, nor shall I be downstairs. Gostraight to the library; I shall be there by myself. 

DIARY. 

January 1, 1838. --Three days ago she died. Henceforth there is noliving creature to whom my existence is of any real importance. Crippled as she was, she could never have married. I might have heldher as long as she lived. She could have expected no love but mine. God forgive me! Perhaps I did unconsciously rejoice in that disabledlimb because it kept her closer to me. Now He has taken her from me. Imay have been wicked, but has He no mercy? "I would speak to theAlmighty, and I desire to reason with God. " An answer in anger couldbetter be borne than this impregnable silence. 

January 3rd. --A day of snow and bitter wind. There were very few at thegrave, and I should have been better pleased if there had been none. What claim had they to be there? I have come home alone, and they nodoubt are comforting themselves with the reflection that it is all overexcept the half-mourning. Her death makes me hate them. Mr. Maxwell, our rector, told me when my child was ill to remember that I had noright to her. "Right!" what did he mean by that stupid word? Howtrouble tries words! All I can say is that from her birth I had ownedher, and that now, when I want her most, I am dispossessed. "Self, self"--I know the reply, but it is unjust, for I would have stood upcheerfully to be shot if I could have saved her pain. Doubly unjust, for my passion for her was a blessing to her as well as to me. 

January 6th. --Henceforth I suppose I shall have to play with people, topretend to take an interest in their clothes and their parties, or, withthe superior sort, to discuss politics or books. I care nothing fortheir rags or their gossip, for Lord Melbourne, Sir Robert Peel, or Mr. James Montgomery. I must learn how to take the tip of a finger insteadof a hand, and to accept with gratitude comfits when I hunger for bread--I, who have known--but I dare say nothing even to myself of my hourswith him--I, who have heard Sophy cry out in the night for me; I, whohave held her hand and have prayed by her bedside. 

January 10th. --I must be still. I have learned this lesson before--thatspeech even to myself does harm. If I admit no conversation nor debatewith myself, I certainly will not admit the chatter of outsiders. Mr. Maxwell called again to-day. "Not a syllable on that subject, " said Iwhen he began in the usual strain. He then suggested that as this housewas too large for me, and must have what he called "melancholyassociations, " I should move. He had suggested this before, when myhusband died. How can I leave the home to which I was brought as abride? how can I endure the thought that strangers are in our room, orin that other room where Sophy lay? Mr. Maxwell would think itsacrilege to turn his church into an inn, and it is a worse sacrilege tome to permit the profanation of the sanctuary which has been consecratedby Love and Death. I do not know what might happen to me if I were toleave. I have been what I am through shadowy nothings which otherpeople despise. To me they are realities and a law. I shall stay whereI am. "A villa, " forsooth, on the outskirts of the town! My existencewould be fractured: it will at least preserve its continuity here. Across the square I can see the house in which I was born, and I canwatch the shadow of the church in the afternoon slowly crossing thechurchyard. The townsfolk stand in the street and go up and down itjust as they did forty years ago--not the same persons, but in a sensethe same people. My brother will call me extravagant if I remain here. He buys a horse and does not consider it extravagant, and my money isnot wasted if I spend it in the only way in which it is of any value tome. 

January 12th. --I had thought I could be dumb, but I cannot. My sorrowcomes in rushes. I lift up my head above the waves for an instant, andimmediately I am overwhelmed--"all Thy waves and Thy billows have goneover me. " My nights are a terror to me, and I fear for my reason. Thatlast grip of Sophy's hand is distinctly on mine now, palpable as thepressure of a fleshly hand could be. It is strange that without anyexternal circumstances to account for it, she and I often thought thesame things at the same moment. She seemed to know instinctively whatwas passing in my mind, so that I was afraid to harbour any unworthythought, feeling sure that she would detect it. Blood of my blood wasshe. She said "goodbye" to me with perfect clearness, and in a quarterof an hour she had gone. In that quarter of an hour there could not bethe extinction of so much. Such a creature as Sophy could notinstantaneously NOT BE. I cannot believe it, but still the volume of mylife here is closed, the story is at an end; what remains will benothing but a few notes on what has gone before. 

January 21st. --I went to church to-day for the first time since thefuneral. Mr. Maxwell preached a dull, doctrinal sermon. Whilst myhusband and Sophy lived, I was a regular attendant at church, and neverthought of disputing anything I heard. It did not make much impressionon me, but I accepted it, and if I had been asked whether I believed it, I should have said, "Certainly. " But now a new standard of belief hasbeen set up in me, and the word "belief" has a different meaning. 

February 3rd. --Whenever I saw anything beautiful I always asked Tom orSophy to look. Now I ask nobody. Early this morning, after the stormin the night, the sky cleared, and I went out about dawn through thegarden up to the top of the orchard and watched the disappearance of thenight in the west. The loveliness of that silent conquest wasunsurpassable. Eighteen months ago I should have run indoors and havedragged Tom and Sophy back with me. I saw it alone now, and althoughthe promise in the slow transformation of darkness to azure moved me totears, I felt it was no promise for me. 

March 1st. --Nothing that is PRESCRIBED does me any good. I cannot leaveoff going to church, but the support I want I must find out for myself. Perhaps if I had been born two hundred years ago, I might have beencaught by some strong enthusiastic organisation and have been a privatein a great army. A miserable time is this when each man has to gropehis way unassisted, and all the incalculable toil of founders ofchurches goes for little or nothing. . . . I do not pray for any morepleasure: I ask only for strength to endure, till I can lie down andrest. I have had more rapture in a day than my neighbours and relationshave had in all their lives. Tom once said to me that he would soonerhave had twenty-four hours with me as his wife than youth and manhoodwith any other woman he ever knew. He said that, not when we were firstmarried, but a score of years afterwards. I remember the place and thehour. It was in the garden one morning in July, just before breakfast. It was a burning day, and massive white clouds were forming themselveson the horizon. The storm on that day was the heaviest I recollect, andthe lightning struck one of our chimneys and dashed it through the roof. His passion was informed with intellect, and his intellect glowed withpassion. There was nothing in him merely animal or merely rational. . .. To endure, to endure! Can there be any endurance without a motive?I have no motive. 

March 10th. --My sister and my brother-in-law came to-day and I wishedthem away. Now that my husband is dead I discover that the frequentvisitors to our house came to see him and not me. There must besomething in me which prevents people, especially women, from beingreally intimate with me. To be able to make friends is a talent which Ido not possess, and if those who call on me are prompted by kindnessonly, I would rather be without them. The only attraction towards mewhich I value is that which is irresistible. Perhaps I am wrong, andought to accept with thankfulness whatever is left to me if it has anysavour of goodness in it. I have no right to compare and to reject. . . I provide myself with little maxims, and a breath comes and sweeps themaway. What is permanent behind these little flickerings is black night:that is the real background of my life. 

April 24th. --I have been to London, and on Easter Sunday I went to HighMass at a Roman Catholic Church. I was obliged to leave, for I wasoverpowered and hysterical. Were I to go often my reason might bedrowned, and I might become a devotee. And yet I do not think I should. If I could prostrate myself at a shrine I should want an answer. When Icame out into the open air I saw again the PLAINNESS of the world: theskies, the sea, the fields are not in accord with incense or gorgeousceremonies. Incense and ceremonies are beyond the facts, and to thefacts we must cleave, no matter how poor and thin they may be. 

May 5th. --If I am ill, I shall depend entirely on paid service. Godgrant I may die suddenly and not linger in imbecility. So much of me isdead that what is left is not worth preserving. Nearly everything Ihave done all my life has been done for love. I shall now have to actfor duty's sake. It is an entire reconstruction of myself, theinsertion of a new motive. I do not much believe in duty, nor, if Iread my New Testament aright, did the Apostle Paul. For Jesus he woulddo anything. That sacred face would have drawn me whither the Law wouldnever have driven me. 

May 7th. --It is painful to me to be so completely set aside. When Tomwas alive I was in the midst of the current of affairs. Few men, exceptMaxwell, come to the house now. My property is in the hands oftrustees. Tom continually consulted me in business matters. I havenothing to look after except my house, and I sit at my window and seethe stream of life pass without touching me. I cannot take up workmerely for the sake of taking it up. Nobody would value it, nor wouldit content me. How I used to pity my husband's uncle, CaptainCharteris! He had been a sailor; he had fought the French; he had beenin imminent danger of shipwreck, and from his youth upwards perpetualdemands had been made upon his resources and courage. At fifty heretired, a strong, active man; and having a religious turn, he helpedthe curate with school-treats and visiting. He pined away and died infive years. The bank goes on. I have my dividends, but not a wordreaches me about it. 

October 10th. --Five months, I see, have passed since I made an entry inmy diary. What a day this is! The turf is once more soft, the treesand hedges are washed, the leaves are turning yellow and are ready tofall. I have been sitting in the garden alone, reading the forty-ninthchapter of Genesis. I must copy the closing verses. It does me good towrite them. 

"And Jacob charged them, and said unto them, I am to be gathered unto mypeople: bury me with my fathers in the cave that is in the field ofEphron the Hittite, in the cave that is in the field of Machpelah, whichis before Mamre, in the land of Canaan, which Abraham bought with thefield of Ephron the Hittite for a possession of a burying-place. Therethey buried Abraham and Sarah his wife; there they buried Isaac andRebekah his wife; and there I buried Leah. The purchase of the fieldand of the cave that is therein was from the children of Heth. And whenJacob had made an end of commanding his sons, he gathered up his feetinto the bed, and yielded up the ghost, and was gathered unto hispeople. " There is no distress here: he gathers up his feet anddeparts. Perhaps our wild longings are unnatural, and yet it seems butnature NOT to be content with what contented the patriarch. Anyhow, wherever and whatever my husband and Sophy are I shall be. This atleast is beyond dispute. 

October 12th. --I do not wish to forget past joys, but I must simplyremember them and not try to paint them. I must cut short any yearningfor them. 

October 20th. --We do not say the same things to ourselves withsufficient frequency. In these days of book-reading fifty fine thoughtscome into our heads in a day, and the next morning are forgotten. Notone of them becomes a religion. In the Bible how few the thoughts are, and how incessantly they are repeated! If my life could be controlledby two or three divine ideas, I would burn my library. I often feelthat I would sooner be a Levitical priest, supposing I believed in myoffice, than be familiar with all these great men whose works arestacked around me. 

October 22nd. --Sometimes, especially at night, the thought not only thatI personally have lost Tom and Sophy, but that the exquisite fabric ofthese relationships, so intricate, so delicate, so highly organised, could be cast aside, to all appearance so wastefully, is almostunendurable. . . . I went up to the moor on the top of the hill thismorning, where I could see, far away, the river broaden and lose itselfin the Atlantic. I lay on the heather looking through it and listeningto it. 

October 23rd. --The 131st Psalm came into my mind when I was on the mooragain. "Neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things toohigh for me. Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child thatis weaned of its mother: my soul is even as a weaned child. "

October 28th--Tom once said to me that reasoning is often a bad guidefor us, and that loyalty to the silent Leader is true wisdom. Wesley, when he was in trouble, asked himself "whether he should fight againstit by thinking, or by not thinking of it, " and a wise man told him "tobe still and go on. " A certain blind instinct seems to carry meforward. What is it? an indication of a purpose I do not comprehend? anorder given by the Commander-in-Chief which is to be obeyed although thestrategy is not understood?

November 3rd. --Palmer, my maid, who has been with me ever since I beganto keep house, was very good-looking at one-and-twenty. When she hadbeen engaged to be married about a twelvemonth, she burned her face andthe burn left a bad scar. Her lover found excuses for breaking off theengagement. He must have been a scoundrel, and I should like to havehad him whipped with wire. She was very fond of him. She had an offerof marriage ten years afterwards, but she refused. I believe she fearedlest the scar, seen every day, would make her husband loathe her. Hercase is worse than mine, for she never knew such delights as mine. 

She has subsisted on mere friendliness and civility. "Oh, " it issuggested at once to me, "you are more sensitive than she is. " How dareI say that? How hateful is the assumption of superior sensitiveness asan excuse for want of endurance!

November 4th. --Ellen Charteris, my husband's cousin, belongs to a RomanCatholic branch of the family, and is an abbess. I remember saying toher that I wondered that she and her nuns could spend such uselesslives. She replied that although she and all good Catholics believe inthe atonement of Christ, they also believe that works of piety in excessof what may be demanded of us, even if they are done in secret, are aset-off against the sins of the world. In this form the doctrine hasnot much to commend itself to me, and it is assumed that the nuns' worksare pious. But in a sense it is true. "The very hairs of your head areall numbered. " The fall of a grain of dust is recorded. 

November 7th--A kind of peace occasionally visits me. It is not theindifference begotten of time, for my husband and my child are nearerand dearer than ever to me. I care not to analyse it. I return to mypatriarch. With Joseph before him, the father, who had refused to becomforted when he thought his son was dead, gathered up his feet intothe bed and slept. 

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN GEORGE LUCY M. A. , AND HIS GODCHILD, HERMIONERUSSELL, B. A. 

My Dear Hermione, --I have sent you my little volume of versetranslations into English, and you will find appended a few attempts atLatin and Greek renderings of favourite English poems. You must tell mewhat you think of them, and you must not spare a single blunder orinelegance. I do not expect any reviews, and if there should be none itwill not matter, for I proposed to myself nothing more than my ownamusement and that of my friends. I would rather have thoroughly goodcriticism from you than a notice, even if it were laudatory, from amagazine or a newspaper. You have worked hard at your Latin and Greeksince we read Homer and Virgil, and you have had better instruction thanI had at Winchester. These trifles were published about three monthsago, but I purposely did not send you a copy then. You are enjoyingyour holiday deep in the country, and may be inclined to pardon thatincurable old idler, your godfather and former tutor, for a waste oftime which perhaps you would not forgive when you are teaching inLondon. Verse-making is out of fashion now. Goodbye. I should like tospend a week with you wandering through those Devonshire lanes if Icould carry my two rooms with me and stick them in a field. 

Affectionately, G. L. 

My Dear Godfather, --The little Musae came safely. My love to you forthem, and for the pretty inscription. I positively refuse to say asingle syllable on your scholarship. I have deserted my Latin andGreek, and they were never good enough to justify me in criticisingyours. I have latterly turned my attention to Logic, History, and MoralPhilosophy, and with the help of my degree I have obtained a situationas teacher of these sciences. I confess I do not regret the change. They are certainly of supreme importance. There is something to belearned about them from Latin and Greek authors, but this can beobtained more easily from modern writers or translations than by thelaborious study of the originals. Do not suppose I am no longersensible to the charm of classical art. It is wonderful, but I havecome to the conclusion that the time spent on the classics, both hereand in Germany, is mostly thrown away. Take even Homer. I admit thegreatness of the Iliad and the Odyssey, but do tell me, my deargodfather, whether in this nineteenth century, when scores of urgentsocial problems are pressing for solution, our young people ought togive themselves up to a study of ancient legends? What, however, areHorace, Catullus, and Ovid compared with Homer? Much in them ispernicious, and there is hardly anything in them which helps us to live. Besides, we have surely enough in Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, andMilton, to say nothing of the poets of this century, to satisfy theimagination of anybody. Boys spend years over the Metamorphoses or thestory of the wars of AEneas, and enter life with no knowledge of thesimplest facts of psychology. I look forward to a time not far distant, I hope, when our whole paedagogic system will be remodelled. Greek andLatin will then occupy the place which Assyrian or Egyptian hieroglyphicoccupies now, and children will be directly prepared for the dutieswhich await them. 

I have in preparation a book which I expect soon to publish, entitledPositive Education. It will appear anonymously, for society beingconstituted as it is, I am afraid that my name on the title-page wouldprevent me from finding employment. My object is to show how the moralfabric can be built up without the aid of theology or metaphysics. Iprofess no hostility to either, but as educational instruments I believethem to be useless. I begin with Logic as the foundation of allscience, and then advance by easy steps (a) to the laws of externalnature commencing with number, and (b) to the rules of conduct, reasonsbeing given for them, with History and Biography as illustrations. Onemodern foreign language, to be learned as thoroughly as it is possibleto learn it in this country, will be included. I desire to banish allmagic in school training. Everything taught shall be understood. It iseasier, and in some respects more advantageous, not to explain, but themischief of habituating children to bow to the unmeaning is so greatthat I would face any inconvenience in order to get rid of it. Allkinds of objections, some of them of great weight, may be urged againstme, but the question is on which side do they preponderate? Is it noobjection to our present system that the simple laws most necessary tosociety should be grounded on something which is unintelligible, that weshould be brought up in ignorance of any valid obligation to obey moralprecepts, that we should be unable to give any account of the commonestphysical phenomena, that we should never even notice them, that weshould be unaware, for example, of the nightly change in the position ofplanets and stars, and that we should nevertheless busy ourselves withniceties of expression in a dead tongue, and with tales about Jupiterand Juno? For what glorious results may we not look when children fromtheir earliest years learn that which is essential, but which now, alas!is picked up unmethodically and by chance? I cannot help saying allthis to you, for your Musae arrived just as my youngest brother camehome from Winchester. He was delighted with it, for he is able to writevery fair Latin and Greek. That boy is nearly eighteen. He does notknow why the tides rise and fall, and has never heard that there hasbeen any controversy as to the basis of ethics. 

Your affectionate godchild, HERMIONE. 

My Dear Hermione, --Your letter was something like a knock-down blow. Iam sorry you have abandoned your old friends, and I felt that youintended to rebuke me for trifling. A great deal of what you say I amsure is true, but I cannot write about it. Whether Greek and Latinought to be generally taught I am unable to decide. I am glad I learnedthem. My apology for my little Musae must be that it is too late toattempt to alter the habits in which I was brought up. Remember, mydear child, that I am an old bachelor with seventy years behind me lastChristmas, and remember also my natural limits. I am not so old, nevertheless, that I cannot wish you God-speed in all your undertakings. 

Your affectionate godfather, G. L. 

My Dear Godfather, --What a blunderer I am! What deplorable want oftact! If I wanted your opinion on classical education or my scheme Isurely might have found a better opportunity for requesting it. It isalways the way with me. I get a thing into my head, and out it comes atthe most unseasonable moment. It is almost as important that what issaid should be relevant as that it should be true. Well, the mistake ismade, and I cannot unmake it. I will not trouble you with anothersyllable--directly at any rate--about Latin and Greek, but I do want toknow what you think about the exclusion of theology and metaphysics fromthe education of the young. I must have DEBATE, so that beforepublication my ideas may become clear and objections may be anticipated. I cannot discuss the matter with my father. You were at college withhim, and you will remember his love for Aristotle, who, as I think, hasenslaved him. If I may say so without offence, you are not aphilosopher. You are more likely, therefore, to give a sound, unprofessional opinion. You have never had much to do with children, but this does not matter; in fact, it is rather an advantage, for actualchildren would have distorted your judgment. What has theology done?It is only half-believed, and its rewards and punishments are too remoteto be of practical service. They are not seen when they are mostrequired. As to metaphysics, its propositions are too loose. They maywith equal ease be affirmed or denied. Conduct cannot be controlled bywhat is shadowy and uncertain. We have been brought up on theology andmetaphysics for centuries, and we are still at daggers drawn uponmatters of life and death. We are as warlike as ever, and not a singlesocial problem has been settled by bishops or professors. I wish to trya more direct and, as I believe, a more efficient method. I wish to seewhat the effect will be of teaching children from their infancy thelesson that morality and the enjoyment of life are identical; that if, for example, they lie, they lose. I should urge this on themperpetually, until at last, by association, lying would becomeimpossible. Restraint which is exercised in accordance with rationalprinciples, inasmuch as it proceeds from Nature, must be moreefficacious than an external prohibition. So with other virtues. Ishould deduce most of them in the same way. If I could not, I shouldlet them go, assured that we could do without them. Now, my deargodfather, do open out to me, and don't put me off. 

Your affectionate godchild, HERMIONE. 

My Dear Hermione, --You terrify me. These matters are really not in myway. I have never been able to tackle big questions. Unhappily for me, all questions nowadays are big. I do not see many people, as you know, and potter about in my garden from morning to night, but Mrs. Lindsayoccasionally brings down her friends from London, and the subjects ofconversation are so immense that I am bewildered. I admit that somepeople are too rich and others are too poor, and that if I could giveyou a vote you should have one, and that boys and girls might be bettertaught, but upon Socialism, Enfranchisement of Women, and EducationalReform, I have not a word to say. Is not this very unsatisfactory?Nobody is more willing to admit it than I am. It is so disappointing intalking to myself or to others to stop short of generalisation and to beobliged to confess that SOMETIMES IT IS AND SOMETIMES IT IS NOT. Ibless my stars that I am not a politician or a newspaper writer. When Iwas young these great matters, at least in our village, were not suchcommon property as they are now. A man, even if he was a scholar, thought he had done his duty by living an honest and peaceable life. Hewas justified if he was kind to his neighbours and amused himself withhis bees and flowers. He had no desire to be remembered for anyachievement, and was content to be buried with a few tears and then tobe forgotten. All Mrs. Lindsay's folk want to do something outsidetheir own houses or parishes which shall make their names immortal. . .. I was interrupted by a tremendous thunderstorm and hail. Thatwonderful rose-bush which, you will recollect, stood on the left-handside of the garden door, has been stripped just as if it had beenscourged with whips. If you have done, quite done with the Orelli youborrowed about two years ago, please let me have it. Why could you notbring it? Mrs. Lindsay was saying only the other day how glad sheshould be if you would stay with her for a fortnight before you returnto town. 

Your affectionate godfather, G. L. 

My Dear Godfather, --I have sent back the Orelli. How I should love tocome and to wander about the meadows with you by the river or sit in theboat with you under the willows. But I cannot, for I have promised tospeak at a Woman's Temperance Meeting next week, and in the weekfollowing I am going to read a paper called "An Educational Experiment, "before our Ethical Society. This, I think, will be interesting. I haveplaced my pupils in difficult historical positions, and have made themtell me what they would have done, giving the reasons. I am thusenabled to detect any weakness and to strengthen character on that side. Most of the girls are embarrassed by the conflict of motives, and I haveto impress upon them the necessity in life of disregarding those whichare of less importance and of prompt action on the stronger. I haveclassified my results in tables, so that it may be seen at a glance whatimpulses are most generally operative. 

But to go back to your letter. I will not have you shuffle. You cansay so much if you like. Talk to me just as you did when we last satunder the cedar-tree. I MUST know your mind about theology andmetaphysics. 

Your affectionate godchild, HERMIONE. 

My Dear Hermione, --I am sorry you could not come. I am sorry that whatpeople call a "cause" should have kept you away. If any of your friendshad been ill; if it had been a dog or a cat, I should not have cared somuch. You are dreadful! Theology and metaphysics! I do not understandwhat they are as formal sciences. Everything seems to me theologicaland metaphysical. What Shakespeare says now and then carries me furtherthan anything I have read in the system-books into which I have looked. I cannot take up a few propositions, bind them into faggots, and say, "This is theology, and that is metaphysics. " There is much "discourseof God" in a May blossom, and my admiration of it is "beyond nature, "but I am not sure upon this latter point, for I do not know in the leastwhat f?s?? or Nature is. We love justice and generosity, and hateinjustice and meanness, but the origin of virtue, the life of the soul, is as much beyond me as the origin of life in a plant or animal, and Ido not bother myself with trying to find it out. I do feel, however, that justice and generosity have somehow a higher authority than I orany human being can give them, and if I had children of my own this iswhat I should try, not exactly to teach them, but to breathe into them. I really, my dear child, dare not attempt an essay on the influencewhich priests and professors have had upon the world, nor am I quiteclear that "shadowy" and "uncertain" mean the same thing. All ultimatefacts in a sense are shadowy, but they are not uncertain. When you tryto pinch them between your fingers they seem unsubstantial, but they arevery real. Are you sure that you yourself stand on solid granite?

Your affectionate godfather, G. L. 

My Dear Godfather, --You are most disappointing and evasive. I gave upthe discussion on Latin and Greek, but I did and do want your reply to amost simple question. If you had to teach children--you surely canimagine yourself in such a position--would you teach them WHAT AREGENERALLY KNOWN AS THEOLOGY AND METAPHYSICS?--excuse the emphasis. Youhave an answer, I am certain, and you may just as well give it me. Iknow that you had rather, or affect you had rather, talk about Catullus, but I also know that you think upon serious subjects sometimes. Thesematters cannot now be put aside. We live in a world in which certainproblems are forced upon us and we are compelled to come to someconclusion upon them. I cannot shut myself up and determine that I willhave no opinion upon Education or Socialism or Women's Rights. The factthat these questions are here is plain proof that it is my duty not toignore them. You hate large generalisations, but how can we existwithout them? They may never be entirely true, but they areindispensable, and, if you never commit yourself to any, you are muchmore likely to be practically wrong than if you use them. 

Take, for example, the Local Veto. I admitted in my speech that thereis much to be urged against it. It might act harshly, and it is quitetrue that poor men in large towns cannot spend their evenings in theirfilthy homes; but I MUST be for it or against it, and I amenthusiastically for it, because on the whole it will do good. So withSocialism. The evils of Capitalism are so monstrous that any remedy isbetter than none. Socialism may not be the direct course: it may be atremendously awkward tack, but it is only by tacking that we get along. So with positive education, but I have enlarged upon this already. Whata sermon to my dear godfather! Forgive me, but you will have to takesides, and do, please, be a little more definite about my book. 

Your affectionate godchild, HERMIONE. 

My Dear Hermione, --I haven't written for some time, for I was unwell fornearly a month. The doctor has given me physic, but my age is reallythe mischief, and it is incurable. I caught cold through sitting out ofdoors after dinner with the rector, a good fellow if he would not smokeon my port. To smoke on good port is a sin. He knows my infirmity, that I cannot sit still long, and he excuses my attendance at church. Would you believe it? When I was very bad, and thought I might die, Iread Horace again, whom you detest. I often wonder what he reallythought upon many things when he looked out on the

 taciturna noctissigna. "

Justice is not often done to him. He saw a long way, but he did notmake believe he saw beyond his limit, and was content with it. A rarevirtue is intellectual content!

"Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibiFinem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec BabyloniosTentaris numeros. "

The rector was telling me about Tom Pavenham's wedding. He has marriedMargaret Loxley, as you may perhaps have seen in the paper I sent you. Mrs. Loxley, her mother, was a Barfield, and old Pavenham, when he was ayouth, fell in love with her. She was also in love with him. He waswell-to-do, and farmed about seven hundred acres, but he was not thoughtgood enough by the elder Barfields, who lived in what was called a park. They would not hear of the match. She was sent to France, and he wentto Buenos Ayres. After some years had passed he married out there, andshe married. His wife died when her first child, a boy, was born. Loxley also died, leaving his wife with an only daughter. Pavenhamretired from business in South America, and came back with his son tohis native village, where he meant to spend the rest of his days. Tomand Margaret were at once desperately smitten with one another. Thefather and mother have kept their own flame alive, and I believe it isas bright as it ever was. It is delightful to see them together. Theycalled on me with the children after the betrothal. He was so courteousand attentive to her, and she seemed to bask in his obvious affection. I noticed how they looked at one another and smiled happily as the boyand girl wandered off together towards the filbert walk. The rectortold me that he was talking to old Pavenham one evening, and said tohim: "Jem, aren't you sometimes sad when you think of what ought tohave happened?" His voice shook a bit as he replied gently: "God bethanked for what we have! Besides, it has all come to pass in Tom andMargaret. "

You must not be angry with me if I say nothing more about PositiveEducation. It is a great strain on me to talk upon such matters, andwhen I do I always feel afterwards that I have said much which is merewords. That is a sure test; I must obey my daemon. I wish I could giveyou what you want for what you have given me; but when do we get what wewant in exchange for what we give? Our trafficking is a clumsy barter. A man sells me a sheep, and I pay him in return with my grandfather'sold sextant. This is not quite true for you and me. Love is given andlove is returned. A Dieu--not adieu. Remember that the world is verybig, and that there may be room in it for a few creatures like

Your affectionate godfather, G. L. 

MRS. FAIRFAX

The town of Langborough in 1839 had not been much disturbed since thebeginning of the preceding century. The new houses were nearly all ofthem built to replace others which had fallen into decay; there were nodrains; the drinking-water came from pumps; the low fever killed thirtyor forty people every autumn; the Moot Hall still stood in the middle ofthe High Street; the newspaper came but once a week; nobody read anybooks; and the Saturday market and the annual fair were the only eventsin public local history. Langborough, being seventy miles from Londonand eight from the main coach-road, had but little communication withthe outside world. Its inhabitants intermarried without crossing fromother stocks, and men determined their choice mainly by equality offortune and rank. The shape of the nose and lips and colour of the eyesmay have had some influence in masculine selection, but not much: thedoctor took the lawyer's daughter, the draper took the grocer's, and thecarpenter took the blacksmith's. Husbands and wives, as a rule, livedcomfortably with one another; there was no reason why they shouldquarrel. The air of the place was sleepy; the men attended to theirbusiness, and the women were entirely apart, minding their householdaffairs and taking tea with one another. In Langborough, dozing as ithad dozed since the days of Queen Anne, it was almost impossible thatany woman should differ so much from another that she could be the causeof passionate preference. 

One day in the spring of 1839 Langborough was stirred to its depths. Nosuch excitement had been felt in the town since the run upon the bank in1825, when one of the partners went up to London, brought down tenthousand pounds in gold with him by the mail, and was met at Thaxtoncross-roads by a post-chaise, which was guarded into Langborough bythree men with pistols. A circular printed in London was received onthat spring day in 1839 by all the respectable ladies in the townstating that a Mrs. Fairfax was about to begin business in Ferry Streetas a dressmaker. She had taken the only house to be let in FerryStreet. It was a cottage with a front and back sitting-room, andbelonged to an old lady in Lincoln, who inherited it from her brother, who once lived in it but had been dead forty years. Before a week hadgone by four-fifths of the population of Langborough had re-inspectedit. The front room was the shop, and in the window was a lay-figureattired in an evening robe of rose-coloured silk, the like of which forstyle and fit no native lady had ever seen. Underneath it was a card--"Mrs. Fairfax, Milliner and Dressmaker. " The circular stated that Mrs. Fairfax could provide materials or would make up those brought to her byher customers. 

Great was the debate which followed this unexpected apparition. WhoMrs. Fairfax was could not be discovered. Her furniture and the lay-figure had come by the waggon, and the only information the driver couldgive was that he was directed at the "George and Blue Boar" in Holbornto fetch them from Great Ormond Street. After much discussion it wasagreed that Mrs. Bingham, the wife of the wine merchant, should call onMrs. Fairfax and inquire the price of a gown. Mrs. Bingham was at thehead of society in Langborough, and had the reputation of being veryclever. It was hoped, and indeed fully expected, that she would be ableto penetrate the mystery. She went, opened the door, a little bellsounded, and Mrs. Fairfax presented herself. Mrs. Bingham's eyes fellat once upon Mrs. Fairfax's dress. It was black, with no ornament, andconstructed with an accuracy and grace which proved at once to Mrs. Bingham that its maker was mistress of her art. Mrs. Bingham, althoughshe could not entirely desert the linendraper's wife, whose husband wasa good customer for brandy, had some of her clothes made in London whenshe stayed with her sister in town, and, to use her own phrase, "knewwhat was what. "

"Mrs. Fairfax?"

A bow. 

"Will you please tell me what a gown would cost made somewhat like thatin the window?"

"For yourself, madam?"

"Yes. "

"Pardon me; I am afraid that colour would not suit you. "

Mrs. Bingham was a stout woman with a ruddy complexion. 

"One colour costs no more than another?"

"No, madam: twelve guineas; that silk is expensive. Will you not takea seat?"

"I am afraid you will find twelve guineas too much for anybody here. Have you nothing cheaper?"

Mrs. Fairfax produced some patterns and fashion-plates. 

"I suppose the gown in the window is your own make?"

"My own make and design. "

"Then you are not beginning business?"

"I hope I may say that I thoroughly understand it. "

The door leading into the back parlour opened, and a little girl aboutnine or ten years old entered. 

"Mother, I want--"

Mrs. Fairfax, without saying a word, gently led the child into theparlour again. 

"Dear me, what a pretty little girl! Is that yours?"

"Yes, she is mine. "

Mrs. Bingham noticed that Mrs. Fairfax did not wear a widow's cap, andthat she had a wedding-ring on her finger. 

"You will find it rather lonely here. Have you been accustomed tosolitude?"

"Yes. That silk, now, would suit you admirably. With less ornament itwould be ten guineas. "

"Thank you: I must not be so extravagant at present. May I look atsomething which will do for walking? You would not, I suppose, make awalking-dress for Langborough exactly as you would have made it inLondon?"

"If you mean for walking about the roads here, it would differ slightlyfrom one which would be suitable for London. "

"Will you show me what you have usually made for town?"

"This is what is worn now. "

Mrs. Bingham was baffled but not defeated. She gave an order for awalking-dress, and hoped that Mrs. Fairfax might be more communicative. 

"Have you any introductions here?"

"None whatever. "

"It is rather a risk if you are unknown. "

"Perhaps you have been exempt from risks: some people are obligedconstantly to encounter them. "

"'Exempt, ' 'encounter, "' thought Mrs. Bingham: "she must have been to agood school. "

"When will you be ready to try on?"

"On Friday, " and Mrs. Fairfax opened the door. 

As Mrs. Bingham went out she noticed a French book lying on a sidetable. 

The day following was Sunday, and Mrs. Fairfax and her daughter were atchurch. They sat at the back, and all the congregation turned onentering, looked at them, and thought about them during the service. They went out as soon as it was over, but Mrs. Harrop, wife of theironmonger, and Mrs. Cobb, wife of the coal merchant, escaped with equalpromptitude and were close behind them. 

"There isn't a crease in that body, " said Mrs. Harrop. 

On Monday Mrs. Bingham was at the post-office. She took care to bethere at the dinner hour, when the postmaster's wife generally came tothe counter. 

"A newcomer, Mrs. Carter. Have you seen Mrs. Fairfax?"

"Once or twice, ma'am. "

"Has she many letters?"

The door between the office and the parlour was open. 

"I've no doubt she will have, ma'am, if her business succeeds. "

"I wonder where she lived before she came here. It is curious, isn'tit, that nobody knows her? Did you ever notice how her letters arestamped?"

"Can't say as I have, ma'am. "

Mrs. Carter shut the parlour door. "The smell of those onions, " shewhispered to her husband, "blows right in here. " She then altered hertone a trifle. 

"One of 'em, Mrs. Bingham, had the Portsmouth postmark on it; but thisis in the strictest confidence, and I should never dream of letting itout to anybody but you, but I don't mind you, because I know you won'trepeat it, and if my husband was to hear me he'd be in a fearful rage, for there was a dreadful row when I told Lady Caroline at Thaxton Manorabout the letters Miss Margaret was getting, and it was found out thatit was me as told her, and some gentleman in London wrote to thePostmaster-General about it. "

"You may depend upon me, Mrs. Carter. " Mrs. Bingham considered she hadcompletely satisfied her conscience when she imposed an oath of secrecyon Mrs. Harrop, who was also self-exonerated when she had imposed asimilar oath on Mrs. Cobb. 

A fortnight after the visit to the post-office there was a tea-party. Mrs. Harrop, Mrs. Cobb, Mrs. Sweeting, the grocer's wife, and MissTarrant, an elderly lady, living on a small annuity, but most genteel, were invited to Mrs. Bingham's. They began to talk of Mrs. Fairfaxdirectly they had tasted the hot buttered toast. They had before themthe following facts: the carrier's deposition that the goods came fromGreat Ormond Street; the lay-figure and what it wore; Mrs. Fairfax'sprices; the little girl; the wedding-ring but no widow's weeds; thePortsmouth postmark; the French book; Mrs. Bingham's new gown, andlastly--a piece of information contributed by Mrs. Sweeting andconsidered to be of great importance, as we shall see presently--thatMrs. Fairfax bought her coffee whole and ground it herself. On thesefacts, nine in all, the ladies had to construct--it was imperative thatthey should construct it--an explanation of Mrs. Fairfax, and it must beconfessed that they were not worse equipped than many a picturesque andsuccessful historian. At the request of the company, Mrs. Bingham wentupstairs and put on the gown. 

"Do you mind coming to the window, Mrs. Bingham?" asked Mrs. Harrop. 

Mrs. Bingham rose and went to the window. Her guests also rose. Sheheld her arms down and then held them up, and was surveyed from everypoint of the compass. 

"I thought it was a pucker, but it's only the shadow, " observed Mrs. Harrop. 

Mrs. Cobb stroked the body and shook the skirt. Not a singledepreciatory criticism was ventured. Excepting the wearer, nobodypresent had seen such a masterpiece. But although for half a lifetimewe may have beheld nothing better than an imperfect actual, we recogniseinstantly the superiority and glory of the realised Ideal when it ispresented to us. Mrs. Harrop, Mrs. Cobb, Mrs. Sweeting, and MissTarrant became suddenly aware of possibilities of which they had nothitherto dreamed. Mrs. Swanley, the linendraper's wife, was degradedand deposed. 

"She must have learned that in London, " said Mrs. Harrop. 

"London! my dear Mrs. Harrop, " replied Mrs. Bingham, "I know Londonpretty well, and how things are cut there. I told you there was aFrench book on the table. Take my word for it, she has lived in Paris. She MUST have lived there. "

"Where is Great Ormond Street, Mrs. Bingham?" inquired Mrs. Sweeting. 

"A great many foreigners live there; it is somewhere near LeicesterSquare. "

Mrs. Bingham knew nothing about the street, but having just concluded aresidence in Paris from the French book, that conclusion led at once toa further conclusion, clear as noonday, as to the quality of the peoplewho inhabited Great Ormond Street, and consequently to the finaldeduction of its locality. 

"Did you not say, Mrs. Sweeting, that she buys her coffee whole?" addedMrs. Bingham, as if inspiration had flashed into her. "If you wantadditional proof that she is French, there it is. "

"Portsmouth, " mused Mrs. Cobb. "You say, Mrs. Bingham, there are a goodmany officers there. Let me see--1815--it's twenty-four years ago sincethe battle. A captain may have picked her up in Paris. I'll be boundthat, if she ever was married, she was married when she was sixteen orseventeen. They are always obliged to marry those French girls whenthey are nothing but chits, I've been told--those of them, least-ways, that don't live with men without being married. That would make herabout forty, and then he found her out and left her, and she went backto Paris and learned dressmaking. "

"But he writes to her from Portsmouth, " said Mrs. Bingham, who had notbeen told that the solitary letter from Portsmouth was addressed in aman's handwriting. 

"He may not have broken with her altogether, " replied Mrs. Cobb. "If heisn't a downright brute he'll want to hear about his daughter. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Sweeting, twitching her eyes as she was wont to dowhen she was about to give an opinion which she knew would disturb anyof her friends, "you may talk as you like, but the last thing Swanleymade for me looked as if it had been to the wash and hung on me to dry. French or English, captain or no captain, I shall go to Mrs. Fairfax. Her character's got nothing to do with her cut. Suppose she ISdivorced; judging from that body of yours, Mrs. Bingham, I shan't haveto send back a pelisse half a dozen times to get it altered. When itcomes to that you get sick of the thing, and may just as well give itaway. "

Mrs. Sweeting occupied the lowest rank in this particular section ofLangborough society. As a grocer Mr. Sweeting was not quite on a levelwith the coal dealer, who was a merchant, nor with the ironmonger, whorepaired ploughs, and he was certainly below Mr. Bingham. Miss Tarrant, never having been "connected with trade"--her father was chief clerk inthe bank--considered herself superior to all her acquaintances, but hervery small income prevented her from claiming her superiority soeffectively as she desired. 

"Mrs. Sweeting, " she said, "I am surprised at you! You do not considerwhat the moral effect on the lower orders of patronising a female ofthis kind will be, probably an abandoned woman. The child, no doubt, was not born in wedlock. We are sinners ourselves if we supportsinners. "

"Miss Tarrant, " retorted Mrs. Sweeting, "I'm the respectable mother offive children, and I don't want any sermons on sin except in church. Ifit wasn't a sin of Swanley to charge me three guineas for that pelisse, and wouldn't take it back, I don't know what sin. "

Mrs. Bingham, although she was accustomed to tea-table disputes, andeven enjoyed them, was a little afraid of Mrs. Sweeting's tongue, andthought it politic to interfere. 

"I agree with you entirely, Mrs. Sweeting, about the inferiority of Mrs. Swanley to this newcomer, but we must consider Miss Tarrant's positionin the parish and her responsibilities. She is no doubt right from herpoint of view. "

So the conversation ended, but Mrs. Fairfax's biography, which was to bepublished under authority in Langborough, was now rounded off andcomplete. She was a Parisian, father and mother unknown, was found inParis in 1815 by Captain Fairfax, who, by her intrigues and threats ofexposure, was forced into a marriage with her. A few years afterwardshe had grounds for a divorce, but not wishing a scandal, consented to acompromise and voluntary separation. He left one child in her custody, as it showed signs of resemblance to its mother, to whom he gave a smallmonthly allowance. She had been apprenticed as a dressmaker in Paris, had returned thither in order to master her trade, and then came back toEngland. In a very little time, so clever was she that she learned tospeak English fluently, although, as Mrs. Bingham at once noticed, theFrench accent was very perceptible. It was a good, intelligible, working theory, and that was all that was wanted. This was Mrs. Fairfaxso far as her female neighbours were concerned. To the men inLangborough she was what she was to the women, but with a difference. When she went to Mr. Sweeting's shop to order her groceries, Mr. Sweeting, notwithstanding the canonical legend of her life, served herhimself, and was much entangled by her dark hair, and was drawn down byit into a most polite bow. Mr. Cobb, who had a little cabin of anoffice in his coal-yard, hastened back to it from superintending thedischarge of a lighter, when Mrs. Fairfax called to pay her little bill, actually took off his hat, begged her to be seated, and hoped she didnot find the last lot of coals dusty. He was now unloading some of thebest Wallsend that ever came up the river, and would take care that thenext half ton should not have an ounce of small in it. 

"You'll find it chilly where you are living, ma'am, but it isn't damp, that's one comfort. The bottom of your street is damp, and down here ina flood anything like what we had fourteen years ago, we are nearlydrowned. If you'll step outside with me I'll show you how high thewater rose. " He opened the door, and Mrs. Fairfax thought it courteousnot to refuse. He walked to the back of his cabin bareheaded, althoughthe morning was cold, and pointed out to her the white paint mark on thewall. She, dropped her receipted bill in the black mud and stooped topick it up. Mr. Cobb plunged after it and wiped it carefully on hissilk pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Cobb's bay window commanded the wholelength of the coal-yard. In this bay window she always sat and workedand nodded to the customers, or gossiped with them as they passed. Sheturned her back on Mrs. Fairfax both when she entered the yard and whenshe left it, but watched her carefully. Mr. Cobb came into dinner, buthis wife bided her time, knowing that, as he took snuff, thehandkerchief would be used. It was very provoking, he was absent-minded, and forgot his usual pinch before he sat down to his meal. Forthree-quarters of an hour his wife was afflicted with painfully uneasyimpatience, and found it very difficult to reply to Mr. Cobb'soccasional remarks. At last the cheese was finished, the snuff-boxappeared, and after it the handkerchief. 

"A pretty mess that handkerchief is in, Cobb. " She always called himsimply "Cobb. "

"Yes, it was an a-a-accident. I must have a clean one. I didn't thinkit was so dirty. "

"The washing of your snuffy handkerchiefs costs quite enough as it is, Cobb, without using them in that way. "

"What way?" said Mr. Cobb weakly. 

"Oh, I saw it all, going out without your hat and standing there like asilly fool cleaning that bit of paper. I wonder what the lightermenthought of you. "

It will already have been noticed that the question what other peoplethought was always the test which was put in Langborough wheneveranything was done or anything happened not in accordance with the usualroutine, and Mrs. Cobb struck at her husband's conscience by referringhim to his lightermen. She continued -

"And you know what she is as well as I do, and if she'd been respectableyou'd have been rude to her, as you generally are. "

"You bought that last new gown of her, and you never had one as fittedyou so well. "

"What's that got to do with it? You may be sure I knew my place when Iwent there. Fit? Yes, it did fit; them sort of women, it stands toreason, are just the women to fit you. "

Mr. Cobb was silent. He was a mild man, and he knew by much experiencehow unprofitable controversy with Mrs. Cobb was. He could not forgetMrs. Fairfax's stooping figure when she was about to pick up the bill. She caused in all the Langborough males an unaccustomed quivering andwarmth, the same in each, physical, perhaps, but salutary, for themonotony of life was relieved thereby and a deference and even a gracewere begotten which did not usually distinguish Langborough manners. Not one of Mrs. Fairfax's admirers, however, could say that she showedany desire for conversation with him, nor could any direct evidence beobtained as to what she thought of things in general. There was, to besure, the French book, and there were other circumstances alreadymentioned from which suspicion or certainty (suspicion, as we have seen, passing immediately into certainty in Langborough) of infidelity ordisreputable conduct followed, but no corroborating word from her couldbe adduced. She attended to her business, accepted orders with thanksand smiles, talked about the weather and the accident to the coach, waspunctual in her attendance at church, calm and inscrutable as theSphinx. The attendance at church was, of course, set down to "businessconsiderations, " and was held to be quite consistent with the scepticismand loose morality deducible from the French book and the ungroundcoffee. 

In speaking of the male creatures of the town we have left out Dr. Midleton. He was forty-eight years old, and had been rector twentyyears. He had obtained high mathematical honours at Cambridge, andbecame a tutor in a grammar school, but was soon presented by hiscollege with the living of Langborough. He was tall, spare, clean-shaven, grey-eyed, dark-haired, thin-faced, his lips were curved andcompressed, and he stooped slightly. He was a widower with no children, and the Rectory was efficiently kept in order by an aged housekeeper. Tractarianism had not arisen in 1839, but he was High Church and anenemy to all kinds of fanaticism, apt to be satirical, even in hissermons, on the right of private judgment to interpret texts as itpleased in ignorance of Hebrew and Greek. He was respected and fearedmore than any other man in the parish. He had a great library, and hadtaken up archaeology as a hobby. He knew the history of every church inthe county, and more about the Langborough records than was known by thetown clerk. He was chairman of a Board of Governors charged with theadministration of wealthy trust for alms and schools. When he firsttook office he found that this trust was controlled almost entirely by aman named Jackson, a local solicitor, whose salary as clerk was 400pounds a year and who had a large private practice. The alms wereallotted to serve political purposes, and the headmaster of the schoolenjoyed a salary of 800 pounds a year for teaching forty boys, of whomtwenty were boarders. Mr. Midleton--he was Mr. Midleton then--very soondetermined to alter this state of things. Jackson went about sneeringat the newcomer who was going to turn the place upside down, and havingbeen accustomed to interfere in the debates in the Board-room, interrupted the Rector at the third or fourth meeting. 

"You'll get yourself in a mess if you do that, Mr. Chairman. "

"Mr. Jackson, " replied the Rector, rising slowly, "it may perhaps savetrouble if I remind you now, once for all, that I am chairman and youare the clerk. Mr. Bingham, you were about to speak. "

It was Dr. Midleton who obtained the new Act of Parliament remodellingthe trust, whereby a much larger portion of its funds was devoted toeducation. Jackson died, partly from drink and partly from spite andvexation, and the headmaster was pensioned. The Rector was not popularwith the middle class. He was not fond of paying visits, but he neverneglected his duty, and by the poor was almost beloved, for he wascareless and intimate in his talk with them and generous to realdistress. Everybody admired his courage. The cholera in 1831 was verybad in Langborough, and the people were in a panic at the new disease, which was fatal in many cases within six hours after the first attack. The Rector through that dark time was untouched by the contagious dreadwhich overpowered his parishioners, and his presence carried confidenceand health. On the worst day, sultry, stifling, with no sun, anindescribable terror crept abroad, and Mr. Cobb, standing at his gate, was overcome by it. In five minutes he had heard of two deaths, and hebegan to feel what were called "premonitory symptoms. " He carried abrandy flask in his pocket, brandy being then considered a remedy, andhe drank freely, but imagined himself worse. He was about to rushindoors and tell Mrs. Cobb to send for the surgeon, when the Rectorpassed. 

"Ah, Mr. Cobb! I was just about to call on you; glad to see you lookingso well when there's so much sickness. We shall want you on the SchoolCommittee this evening, " and then he explained some business which wasto be discussed. Mr. Cobb afterwards was fond of telling the story ofthis interview. 

"Would you believe it?" said he. "He spoke to me about nothing much butthe trust, but somehow my stomach seemed quieter at once. The sinking--just HERE, you know--was dreadful before he came up, and the brandy wasno good. It was a something in his way that did it. "

Dr. Midleton was obliged to call on Mrs. Fairfax as a newcomer. Hefound Mrs. Harrop there, and Mrs. Fairfax asked him to step into theback parlour, into which no one in Langborough had hitherto beenadmitted. Gowns were tried on in the shop, the door being bolted andthe blind drawn. Dr. Midleton found four little shelves of books on thecupboard by the side of the fireplace. Some were French, but most ofthem were English. Although it was such a small collection, his book-lover's instinct compelled him to look at it. His eyes fell upon aReligio Medici, and he opened it hastily. On the fly-leaf was written"Mary Leighton, from R. L. " He had just time, before its owner entered, to replace it and to muse for an instant. 

"Richard Leighton of Trinity: it is not a common name, but it cannot behe--have lost sight of him for years; heard he was married, and came tono good. "

He was able to watch her for a minute as she stood by the table givingsome directions to her child, who was sent on an errand. In that minutehe saw her as she had not been seen by anybody in Langborough. To Mrs. Bingham and her friends Mrs. Fairfax was the substratum of a body andskirt, with the inestimable advantage over a substratum of cane andpadding that a scandalous history of it could be invented and believed. To Langborough men, married and single, she was a member of "the sex, "as women were called in those days, who possessed in a remarkable degreethe power of exciting that quivering and warmth we have alreadyobserved. Dr. Midleton saw before him a lady, tall but delicatelybuilt, with handsome face and dark brown hair just streaked with grey, and he saw also diffused over every feature a light which in her eyes, forward-looking and earnest, became concentrated into a vivid, steadyflame. The few words she spoke to her daughter were sharply cut, adelightful contrast in his ear to the dialect to which he wasaccustomed, distinguished by its universal vowel and suppression of theconsonants. How he inwardly rejoiced to hear the sound of the second"t" in the word "distinct, " when she told her little messenger that Mr. Cobb had been "distinctly" ordered to send the coals yesterday. Heremained standing until the child had gone. 

"Pray be seated, " she said. She went to the fireplace, leaned on themantelpiece, and poked the fire. The attitude struck him. She wasabout to put some coals in the grate, but he interfered with an "Allowme, " and performed the office for her. She thanked him simply, and satdown opposite to him, facing the light. She began the conversation. 

"It is good of you to call on me; calling on people, especially onnewcomers must be an unpleasant part of a clergyman's duty. "

"It is so, madam, sometimes--there are not many newcomers. "

"It is an advantage in your profession that you must generally begoverned by duty. It is often easier to do what we are obliged to do, even if it be disagreeable, than to choose our path by our likes anddislikes. "

The bell rang, and Mrs. Fairfax went into the shop. 

"Who can she be?" said the Doctor to himself. Such an experience asthis he had not known since he had been rector. Langborough did notdeal in ideas. It was content to affirm that Miss Tarrant now and thengave herself airs, that Mrs. Sweeting had a way of her own, that Mr. Cobb lacked spirit and was downtrodden by his wife. 

She returned and sat down again. 

"You know nobody in these parts, Mrs. Fairfax?"

"Nobody. "

"Yours is a bold venture, is it not?"

"It is--certainly. A good many plans were projected, of which this wasone, and there were equal difficulties in the way of all. When that isthe case we may almost as well draw lots. "

"Ah, that is what I often say to some of the weaker sort among myparishioners. I said it to poor Cobb the other day. He did not knowwhether he should do this or do that. 'It doesn't matter much, ' said I, 'what you do, but do something. DO it, with all your strength. '"

The Doctor was thoroughly Tory, and he slid away to his favouritedoctrine. 

"Our ancestors, madam, were not such fools as we often take them to be. They consulted the sortes or lots, and at the last election--we have apotwalloping constituency here--three parts of the voters would havedone better if they had trusted to the toss-up of a penny instead oftheir reason. "

Mrs. Fairfax leaned back in her chair. Dr. Midleton noticed herwedding-ring, and also a handsome sapphire ring. She spoke ratherslowly and meditatively. 

"Life is so complicated; so few of the consequences of many actions ofthe greatest moment can be foreseen, that the belief in the lot is notunnatural. "

"You have some books, I see--Sir Thomas Browne. " He took down thevolume. 

"Leighton! Leighton! how odd! Was it Richard Leighton?"

"Yes. "

"Really; and you knew him?"

"He was a friend of my brother. "

"Do you know what has become of him? He was at Cambridge with me, butwas younger. "

"I have not seen him for some time. Do you mind if I open the window alittle?"

"Certainly not. "

She stood at the window for a moment, looking out on the garden, withher hand on the top of the sash. The Doctor had turned his chair alittle and his eyes were fixed on her there with her uplifted arm. Apicture which belonged to his father instantly came back to him. Herecollected it so well. It represented a woman watching a young man ina courtyard who is just mounting his horse. We are every now and thenreminded of pictures by a group, an attitude, or the arrangement of alandscape which, thereby, acquires a new charm. 

Suddenly the shop bell rang again, and Mrs. Fairfax's little girl rushedinto the parlour. She had fallen down and cut her wrist terribly with apiece of a bottle containing some harts-horn which she had to buy at thedruggist's on her way home from Mr. Cobb's. The blood flowed freely, but Mrs. Fairfax, unbewildered, put her thumb firmly on the wrist justabove the wound and instructed the doctor how to use his pocket-handkerchief as a tourniquet. As he was tying it, although such carefulattention to the operation was necessary, he noticed Mrs. Fairfax'shands, and he almost forgot himself and the accident. 

"There is glass in the wrist, " she said. "Will you kindly fetch thesurgeon? I do not like to leave. "

He went at once, and fortunately met him in his gig. 

On the third day after the mishap Dr. Midleton thought he ought toinquire after the child. The glass had been extracted and she was doingwell. Her mother was at work in the back-parlour. She made no apologyfor her occupation, but laid down her tools. 

"Pray go on, madam. "

"Certainly not. I am afraid I might make a mistake with my scissors ifI were to listen to you; or, worse, if I were to pay attention to them Ishould not pay attention to you. "

He smiled. "It is an art, I should think, which requires not only muchattention but practice. "

She evaded the implied question. "It is difficult to fit, but it ismore difficult to please. "

"That is true in my own profession. "

"But you are not obliged to please. "

"No, not obliged, I am happy to say. If my parishioners do not hear thetruth I have no excuse. It must be rather trying to the temper of alady like yourself to humour the caprices of the vulgar. "

"No; they are my customers, and even if they are unpleasant they are sonot to me personally but to their servant, who ceases to be theirservant when she ceases to be employed upon their clothes. "

"You are a philosopher, madam; that sentiment is worthy of Epictetus. "

"I have read Epictetus in Mrs. Carter's translation. "

"You have read Epictetus? That is remarkable! I should think no otherwoman in the county has read him. " He leaned forward a little and hisface was lighted up. "I have a library, madam, a large library; Ishould like to show it to you, if--if it can be managed withoutdifficulty. "

"It will give me great pleasure to see it some day. It must be adelightful solace to you in a town like this, in which I daresay youhave but few friends. I suppose, though, you visit a good deal?"

"No; I do not visit much. I differ from my brother Sinclair in the nextparish. He is always visiting. What is the consequence?--gossip and, as I conceive, a loss of dignity and self-respect. I will go whereverthere is trouble or wherever I am wanted, but I will not go anywhere foridle talk. "

"I think you are right. A priest should not make himself cheap andcommon. He should be representative of sacred interests superior to theordinary interests of life. "

"I am grateful to you, madam, very grateful to you for theseobservations. They are as just as they are unusual. I sincerely hopethat we--" But there was a knock at the door. 

"Come in. " It was Mrs. Harrop. "Your bell rang, Mrs. Fairfax, butmaybe you didn't hear it as you were engaged in conversation. Goodmorning, Dr. Midleton. I hope I don't intrude?"

"No, you do not. "

He bowed to the ladies, and as he went out, the parlour-door being open, he moved the outer door backwards and forwards. 

"It would be as well, Mrs. Fairfax, to have a bell hung there whichwould act properly. "

"I don't know quite what Dr. Midleton means, " said Mrs. Harrop when hehad gone. "The bell did ring, loud enough for most people to have heardit, and I waited ever so long. "

He walked down the street with his customary firm step, and met Mr. Bingham who stopped him, half smiling and not quite at his ease. 

"We are sorry, Doctor, you did not give Hutchings your vote for thealmshouse last Thursday; we expected you would have gone with us. "

"You expected? Why?"

"Well, you see, sir, Hutchings has always worked hard for our side. "

"I am astonished, Mr. Bingham, that you should suppose that I will everconsent to divert the funds of a trust for party purposes. "

Mr. Bingham, although he had just determined to give the Doctor a bit ofhis mind, felt his strength depart from him. His sentences lacked powerto stand upright and fell sprawling. "No offence, Doctor, I merelywanted you to know--not so much my own views--difficulty to keep ourfriends together. Short--you know Tom Short--was saying to me he wasafraid--"

"Pay no attention to fools. Good morning. "

The Doctor came in that night from a vestry meeting to which he wentafter dinner. The clock was striking nine, the chimes played theirtune, and as the last note sounded the housekeeper and servants filedinto the study for prayers. Prayers over they rose and went out, and hesat down. His habits were becoming fixed and for some years he hadalways read in the evening the friends of his youth. No sermon wascomposed then; no ecclesiastical literature was studied. Pope and Swiftwere favourites and, curiously enough, Lord Byron. His case is notuncommon, for it often happens that men who are forced into reserve oropposition preserve a secret, youthful, poetic passion and are even keptalive by it. On this particular evening, however, Pope, Byron, andSwift remained on his shelves. He meditated. 

"A wedding-ring on her finger; no widow's weeds; he may nevertheless bedead--I believe I heard he was--and she has discontinued that frightfuldisfigurement. Leighton had the thickest crop of black hair I ever sawon a man: what thick, black hair that child has! A lady; a reader ofbooks; nobody to be compared with her here. " At this point he rose andwalked about the room for a quarter of an hour. He sat down again andtook up an important paper about the Trust. He had forgotten it and itwas to be discussed the next day. His eyes wandered over it but he paidno attention to it; and somewhat disgusted with himself he went to bed. 

Mrs. Fairfax had happened to tell him that she was fond of walking soonafter breakfast before she opened her shop, and generally preferred thelane on the west side of the Common. From his house the direct road tothe lane lay down the High Street, but about a fortnight after thatevening in his study he found himself one morning in Deadman's Rents, anarrow, dirty alley which led to the east side of the Common. Deadman'sRents was inhabited by men who worked in brickyards and coalyards, whodid odd jobs, and by washerwomen and charwomen. It contained also threebeershops. The dwellers in the Rents were much surprised to see theDoctor amongst them at that early hour, and conjectured he must havecome on a professional errand. Every one of the Deadman ladies who wasat her door--and they were generally at their doors in the daytime--vigilantly watched him. He went straight through the Rents to theCommon, whereupon Mrs. Wiggins, who supported herself by the sale offirewood, jam, pickles, and peppermints, was particularly disturbed andwas obliged to go over to the "Kicking Donkey, " partly to communicatewhat she had seen and partly to ward off by half a quartern of rum thesinking which always threatened her when she was in any way agitated. When he reached the common it struck him that for the first time in hislife he had gone a roundabout way to escape being seen. Some peoplenaturally take to side-streets; he, on the contrary, preferred the HighStreet; it was his quarter-deck and he paraded it like a captain. "Washe doing wrong?" he said to himself. Certainly not; he desired a littleintelligent conversation and there was no need to tell everybody what hewanted. It was unfortunate, nevertheless, that it was necessary to gothrough Deadman's Rents in order to get it. He soon saw Mrs. Fairfaxand her little girl in front of him. He overtook her, and she showed nosurprise at seeing him. 

"I have been thinking, " said he, "about what you told me"--this was areference to an interview not recorded. "I am annoyed that Mrs. Harropshould have been impertinent to you. "

"You need not be annoyed. The import of a word is not fixed. Ifanything annoying is said to me, I always ask myself what it means--notto me but to the speaker. Besides, as I have told you before, shopinsolence is nothing. "

"You may be justified in not resenting it, but Mrs. Harrop cannot beexcused. I am not surprised to find that she can use such language, butI am astonished that she should use it to you. It shows an utter lackof perception. Your Epictetus has been studied to some purpose. "

"I have quite forgotten him. I do not recollect books, but I neverforget the lessons taught me by my own trade. "

"You have had much trouble?"

"I have had my share: probably not in excess. It is difficult foranybody to know whether his suffering is excessive: there is no meansof measuring it with that of others. "

"Have you no friends with whom you can share it?"

"I have known but one woman intimately, and she is now dead. I haveknown two or three men whom I esteemed, but close friendship between awoman and a man, unless he is her husband, as a rule is impossible. "

"Do you really think so?"

"I am certain of it. I am speaking now of a friendship which wouldjustify a demand for sympathy with real sorrows. "

They continued their walk in silence for the next two or three minutes. 

"We are now near the end of the lane. I must turn and go back. "

"I will go with you. "

"Thank you: I should detain you: I have to make a call on business atthe White House. Good morning. "

They parted. 

Dr. Midleton presently met Mrs. Jenkins of Deadman's Rents, who wasgoing to the White House to do a day's washing. A few steps further hemet Mr. Harrop in his gig, who overtook Mrs. Fairfax. Thus it came topass that Deadman's Rents and the High Street knew before nightfall thatDr. Midleton and Mrs. Fairfax had been seen on the Common that morning. Mrs. Jenkins protested, that "if she was to be burnt alive with fuz-faggits and brimstone, nothink but what she witnessed with her own eyesshould pass her lips, whatsomever she might think, and although theywere a-walkin'--him with his arm round her waist--she did NOT see him a-kissin' of her--how could she when they were a hundred yards off?"

The Doctor prolonged his stroll and reached home about half-past eleven. A third of his life had been spent in Langborough. He remembered theday he came and the unpacking of his books. They lined the walls of hisroom, some of them rare, all of them his friends. Nobody in Langboroughhad ever asked him to lend a single volume. The solitary scholar neverforsook his studies, but at times he sighed over them and they seemed alittle vain. They were not entirely without external effect, for Popeand Swift in disguise often spoke to the vestry or the governors, andthe Doctor's manners even in the shops were moulded by his intercoursewith the classic dead. Their names, however, in Langborough were almostunknown. He had now become hardened by constant unsympathetic contact. Suddenly a stranger had appeared who was an inhabitant of his own worldand talked his own tongue. The prospect of genuine intercoursedisclosed itself. None but those who have felt it can imagine therelief, the joyous expansion, which follow the discovery after longyears of imprisonment with decent people of a person before whom it isunnecessary to stifle what we most care to express. No wonder he wasexcited!

But the stranger was a woman. He meditated much that morning on hersingular aptitude for reflection, but he presently began to dream overfigure, hair, eyes, hands. A picture in the most vivid colours painteditself before him, and he could not close his eyes to it. He wasdistressed to find himself the victim of this unaccustomed tyranny. Hedid not know that it is impossible for a man to love a woman's soulwithout loving her body. There is no such thing as a spiritual loveapart from a corporeal love, the one celestial and the other earthly, and the spiritual love begets a passion peculiar in its intensity. Hewas happily diverted by Mr. Bingham, who called about a coming contestedelection for the governorships. 

Next week there was another tea-party at Mrs. Cobb's. The ladies werein high spirits, for a subject of conversation was assured. If therehad been an inquest, or a marriage, or a highway robbery before one ofthese parties, or if the contents of a will had just been made known, orstill better, if any scandal had just come to light, the guests werealways cheerful. Now, of course, the topic was Dr. Midleton and Mrs. Fairfax. 

"When I found him in that back parlour, " said Mrs. Harrop, "I thought hewasn't there to pay the usual call. Somehow it didn't seem as if he waslike a clergyman. I felt quite queer: it came over me all of a sudden. And then we know he's been there once or twice since. "

"I don't wonder at your feeling queer, Mrs. Harrop, " quoth Mrs. Cobb. "I'm sure I should have fainted; and what brazen boldness to walk outtogether on the Common at nine o'clock in the morning. That girl whobrought in the tea--it's my belief that a young man goes after her--buteven they wouldn't demean themselves to be seen at it just afterbreakfast. "

"You don't mean to say as your Deborah encourages a man, Mrs. Cobb! Idon't know what we are a-comin' to. You've always been so particular, and she seemed so respectable. I AM sorry. "

Mrs. Cobb did not quite relish Mrs. Harrop's pity. 

"You may be sure, Mrs. Harrop, she was respectable when I took her, andif she isn't I shan't keep her. I AM particular, more so than mostfolk, and I don't mind who knows it. " Mrs. Cobb threw back her capstrings. The denial that she minded who knew it may not appearrelevant, but desiring to be spiteful she could not at the moment find abetter way of showing her spite than by declaring her indifference tothe publication of her virtues. If there was no venom in the substanceof the declaration there was much in the manner of it. Mrs. Binghambrought back the conversation to the point. 

"I suppose you've heard what Mrs. Jenkins says? Your husband also, Mrs. Harrop, met them both. "

"Yes he did. He was not quite in time to see as much as Mrs. Jenkinssaw, and I'm glad he didn't. I shouldn't have felt comfortable if I'dknown he had. A clergyman, too! it is shocking. A nice business, this, for the Dissenters. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Bingham, "what are we to do? I had thought of goingto her and giving her a bit of my mind, but she has got that yellow gownto make. What is your opinion, Miss Tarrant?"

"I would not degrade myself, Mrs. Bingham, by any expostulations withher. I would have nothing more to do with her. Could you not relieveher of the unfinished gown? Mrs. Swanley, I am sure, under thecircumstances would be only too happy to complete it for you. "

"Mrs. Swanley cannot come near her. I should look ridiculous in herbody and one of Swanley's skirts. "

"As to the Doctor, " continued Miss Tarrant, "I wonder that he can expectto maintain any authority in matters of religion if he marries adressmaker of that stamp. It would be impossible even if her characterwere unimpeachable. I am astonished, if he wishes to enter into thematrimonial state, that he does not seek some one who would be able tosupport him in his position and offer him the sympathy which a man whohas had a University education might justifiably demand. "

Mrs. Sweeting had hitherto listened in silence. Miss Tarrant provokedher. 

"It's all a fuss about nothing, that's my opinion. What has she donethat you know to be wrong? And as to the Doctor, he's got a right toplease himself. I'm surprised at you, Miss Tarrant, for YOU'VE alwaysstuck for him through thick and thin. As for that Mrs. Jenkins, I'lltake my Bible oath that the last time she washed for me she stunk of ginenough to poison me, and went away with two bits of soap in her pocket. You may credit what she says: _I_ don't, and never demean myself tolisten to her. "

The ladies came to no conclusion. Mrs. Bingham said that she hadsuggested a round robin to Dr. Midleton, but that her husband decidedly"discountenanced the proposal. " Within a fortnight the election ofgovernors was to take place. There was always a fight at theseelections, and this year the Radicals had a strong list. The Doctor, whose term of office had expired, was the most prominent of the Tory andChurch candidates, and never doubted his success. He was ignorant ofall the gossip about him. One day in that fortnight he might have beenseen in Ferry Street. He went into Mrs. Fairfax's shop and was invitedas before into the back parlour. 

"I have brought you a basket of pears, and the book I promised you, theUtopia. " He sat down. "I am afraid you will think my visits toofrequent. "

"They are not too frequent for me: they may be for yourself. "

"Ah! since I last entered your house I have not seen any books exceptingmy own. You hardly know what life in Langborough is like. "

"Does nobody take any interest in archaeology?"

"Nobody within five miles. Sinclair cares nothing about it: he is LowChurch, as I have told you. "

"Why does that prevent his caring about it?"

"Being Low Church he is narrow-minded, or, perhaps it would be morecorrect to say, being narrow-minded he is Low Church. He is anindifferent scholar, and occupies himself with his religious fancies andthose of his flock. He can reign supreme there. He is not troubled inthat department by the difficulties of learning and is not exposed tocriticism or contradiction. "

"I suppose it is a fact of the greatest importance to him that he andhis parishioners have souls to be saved, and that in comparison withthat fact others are immaterial. "

"We all believe we have souls to be saved. Having set forth God's wayof saving them we have done all we ought to do. God's way is notsufficient for Sinclair. He enlarges it out of his own head, andinstructs his silly, ignorant friends to do the same. He will not besatisfied with what God and the Church tell him. "

"God and the Church, according to Dr. Midleton's account, have not beenvery effective in Langborough. "

"They hear from me, madam, all I am commissioned to say, and if they donot attend I cannot help it"

"I have read your paper in the Archaeological Transactions on thehistory of Langborough Abbey. It excited my imagination, which is neverexcited in reading ordinary histories. In your essay I am in companywith the men who actually lived in the time of Henry the Second andHenry the Eighth. I went over the ruins again, and found them much morebeautiful after I understood something about them. "

"Yes: exactly what I have said a hundred times: knowledge isindispensable. "

"If you had not pointed it out, I should never have noticed the EarlyEnglish doorway in the Chapter-house, so distinct in style from theRefectory. "

"You noticed the brackets of that doorway: you noticed the quatrefoilsin the head? The Refectory is later by three centuries, and isexquisite, but is not equal to the Chapter-house. "

"Yes, I noticed the brackets and quatrefoils particularly. If knowledgeis not necessary in order that we may admire, its natural tendency is todeepen our admiration. Without it we pass over so much. In my ownsmall way I have noticed how my slight botanical knowledge of flowers bythe mere attention involved increases my wonder at their loveliness. "

There was the usual interruption by the shop-bell. How he hated thatbell! Mrs. Fairfax answered it, closing the parlour door. The customerwas Mrs. Bingham. 

"I will not disturb you now, Mrs. Fairfax. I was going to say somethingabout the black trimming you recommended. I really think red would suitme better, but, never mind, I will call again as I saw the Doctor comein. He is rather a frequent visitor. "

"Not frequent: he comes occasionally. We are both interested in asubject which I believe is not much studied in Langborough. "

"Dear me! not dressmaking?"

"No, madam, archaeology. "

Mrs. Bingham went out once more discomfited, and Mrs. Fairfax returnedto the parlour. 

"I am sure I am taking up too much of your time, " said the Doctor, "butI cannot tell you what a privilege it is to spend a few minutes with alady like yourself. "

Mrs. Fairfax was silent for a minute. 

"Mrs. Bingham has been here, and I think I ought to tell you that shehas made some significant remarks about you. Forgive me if I suggestthat we should partially, at any rate, discontinue our intercourse. Ishould be most unhappy if your friendship with me were to do you anyharm. "

The Doctor rose in a passion, planting his stick on the floor. 

"When the cackling of the geese or the braying of the asses onLangborough Common prevent my crossing it, then, and not till then, willmy course be determined by Mrs. Bingham and her colleagues. "

He sat down again with his elbow on the arm of the chair and halfshading his eyes with his hand. His whole manner altered. Not a traceof the rector remained in him: the decisiveness vanished from hisvoice; it became musical, low, and hesitating. It was as if some angelhad touched him, and had suddenly converted all his strength intotenderness, a transformation not impossible, for strength is tendernessand tenderness is strength. 

"I shall be forty-nine years old next birthday, " he said. "Never untilnow have I been sure that I loved a woman. I was married when I wastwenty-five. I had seen two or three girls whom I thought I could love, and at last chose one. It was the arbitrary selection of a weary will. My wife died within two years of her marriage. After her death I wasthrown in the way of women who attracted me, but I wavered. If I madeup my mind at night, I shrank back in the morning. I thought myirresolution was mere cowardice. It was not so. It was a warning thatthe time had not come. I resolved at last that there was to be nochange in my life, that I would resign myself to my lot, expect noaffection, and do the duty blindly which had been imposed upon me. Buta miracle has been wrought, and I have a perfectly clear direction:with you for the first time in my life I am SURE. You have known whatit is to be in a fog, unable to tell which way to turn, and all at oncethe cold, wet mist was lifted, the sun came out, the fields were lightedup, the sea revealed itself to the horizon, and your road lay straightbefore you stretching over the hill. I will not shame myself byapologies that I am no longer young. My love has remained with me. Itis a passion for you, and it is a reverence for a mind to which it willbe a perpetual joy to submit. "

"God pardon me, " she said after a moment's pause, "for having drawn youto this! I did not mean it. If you knew all you would forgive me. Itcannot, cannot be! Leave me. " He hesitated. "Leave me, leave me atonce!" she cried. 

He rose, she took his right hand in both of hers: there was one lookstraight into his eyes from her own which were filling with tears, ahalf sob, her hands after one more grasp fell, and he found that he hadleft the house. He went home. How strange it is to return to afamiliar chamber after a great event has happened! On his desk lay avolume of Cicero's letters. The fire had not been touched and wasalmost out: the door leading to the garden was open: the self of twohours before seemed to confront him. When the tumult in him began tosubside he was struck by the groundlessness of his double assumptionthat Mrs. Fairfax was Mrs. Leighton and that she was free. He had madeno inquiry. He had noticed the wedding-ring, and he had come to someconclusion about it which was supported by no evidence. Doubtless shecould not be his: her husband was still alive. At last the hour forwhich unconsciously he had been waiting had struck, and his true self, he not having known hitherto what it was, had been declared. But it wasall for nothing. It was as if some autumn-blooming plant had put forthon a sunny October morning the flower of the year, and had beeninstantaneously blasted and cut down to the root. The plant mightrevive next spring, but there could be no revival for him. There couldbe nothing now before him but that same dull duty, duty to the dull, duty without enthusiasm. He had no example for his consolation. TheBible is the record of heroic suffering: there is no story there of amartyrdom to monotony and life-weariness. He was a pious man, but lovedprescription and form: he loved to think of himself as a member of thegreat Catholic Church and not as an isolated individual, and he foundmore relief in praying the prayers which millions had before him than inextempore effusion; humbly trusting that what he was seeking inconsecrated petitions was all that he really needed. "In proportion asyour prayers are peculiar, " he once told his congregation in a course ofsermons on Dissent, "they are worthless. " There was nothing, though, inthe prayer-book which met his case. He was in no danger fromtemptation, nor had he trespassed. He was not in want of his dailybread, and although he desired like all good men to see the Kingdom ofGod, the advent of that celestial kingdom which had for an instant beendisclosed to him was for ever impossible. 

The servant announced Mrs. Sweeting, who was asked to come in. 

"Sit down, Mrs. Sweeting. What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir, perhaps you may remember--and if you don't, I do--how youhelped my husband in that dreadful year 1825. I shall never forget thatact of yours, Dr. Midleton, and I'd stick up for you if Mrs. Bingham andMrs. Harrop and Mrs. Cobb and Miss Tarrant were to swear against you andyou a-standing in the dock. As for that Miss Tarrant, there's that a-rankling in her that makes her worse than any of them, and if you don'tknow what it is, being too modest, forgive me for saying so, I do. "

"But what's the matter, Mrs. Sweeting?"

"Matter, sir! Why, I can hardly bring it out, seeing that I'm only thewife of a tradesman, but one thing I will say as I ain't like theserpent in Genesis, a-crawling about on its belly and spitting poisonand biting people by their heels. "

"You have not yet told me what is wrong. "

"Dr. Midleton, you shall have it, but recollect I come here as yourfriend: leastways I hope you'll forgive me if I call myself so, for ifyou were ill and you were to hold up your finger for me not another soulshould come near you night nor day till you were well again or it hadpleased God Almighty to take you to Himself. Dr. Midleton, there's aconspiracy. "

"A what?"

"A conspiracy: that's right, I believe. You are acquainted with Mrs. Fairfax. To make a long and a short of it, they say you are alwaysgoing there, more than you ought, leastways unless you mean to marryher, and that she's only a dressmaker, and nobody knows where she comesfrom, and they ain't open and free: they won't come and tell youthemselves; but you'll be turned out at the election the day after to-morrow. "

"But what do you say yourself?"

"Me, Dr. Midleton? Why, I've spoke up pretty plainly. I told Mrs. Cobbit would be a good thing if you were married, provided you wouldn't betrod upon as some people's husbands are, and I was pretty well sure younever would be, and that you knew a lady when you saw her better thanmost folk; and as for her being a dressmaker what's that got to do withit?"

"You are too well acquainted with me, Mrs. Sweeting, to suppose I shouldcondescend to notice this contemptible stuff or alter my course toplease all Langborough. Why did you take the trouble to report it tome?"

"Because, sir, I wouldn't for the world you should think I was mixed upwith them; and if my husband doesn't vote for you my name isn'tSweeting. "

"I am much obliged to you. I see your motives: you are straightforwardand I respect you. "

Mrs. Sweeting thanked him and departed. His first feeling was wrath. Never was there a man less likely to be cowed. He put on his hat andwalked to his committee-room, where he found Mr. Bingham. 

"No doubt, I suppose, Mr. Bingham?"

"Don't know, Doctor; the Radicals have got a strong candidate in JemCasey. Some of our people will turn, I'm afraid, and split theirvotes. "

"Split votes! with a fellow like that! How can there be any splittingbetween an honest man and a rascal?"

"There shouldn't be, sir, but--" Mr. Bingham hesitated--"I suppose theremay be personal considerations. "

"Personal considerations! what do you mean? Let us have no more ofthese Langborough tricks. Out with it, Bingham! Who are the personsand what are the considerations?"

"I really can't say, Doctor, but perhaps you may not be as popular asyou were. You've--" but Mr. Bingham's strength again completely failedhim, and he took a sudden turn--"You've taken a decided line lately atseveral of our meetings. "

The Doctor looked steadily at Mr. Bingham, who felt that every corner ofhis pitiful soul was visible. 

"The line I have taken you have generally supported. That is not whatyou mean. If I am defeated I shall be defeated by equivocatingcowardice, and I shall consider myself honoured. "

The Doctor strode out of the room. He knew now that he was the commonproperty of the town, and that every tongue was wagging about him and awoman, but he was defiant. The next morning he saw painted in whitepaint on his own wall -

"My dearly beloved, for all you're so bold, To-morrow you'll find you're left out in the cold;And, Doctor, the reason you need not to ax, It's because of a dressmaker--Mrs. F---fax. "

He was going out just as the gardener was about to obliterate theinscription. 

"Leave it, Robert, leave it; let the filthy scoundrels perpetuate theirown disgrace. "

The result of the election was curious. Two of the Church candidateswere returned at the top of the poll. Jem Casey came next. Dr. Midleton and the other two Radical and Dissenting candidates weredefeated. There were between seventy and eighty plumpers for the twosuccessful Churchmen, and about five-and-twenty split votes for them andCasey, who had distinguished himself by his coarse attacks on theDoctor. Mr. Bingham had a bad cold, and did not vote. On the followingSunday the church was fuller than usual. The Doctor preached on behalfof the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. He did not alludedirectly to any of the events of the preceding week, but at the close ofhis sermon he said--"It has been frequently objected that we ought notto spend money on missions to the heathen abroad as there is such afield of labour at home. The answer to that objection is that there ismore hope of the heathen than of many of our countrymen. This has beena nominally Christian land for centuries, but even now many deadly sinsare not considered sinful, and it is an easier task to save the savagethan to convince those, for example, whose tongue, to use the words ofthe apostle, is set on fire of hell, that they are in danger ofdamnation. I hope, therefore, my brethren, that you will giveliberally. "

On Monday Langborough was amazed to find Mrs. Fairfax's shop closed. She had left the town. She had taken a post-chaise on Saturday and hadmet the up-mail at Thaxton cross-roads. Her scanty furniture haddisappeared. The carrier could but inform Langborough that he hadorders to deliver her goods at Great Ormond Street whence he broughtthem. Mrs. Bingham went to London shortly afterwards and called atGreat Ormond Street to inquire for Mrs. Fairfax. Nobody of that namelived there, and the door was somewhat abruptly shut in her face. Shecame back convinced that Mrs. Fairfax was what Mrs. Cobb called "a badlot. "

"Do you believe, " said she, "that a woman who gives a false name can berespectable? We want no further proof. "

Nobody wanted further proof. No Langborough lady needed any proof if areputation was to be blasted. 

"It's an alibi, " said Mrs. Harrop. "That's what Tom Cranch the poacherdid, and he was hung. "

"An alias, I believe, is the correct term, " said Miss Tarrant. "Itmeans the assumption of a name which is not your own, a mostdiscreditable device, one to which actresses and women to whoseoccupation I can only allude, uniformly resort. How thankful we oughtto be that our respected Rector's eyes must now be opened and that hehas escaped the snare! It was impossible that he could be permanentlyattracted by vice and vulgarity. It is singular how much more acute awoman's perception often is than a man's. I saw through this creatureat once. "

Eighteen months passed. The doctor one day was unpacking a book he hadbought at Peterborough. Inside the brown paper was a copy of theStamford Mercury, a journal which had a wide circulation in theMidlands. He generally read it, but he must have omitted to see thisnumber. His eye fell on the following announcement--"On the 24th Junelast, Richard Leighton, aged 44 years. " The notice was late, for thedate of the paper was the 18th November. The next afternoon he was inLondon. He had been to Great Ormond Street before and had inquired forMrs. Fairfax, but could find no trace of her. He now called again. 

"You will remember, " he said, "my inquiry about Mrs. Fairfax: can youtell me anything about Mrs. Leighton?" He put his hand in his pocketand pulled out five shillings. 

"She isn't here: she went away when her husband died. "

"He died abroad?"

"Yes. "

"Where has she gone?"

"Don't know quite: her friends wouldn't have anything to do with her. She said she was going to Plymouth. She had heard of something in thedressmaking line there. "

He handed over his five shillings, procured a substitute for nextSunday, and went to Plymouth. He wandered through the streets but couldsee no dressmaker's shop which looked as if it had recently changedhands. He walked backwards and forwards on the Hoe in the evening: theEddystone light glimmered far away on the horizon; and the dim hopearose in him that it might be a prophecy of success, but his hope wasvain. It came into his mind that it was not likely that she would bethere after dusk, and he remembered her preference for early exercise. The first morning was a failure, but on the second--it was sunny andwarm--he saw her sitting on a bench facing the sea. He went upunobserved and sat down. She did not turn towards him till he said"Mrs. Leighton!" She started and recognised him. Little was spoken asthey walked home to her lodgings, a small private house. On her way shecalled at a large shop where she was employed and obtained leave ofabsence until after dinner. 

"At last!" said the doctor when the door was shut. 

She stood gazing in silence at the dull red cinder of the dying fire. 

"You put the advertisement in the Stamford Mercury?" he said. 

"Yes. "

"I did not see it until a day or two ago. "

"I had better tell you at once. My husband, whom you knew, wasconvicted of forgery, and died at Botany Bay. " Her eyes still watchedthe red cinders. 

The Doctor's countenance showed no surprise, for no news could have hadany power over the emotion which mastered him. The long, slow yearswere fulfilled. Long and slow and the fulfilment late, but the joy itbrought was the greater. Youthful passion is sweet, but it is notsweeter than the discovery when we begin to count the years which areleft to us, and to fear there will be nothing in them better than inthose which preceded them that for us also love is reserved. 

Mrs. Leighton was obliged to go back to her work in the afternoon, butshe gave notice that night to leave in a week. 

In a couple of months Langborough was astounded at the news of theRector's marriage with a Mrs. Leighton whom nobody in Langborough knew. The advertisement in the Stamford Mercury said that the lady was thewidow of Richard Leighton, Esq. , and eldest daughter of the lateMarmaduke Sutton, Esq. Langborough spared no pains to discover who shewas. Mrs. Bingham found out that the Suttons were a Devonshire family, and she ascertained from an Exeter friend that Mr. Marmaduke Sutton wasthe son of an Honourable, and that Mrs. Leighton was consequently ahigh-born lady. She had married as her first husband a man who had donewell at Cambridge, but who took to gambling and drink, and treated herwith such brutality that they separated. At last he forged a signatureand was transported. What became of his wife afterwards was not known. Langborough was not only greatly moved by this intelligence, but wasmuch perplexed. Miss Tarrant's estimate of the Doctor was once morereversed. She was decidedly of opinion that the marriage was a scandal. A woman who had consented to link herself with such a reprobate as theconvict must have been from the beginning could not herself havepossessed any reputation. Living apart, too, was next door to divorce, and who could associate with a creature who had been divorced? No doubtshe was physically seductive, and the doctor had fallen a victim to hersnares. Miss Tarrant, if she had not known so well what men are, wouldnever have dreamed that Dr. Midleton, a scholar and a divine, couldsurrender to corporeal attractions. She declared that she could nolonger expect any profit from his ministrations, and that she shouldleave the parish. Miss Tarrant's friends, however, did not go quite sofar, and Mrs. Harrop confessed to Mrs. Cobb that "she for one wouldn'tlay it down like Medes and Persians, that we should have nothing to dowith a woman because her husband had made a fool of himself. I'm not aMede nor a Persian, Mrs. Cobb. I say let us wait and see what she islike. "

Mrs. Bingham was of the same mind. She dwelt much to herself on thefact that Mrs. Midleton's great-grandfather must have been a lord. Shesecretly hoped that as a wine merchant's wife she might obtain admissioninto a "sphere, " as she called it, from which the other ladies in thetown might be excluded. Mrs. Bingham already foretasted the bliss of aninvitation to the rectory to meet Lady Caroline from Thaxton Manor; shealready foretasted the greater bliss of not meeting her intimate friendsthere, and that most exquisite conceivable bliss of telling themafterwards all about the party. 

Mrs. Midleton and her husband returned on a Saturday afternoon. Theroad from Thaxton cross-roads did not lie through the town: thecarriage was closed and nobody saw her. When they came to the rectorythe Doctor pointed to the verse in white paint on the wall, "It shall betaken out, " he said, "before to-morrow morning: to-morrow is Sunday. "He was expected to preach on that day and the church was crammed aquarter of an hour before the service began. At five minutes to elevena lady and child entered and walked to the rector's pew. Thecongregation was stupefied with amazement. Mouths were agape, a hum ofexclamations arose, and people on the further side of the church stoodup. 

It was Mrs. Fairfax! Nobody had conjectured that she and Mrs. Leightonwere the same person. It was unimaginable that a dressmaker should havehad near ancestors in the peerage. It was more than a year and a halfsince she left the town. Mrs. Carter was able to say that not a singleletter had been addressed to her, and she was almost forgotten. 

A few days afterwards Mrs. Sweeting had a little note requesting her totake tea with the Rector and his wife. Nobody was asked to meet her. Mrs. Bingham had called the day before, and had been extremelyapologetic. 

"I am afraid, Mrs. Midleton, you must have thought me sometimes veryrude to you. "

To which Mrs. Midleton replied graciously, "I am sure if you had been itwould have been quite excusable. "

"Extremely kind of you to say so, Mrs. Midleton. "

Mrs. Cobb also called. "I'll just let her see, " said Mrs. Cobb toherself; and she put on a gown which Mrs. Midleton as Mrs. Fairfax hadmade for her. 

"You'll remember this gown, Mrs. Midleton?"

"Perfectly well. It is not quite a fit on the shoulders. If you willlet me have it back again it will give me great pleasure to alter it foryou. "

By degrees, however, Mrs. Midleton came to be loved by many people inLangborough. Mr. Sweeting not long afterwards died in debt, and Mrs. Sweeting, the old housekeeper being also dead, was taken into therectory as her successor, and became Mrs. Midleton's trusted friend. 

Footnotes:

{10} Since 1868 the Reminiscences and his Life have been publishedwhich put this estimate of him beyond all doubt. It is much to beregretted that a certain theory, a certain irresistible tendency toarrange facts so as to prove preconceived notions, a tendency moredangerous and unhistorical even than direct suppression of the truth orinvention of what is not true, should have ruined Carlyle's biography. Professor Norton's edition of the Reminiscences should be compared withMr. Froude's. 

{34a} Ethic pt. 1, def. 3. 

{34b} Ibid. , pt. 1, def. 6. 

{34c} Ibid. , pt. 1, prop. 11. 

{36} Ethic, pt. 2, prop. 47. 

{37a} Letter 56 (Van Vloten and Land's ed. ). 

{37b} Ethic, pt. 1, coroll. Prop. 25. 

{37c} Ibid. , pt. 5, prop. 24. 

{37d} Ibid. , pt. 1, schol. To prop. 17. 

{38} Ethic, pt. 1, schol. To prop. 17. 

{39} Ethic, pt. 2, prop. 13. 

{40a} Ethic, pt. 1, coroll. 1, prop. 32. 

{40b} Ibid. , pt. 1, prop. 33. 

{40c} Letter 56

{41a} Letter 21. 

{41b} Letter 58. 

{42a} Ethic, pt. 2, schol. Prop. 49. 

{42b} Ibid. , pt. 4, coroll. Prop. 63. 

{43a} Ethic, pt. 5, or pp. 42. 

{43b} "Agis being asked on a time how a man might continue free all hislife; he answered, 'By despising death. '" (Plutarch's "Morals. "Laconic Apophthegms. )

{43c} Ethic, pt. 5, schol. Prop. 4. 

{44a} Ethic, pt. 4, coroll. Prop. 64. 

{44b} Ibid. , pt. 4, schol. Prop. 66. 

{44c} Ibid. , pt. 4, schol. Prop. 50. 

{45a} Ethic, pt. 4, prop. 46 and schol. 

{45b} Ibid. , pt. 3, schol. Prop. 11. 

{46} Ethic, pt. 4, schol. Prop. 45. 

{47} Ethic, pt. 5, props. 14-20. 

{50} Short Treatise, pt. 2, chap. 22. 

{52} Ethic, pt. 1, Appendix. 

{54} Ethic, pt. 2, schol. 2, prop. 40. 

{55a} Ethic, pt. 5, coroll. Prop. 34. 

{55b} Ibid. , pt. 5, prop. 36. 

{55c} Ibid. , pt. 5, prop. 36, coroll. 

{56a} Ethic, pt. 5, prop. 38. 

{56b} Short Treatise, pt. 2, chap. 23. 

{57a} Aristotle's Psychology (Wallace's translation), p. 161. 

{57b} Rabelais, Pantagruel, book 4, chap. 27. 

{101} Hazlitt. 

{103} Italics mine. --M. R. 

{104a} Italics mine. --M. R. 

{104b} Italics mine. --M. R. 

{133} Poetry of Byron chosen and arranged by Matthew Arnold--1881. 

{143} "Adah. --Peace be with him (Abel). Cain. --But with ME!"

{180} My aunt Eleanor was thought to be a bit of a pagan by theevangelical part of our family. My mother when speaking of her to meused to say, "Your heathen aunt. " She was well-educated, but the betterpart of her education she received abroad after her engagement, whichtook place when she was eighteen years old. She was the only member ofour family in the upper middle class. Her husband was Thomas Charteris, junior partner in a bank.