SOME PRIVATE VIEWS

By

JAMES PAYN

Author of 'High Spirits, ' 'A Confidential Agent, ' Etc. 

_A NEW EDITION_

1881

LondonCHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY

 TO HORACE N. PYM THIS_Book is Dedicated_ BY HIS FRIEND

 THE AUTHOR

CONTENTS. 

FROM _'THE NINETEENTH CENTURY' REVIEW_. 

THE MIDWAY INN 1

THE CRITIC ON THE HEARTH 20

SHAM ADMIRATION IN LITERATURE 37

THE PINCH OF POVERTY 59

THE LITERARY CALLING AND ITS FUTURE 72

STORY-TELLING 96

PENNY FICTION 116

FROM '_THE TIMES_. '

HOTELS 133

MAID-SERVANTS 149

MEN-SERVANTS 163

WHIST-PLAYERS 173

RELATIONS 182

INVALID LITERATURE 192

WET HOLIDAYS 201

TRAVELLING COMPANIONS 211

_THE MIDWAY INN_. 

'The hidden but the common thought of all. '

The thoughts I am about to set down are not _my_ thoughts, for, as myfriends say, I have given up the practice of thinking, or it may be, as my enemies say, I never had it. They are the thoughts of anacquaintance who thinks for me. I call him an acquaintance, though Ipass as much of my time with him as with my nearest and dearest;perhaps at the club, perhaps at the office, perhaps in metaphysicaldiscussion, perhaps at billiards--what does it matter? Thousands ofmen in town have such acquaintances, in whose company they spend, bynecessity or custom, half the sum of their lives. It is not rational, doubtless; but then 'Consider, sir, ' said the great talkingphilosopher, 'should we become purely rational, how our friendshipswould be cut off. We form many such with bad men because they haveagreeable qualities, or may be useful to us. We form many such bymistake, imagining people to be different from what they really are. 'And he goes on complacently to observe that we shall either have thesatisfaction of meeting these gentlemen in a future state, or besatisfied without meeting them. 

For my part, I do not feel that the scheme of future happiness, whichought by rights to be in preparation for me, will be at all interferedwith by my not meeting again the man I have in my. Mind. To have seenhim in the flesh is sufficient for me. In the spirit I cannot imaginehim; the consideration is too subtle; for, unlike the little man whohad (for certain) a little soul, ' I don't believe he has a soul atall. 

He is middle-aged, rich, lethargic, sententious, dogmatic, and, inshort, the quintessence of the commonplace. I need not say, therefore, that he is credited by the world with unlimited common-sense. And foronce the world is right. He has nothing-original about him, save somuch of sin as he may have inherited from our first parents; there isno more at the back of him than at the back of a looking-glass--indeedless, for he has not a grain of quicksilver; but, like thelooking-glass, he reflects. Having nothing else to do, he hangs, as itwere, on the wall of the world, and mirrors it for me as itunconsciously passes by him--not, however, as in a glass darkly, butwith singular clearness. His vision is never disturbed by passion orprejudice; he has no enthusiasm and no illusions. Nor do I believe hehas ever had any. If the noblest study of mankind is man, my friendhas devoted himself to a high calling; the living page of human lifehas been his favourite and indeed, for these many years, his onlyreading. And for this he has had exceptional opportunities. Always aman of wealth and leisure, he has never wasted himself in thatsuperficial observation which is often the only harvest of foreigntravel. He despises it, and in relation to travellers, is wont toquote the famous parallel of the copper wire, 'which grows thenarrower by going further. ' A confirmed stay-at-home, he has mingledmuch in society of all sorts, and exercised a keen but quiteunsympathetic observation. His very reserve in company (though, whenhe catches you alone, he is a button-holder of great tenacity)encourages free speech in others; they have no more reticence in hispresence than if he were the butler. He has belonged to no cliques, and thereby escaped the greatest peril which can beset the student ofhuman nature. A man of genius, indeed, in these days is almostcertain, sooner or later, to become the centre of a mutual admirationsociety; but the person I have in my mind is no genius, nor anythinglike one, and he thanks Heaven for it. To an opinion of his own hedoes not pretend, but his views upon the opinions of other people hebelieves to be infallible. I have called him dogmatic, but that doesnot at all express the absolute certainty with which he deliversjudgment. 'I know no more, ' he says, 'about the problems of human lifethan you do' (taking me as an illustration of the lowest prevailingignorance), 'but I know what everybody is thinking about them. ' He isdidactic, and therefore often dull, and will eventually, no doubt, become one of the greatest bores in Great Britain. At present, however, he is worth knowing; and I propose to myself to be hisBoswell, and to introduce him--or, at least, his views--to otherpeople. I have entitled them the Midway Inn, partly from my owninveterate habit of story-telling, but chiefly from an image of hisown, by which he once described to me, in his fine egotistic rollingstyle, the position he seemed to himself to occupy in the world. 

 When I was a boy, he said (which I don't believe he ever was), I had a long journey to take between home and school. Exactly midway there was a hill with an Inn upon it, at which we changed horses. It was a point to which I looked forward with very different feelings when going and returning. In the one case--for I hated school--it seemed to frown darkly on me, and from that spot the remainder of the way was dull and gloomy; in the other case, the sun seemed always glinting on it, and the rest of the road was as a fair avenue that leads to Paradise. The innkeeper received us with equal hospitality on both occasions, and it was quite evident did not care one farthing in which direction we were tending. He would stand in front of his house, jingling his money--_our_ money--in his pockets, and watch us depart with the greatest serenity, whether we went east or west. I thought him at one time the most genial of Bonifaces (for it was his profession to wear a smile), and at another a mere mocker of human woe. When I grew up, I perceived that he was a philosopher. 

 And now I keep the Midway Inn myself, and watch from the hill-top the passengers come and go--some loth, some willing, like myself of old--and listen to their talk in the coffee-room; or sometimes in a private parlour, where, though they speak low and gravely, their converse is still unrestrained, because, you see, I am the landlord. 

 Sometimes they speak of Death and the Hereafter, of which the child they buried yesterday knows more than the wisest of them, and more than Shakespeare knew. The being totally ignorant of the subject does not indeed (as you may perhaps have observed in other matters) deter some of them from speaking of it with great confidence; but the views of a minority would quite surprise you, and this minority is growing--coming to a majority. Every day I see an increase of the doubters. It is not a question of the Orthodox and the Infidel, you must understand, at all, though _that_ is assuming great proportions; but there is every day more uncertainty among them, and, what is much more noteworthy, more dissatisfaction. 

 Years ago, when a hardy Cambridge scholar dared to publish his doubts of an eternal punishment overtaking the wicked, an orthodox professor of the same college took him (theologically) by the throat. 'You are destroying, ' he cried, 'the hope of the Christian. ' But this is not the hope I speak of, as loosing, and losing, its hold upon men's minds; I mean the real hope, the hope of heaven. 

 When I used to go to church--for my inn is too far removed from it to admit of my attendance there nowadays--matters were very different. Heaven and Hell were, in the eyes not only of our congregation, but of those who hung about the doors in the summer sun, or even played leap-frog over the grave-stones, as distinct alternatives as the east and west highways on each side of my inn. If you did not go one way, you must go the other; and not only so, but an immense desire was felt by very many to go in the right direction. Now I perceive it is not so. A considerable number of highway passengers, though even they are less numerous than of old, are still studious--that is in their aspirations--to avoid taking (shall I say delicately) the lower road; but only a few, comparatively, are solicitous to reach the goal of the upper. 

 Let me once more observe that I am speaking of the ordinary passengers--those who travel by the mail. Of the persons who are convinced that there never was an Architect of the Universe, and that Man sprang from the Mollusc, I know little or nothing: they mostly travel two and two, in gigs, and have quarrelled so dreadfully on the way, that, at the Inn, they don't speak to one another. The commonalty, I repeat, are losing their hopes of heaven, just as the grown-up schoolboy finds his paradise no more in home. I can remember when divines were never tired of painting the lily, of indulging in the most glowing descriptions of the Elysian Fields. A popular artist once drew a picture of them: 'The Plains of Heaven' it was called, and the painter's name was Martin. If he was to do so now, the public (who are vulgar) would exclaim 'Betty Martin. ' Not that they disbelieve in it, but that the attractions of the place are dying out, like those of Bath and Cheltenham. 

 Of course some blame attaches to the divines themselves that things have come to such a pass. 'I protest, ' says a great philosopher, 'that I never enter a church, but the man in the pulpit talks so unlike a man, as though he had never known what human joys or sorrows are--so carefully avoids every subject of interest save _one_, and paints that in colours at once so misty and so meretricious--that I say to myself, I will never sit under him again. ' This may, of course, be only an ingenious excuse of his for not going to church; but there is really something in it. The angels, with their harps, on clouds, are now presented to the eyes, even of faith, in vain; they are still appreciated on canvas by an old master, but to become one of them is no longer the common aspiration. There is a suspicion, partly owing, doubtless, to the modern talk about the dignity and even the divinity of Labour, that they ought to be doing something else than (as the American poet puts it with characteristic ii reverence) 'loafing about the throne;' that we ourselves, with no ear perhaps for music, and with little voice (alas!) for praise, should take no pleasure in such avocations. It is not the sceptics--though their influence is getting to be considerable--who have wrought this change, but the conditions of modern life. Notwithstanding the cheerful 'returns' as to pauperism, and the glowing speeches of our Chancellors of the Exchequer, these conditions are far harder, among the thinking classes, than they were. The question 'Is Life worth Living?' is one that concerns philosophers and metaphysicians, and not the persons I have in my mind at all; but the question, 'Do I wish to be out of it?' is one that is getting answered very widely--and in the affirmative. This was certainly not the case in the days of our grand-sires. Which of them ever read those lines--

 'For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?'--

 without a sympathetic complacency? This may not have been the best of all possible worlds to them, but none of them wished to exchange it, save at the proper time, and for the proper place. Thanks to overwork, and still more to over-worry, it is not so now. There are many prosperous persons in rude health, of course, who will ask (with a virtuous resolution that is sometimes to be deplored), 'Do you suppose then that I wish to cut my throat?' I certainly do not. Do not let us talk of cutting throats; though, mind you, the average of suicides, so admirably preserved by the Registrar-General and other painstaking persons, is not entirely to be depended upon. You should hear the doctors at my Inn (in the intervals of their abuse of their professional brethren) discourse upon this topic--on that overdose of chloral which poor B. Took, and on that injudicious self-application of chloroform which carried off poor C. With the law in such a barbarous state in relation to self-destruction, and taking into account the feelings of relatives, there was, of course, only one way of wording the certificate, but--and then they shake their heads as only doctors can, and help themselves to port, though they know it is poison to them. 

 It is an old joke that annuitants live for ever, but no annuity ever had the effect of prolonging life which the present assurance companies have. How many a time, I wonder, in these later years, has a hand been stayed, with a pistol or 'a cup of cold poison' in it, by the thought, 'If I do this, my family will lose the money I am insured for, besides the premiums. ' This feeling is altogether different from that which causes Jeannette and Jeannot in their Paris attic to light their charcoal fire, stop up the chinks with their love-letters, and die (very disreputably) 'clasped in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. ' There is not one halfpenny's worth of sentiment about it in the Englishman's case, nor are any such thoughts bred in his brain while youth is in him. It is in our midway days, with old age touching us here and there, as autumn 'lays its fiery finger on the leaves' and withers them, that we first think of it. When the weight of anxiety and care is growing on us, while the shoulders are becoming bowed (not in resignation, but in weakness) which have to bear it; when our pains are more and more constant, our pleasures few and fading, and when whatever happens, we know, must needs be for the worse--then it is that the praise of the silver hair and length of days becomes a mockery indeed. 

 Was it the prescience of such a state of thought, I wonder (for it certainly did not exist in their time), that caused good men of old to extol old age; as though anything could reconcile the mind of man to the time when the very sun is darkened to him, and 'the clouds return after the rain?' There is a noble passage in 'Hyperion' which has always seemed to me to repeat that sentiment in Ecclesiastes; it speaks of an expression in a man's face:

 'As though the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear Was with its storied thunder labouring up. '

 This is why poor Paterfamilias, sitting in the family pew, is not so enamoured of that idea of accomplishing those threescore years and ten which the young parson, fresh from Cambridge, is describing as such a lucky number in life's lottery. The attempt to paint it so is well-meaning, no doubt, 'the vacant chaff well meant for grain;' and it is touching to see how men generally (knowing that they themselves have to go through with it) are wont to portray it in cheerful colours. 

 A modern philosopher even goes so far as to say that our memories in old age are always grateful to us. Our pleasures are remembered, but our pains are forgotten; 'if we try to recall a physical pain, ' she writes (for it is a female), 'we find it to be impossible, ' From which I gather only this for certain, that that woman never had the gout. 

 The folks who come my way, indeed, seem to remember their physical ailments very distinctly, to judge by the way they talk of them; and are exceedingly apprehensive of their recurrence. Nay, it is curious to see how some old men will resent the compliments of their juniors on their state of health or appearance. 'Stuff and nonsense!' cried old Sam Rogers, grimly; 'I tell you there is no such thing as a fine old man. ' In a humbler walk of life I remember to have heard a similar but more touching reply. It was upon the great centenarian question raised by Mr. Thorns. An old woman in a workhouse, said to be a hundred years of age, was sent for by the Board of Guardians, to decide the point by her personal testimony. One can imagine the half-dozen portly prosperous figures, and the contrast their appearance offered to that of the bent and withered crone. 'Now, Betty, ' said the chairman with unctuous patronage, 'you look hale and hearty enough, yet they tell me that you are a hundred years old; is this really true?' 'God Almighty knows, sir, ' was her reply, 'but I feel a thousand. '

 And there are so many people nowadays who 'feel a thousand. '

 It is for this reason that the gift of old age is unwished for, and the prospect of future life without encouragement. It is the modern conviction that there will be some kind of work in it; and even though what we shall be set to do may be 'wrought with tumult of acclaim, ' we have had enough of work. What follows, almost as a matter of course, is that the thought of possible extinction has lost its terrors. Heaven and its glories may have still their charms for those who are not wearied out with toil in this life; but the slave draws for himself a far other picture of home. His is no passionate cry to be admitted into the eternal city; he murmurs sullenly, 'Let me rest. '

 It was a favourite taunt with the sceptics of old--those Early Fathers of infidelity, who used to occupy themselves so laboriously with scraping at the rind of the Christian Faith--that until the Cross arose men were not afraid of Death. But that arrow has lost its barb. The Fear of Death, even among professing Christians, is now comparatively rare; I do not mean merely among dying men--in whom those who have had acquaintance with deathbeds tell us they see it scarcely ever--but with the quick and hale. Even with very ignorant persons, the idea that things may be a great deal worse for us hereafter than even at present is not generally entertained as respects themselves. A clergyman who was attending a sick man in his parish expressed a hope to the wife that she took occasion to remind her husband of his spiritual condition. 'Oh yes, sir, ' she replied, 'many and many a time have I woke him up o' nights, and cried, "John, John, you little know the torments as is preparing for you. "' But the good woman, it seems, was not disturbed by any such dire imaginings upon her own account. 

 Higher in the social scale, the apprehension of a Gehenna, or at all events of such a one as our forefathers almost universally believed in, is rapidly dying out. The mathematician tells us that even as a question of numbers, 'about one in ten, my good sir, by the most favourable computations, ' the thing is incredible; the philanthropist inquires indignantly, 'Is the city Arab then, who grows to be thief and felon as naturally as a tree puts forth its leaves, to be damned in both worlds?' and I notice that even the clergy who come my way, and take their weak glass of negus while the coach changes horses, no longer insist upon the point, but, at the worst, 'faintly trust the larger hope. '

 Notwithstanding these comparatively cheerful views upon a subject so important to all passengers on life's highway, the general feeling is, as I have said, one of profound dissatisfaction; the good old notion that whatever is is right, is fast disappearing; and in its place there is a doubt--rarely expressed except among the philosophers, with whom, as I have said, I have nothing to do--a secret, harassing, and unwelcome doubt respecting the divine government of the world. It is a question which the very philosophers are not likely to settle even among themselves, but it has become very obtrusive and important. Men raise their eyebrows and shrug their shoulders when it is alluded to, instead, as of old, of pulverising the audacious questioner on the spot, or even (as would have happened at a later date) putting him into Coventry; they have no opinion to offer upon the subject, or at all events do not wish to talk about it. But it is no longer, be it observed, 'bad form' in a general way to do so; it is only that the topic is personally distasteful. 

 The once famous advocate of analogy threw a bitter seed among mankind when he suggested, in all innocence, and merely for the sake of his own argument, that as the innocent suffered for the guilty in this world, so it might be in the world to come; and it is bearing bitter fruit. To feel aweary at the Midway Inn is bad enough; but to be journeying to no home, and perhaps even to some harsher school than we yet wot of, is indeed a depressing reflection. 

 Hence it comes, I think, or partly hence, that there is now no fun in the world. Wit we have, and an abundance of grim humour, which evokes anything but mirth. Nothing would astonish us in the Midway Inn so much as a peal of laughter. A great writer (though it must be confessed scarcely an amusing one), who has recently reached his journey's end, used to describe his animal spirits depreciatingly, as being at the best but vegetable spirits. And that is now the way with us all. When Charles Dickens died, it was confidently stated in a great literary journal that his loss, so far from affecting 'the gaiety of nations, ' would scarcely be felt at all; the power of rousing tears and laughter being (I suppose the writer thought) so very common. That prophecy has been by no means fulfilled. But, what is far worse than there being no humorous writers amongst us, the faculty of appreciating even the old ones is dying out. There is no such thing as high spirits anywhere. It is observable, too, how very much public entertainments have increased of late--a tacit acknowledgment of dulness at home--while, instead of the lively, if somewhat boisterous, talk of our fathers, we have drawing-room dissertations on art, and dandy drivel about blue china. 

 There is one pleasure only that takes more and more root amongst us, and never seems to fail, and that is making money. To hear the passengers at the Midway Inn discourse upon this topic, you would think they were all commercial travellers. It is most curious how the desire for pecuniary gain has infected even the idlest, who of course take the shortest cut to it by way of the race-course. I see young gentlemen, blond and beardless, telling the darkest secrets to one another, affecting, one would think, the fate of Europe, but which in reality relate to the state of the fetlock of the brother to Boanerges. Their earnestness (which is reserved for this enthralling topic) is quite appalling. In their elders one has long been accustomed to it, but these young people should really know better. The interest excited in society by 'scratchings' has never been equalled since the time of the Cock Lane ghost. If men would only 'lose their money and look pleasant' without talking about it, I shouldn't mind; but they _will_ make it a subject of conversation, as though everyone who liked his glass of wine should converse upon 'the vintages. ' One looks for it in business people and forgives it; but everyone is now for business. 

 The reverence that used to belong to Death is now only paid to it in the case of immensely rich persons, whose wealth is spoken of with bated breath. 'He died, sir, worth two millions; a very warm man. ' If you happen to say, though with all reasonable probability and even with Holy Writ to back you, 'He is probably warmer by this time, ' you are looked upon as a Communist. What the man was is nothing, what he made is everything. It is the gold alone that we now value: the temple that might have sanctified the gold is of no account. This worship of mere wealth has, it is true, this advantage over the old adoration of birth, that something may possibly be got out of it; to cringe and fawn upon the people that have blue blood is manifestly futile, since the peculiarity is not communicable, but it is hoped that, by being shaken up in the same social bag with millionaires, something may be attained by what is technically called the 'sweating' process. So far as I have observed, however, the results are small, while the operation is to the last degree disagreeable. 

 What is very significant of this new sort of golden age is that a literature of its own has arisen, though of an anomalous kind. It is presided over by a sort of male Miss Kilmansegge, who is also a model of propriety. It is as though the dragon that guarded the apples of Hesperides should be a dragon of virtue. Under the pretence of extolling prudence and perseverance, he paints money-making as the highest good, and calls it thrift; and the popularity of this class of book is enormous. The heroes are all 'self-made' men who come to town with that proverbial half-crown which has the faculty of accumulation that used to be confined to snowballs. Like the daughters of the horse-leech, their cry is 'Give, give, ' only instead of blood they want money; and I need hardly say they get it from other people's pockets. Love and friendship are names that have lost their meaning, if they ever had any, with these gentry. They remind one of the miser of old who could not hear a large sum of money mentioned without an acceleration of the action of the heart; and perhaps that is the use of their hearts, which, otherwise, like that of the spleen in other people, must be only a subject of vague conjecture. They live abhorred and die respected; leaving all their heaped-up wealth to some charitable institution, the secretary of which levants with it eventually to the United States. 

 This last catastrophe, however, is not mentioned in these biographies, the subjects of which are held up as patterns of wisdom and prudence for the rising generation. I shall have left the Midway Inn, thank Heaven, for a residence of smaller dimensions, before it has grown up. Conceive an England inhabited by self-made men!

 Has it ever struck you how gloomy is the poetry of the present day? This is not perhaps of very much consequence, since everybody has a great deal too much to do to permit them to read it; but how full of sighs, and groans, and passionate bewailings it is! And also how deuced difficult! It is almost as inarticulate as an Æolian harp, and quite as melancholy. There are one or two exceptions, of course, as in the case of Mr. Calverley and Mr. Locker; but even the latter is careful to insist upon the fact that, like those who have gone before us, we must all quit Piccadilly. 'At present, ' as dear Charles Lamb writes, 'we have the advantage of them;' but there is no one to remind us of that now, nor is it, as I have said, the general opinion that it _is_ an advantage. 

 It is this prevailing gloom, I think, which accounts for the enormous and increasing popularity of fiction. Observe how story-telling creeps into the very newspapers (along with their professional fibbing); and, even in the magazines, how it lies down side by side with 'burning questions, ' like the weaned child putting its hand into the cockatrice's den. For your sake, my good fellow, who write stories [here my friend glowered at me compassionately], I am glad of it; but the fact is of melancholy significance. It means that people are glad to find themselves 'anywhere, anywhere, out of the world, ' and (I must be allowed to add) they are generally gratified, for anything less like real life than what some novelists portray it is difficult to imagine. 

[Here he stared at me so exceedingly hard, that anyone with a lessheavenly temper, or who had no material reasons for putting up withit, would have taken his remark as personal, and gone away. ]

 Another cause of the absence of good fellowship amongst us (he went on) is the growth of education. It sticks like a fungus to everybody, and though, it is fair to say, mostly outside, does a great deal of mischief. The scholastic interest has become so powerful that nobody dares speak a word against it; but the fact is, men are educated far beyond their wits. You can't fill any cup beyond what it will hold, and the little cups are exceedingly numerous. Boys are now crammed (with information) like turkeys (but unfortunately not killed at Christmas), and when they grow up there is absolutely no room in them for a joke. The prigs that frequent my Midway Inn are as the sands in its hour-glass, only with no chance, alas! of their running out. The wisdom of our ancestors limited education, and very wisely, to the three R's; that is all that is necessary for the great mass of mankind: whereas the pick of them, with those clamping irons well stuck to their heels, will win their way to the topmost peaks of knowledge. 

 At the very best--that is to say when it produces _anything_--what does the most costly education in this country produce in ordinary minds but the deplorable habit of classical quotation? If it could teach them to _think_--but that is a subject, my dear friend, into which you will scarcly follow me. 

[I could have knocked his head off if he had not been so exceptionallystout and strong, and as it was, I took up my hat to go, when athought struck me. ]

'Among your valuable remarks upon the ideas entertained by society atpresent, you have said nothing, my dear sir, about the ladies. '

'I never speak of anything, ' he replied with dignity, 'which I do notthoroughly understand. Man I do know--down to his boots; butwoman'--here he sighed and hesitated--'no; I don't know nearly so muchof her. '

_THE CRITIC ON THE HEARTH. _

It has often struck me that the relation of two important members ofthe social body to one another has never been sufficiently considered, or treated of, so far as I know, either by the philosopher or thepoet. I allude to that which exists between the omnibus driver and hisconductor. Cultivating literature as I do upon a little oatmeal, anddriving, when in a position to be driven at all, in that humblevehicle, the 'bus, I have had, perhaps, exceptional opportunities forobserving their mutual position and behaviour; and it is verypeculiar. When the 'bus is empty, these persons are sympathetic andfriendly to one another, almost to tenderness; but when there is muchtraffic, a tone of severity is observable upon the side of theconductor. 'What are yer a-driving on for just as a party's gettingin? Will nothing suit but to break a party's neck?' 'Wake up, willyer? or do yer want that ere Bayswater to pass us?' are inquiries hewill make in the most peremptory manner. Or he will concentratecontempt in the laconic but withering observation: 'Now then, stoopid!'

When we consider that the driver is after all the driver--that the'bus is under his guidance and management, and may be said _pro tem_, to be his own--indeed, in case of collision or other seriousextremity, he calls it so: 'What the infernal regions are yer banginginto my 'bus for?' etc. , etc. , --I say, this being his exaltedposition, the injurious language of the man on the step is, to say theleast of it, disrespectful. 

On the other hand, it is the conductor who fills the 'bus, and evenentices into it, by lures and wiles, persons who are not voluntarilygoing his way at all. It is he who advertises its presence to thepassers-by, and spares neither lung nor limb in attracting passengers. If the driver is lord and king, yet the conductor has a good deal todo with the administration: just as the Mikado of Japan, who sitsabove the thunder and is almost divine, is understood to be assistedand even 'conducted' by the Tycoon. The connection between thosepotentates is perhaps the most exact reproduction of that between the'bus driver and his cad; but even in England there is a pretty closeparallel to it in the mutual relation of the author and theprofessional critic. 

While the former is in his spring-time, the analogy is indeed almostcomplete. For example, however much he may have plagiarised, the bookdoes belong to the author: he calls it, with pardonable pride (andespecially if anyone runs it down), 'my book. ' He has written it, andprobably paid pretty handsomely for getting it published. Even theright of translation, if you will look at the bottom of thetitle-page, is somewhat superfluously reserved to him. Yet nothing canexceed the patronage which he suffers at the hands of the critic, andis compelled to submit to in sullen silence. When the book-trade isslack--that is, in the summer season--the pair get on together prettyamicably. 'This book, ' says the critic, 'may be taken down to theseaside, and lounged over not unprofitably;' or, 'Readers may do worsethan peruse this unpretending little volume of fugitive verse;' oreven, 'We hail this new aspirant to the laurels of Apollo. ' But in thethick of the publishing season, and when books pour into the reviewerby the cartful, nothing can exceed the violence, and indeed sometimesthe virulence, of his language. That 'Now then, stoopid!' of the 'busconductor pales beside the lightnings of his scorn. 

'Among the lovers of sensation, it is possible that some persons maybe found with tastes so utterly vitiated as to derive pleasure fromthis monstrous production. ' I cull these flowers of speech from awreath placed by a critic of the _Slasher_ on my own early brow. Yegods, how I hated him! How I pursued him with more than Corsicanvengeance; traduced him in public and private; and only when I hadthrust my knife (metaphorically) into his detested carcase, discoveredI had been attacking the wrong man. It is a lesson I have neverforgotten; and I pray you, my younger brothers of the pen, to lay itto heart. Believe rather that your unfriendly critic, like the bee whois fabled to sting and die, has perished after his attempt on yourreputation; and let the tomb be his asylum. For even supposing you getthe right sow by the ear--or rather, the wild boar with the 'ragingtooth'--what can it profit you? It is not like that difference ofopinion between yourself and twelve of your fellow-countrymen whichmay have such fatal results. You are not an Adonis (except in outwardform, perhaps), that you can be ripped up with his tusk. His hardwords do not break your bones. If they are uncalled for, theircruelty, believe me, can hurt only your vanity. While it is justpossible--though indeed in your case in the very highest degreeimprobable--that the gentleman may have been right. 

In the good old times we are told that a buffet from the hand of anEdinburgh or Quarterly Reviewer would lay a young author dead at hisfeet. If it was so, he must have been naturally very deficient invitality. It certainly did not kill Byron, though it was a knock-downblow; he rose from that combat from earth, like Antæus, all thestronger for it. The story of its having killed Keats, though embalmedin verse, is apocryphal; and if such blows were not fatal in thosetimes, still less so are they nowadays. On the other hand, if authorsare difficult to slay, it is infinitely harder work to give them lifeby what the doctors term 'artificial respiration'--puffing. The amountof breath expended in the days of 'the Quarterlies' in this hopelesstask would have moved windmills. Not a single favourite of thosecritics--selected, that is, from favouritism, and apart frommerit--now survives. They failed even to obtain immortality for thewriters in whom there was really something of genius, but whom theyextolled beyond their deserts. Their pet idol, for example, was SamuelRogers. And who reads Rogers's poems now? We remember something aboutthem, and that is all; they are very literally 'Pleasures of Memory. '

And if these things are true of the past, how much more so are they ofthe present! I venture to think, in spite of some voices to thecontrary, that criticism is much more honest than it used to be:certainly less influenced by political feeling, and by the interestsof publishing houses; more temperate, if not more judicious, and--inthe higher literary organs, at least--unswayed by personal prejudice. But the result of even the most favourable notices upon a book is nowbut small. I can remember when a review in the _Times_ was calculatedby the 'Row' to sell an entire edition. Those halcyon days--if halcyondays they were--are over. People read books for themselves now; judgefor themselves; and buy only when they are absolutely compelled, andcannot get them from the libraries. In the case of an author who hasalready secured a public, it is indeed extraordinary what littleeffect reviews, either good or bad, have upon his circulation. Thosewho like his works continue to read them, no matter what evil iswritten of them; and those who don't like them are not to be persuaded(alas!) to change their minds, though his latest effort should bedescribed as though it had dropped from the heavens. I could give somestatistics upon this point not a little surprising, but statisticsinvolve comparisons--which are odious. As for fiction, its successdepends more upon what Mrs. Brown says to Mrs. Jones as to thenecessity of getting that charming book from the library while thereis yet time, than on all the reviews in Christendom. 

 O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases Than to see the bright eyes of those dear ones discover They thought that I was not unworthy--

of a special messenger to Mr. Mudie's. 

Heaven bless them! for, when we get old and stupid, they still stick byone, and are not to be seduced from their allegiance by any blaring oftrumpets, or clashing of cymbals, that heralds a new arrival among thestory-tellers. 

On the other hand, as respects his first venture, the author is verydependent upon what the critics say of him. It is the conductor, youknow (I wouldn't call him a 'cad, ' even in fun, for ten thousandpounds), on whom, to return to our metaphor, the driver is dependentfor the patronage of his vehicle, and even for the announcement of itsexistence. A good review is still the very best of advertisements to anew author; and even a bad one is better than no review at all. Indeed, I have heard it whispered that a review which speaks unfavourably of awork of fiction, upon moral grounds, is of very great use to it. This, however, the same gossips say, is mainly confined to works of fictionwritten by female authors for readers of their own sex--'_by_ ladies_for_ ladies, ' as a feminine _Pall Mall Gazette_ might describe itself. 

Nor would I be understood to say that even a well-established author isnot affected by what the critics may say of him; I only state that hiscirculation is not--albeit they may make his very blood curdle. I havea popular writer in my mind, who never looks at a newspaper unless itcomes to him by a hand he can trust, for fear his eyes should lightupon an unpleasant review. His argument is this: 'I have been at thiswork for the last twelve months, thinking of little else and putting mybest intelligence (which is considerable) at its service. Is it humanlyprobable that a reviewer who has given his mind to it for a less numberof hours, can suggest anything in the way of improvement worthy of myconsideration? I am supposing him to be endowed with ability andactuated by good faith; that he has not failed in my own profession andis not jealous of my popularity; yet even thus, how is it possible thathis opinion can be of material advantage to me? If favourable, it givesme pleasure, because it flatters my _amour propre_, and I am even notquite sure that it does not afford a stimulating encouragement; but ifunfavourable, I own it gives me considerable annoyance. [This is hiseuphemistic phrase to express the feeling of being in a hornets' nestwithout his clothes on. ] On the other hand, if the critic is a merehireling, or a young gentleman from the university who is trying his'prentice hand at a lowish rate of remuneration upon a veteran likemyself, how still more idle would it be to regard his views!'

And it appears to me that there is really something in these arguments. As regards the latter part of them, by-the-bye, I had the pleasure ofseeing my own last immortal story spoken of in an Americanmagazine--the _Atlantic Monthly_--as the work of 'a bright andprosperous young author. ' The critic (Heaven bless his young heart, andgive him a happy Whitsuntide) evidently imagined it to be my firstproduction. In another Transatlantic organ, a critic, speaking of thelast work of that literary veteran, the late Mr. Le Fanu, observes: 'Ifthis young writer would only model himself upon the works of Mr. William Black in his best days, we foresee a great future before him. '

There is one thing that I think should be set down to the credit of theliterary profession--that for the most part they take their 'slatings'(which is the professional term for them) with at least outwardequanimity. I have read things of late, written of an old and popularwriter, ten times more virulent than anything Mr. Ruskin wrote of Mr. Whistler: yet neither he, nor any other man of letters, thinks offlying to his mother's apron-string, or of setting in motion old FatherAntic, the Law. Perhaps it is that we have no money, or perhaps, likethe judicious author of whom I have spoken, we abstain from readingunpleasant things. I wish to goodness we could abstain from hearing ofthem; but the 'd----d good-natured friend' is an eternal creation. Hehas altered, however, since Sheridan's time in his method ofproceeding. He does not say, 'There is a very unpleasant notice of youin the _Scorpion_, my dear fellow, which I deplore. ' The scoundrel nowaffects a more light-hearted style. 'There is a review of your lastbook in the _Scorpion_', he says, 'which will amuse you. It is verymalicious, and evidently the offspring of personal spite, but it isvery clever. ' Then you go down to your club, and take the thing up withthe tongs, when nobody is looking, and make yourself very miserable; oryou buy it, going home in the cab, and, having spoilt your appetite fordinner with it, tear it up very small, throw it out of window, andswear you have never seen it. 

One forgives the critic--perhaps--but never the good-natured friend. Itis always possible--to the wise man--to refrain from reading thelucubration of the former, but he cannot avoid the latter: which bringsme to the main subject of this paper--the Critic on the Hearth. One canbe deaf to the voice of the public hireling, but it is impossible toshut one's ears to the private communications of one's friends andfamily--all meant for our good, no doubt, but which are neverthelessinsufferable. 

In Miss Martineau's Autobiography there is a passage expressing hersurprise that whereas in all other cases there is a certain modestreticence in respect to other people's business when it is of a specialkind, the profession of literature is made an exception. As there is noone but imagines that he can poke a fire and drive a gig, so everyonebelieves he can write a book, or at all events (like that blasphemousperson in connection with the Creation) that he can give a wrinkle ortwo to the author. 

I wonder what a parson would say, if a man who never goes to churchsave when his babies are christened, or by accident to get out of ashower, should volunteer his advice about sermon-making? or an artist, to whom the man without arms, who is wheeled about in the streets forcoppers, should recommend a greater delicacy of touch? Indeed, metaphorfails me, and I gasp for mere breath when I think of the astoundingimpudence of some people. If I possessed a tithe of it, I should surelyhave made my fortune by this time, and be in the enjoyment of thegreatest prosperity. It must be remembered, too, that the opinion ofthe Critics on the Hearth is always volunteered (indeed, one would assoon think of asking for it as for a loan from the Sultan of Turkey), and in nine cases out of ten it is unfavourable. One has no objectionto their praise, nor to any amount of it; what is so abhorrent is theiradvice, and still more their disapproval. It is like throwing 'half abrick' at you, which, utterly valueless in itself, still hurts you whenit hits you. And the worst of it is that, apart from their rubbishyopinions, one likes these people; they are one's friends and relatives, and to cut one's moorings from them altogether would be to sail overthe sea of life without a port to touch at. 

The early life of the author is especially embittered by the utterancesof these good folks. As a prophet is of no honour in his own country, so it is with the young aspirant for literary fame with his folks athome. They not only disbelieve in him, but--generally, however, withone or two exceptions, who are invaluable to him in the way ofencouragement--'make hay' of him and his pretensions in the mostheartless style. If he produces a poem, it achieves immortality in thesense of his 'never hearing the last of it;' it is the jest of thefamily till they have all grown up. But this he can bear, because hisnoble mind recognises its own greatness; he regards his jeeringbrethren in the same light as the philosophic writer beholds 'the vapidand irreflective reader. ' When they tell him they 'can't make head ortail of his blessed poetry, ' he comforts himself with the reflection ofthe great German (which he has read in a translation) that the clearesthandwriting cannot be read by twilight. It is when his literary talentshave received more or less recognition from the public at large, thathome criticism becomes so painful to him. His brethren are then boys nolonger, but parsons, lawyers, and doctors; and though they don'tventure to interfere with one-another as regards their individualprofessions, they make no sort of scruple about interfering with _him_. They write to him their unsolicited advice and strictures. This is theparson's letter:

 'MY DEAR DICK, 'I like your last book much better than the rest of them; but I don't like your heroine. She strikes both Julia and myself [Julia is his wife, who is acquainted with no literature but the cookery-book] as rather namby-pamby. The descriptions, however, are charming; we both recognised dear old Ramsgate at once. [The original of the locality in the novel being Dieppe. ] The plot is also excellent, though we think we have some recollection of it elsewhere; but it must be so difficult to hit upon anything original in these days. Thanks for your kind remembrance of us at Christmas: the oysters were excellent. We were sorry to see that ill-natured little notice in the _Scourge_. 

 'Yours affectionately, 'BOB. '

Jack the lawyer writes:

 'DEAR DICK, 'You are really becoming ["Becoming?" he thinks _that_ becoming] quite a great man: we could hardly get your last book from Mudie's, though I suppose he takes very small quantities of copies, except from really popular authors. Marion was charmed with your heroine [Dick rather likes Marion; and doesn't think Jack treats her with the consideration she deserves], and I have no doubt women in general will admire her, but your hero--you know I always speak my mind--is rather a duffer. You should go into the world more, and sketch from life. The Vice-Chancellor gave me great pleasure by speaking of your early poems very highly the other day, and I assure you it was quite a drop down for me, to find that he was referring to some other writer of the same name. Of course I did not undeceive him. I wish, my dear fellow, you would write stories in one volume instead of three. You write a _short_ story capitally. 

 'Yours ever, 'JACK. '

Tom the surgeon belongs to that very objectionable class of humanity, called, by ancient writers, wags:

 'MY DEAR DICK, 'I cannot help writing to thank you for the relief afforded to me by the perusal of your last volume. I had been suffering from neuralgia, and every prescription in the Pharmacopæia for producing sleep had failed until I tried _that_. Dear Maggie [an odious woman, who calls novels "light literature, " and affects to be blue] read it to me herself, so it was given every chance; but I think you must acknowledge that it was a little spun out. Maggie assures me--I have not read them myself, for you know what little time I have for such things--that the first two volumes, with the exception of the characters of the hero and heroine, which she pronounces to be rather feeble, are first-rate. Why don't you write two-volume novels? There is always something in analogy: reflect how seldom Nature herself produces three at a birth: when she does, it is only two, at most, which survive. We shall look forward to your next effort with much interest, but we hope you will give more time and pains to it. Remember what Horace says upon this subject (He has no more knowledge of Horace than he has of Sanscrit, but he has read the quotation in that vile review in the _Scourge_. ) Maggie thinks you live too luxuriously: if your expenses were less you would not be compelled to write so much, and you would do it better. Excuse this well-meant advice from an elder brother. 

 'Yours always, 'Tom. '

'One's sisters, and one's cousins, and one's aunts' also write in moreor less the same style, though, to do their sex justice, lessoffensively. 'If you were to go abroad, my dear Dick, ' says one, 'itwould expand your mind. There is nothing to blame in your lastproduction, which strikes me (what I could understand of it at least, for some of it is a little Bohemian) as very pleasing; but the fact is, that English subjects are quite used up. ' Others discover for themselvesthe originals of Dick's characters in persons he has never dreamt ofdescribing, and otherwise exhibit a most marvellous familiarity with hismaterials. 'Hennie, who has just been here, is immensely delighted withyour satirical sketch of her husband. He, however, as you may suppose, is _wild_, and says you had better withdraw your name from thecandidates' book at his club. I don't know how many black balls exclude, but he has a good many friends there. ' Another writes: 'Of course we allrecognised Uncle George in your Mr. Flibbertigibbet; but we try not tolaugh; indeed our sense of loss is too recent. Seriously, I think youmight have waited till the poor old man--who was always kind to you, Dick--was cold in his grave. '

Some of these excellent creatures send incidents of real life which theyare sure will be useful to 'dear Dick' for his next book--narratives ofaccidents in a hansom cab, of missing the train by the Underground, andof Mr. Jones being late for his own wedding, 'which, though nothing inthemselves, actually did happen, you know, and which, properly dressedup, as you so well know how to do, ' will, they are sure, obtain for hima marked success. 'There is nothing like reality, ' they say, he maydepend upon it, 'for coming home to people. '

After all, one need not read these abominable letters. One's relatives(thank Heaven!) usually live in the country. The real Critics on theHearth are one's personal acquaintances in town, whom one cannotescape. 

'My dear friend, ' said one to me the other day--a most cordial andexcellent fellow, by-the-bye (only too frank)--'I like you, as youknow, beyond everything, personally, but I cannot read your books. '

'My dear Jones, ' replied I, 'I regret that exceedingly; for it is you, and men like you, whose suffrages I am most anxious to win. Of theapprobation of all intelligent and educated persons I am certain; butif I could only obtain that of the million, I should be a happy man. '

But even when I have thus demolished Jones, I still feel that I owe hima grudge. 'What the Deuce is it to me whether Jones likes my books ornot? and why does he tell me he doesn't like them?'

Of the surpassing ignorance of these good people, I have just heard anadmirable anecdote. A friend of a justly popular author meets him inthe club and congratulates him upon his last story in the _Slasher_ [inwhich he has never written a line]. It is so full of farce and fun [theauthor is a grave writer]. 'Only I don't see why it is not advertisedunder the same title in the other newspapers. ' The fact being that thestory in the _Slasher_ is a parody--and not a very good-naturedone--upon the author's last work, and resembles it only as a picture in_Vanity Fair_ resembles its original. 

Some Critics on the Hearth are not only good-natured, but have rathertoo high, or, if that is impossible, let us say too pronounced, anopinion of the abilities of their literary friends. They wonder whythey do not employ their gigantic talents in some enduring monument, such as a life of 'Alexander the Great' or a popular history of theVisigoths. To them literature is literature, and they do not concernthemselves with little niceties of style or differences of subject. Others again, though extremely civil, are apt to affect more enthusiasmthan they feel. They admire one's works without exception--'they areall absolutely charming'--but they would be placed in a position ofgreat embarrassment if they were asked to name their favourite: for, asa matter of fact, they are ignorant of the very names of them. Anovelist of my acquaintance lent his last work to a lady cousin becauseshe 'really could not wait till she got it from the library;' besides, 'she was ill, and wanted some amusing literature. ' After a month or sohe got his three volumes back, with a most gushing letter. It 'had beenthe comfort of many a weary hour of sleeplessness, ' etc. The thought ofhaving 'smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain' would, she felt sure, be gratifying to him. Perhaps it would have been, only she had omittedto cut the pages even of the first volume. 

But, as a general rule, these volunteer censors plume themselves ondiscovering defects and not beauties. When any author is particularlypopular and has been long before the public, they have two methods ofdiscoursing upon him in relation to their literary friend. In thefirst, they represent him as a model of excellence, and recommend theirfriend to study him, though without holding out much hope of his everbecoming his rival; in the second, they describe him as 'worked out, 'and darkly hint that sooner or later [they mean sooner] their friendwill be in the same unhappy condition. These, I need not say, are amongthe most detestable specimens of their class, and only to be equalledby those excellent literary judges who are always appealing toposterity, which, even if a little temporary success has crowned youto-day, will relegate you to your proper position to-morrow. If onewere weak enough to argue with these gentry, it would be easy to showthat popular authors are not 'worked out, ' but only have the appearanceof being so from their taking their work too easily. Those whosecalling it is to depict human nature in fiction are especially subjectto this weakness; they do not give themselves the trouble to study newcharacters, or at first hand, as of old; they sit at home and receivethe congratulations of Society without paying due attention to thatsomewhat changeful lady, and they draw upon their memory, or theirimagination, instead of studying from the life. Otherwise, when they donot give way to that temptation of indolence which arises fromcompetence and success, there is no reason why their reputation shouldsuffer, since, though they may lack the vigour or high spirits of thosewho would push them from their stools, their experience and knowledgeof the world are always on the increase. 

As to the argument with regard to posterity which is so popular withthe Critic on the Hearth, I am afraid he has no greater respect for theopinion of posterity himself than for that of his possiblegreat-great-granddaughter. Indeed, he only uses it as being a weaponthe blow of which it is impossible to parry, and with the object ofbeing personally offensive. It is, moreover, noteworthy that hisposition, which is sometimes taken up by persons of far greaterintelligence, is inconsistent with itself. The praisers of posterityare also always the praisers of the past; it is only the present whichis in their eyes contemptible. Yet to the next generation this presentwill be _their_ past, and, however valueless may be the verdict oftoday, how much more so, by the most obvious analogy, will be that ofto-morrow. It is probable, indeed, though it is difficult to believeit, that the Critics on the Hearth of the generation to come will makethemselves even more ridiculous than their immediate predecessors. 

_SHAM ADMIRATION IN LITERATURE. _

In all highly civilised communities Pretence is prominent, and sooneror later invades the regions of Literature. In the beginning, this isnot altogether to be reprobated; it is the rude homage which Ignorance, conscious of its disgrace, offers to Learning; but after awhile, Pretence becomes systematised, gathers strength from numbers andimpunity, and rears its head in such a manner as to suggest it has somebody and substance belonging to it. In England, literary pretence ismore universal than elsewhere from our method of education. When younggentlemen from ten to sixteen are set to study poetry (a subject forwhich not one in a hundred has the least taste or capability even whenhe reads it in his own language) in Greek and Latin authors, it is onlya natural consequence that their views upon it should be slightlyartificial. The youth who objected to the alphabet that it seemedhardly worth while to have gone through so much to have acquired solittle, was exceptionally sagacious; the more ordinary lad conceivesthat what has cost him so much time and trouble, and entailed so manypains and penalties, must needs have something in it, though it hasnever met his eye. Hence arises our public opinion upon the ancientclassics, which I am afraid is somewhat different from (what paintersterm) the private view. If you take the ordinary admirer of Æschylus, for example--not the scholar, but the man who has had what he believesto be 'a liberal education'--and appeal to his opinion upon somepassage in a British dramatist, say Shakespeare, it is ten to one thathe shows not only ignorance of the author (the odds are twenty to oneabout _that_), but utter inability to grasp the point in question; itis too deep for him, and, especially, too subtle. If you are cruelenough to press him, he will unconsciously betray the fact that he hasnever felt a line of poetry in his life. He honestly believes that the'Seven against Thebes' is one of the greatest works that ever werewritten, just as a child believes the same of the 'Seven Champions ofChristendom. ' A great wit once observed, when bored by the praises of aman who spoke six languages, that he had known a man to speak a dozen, and yet not say a word worth hearing in any one of them. The humour ofthe remark, as sometimes happens, has caused its wisdom to beunderrated; for the fact is that, in very many cases, all theintelligence of which a mind is capable is expended upon the mereacquisition of a foreign tongue. As to getting anything out of it inthe way of ideas, and especially of poetical ones, that is almost neverattained. There are, indeed, many who have a special facility forlanguages, but in their case (with a few exceptions) one may saywithout uncharity that the acquisition of ideas is not their object, though if they did acquire them they would probably be new ones. Themajority of us, however, have much difficulty in surmounting theobstacle of an alien tongue; and when we have done so we are naturallyinclined to overrate the advantages thus attained. Everyone knows thepoor creature who quotes French on all occasions with a certain stresson the accent, designed to arouse a doubt in his hearers as to whetherhe was not actually born in Paris. _He_, of course, is a low specimenof the class in question, but almost all of us derive a certainintellectual gratification from the mastery of another language, and aswe gradually attain to it, whenever we find a meaning we are apt tomistake it for a beauty. [1] Nay, I am convinced that many admire thisor that (even) British poet from the fact that here and there hismeaning has gleamed upon them with all the charm that accompaniesunexpectedness. 

 [1] Since the above was written, my attention has been called to the following remark of De Quincey: 'As must ever be the case with readers not sufficiently masters of a language to bring the true pretensions of a work to any test of feeling, they are for ever mistaking for some pleasure conferred by the writer, what is, in fact, the pleasure naturally attached to the sense of a difficulty overcome. '

Since classical learning is compulsory with us, this bastard admirationis much more often excited with respect to the Greek and Latin poets. Men may not only go through the whole curriculum of a universityeducation, but take high honours in it, without the least intellectualadvantage beyond the acquisition of a few quotations. This is not, ofcourse (good heavens!), because the classics have nothing to teach usin the way of poetical ideas, but simply because to the ordinary mindthe acquisition of a poetical idea is very difficult, and when conveyedin a foreign language is impossible. If the same student had given thesame time--a monstrous thought, of course, but not impracticable--tothe cultivation of Shakespeare and the old dramatists, or even to themore modern English poets and thinkers, he would certainly have gotmore out of them, though he would have missed the delicatesuggestiveness of the Greek aorist, and the exquisite subtleties of theparticle _de_. Having acquired these last, however, and not fornothing, it is not surprising that he should esteem them very highly, and, being unable to popularise them at dinner-parties and the like, hefalls back upon praise of the classics generally. 

Such are the circumstances which, more particularly in this country, have led to a well-nigh universal habit of literary lying--of apretence of admiration for certain works of which in reality we knowvery little, and for which, if we knew more, we should perhaps careeven less. 

There are certain books which are standard, and as it were planted inthe British soil, before which the great majority of us bow the kneeand doff the cap with a reverence that, in its ignorance, reminds oneof fetish worship, and, in its affectation, of the passion for HighArt. The works without which, we are told at book auctions, 'nogentleman's library can be considered complete, ' are especially theobjects of this adoration. The 'Rambler, ' for example, is one of them. I was once shut up for a week of snowstorms in a mountain inn, with the'Rambler' and one other publication. The latter was a Shepherd's Guide, with illustrations of the way in which sheep are marked by theirvarious owners for the purpose of identification: 'Cropped near ear, upper key bitted far, a pop on the head and another at the tail head, ritted, and with two red strokes down both shoulders, ' etc. It wasmonotonous, but I confess that there were times when I felt it somecomfort in having that picture-book to fall back upon, to alternatewith the 'Rambler. '

The essay, like port wine, I have noticed, requires age for its dueappreciation. Leigh Hunt's 'Indicator' comprises some admirable essays, but the general public have not a word to say for them; it may be urgedthat that is because they had not read the 'Indicator' But why then dothey praise the 'Rambler' and Montaigne? That comforting word, 'Mesopotamia, ' which has been so often alluded to in religious matters, has many a parallel in profane literature. 

A good deal of this mock worship is of course due to abject cowardice. A man who says he doesn't like the 'Rambler, ' runs, with some folks, the risk of being thought a fool; but he is sure to be thought that, for something or another, under any circumstances; and, at all events, why should he not content himself, when the 'Rambler' is belauded, withholding his tongue and smiling acquiescence? It must be conceded thatthere are a few persons who really have read the 'Rambler, ' a work, ofcourse, I am merely using as a type of its class. In their young daysit was used as a schoolbook, and thought necessary as a part of politeeducation; and as they have read little or nothing since, it is onlyreasonable that they should stick to their colours. Indeed, the Frenchsatirist's boast that he could predicate the views of any man withregard to both worlds, if he were only supplied with the simple data ofhis age and his income, is quite true in the general with regard toliterary taste. Given the age of the ordinary individual--that is tosay of the gentleman 'fond of books, but who has really no time forreading'--and it is easy enough to guess his literary idols. They arethe gods of his youth, and, whether he has been 'suckled in a creedoutworn' or not, he knows no other. These persons, however, rarely givetheir opinion about literary matters, except on compulsion; they areharmless and truthful. The tendency of society in general, on the otherhand, is not only to praise the 'Rambler' which they have not read, butto express a noble scorn for those who have read it and don't like it. 

I remember, as a young man, being greatly struck by the independence ofcharacter exhibited by Miss Bronte in a certain confession she made inrespect to Miss Austen's novels. It was at a period when everybodyprofessed to adore them, and especially the great-guns of literature. Walter Scott thought more highly of the genius of the author of'Mansfield Park' even than of that of his favourite, Miss Edgeworth. Macaulay speaks of her as though she were the Eclipse ofnovelists--'first, and the rest nowhere'--though his opinion, it istrue, lost something of its force from the contempt he expressed for'the rest, ' among whom were some much better ones. Dr. Whewell, a verydifferent type of mind, had 'Mansfield Park, ' I believe, read to him onhis death-bed. And, indeed, up to the present date, somehighly-cultured persons of my acquaintance take the same view. They maybe very possibly right, but that is no reason why the people who havenever read Miss Austen's novels--and very few have--should ape thefashion. Now, the authoress of 'Jane Eyre' did not derive much pleasurefrom the perusal of the works of the other Jane. 'I know it's verywrong, ' she modestly said, 'but the fact is I can't read them. Theyhave not got story enough in them to engage my attention. I don't wantmy blood curdled, but I like it stirred. Miss Austen strikes me asmilk-and-watery, and, to say truth, as dull. '

This opinion she has, in effect, repeated in her published writings, but I had only heard her verbal expression of it; and I admired hercourage. If she had been a man, struggling, as she then was, for aposition in literature, she would not have dared to say half as much. For, what is very curious, the advocates of the classic authors--thoseI mean whom antiquity has more or less hallowed--instead of pityingthose unhappy wights who confess their want of appreciation of them, fly at them with bludgeons, and dance upon their prostrate bodies withclogs. 

 'For who would rush on a benighted man, And give him two black eyes for being blind?'

inquires the poet. I answer, 'lots of people, ' and especially those whoworship the pagan divinities of literature. The same thing happens--but_their_ fury is more excusable, because they have less naturalintelligence--with the lovers of music. Instead of being sorry for thepoor folks who have 'no ear, ' and whom 'a little music in the evening'bores to extremity, they overwhelm them with reproaches for what is infact a natural infirmity. 'You Goth! you Vandal!' they exclaim, 'howcontemptible is the creature who has no music in his soul!' Which isreally very rude. Even persons who are not musical have their feelings. 'Hath not a Jew ears?'--that is to say, though they have 'no ear, ' theyunderstand what is abusive language and resent it. 

I am not saying one word against established reputations in literature. The very fact of their being established (even the 'Rambler, ' forexample, has its merits) is in their favour; and, indeed, some of theworks I shall refer to are masterpieces. My objection is to the shamadmiration of them, which does their authors no good (for theircirculation is now of no consequence to them), and is injurious notonly to modern writers (who are generally made the subject of basecomparison), but especially to the utterers of this false cointhemselves. One cannot tell falsehoods, even about one's views inliterature, without injury to one's morals, yet to 'tell the truth andshame the devil' is easy, as it would seem, compared with telling thetruth and defying the critics. 

I have alluded to the intrepidity of Miss Bronte in this matter; and, curiously enough, it is women who have the most courage in theexpression of their literary opinions. It may be said, of course, thatthis is due to the audacity of ignorance, and a well-known line may bequoted (for some people, as I have said, are rude) in which certainangels (who are _not_ women) are represented as being afraid to treadin certain places. But I am speaking of women who are great readers. Miss Martineau once confessed to me that she could see no beauties in'Tom Jones. ' 'Of course, ' she said, 'the coarseness disgusts me, butapart from that, I see no sort of merit in it. ' 'What?' I replied, 'nohumour, no knowledge of human life?' 'No; to me it is a wearisomebook. '

I disagreed with her very much upon that point, and do so still; yet, apart from the coarseness (which does not disgust everybody, let metell you), there is a good deal of tedious reading in 'Tom Jones. ' Atall events that expression of opinion from such lips strikes me asnoteworthy. 

It may here be said that there are many English authors of old date, some of whose beauties are unintelligible except to those who areacquainted with the classics; and 'Tom Jones' is one of them. Many ofthe introductions to the chapters, not to mention a certain travestieof an Homeric battle, must needs be as wearisome to those who are notscholars, as the spectacle of a burlesque is to those who have not seenthe original play. This is still more the case with our old poets, especially Milton. I very much doubt, in spite of the universal chorusto the contrary, whether 'Lycidas' is much admired by readers who areonly acquainted with English literature; I am quite sure it nevertouched their hearts as, for example, 'In Memoriam' does. 

I once beheld a young lady of great literary taste, and of exquisitesensibility, torn to pieces (figuratively) and trampled upon by a greatscholar for venturing to make a comparison between those two poems. Itsinvocation to the Muses, and the general classical air which pervadesit, had destroyed for her the pathos of 'Lycidas, ' whereas to herantagonist those very imperfections appeared to enhance its beauty. Idid not interfere, because the wretch was her husband, and it wouldhave been worse for her if I had, but my sympathies were entirely withher. Her sad fate--for the massacre took place in public--would, I waswell aware, have the effect of making people lie worse than ever aboutMilton. On that same evening, while some folks were talking about Mr. Morris's 'Earthly Paradise, ' I heard a scornful voice exclaim, 'Oh!give ME "Paradise Lost, "' and with that gentleman I _did_ have it out. I promptly subjected him to cross-examination, and drove him to thatextremity that he was compelled to admit he had never read a word ofMilton for forty years, and even then only in extracts from 'Enfield'sSpeaker. '

With Shakespeare--though there is a good deal of lying about _him_--thecase is different, and especially with elderly people; for 'in theirday, ' as they pathetically term it, Shakespeare was played everywhere, and everyone went to the play. They do not read him, but they recollecthim; they are well acquainted with his beauties--that is, with thebetter known of them--and can quote him with manifest appreciation. They are, intellectually, in a position much superior to that of afashionable lady of my acquaintance who informed me that her daughterswere going to the theatre that night to see Shakespeare's 'Turning ofthe Screw. '

The writer who has done most, without I suppose intending it, to promotehypocrisy in literature is Macaulay. His 'every schoolboy knows' hasfrightened thousands into pretending to know authors with whom they havenot even a bowing acquaintance. It is amazing that a man who had read somuch should have written so contemptuously of those who have read butlittle; one would have thought that the consciousness of superioritywould have forbidden such insolence, or that his reading would have beenextensive enough to teach him at least how little he had read of whatthere was to read; since he read some things--works of imagination andhumour, for example--to such very little purpose, he might really havebragged a little less. One feels quite grateful to Macaulay, however, foravowing his belief that he was the only man who had read through the'Faery Queen;' since that exonerates everybody--I do not say from readingit, because the supposition is preposterous--but from the necessity ofpretending to have read it. The pleasure derived from that poem to mostminds is, I am convinced, analogous to that already spoken of as beingimparted by a foreign author: namely, the satisfaction at finding it--inplaces--intelligible. For the few who possess the poetic faculty it hasgreat beauties, but I observe, from the extracts that appear in PoeticSelections and the like, that the most tedious and even the mostmonstrous passages are those which are generally offered for admiration. The case of Spenser in this respect--which does not stand alone inancient English literature--has a curious parallel in art, where peopleare positively found to go into ecstasies over a distorted limb or aludicrous inversion of perspective, simply because it is the work of anold master, who knew no better, or followed the fashion of his time. 

Leigh Hunt read the 'Faery Queen, ' by-the-bye, as almost everythingelse that has been written in the English tongue, and even Macaulayalludes with rare commendation to his 'catholic taste. ' Of all authorsindeed, and probably of all readers, Leigh Hunt had the keenest eye formerit and the warmest appreciation of it wherever found. He wasactively engaged in politics, yet was never blind to the genius of anadversary; blameless himself in morals, he could admire the wit ofWycherley; and a freethinker in religion, he could see both wisdom andbeauty in the divines. Moreover, it is immensely to his credit thatthis universal knowledge, instead of puffing him up, only moved him toimpart it, and that next to the pleasure he took in books was that hederived from teaching others to take pleasure in them. Witness his 'Witand Humour' and his 'Imagination and Fancy, ' to my mind the greatesttreasures in the way of handbooks that have ever been offered tostudents of English literature, and the completest antidotes topretence in it. How many a time, as a boy, have I pondered over this orthat passage in the originals, from Shakespeare to Suckling, and thencompared it with the italicised lines in his two volumes, to seewhether I had hit upon the beauties; and how often, alas! I hit uponthe blots![2]

 [2] I remember (when 'I was but a little tiny boy') I thought that 'the fringed curtains of thine eye advance, ' addressed by Prospero to Miranda, must needs be a very fine line; imagine then my confusion, on referring for corroboration to my 'guide, philosopher, and friend, ' as he truly was, to find this passage: 'Why Shakespeare should have condescended to the elaborate nothingness, not to say nonsense, of this metaphor (for what is meant by "advancing curtains"?) I cannot conceive. That is to say, if he did condescend: for it looks very like the interpolation of some pompous declamatory player. Pope has put it into his _Treatise on the Bathos_. '

It is curious that Leigh Hunt, whose style has been so severely handled(and, it must be owned, not without some justice) for its affectations, should have been so genuine (although always generous) in hiscriticisms. It was nothing to him whether an author was old or new; nordid he shrink from any literary comparison between two writers when hethought it appropriate (and he was generally right), notwithstanding allthe age and authority that might be at the back of one of them. Thackeray, by the way, a very different writer and thinker, had thissame outspoken honesty in the expression of his literary taste. Inspeaking of the hero of Cooper's five good novels--Leather-Stocking, Hawkeye, etc. --he remarks with quite a noble simplicity: 'I think he isbetter than any of Scott's lot. '

It is a 'far cry' from the 'Faery Queen' to 'Childe Harold, ' which, reckoning by years, is still a modern poem; yet I wonder how manypersons under thirty--even of those who term it 'magnificent'--have everread 'Childe Harold. ' At one time it was only people under thirty who_had_ read it; for poetry to the ordinary reader is the poetry that waspopular in his youth--'no other is genuine. '

 'A dreary, weary poem called the _Excursion_, Written in a manner which is my aversion, '

is a couplet the frankness of which has always recommended itself to me(though I like the 'Excursion'); but, except for the rhyme, it has afatal facility of application to other long poems. Heaven forbid that Ishould 'with shadowed hint confuse' the faith in a British classic; but, ye gods, how men have gaped (in private) over 'Childe Harold!'

'Gil Blas, ' though not a native classic, is included in the articles ofthe British literary faith; not as a matter of pious opinion, but _defide_; a necessity of intellectual salvation. I remember an interview Ionce had with a boy of letters concerning this immortal work; he is awell-known writer now, but at the time I speak of he was only buddingand sprouting in the magazines--a lad of promise, no doubt, but given, if not to kick against authority, to question it, and, what was worse, to question _me_ about it, in an embarrassing manner. The naturalaffability of my disposition had caused him, I suppose, to treat me ashis Father Confessor in literature; and one of the sins of omission heconfided to me was in connection with the divine Le Sage. 

'I say--about "Gil Blas, " you know--Bias [a great critic of that day]was saying last night that if he were to be imprisoned for life withonly one book to read he would choose the Bible or "Gil Blas. "'

'It is very gratifying to me, ' said I, wishing to evade my young friend, and also because I had no love for Bias, 'that he should have selectedthe Bible, even as an alternative; and all the more so, since I shouldnever have expected it of him. '

'Yes, papa' (that was what the young dog was wont to call me, though hewas no son of mine--far from it); 'but about "Gil Blas"? Is it _really_the next best book? And after he had read it--say ten times--would henot have been rather sorry that he had not chosen--well, Shakespeare, for instance?'

The picture of Bias with a long white beard, the growth of twenty years, reading that tattered copy of 'Gil Blas' in his cell, almost affected meto tears; but I made shift to answer gravely: 'Bias is a professionalcritic; and persons of that class are apt to be a little dogmatic andgiven to exaggeration. But "Gil Blas" is a great work. As a picture ofthe seamy side of human life--of its vices and its weaknesses atleast--it is unrivalled. The archbishop----'

'Oh! I know that archbishop--_well_, ' interrupted my young tormentor. 'Isometimes think, if it hadn't been for that archbishop, we should neverperhaps have heard of "Gil Blas. "'

'Tchut, tchut!' said I; 'you talk like a child. '

'But to read it _all through_, papa--three times, ten times, for allone's life? Poor Mr. Bias!'

'It is a matter of opinion, my dear boy, ' I said. 'Bias has this greatadvantage over you in literary matters, that he knows what he is talkingabout; and if he was quite sure----'

'Oh! but he was not quite sure: he was rather doubtful, he said, aboutone of the books. '

'Not the Bible, I do hope?' said I fervently. 

'No, about the other. He was not quite sure but that, instead of "GilBlas, " he ought to have selected "Don Quixote. " Now really that seems tome worse than "Gil Blas. "

'You mean less excellent, ' I rejoined; 'you are too young to appreciatethe full signification of "Don Quixote. "'

The scoundrel murmured, 'Do you mean to tell me people read it when theyare old?' But I pretended not to hear him. 'We do not all of us, ' I wenton, 'know what is good for us. Sancho Panza's physician----'

'Oh! I know that physician--_well_, papa. I sometimes think, if it hadnot been for that physician, perhaps----'

'Hush!' I exclaimed authoritatively; 'let us have no flippancy, I beg. 'And so, with a dead lift as it were, I got rid of him. He left the roommuttering, 'But to read it through--three times, ten times, for allone's life?' And I was obliged to confess to myself that such aprolonged course of study, even of 'Don Quixote, ' would have beenwearisome. 

Rabelais is another article of our literary faith, that is certainlysubscribed to much more often than believed in. In a certain poem of Mr. Browning's (_I_ call it the Burial of the Book, since the Latin name hehas given it is unpronounceable, even if it were possible to recollectit), charmingly humorous, and which is also remarkable for impersonatingan inanimate object in verse as Dickens does in prose, there occur theselines:

 'Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf, Half a cheese and a bottle of Chablis, Lay on the grass, and forgot the oaf Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. '

Yet I have known some wonder to be expressed (confidentially) as towhere he found the 'jolly chapter, ' and the looking for the beauties ofRabelais to be likened to searching in a huge dung-heap for a few headsof asparagus. 

I have no quarrel with Bias and Company (though they stick at nothing, and will presently say that I don't care for these books myself), but Iventure to think that they are wrong in making dogmas of what are, afterall, but matters of literary taste; it is their vehemence andexaggeration which drive the weak to take refuge in falsehood. 

A good woman in the country once complained of her stepson, 'He will notlove his learning, though I beats him with a jack-chain;' and from theapplication of similar aids to instruction, the same result takes placein London. Only here we dissemble and pretend to love it. It is partlyin consequence of this that works, not only of acknowledged but genuineexcellence, such as those I have been careful to select, are, though souniversally praised, so little read. The poor student attempts them, butfailing--from many causes no doubt, but also sometimes from the fact oftheir not being there--to find those unrivalled beauties which he hasbeen led to expect in every sentence, he stops short, where he wouldotherwise have gone on. He says to himself, 'I have been deceived, ' or'I must be a born fool;' whereas he is wrong in both suppositions. I amconvinced that the want of popularity of Walter Scott among the risinggeneration is partly due to this extravagant laudation; and I am muchmistaken if another great author, more recently deceased, will not in afew years be added to the ranks of those who are more praised than readfrom the same cause. 

The habit of mere adhesion to received opinion in any matter is mostmischievous, for it strikes at the root of independence of thought; andin literature it tends to make the public taste mechanical. It is veryseldom that what is called the verdict of posterity (absurdly enough, for are not _we_ posterity?) is ever reversed; but it has chanced tohappen in a certain case quite lately. The production of 'The IronChest' upon the stage has once more brought into fashion 'CalebWilliams. ' Now that is a work, though by no means belonging to the samerank as those to which I have referred, which has a fine old crustedreputation. Time has hallowed it. The great world of readers (who havenever read it) used to echo the remark of Bias and Company, that thisand that modern work of fiction reminded them--though at an immensedistance, of course--of Godwin's masterpiece. I remember Le Fanu's'Uncle Silas, ' for example (from some similarity, more fanciful perhapsthan real, in the isolation of its hero), being thus compared with it. Now 'Caleb Williams' is founded on a very fine conception--one thatcould only have occurred, perhaps, to a man of genius; the first part ofit is well worked out, but towards the middle it grows feeble, and itends in tediousness and drivel; whereas 'Uncle Silas' is good and strongfrom first to last. Le Fanu has never been so popular as, in my humblejudgment, he deserves to be, but of course modern readers were betteracquainted with him than with Godwin. Yet nine out of ten were alwaysheard repeating this cuckoo cry about the latter's superiority, untilthe 'Iron Chest' came out, and Fashion induced them to read Godwin forthemselves; which has very properly changed their opinion. 

I remember, in my own case, that, from that reverence for authoritywhich I hope I share with my neighbours, I used to speak of 'HeadlongHall' and 'Crotchet Castle'--both great favourites of ourfore-fathers--with much respect, until one wet day in the country Ifound myself shut up with them. I won't say what I suffered; betterjudges of literature than myself admire them still, I know. I will onlyremark that _I_ don't admire them. I don't say they are the dullestnovels ever printed, because that would be invidious, and might do wrongto works of even greater pretensions; but to my mind they are dull. 

When Dr. Johnson is free to confess that he does not admire Gray's'Elegy, ' and Macaulay to avow that he sees little to praise in Dickensand Wordsworth, why should not humbler folks have the courage of theirown opinions? They cannot possibly be more wrong than Johnson andMacaulay were, and it is surely better to be honest, though it mayexpose one to some ridicule, than to lie. The more we agree with theverdict of the generations before us on these matters, the more, it isquite true, we are likely to be right; but the agreement should be anhonest one. At present very extensive domains in literature are, as itwere, enclosed and denied to the public in respect to any freeexpression of their opinion. 'They are splendid, they are faultless, 'cries the general voice, but the general eye has not beheld them. Nothing, of course, could be more futile than that, with every newgeneration, our old authors who have won their fame should be arraignedanew at the bar of public criticism; but, on the other hand, there is noreason why the mouths of us poor moderns should be muzzled, and stillless that we 'should praise with alien lips. '

'Until Caldecott's charming illustrations of it made me laugh so much, 'said a young lady to me the other day, 'I confess--though I know it'svery stupid of me--I never saw much fun in "John Gilpin. "' She evidentlyexpected a reproof, and when I whispered in her ear, 'Nor I, ' her lovelyfeatures assumed a look of positive enfranchisement. 

'But am I right?' she inquired. 

'You are certainly right, my dear young lady, ' said I, 'not to pretendadmiration where you don't feel it; as to liking "John Gilpin, " that isa matter of taste. It has, of course, simplicity to recommend it; but inmy own case, though I'm fond of fun, it has never evoked a smile. It hasalways seemed to me like one of Mr. Joe Miller's stories put intotedious verse. '

I really almost thought (and hoped) that that young lady would havekissed me. 

'Papa always says it is a free country, ' she exclaimed, 'but I neverfelt it to be the case before this moment. '

For years this beautiful and accomplished creature had locked this awfulsecret in her innocent breast--that she didn't see much fun in 'JohnGilpin. ' 'You have given me courage, ' she said, 'to confess somethingelse. Mr. Caldecott has just been illustrating in the same charmingmanner Goldsmith's "Elegy on a Mad Dog, " and--I'm very sorry--but Inever laughed at _that_ before, either. I have pretended to laugh, youknow, ' she added, hastily and apologetically, 'hundreds of times. '

'I don't doubt it, ' I replied; 'this is not such a free country as yourfather supposes. '

'But am I right?'

'I say nothing about "right, "' I answered, 'except that everybody has aright to his own opinion. For my part, however, I think the 'Mad Dog'better than 'John Gilpin' only because it is shorter. '

Whether I was wrong or right in the matter is of no consequence even tomyself; the affection and gratitude of that young creature would morethan repay me for a much greater mistake, if mistake it is. She proteststhat I have emancipated her from slavery. She has since talked to meabout all sorts of authors, from Sir Philip Sidney to Washington Irving, in a way that would make some people's blood run cold; but it has nosuch effect upon me--quite the reverse. Of Irving she naïvely remarksthat his strokes of humour seem to her to owe much of their success tothe rarity of their occurrence; the flashes of fun are spread over pagesof dulness, which enhance them, just as a dark night is propitious tofireworks, or the atmosphere of the House cf Commons, or of a Court ofLaw, to a joke. She is often in error, no doubt, but how bright andwholesome such talk is as compared with the platitudes and commonplaceswhich one hears on all sides in connection with literature!

As a rule, I suppose, even people in society ('the drawing-rooms and theclubs') are not absolutely base and yet one would really think so, tojudge by the fear that is entertained by them of being natural. 'I vowto heaven, ' says the prince of letter-writers, 'that I think the Parrotsof Society are more intolerable and mischievous than its Birds of Prey. If ever I destroy myself, it will be in the bitterness of having thoseinfernal and damnable "good old times" extolled. ' One is almost temptedto say the same--when one hears their praises come from certainmouths--of the good old books. It is not everyone, of course, who has anopinion of his own upon any subject, far less on that of literature, buteveryone can abstain from expressing an opinion that is not his own. Ifone has no voice, what possible compensation can there be in becoming anecho? No one, I conclude, would wish to see literature discoursed aboutin the same pinchbeck and affected style as are painting and music;[3]yet that is what will happen if this prolific weed of sham admiration ispermitted to attain its full growth. 

 [3] The slang of art-talk has reached the 'young men' in the furniture warehouses. A friend of mine was recommended a sideboard the other day as not being a Chippendale, but as 'having a Chippendale _feeling_ in it. '

_THE PINCH OF POVERTY_. 

In these days of reduction of rents, or of total abstinence fromrent-paying, it is, I am told, the correct thing to be 'a little pressedfor money. ' It is a sign of connection with the landed interest (likethe banker's ejaculation in 'Middlemarch') and suggests family acres, and entails, and a position in the county. (In which case I know a goodmany people who are landlords on a very extensive scale, and have madeallowances for their tenants the generosity of which may be described asQuixotic. ) But as a general rule, and in times less exceptionally hard, though Shakespeare tells us 'How apt the poor are to be proud, ' they arenot proud of being poor. 

'Poverty, ' says the greatest of English divines, 'is indeed despised andmakes men contemptible; it exposes a man to the influences of evilpersons, and leaves a man defenceless; it is always suspected; itsstories are accounted lies, and all its counsels follies; it puts a manfrom all employment; it makes a man's discourses tedious and his societytroublesome. This is the worst of it. ' Even so poverty seems pretty bad, but, begging Dr. Jeremy Taylor's pardon, what he has stated is by nomeans 'the worst of it. ' To be in want of food at any time, and offiring in winter time, is ever so much worse than the inconveniences heenumerates; and to see those we love--delicate women and childrenperhaps--in want, is worse still. The fact is, the excellent bishopprobably never knew what it was to go without his meals, but took them'reg'lar' (as Mrs. Gamp took her Brighton ale) as bishops generally do. Moreover, since his day, Luxury has so universally increased, and thevalue of Intelligence has become so well recognised (by the publishers)that even philosophers, who profess to despise such things, have plentyto eat, and good of its kind too. Hence it happens that, from all wehear to the contrary from the greatest thinkers, the deprivation of foodis a small thing: indeed, as compared with the great spiritual strugglesof noble minds, and the doubts that beset them as to the supremegovernment of the universe, it seems hardly worth mentioning. 

In old times, when folks were not so 'cultured, ' starvation was thoughtmore of. It is quite curious, indeed, to contrast the high-flyingmorality of the present day (when no one is permitted, either byEvolutionist or Ritualist, however dire may be his necessity, so much asto jar his conscience) with the shocking laxity of the Holy Scriptures. 'Men do not despise a thief if he steal to satisfy his soul when he ishungry, ' says Solomon, after which stretch of charity, strange to say, he goes on to speak of marital infidelity in terms that, considering thenumber of wives he had himself, strike one as severe. 

It is certain, indeed, that the sacred writers were apt to make greatallowances for people with empty stomachs, and though I am well awarethat the present profane ones think this very reprehensible, I ventureto agree with the sacred writers. The sharpest tooth of poverty is felt, after all, in the bite of hunger. A very amusing and graphic writer oncedescribed his experience of a whole night passed in the streets; theexhaustion, the pain, the intolerable weariness of it, were set forth ina very striking manner; the sketch was called 'The Key of the Street, 'and was thought by many, as Browning puts it, to be 'the true Dickens. 'But what are even the pangs of sleeplessness and fatigue compared withthose of want? Of course there have been fanatics who have fasted manydays; but they have been supported by the prospect of spiritual reward. I confess I reserve my pity for those who have no such golden dreams, and who fast perforce. It is exceedingly difficult for mereworldlings--such as most of us are--not to eat, if it is possible, whenwe are hungry. I have known a great social philosopher who flatteredhimself that he was giving his sons an experience of High Thinking andLow Living by restricting their pocket-money to two shillings a day, outof which it was understood they were to find their own meals. I don'tknow whether the spirit in their case was willing, but the flesh wasdecidedly weak, for one of them, on this very moderate allowance, usedto contrive to always have a pint of dry champagne with his luncheon. The fact is, that of the iron grip of poverty, people in general, by nomeans excepting those who have written about it, have had very littleexperience; whereas of the pinch of it a good many people knowsomething. It is the object of this paper--and the question should be aninteresting one, considering how much it is talked about--to inquirebriefly where it lies. 

It is quite extraordinary how very various are the opinions entertainedon this point, and, before sifting them, one must be careful in thefirst place to eliminate from our inquiry the cases of that considerableclass of persons who pinch themselves. For, however severely they do it, they may stop when they like and the pain is cured. There is all thedifference in the world between pulling one's own tooth out, and eventhe best and kindest of dentists doing it for one. How gingerly one goesto work, and how often it strikes one that the tooth is a good tooth, that it has been a fast friend to us for ever so many years and never'fallen out' before, and that after all it had better stop where it is!

To the truly benevolent mind, indeed, nothing is more satisfactory thanto hear of a miser denying himself the necessaries of life a little toofar and ridding us of his presence altogether. Our confidence in theaverage virtue of humanity assures us that his place will be supplied bya better man. The details of his penurious habits, the comfortless room, the scanty bedding, the cheese-rinds on his table, and the fatbanking-book under his thin bolster, only inspire disgust: if he werepinched to death he did it himself, and so much the better for the worldin general and his heir in particular. 

Again, the people who have a thousand a year, and who try to persuadethe world that they have two thousand, suffer a good deal ofinconvenience, but it can't be called the pinch of poverty. They may putlimits to their washing-bills, which persons of cleanlier habits wouldconsider unpleasantly narrow; they may eat cold mutton in private forfive days a week in order to eat turtle and venison in public (and withthe air of eating them every day) on the sixth; and they may immurethemselves in their back rooms in London throughout the autumn in orderto persuade folks that they are still at Trouville, where for ten daysthey did really reside and in splendour; but all their stint andself-incarceration, so far from awakening pity, only fill us withcontempt. I am afraid that even the complaining tones of our City friendwho tells us that in consequence of 'the present unsettled state of themarkets' he has been obliged to make 'great retrenchments'--which itseems on inquiry consist in putting down one of his carriages andkeeping three horses instead of six--fail to draw the sympathising tear. Indeed, to a poor man this pretence of suffering on the part of the richis perhaps even more offensive than their boasts of their prosperity. 

On the other hand, when the rich become really poor their case is hardindeed; though, strange to say, we hear little of it. It is likedrowning; there is a feeble cry, a little ineffectual assistance fromthe bystanders, and then they go under. It is not a question of pinchwith _them_; they have fallen into the gaping mouth of ruin, and it hasdevoured them. If we ever see them again, it is in the second generationas waiters (upon Providence), or governesses, and we say, 'Why, dear me, that was Bullion's son (or daughter), wasn't it?' using the past tense, as if they were dead. 'I remember him when he lived in Eaton Square. 'This class of cases rarely comes under the head of 'genteel poverty. 'They were at the top, and hey presto! by some malignant stroke of fatethey are at the bottom; and there they stick. 

I don't believe in bachelors ever experiencing the pinch of poverty; Ihave heard them complaining of it at the club, while ordering Medinaoysters instead of Natives, but, after all, what does it signify even ifthey were reduced to cockles? They have no appearances to keep up, andif they cannot earn enough to support themselves they must be poorcreatures indeed. 

It is the large families of moderate income, who are delicate, and havedelicate tastes, that feel the twinge: and especially the poor girls. Iremember a man, with little care for his personal appearance, of smallmeans but with a very rich sense of humour, describing to me hisexperiences when staying at a certain ducal house in the country, wherehis feelings must have been very similar to those of Christopher Sly. Inparticular he drew a charming picture of the magnificent attendant whoin the morning _would_ put out his clothes for him, which had not beenmade by Mr. Poole, nor very recently by anybody. The contempt which hewell understood his Grace's gentleman must have felt for him affordedhim genuine enjoyment. But with young ladies, in a similar position, matters are very different; they have rarely a sense of humour, andcertainly none strong enough to counteract the force of a personalhumiliation. I have known some very charming ones, compelled to dress ona very small allowance, who, in certain mansions where they have beenoccasionally guests, have been afraid to put their boots outside theirdoor, because they were not of the newest, and have trembled when theofficious lady's-maid has meddled with their scanty wardrobe. Aphilosopher may think nothing of this, but, considering the tender skinof the sufferer, it may be fairly called a pinch. 

In the investigation of this interesting subject, I have had a good dealof conversation with young ladies, who have given me the fullestinformation, and in a manner so charming, that, if it were common inwitnesses generally, it would make Blue-Books very pretty reading. 

'I consider it to be "a pinch, "' says one, 'when I am obliged to put onblack mittens on occasions when I know other girls will have long whitekid gloves. ' I must confess I have a prejudice myself against mittens;they are, so to speak, 'gritty' to touch; so that the pinch, if it beone, experienced by the wearer, is shared by her ungloved friends. Thesame thing may be said of that drawing-room fire which is lit so late inthe season for economical reasons, and so late in the day at all times:the pinch is felt as much by the visitors as by the members of thehousehold. These things, however, are mere nips, and may be placed inthe same category with the hardships complained of by my friendQuiverfull's second boy. 'I don't mind having papa's clothes cut up forme, ' he says, 'but what I do think hard is getting Bob's clothes' (Bobbeing his elder brother), 'which have been papa's first; however, I amin great hopes that I am out-growing Bob. '

A much more severe example of the pinch of poverty than these is to befound in railway travelling; no lady of any sense or spirit objects totravel by the second, or even the third class, if her means do notjustify her going by the first. But when she meets with richer friendsupon the platform, and parts with them to journey in the samecompartment with their man-servant, she suffers as acutely as though, when the guard slams the door of the carriage with the vehemenceproportioned to its humble rank, her tender hand had been crushed in it. Of course it is very foolish of her; but it demands democratic opinions, such as almost no woman of birth and breeding possesses, not to feel_that_ pinch. Her knowledge that it is also hard upon the man-servant, who has never sat in her presence before, but only stooped over hershoulder with ''Ock, miss, ' serves but to increase her pain. 

A great philosopher has stated that the worst evil of poverty is, thatit makes folks ridiculous; by which, I hope, he only means that, as inthe above case, it places them in incongruous positions. The man, orwoman, who derives amusement from the lack of means of afellow-creature, would jeer at a natural deformity, be cruel tochildren, and insult old age. Such people should be whipped and thenhanged. Nevertheless there are certain little pinches of poverty soslight, that they tickle almost as much as they hurt the victim. A ladyonce told me (interrupting herself, however, with pleasant bursts ofmerriment) that as a young girl her allowance was so small that when shewent out to spend the evening at a friend's, her promised pleasure wasdarkened by the presentiment (always fulfilled) that the cabman was sureto charge her more than the proper fare. The extra expense was really ofconsequence to her, but she never dared dispute it, because of thepresence of the footman who opened the door. 

Some young ladies--quite as lady-like as any who roll inchariots--cannot even afford a cab. 'What _I_ call the pinch ofpoverty, ' observed an example of this class, 'is the waiting for omnibusafter omnibus on a wet afternoon and finding them all full. '

'But surely, ' I replied with gallantry, 'any man would have given up hisseat to you?'

She shook her head with a smile that had very little fun in it. 'Peoplein omnibuses, ' she said, 'don't give up their seats to others. ' Nor, Iam bound to confess, do they do so elsewhere; if I had been in theirplace, perhaps I should have been equally selfish; though I do think Ishould have made an effort, in this instance at least, to make room forher close beside me. [4]

 [4] There is, however, some danger in this. I remember reading of some highly respectable old gentleman in the City who thus accommodated on a wet day a very nice young woman in humble circumstances. She was as full of apologies as of rainwater, and he of good-natured rejoinders, intended to put her at her ease; so that he became, in a Platonic and paternal way, quite friendly with her by the time she arrived at her destination--which happened to be his own door. She turned out to be his new cook, which was afterwards very embarrassing. 

A young governess whom some wicked fairy endowed at her birth withthe sensitiveness often denied to princesses, has assured me thather journeys by railway have sometimes been rendered miserable bythe thought that she had not even a few pence to spare for theporter who would presently shoulder her little box on to the roofof her cab. 

It is people of this class, much more than those beneath them, who areshut out from all amusements. The mechanic goes to the play and to themusic-hall, and occasionally takes his 'old girl, ' as he calls his wife, and even 'a kid' or two, to the Crystal Palace. But those I have in mymind have no such relaxation from compulsory duty and importunate care. 'I know it's very foolish, but I feel it sometimes to be a pinch, ' saysone of these ill-fated ones, 'to see them all [the daughters of heremployer] going to the play, or the opera, while I am expected to besatisfied with a private view of their pretty dresses. ' No doubt it isthe sense of comparison (especially with the female) that sharpens thesting of poverty. It is not, however, through envy that the 'prosperityof fools destroys us, ' so much as the knowledge of its unnecessarinessand waste. When a mother has a sick child who needs sea air, which shecannot afford to give it, the consciousness that her neighbour's family(the head of which perhaps is a most successful financier andmarket-rigger) are going to the Isle of Wight for three months, thoughthere is nothing at all the matter with them, is an added bitterness. How often it is said (no doubt with some well-intentioned idea ofconsolation) that after all money cannot buy life! I remember a curiousinstance to the contrary of this. In the old days of sailing-packets acountry gentleman embarked for Ireland, and when a few miles from landbroke a bloodvessel through seasickness. A doctor on board pronouncedthat he would certainly die before the completion of the voyage if itwas continued; whereupon the sick man's friends consulted with thecaptain, who convoked the passengers, and persuaded them to acceptcompensation in proportion to their needs for allowing the vessel to beput back; which was accordingly done. 

One of the most popular fictions of our time was even written with thisvery moral, that life is unpurchasable. Yet nothing is more certain thanthat life is often lost through want of money--that is, of the obviousmeans to save it. In such a case how truly has it been written that 'thedestruction of the poor is their poverty'! This, however, is scarcely apinch, but, to those who have hearts to feel it, a wrench that 'dividesasunder the joints and the marrow. '

A nobler example, because a less personal one, of the pinch of poverty, is when it prevents the accomplishment of some cherished scheme for thebenefit of the human race. I have felt such a one myself when in extremeyouth I was unable, from a miserable absence of means, to publish acertain poem in several cantos. That the world may not have been muchbetter for it if I had had the means does not affect the question. It iseasy to be incredulous. Henry VII. Of England did not believe in theexpectations of Columbus, and suffered for it, and his case may havebeen similar to that of the seven publishers to whom I applied in vain. 

A man with an invention on which he has spent his life, but has no meansto get it developed for the good of humanity--or even patented forhimself--must feel the pinch of poverty very acutely. 

To sum up the matter, the longer I live, the more I am convinced thatthe general view in respect to material means is a false one. That greatriches are a misfortune is quite true; the effect of them in the moralsense (with here and there a glorious exception, however) is deplorable:a shower of gold falling continuously upon any body (or soul) is as thewaters of a petrifying spring. But, on the other hand, the occasionaland precarious dripping of coppers has by no means a genial effect. Ifthe one recipient becomes hard as the nether millstone, the other (justas after constant 'pinching' a limb becomes insensible) grows callous, and also (though it seems like a contradiction in terms) sometimesacquires a certain dreadful suppleness. Nothing is more monstrous thanthe generally received opinion with respect to a moderate competence;that 'fatal gift, ' as it is called, which encourages idleness in youthby doing away with the necessity for exertion. I never hear the samepeople inveighing against great inheritances, which are much more opento such objections. The fact is, if a young man is naturally indolent, the spur of necessity will drive him but a very little way, while thehaving enough to live upon is often the means of preserving hisself-respect. One constantly hears what humiliating things men will dofor money, whereas the truth is that they do them for the want of it. It is not the temptation which induces them, but the pinch. 'Giveme neither poverty nor riches, ' was Agur's prayer; 'feed me withfood convenient for me, lest I be full and deny Thee, and say, Whois the Lord? or lest I be poor and steal. ' And there are manythings--flatteries, disgraceful humiliations, hypocrisies--which arealmost as bad as stealing. One of the sharpest pinches of poverty tosome minds must be their inability (because of their dependency on himand that of others upon them) to tell a man what they think of him. 

Riches and poverty are of course but relative terms; but the happiestmaterial position in which a man can be placed is that of 'means with amargin. ' Then, however small his income may be, however it may behovehim to 'cut and contrive, ' as the housekeepers call it, he does not feelthe pinch of poverty. I have known a rich man say to an acquaintance ofthis class, 'My good friend, if you only knew how very small are thepleasures my money gives me which you yourself cannot purchase!' And foronce it was not one of those cheap and empty consolations which thewealthy are so ready to bestow upon their less fortunatefellow-creatures. Dives was, in that instance, quite right in hisremark; only we must remember he was not speaking to Lazarus. 'A dinnerof herbs where love is, ' is doubtless quite sufficient for us; onlythere must be enough of it, and the herbs should be nicely cooked in anomelette. 

_THE LITERARY CALLING AND ITS FUTURE. _

One would think that in writing about literary men and matters therewould be no difficulty in finding a title for one's essay, or that anyembarrassment which might arise would be from excess of material. I findthis, however, far from being the case. 'Men of Letters, ' for example, is a heading too classical and pretentious. I do indeed remember itsbeing used in these modern days by the sub-editor of a country paper, who, having quarrelled with his proprietor, and reduced him to silenceby a violent kick in the abdomen, thus addressed him: 'I leave you andyour dirty work for ever, and start to-night for London, to take up myproper position as a Man of Letters. ' But this gentleman's case (and Ihope that of his proprietor) was an exceptional one. The term in generalis too ambitious and suggestive of the author of 'Cato, ' for my humblepurpose. 'Literature as a Profession, ' again, is open to objection onthe question of fact. The professions do not admit literature into theirbrotherhood. 'Literature, Science, and Art' are all spoken of in thelump, and rather contemptuously (like 'reading, writing, andarithmetic'), and have no settled position whatever. In a book ofprecedence, however--a charming class of work, and much more full ofhumour than the peerage--I recently found indicated for the first timethe relative place of Literature in the social scale. After a long listof Eminent Personages and Notables, the mere perusal of which wascalculated to bring the flush of pride into my British cheek, I found atthe very bottom these remarkable words, 'Burgesses, Literary Persons, and others. ' Lest haughtiness should still have any place in the breastsof these penultimates of the human race, the order was repeated in thesame delightful volume in still plainer fashion, 'Burgesses, LiteraryPersons, etc. ' It is something, of course, to take precedence--in goingdown to dinner, for example--even of an et cetera; but who areBurgesses? I have a dreadful suspicion they are not gentlemen. Are theyladies? Did I ever meet a Burgess, I wonder, coming through the rye? Atall events, after so authoritative a statement of its social position, Ifeel that to speak of Literature as a profession would be an hyperbole. 

On the other hand, 'The Literary Calling' is not a title that satisfiesme. For the word 'calling' implies a certain fitness; in the religioussense it has even more significance; and it cannot be denied that thereare a good many persons who devote--well, at least, their time toliterature, who can hardly be said to have 'a call' in that direction, nor even so much as a whisper. At the same time I will venture toobserve, notwithstanding a great deal of high-sounding twaddle talkedand written to the contrary, that it is not necessary for a man to feelany miraculous or even extraordinary attraction to this pursuit tosucceed in it very tolerably. I remember a now distinguished personage(in another line) who had written a very successful work, expressing hisopinion to me that unless a certain divine afflatus animated a man, heshould never take up his pen to address the public. The writing for pay, he added (he had at least £5, 000 a year of his own), was the degradationof literature. As I had written about a dozen books myself at the time, and most decidedly with an eye to profit, and had never experienced muchafflatus, this remark discouraged me very much. However, as thegentleman in question did essay another volume, which was so absoluteand distinct a failure that he promptly took up another line of business(far above that of Burgesses), it is probable he altered his views. 

Nature of course is the best guide in the matter of choosing a pursuit. When she says 'This is your line, stick to it, ' she seldom or nevermakes a mistake. But, on the other hand, her speech must be addressed tomature ears. For my part, I do not much believe in the predilections ofboyhood. I was never so simple as to wish to go to sea, but I doremember (when between seven and eight) having a passionate longing tobecome a merchant. I had no notion, however, of the preliminary stages;the high stool in the close street; luncheon at a counter, standing (Iliked to have my meals good, plentiful, often, and in comfort, eventhen); and imprisonment at the office on the eves of mail nights tillthe large hours p. M. Even the full fruition of such aspirations--thelarge waistcoat beginning to 'point, ' (as it soon does in merchants), heavy watchchain, and cheerful conviction of the coming scarcity ofnecessaries for everybody else, would have failed to please. The sort ofmerchant I wanted to be was never found in 'Post Office Directory, ' butin the 'Arabian Nights, ' trading to Bussorah, chiefly in pearls anddiamonds. When the Paterfamiliases of my acquaintance instance certainstenches and messes which their Toms and Harrys make with chemicals allover their house, as a proof of 'their natural turn for engineering, ' Isay, 'Very likely, ' or 'A capital thing, ' but I _think_ of that earlyattraction of my own towards Bussorah. The young gentlemen never dreamof what I once heard described, in brief, as the real business life of ascientific apprentice: 'To lie on your back with a candle in your hand, while another fellow knocks nails into a boiler. '

Boys have rarely any special aptitude for anything practical beyondpunching each others' heads, or (and these are the clever ones) forkeeping their own heads unpunched. As a rule, in short, Nature is notdemonstrative as respects our professional future. 

It must nevertheless be conceded that if the boy is ever father to theman in this respect, it is in connection with literature. Also, howeverprosaic their works are fated to be, it is curious that the aspirantsfor the profession below Burgesses always begin with Poetry. EvenHarriet Martineau wrote verses in early life bad enough to comfort thesoul of any respectable parent. The approach to the Temple of LiteraryFame is almost always through double gates--couplets. And yet I haveknown youthful poets, apparently bound for Paternoster Row, bolt off thecourse in a year or two, to the delight of their friends, and become, oftheir own free will, drysalters. 

There is so much talk about the 'indications of immortality in earlychildhood' (of a very different kind from those referred to byWordsworth), and it is so much the habit of biographers to usemagnifiers when their subject is small, that it needs some courage toavow my belief that the tastes of boys have very little significance. Aclever boy can be trained to almost anything, and an ordinary boy willnot do one thing much better than another. With the Geniuses I willallow (for the sake of peace and quietness) that Nature is all-powerful, but with nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand of us, SecondNature, Use, is the true mistress; and what will doubtless strike somepeople as almost paradoxical, but is nevertheless a fact, Literature isthe calling in which she has the greatest sway. 

It is the fashion with that enormous class of people who don't know whatthey are talking about, and who take up cuckoo-cries, to speakcontemptuously of modern literature, by which they mean (for they areacquainted with little else) periodical literature. However small may beits merits, it is at all events ten times as good as ancient periodicalliterature used to be. A very much better authority than myself on sucha subject has lately informed us that the majority of the old essays inthe _Edinburgh Review_, at the very time when it was supposed to be most'trenchant, ' 'masterly, ' 'exhaustive, ' and a number of other splendidepithets, are so dull and weak and ignorant, that it is impossible thatthey or their congeners would now find acceptance in any periodical ofrepute. And with regard to all other classes of old magazine literature, this verdict is certainly most just. 

Let us take what most people suppose to be 'the extreme case, ' MagazinePoetry. Of course there is to-day a great deal of rant and twaddlepublished under the name of verse in magazines; yet I could point toscores and scores of poems that have thus appeared during the last tenyears, [5] which half a century ago would have made--and deservedly havemade--a high reputation for their authors. Such phrases as 'universalnecessity for practical exertion, ' 'prosaic character of the age, ' etc. , are, of course, common enough; but those who are acquainted with suchmatters will, I am sure, corroborate my assertion that there was neverso much good poetry in our general literature as exists at present. Persons of intelligence do not look for such things perhaps, andcertainly not in magazines, while persons of 'culture' are too muchoccupied with old china and high art; but to humble folks, who take aninterest in their fellow-creatures, it is very pleasant to observe whathigh thoughts, and how poetically expressed, are now to be found aboutour feet, and, as it were, in the literary gutter. I don't compare thesewriters with Byrons and Shelleys; I don't speak of them as born poets atall. On the contrary, my argument is that second nature (cultivation, opportunities of publication, etc. ) has made them what they are; and itis immensely creditable to her. 

 [5] I take up a half-yearly volume of a magazine (price 1-1/2d. Weekly) addressed to the middle classes, and find in it, at haphazard, the five following pieces, the authors of which are anonymous:

 AGATHA. 

 'From under the shade of her simple straw hat She smiles at you, only a little shamefaced: Her gold-tinted hair m a long-braided plait Reaches on either side down to her waist. Her rosy complexion, a soft pink and white, Except where the white has been warmed by the sun, Is glowing with health and an eager delight, As she pauses to speak to you after her run. 

 'See with what freedom, what beautiful ease, She leaps over hollows and mounds in berrace; Hear how she joyously laughs when the breeze Tosses her hat off, and blows in her face! It's only a play-gown of homeliest cotton She wears, that her finer silk dress may be saved; And happily, too, she has wholly forgotten The nurse and her charge to be better behaved. 

 'Must a time come when this child's way of caring For only the present enjoyment shall pass; When she'll learn to take thought of the dress that she's wearing, And grow rather fond of consulting the glass? Well, never mind; nothing really can change her; Fair childhood will grow to as fair maidenhood; Her unselfish, sweet nature is safe from all danger; I know she will always be charming and good. 

 'For when she takes care of a still younger brother, You see her stop short in the midst of her mirth, Gravely and tenderly playing the mother: Can there be anything fairer on earth? So proud of her charge she appears, so delighted; Of all her perfections (indeed, they're a host), This loving attention to others, united With naive self-unconsciousness, charms me the most. 

 'What hearts that unthinkingly under short jackets Are beating to-day in a wonderful wise About racing, or jumping, or cricket, or rackets, One day will beat at a smile from those eyes! Ah, how I envy the one that shall win her, And see that sweet smile no ill-humour shall damp, Shining across the spread table at dinner, Or cheerfully bright in the light of the lamp. 

 'Ah, little fairy! a very short while, Just once or twice, in a brief country stay, I saw you; but when will your innocent smile That I keep in my mem'ry have faded away? For when, in the midst of my trouble and doubt, I remember your face with its laughter and light, It's as if on a sudden the sun had shone out, And scattered the shadow, and made the world bright. '

 CHARTREUSE. 

 (_Liqueur_. )

 'Who could refuse Green-eyed Chartieuse? Liquor for heretics, Turks, Christians, or Jews For beggar or queen, For monk or for dean;

 Ripened and mellow (The _green_, not the yellow), Give it its dues, Gay little fellow, Dressed up in green! I love thee too well, O Laughing Chartreuse!

 'O the delicate hues That thrill through the green! Colours which Greuze Would die to have seen! With thee would De Musset Sweeten his muse; Use, not abuse, Bright little fellow! (The green, _not_ the yellow. ) O the taste and the smell! O Never refuse A kiss on the lips from Jealous Chartreuse!'

 THE LIFE-LEDGER. 

 'Our sufferings we reckon o'er With skill minute and formal; The cheerful ease that fills the score We treat as merely normal. Our list of ills, how full, how great! We mourn our lot should fall so; I wonder, do we calculate Our happinesses also?

 'Were it not best to keep account Of all days, if of any? Perhaps the dark ones might amount To not so very many. Men's looks are nigh as often gay As sad, or even solemn: Behold, my entry for to-day Is in the "happy" column. '

 OCTOBER. 

 'The year grows old; summer's wild crown of roses Has fallen and faded in the woodland ways; On all the earth a tranquil light reposes, Through the still dreamy days. 

 'The dew lies heavy in the early morn, On grass and mosses sparkling crystal-fair; And shining threads of gossamer are borne Floating upon the air, 'Across the leaf-strewn lanes, from bough to bough Like tissue woven in a fairy loom; And crimson-berried bryony garlands glow Through the leaf-tangled gloom. 

 'The woods are still, but for the sudden fall Of cupless acorns dropping to the ground, Or rabbit plunging through the fern-stems tall, Half-startled by the sound. 

 'And from the garden lawn comes, soft and clear, The robin's warble from the leafless spray, The low sweet Angelus of the dying year, Passing in light away. '

 PROSPERITY. 

 'I doubt if the maxims the Stoic adduces Be true in the main, when they state That our nature's improved by adversity's uses, And spoilt by a happier fate. 

 'The heart that is tried by misfortune and pain, Self-reliance and patience may learn; Yet worn by long waiting and wishing in vain, It often grows callous and stern. 

 'But the heart that is softened by ease and contentment, Feels warmly and kindly t'wards all; And its charity, roused by no moody resentment, Embraces alike great and small. 

 'So, although in the season of rain-storms and showers, The tree may strike deeper its roots, It needs the warm brightness of sunshiny hours To ripen the blossoms and fruits. '

 Observe, not only the genuine merit of these five pieces, but the variety in the tones of thought: then compare them with similar productions of the days, say, of the once famous L. E. L. 

And what holds good of verse holds infinitely better in respect toprose. The enormous improvement in our prose writers (I am not speakingof geniuses, remember, but of the generality), and their greatsuperiority over writers of the same class half a century ago, is mainlydue to use. Sir Walter Scott, who, like most men of genuine power, hadgreat generosity, once observed to a brother author, 'You and I camejust in the nick of time. ' He foresaw the formidable competition thatwas about to take place, though he had no cause to fear it. I think inthese days he would have had cause; not that I disbelieve in his genius, but that I venture to think he diffused it over too large an area. Insuch cases genius is overpassed by the talent which husbands itsresources; in other words, Nature succumbs to second nature, as the wifein the patriarchal days (when _she_ grew patriarchal) succumbed to thehandmaid. And after all, though we talk so glibly about genius, andprofess to feel, though we cannot express, in what it differs fromtalent, are we quite so sure about this as we would fain persuadeourselves? At all events, it cannot surely be contended that a man ofgenius always writes like one; and when he does not, his work is ofteninferior to the first-rate production of a man of talent. For my ownpart, I am not sure whether (with the exception, perhaps, of the highestgifts of song) the whole distinction is not fanciful. 

We are ready enough in ordinary matters to allow that 'practice makesperfect, ' and the limit of that principle is yet to be found. Moreover, the vast importance of exclusive application is almost unknown. We seeit, indeed, in men of science and in lawyers, but without recognition;nay, socially, it is even quoted against them. The mathematician may bevery eminent, but we find him dry; the lawyer may be at the head of hisprofession, but we find him dull; and it is observed on all sides howvery little great A and great B, notwithstanding the high position theyhave earned for themselves in their calling, know of matters out oftheir own line. On the other hand, the man of whom it was said that'science was his forte and omniscience his foible, ' has left no enduringmonument behind him; and so it must always be with mortals who have onlyfifty years of thought allotted to them at the very most, and whodiffuse it. Everyone admits the value of application, but very few areaware how its force is wasted by diffusion: it is like a volatileessence in a bottle without a cork. When, on the other hand, it isconcentrated--you may call it 'narrowed' if you please--there is hardlyanything within its own sphere of action of which it is not capable. Somany high motives (though also some mean ones) prompt us to make broadthe bases of education, that any proposal to contract them must needs bethankless and unpopular; but it is certain that, among the upper classesat least, the reason why so many men are unable to make their way in theworld, is because, thanks to a too liberal education, they are Jacks ofall trades and masters of none; and even as Jacks they cut a very poorfigure. 

How large and varied is the educational bill of fare set before everyyoung gentleman in Great Britain; and to judge by the mental stamina itaffords him in most cases, what a waste of good food it is! The dishesare so numerous and so quickly changed, that he has no time to decide onwhich he likes best. Like an industrious flea, rather than a bee, hehops from flower to flower in the educational garden, without onepenny-worth of honey to show for it. And then--though I feel howdegrading it is to allude to so vulgar a matter--how high is the priceof admission to the feast in question! Its purveyors do not pretend tohave filled his stomach, but only to have put him in the way of fillingit for himself, whereas, unhappily, Paterfamilias discovers that that isthe very thing that they have not done. His young Hopeful at twenty-oneis almost as unable to run alone as when he first entered the nursery. To discourse airily upon the beauties of classical education, and on thesocial advantages of acquiring 'the tone' at a public school at whatevercost, is an agreeable exercise of the intelligence; but such argumentshave been taken too seriously, and the result is that our younggentlemen are incapable of gaining their own living. It is not only that'all the gates are thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow, ' buteven when the candidates are so fortunate as to attain admittance, theyare still a burden upon their fathers for years, from having had noespecial preparation for the work they have to do. Folks who can affordto spend £250 a year on their sons at Eton or Harrow, and to add anotherfifty or two for their support at the universities, do not feel this;but those who have done it without affording it--_i. E. _, by cutting andcontriving, if not by pinching and saving--feel their position verybitterly. There are hundreds of clever young men who are now living athome and doing nothing--or work that pays nothing, and even costssomething for doing it--who might be earning very tolerable incomes bytheir pen if they only knew how, and had not wasted their young wits onGreek plays and Latin verses; nor do I find that the attractions of suchobjects of study are permanent, or afford the least solace to theseyoung gentlemen in their enforced leisure. 

The idea of bringing young people up to Literature is doubtlesscalculated to raise the eyebrows almost as much as the suggestion ofbringing them up to the Stage. The notions of Paterfamilias in thisrespect are very much what they were fifty years ago. 'What! put my boyin Grub Street? I would rather see him in his coffin. ' In his mind's eyehe beholds Savage on his bunk and Chatterton on his deathbed. He doesnot know that there are many hundreds of persons of both sexes who havefound out this vocation for themselves, and are diligently pursuingit--under circumstances of quite unnecessary difficulty--to theirmaterial advantage. He is unaware that the conditions of literature inEngland have been as completely changed within a single generation asthose of locomotion. 

There are, it is true, at present no great prizes in literature such asare offered by the learned professions, but there are quite as manysmall ones--competences; while, on the other hand, it is not so much ofa lottery. It is not necessary to marry an attorney's daughter, or abishop's, to get on in it. The calling, as it is termed (I know not why, for it is often heavy enough), of 'light literature' is in suchcontempt, through ignorance on the one hand, and arrogance on the other, that one is almost afraid in such a connection to speak of merit; yetmerit, or, at all events, aptitude with diligence, is certain of successin it. A great deal has been said about editors being blind to the worthof unknown authors; but if so, they must be also blind (and this I havenever heard said of them) to their own interests. It would be just asreasonable to accuse a recruiting sergeant of passing by the stoutsix-feet fellows who wish to enlist with him, and for each ofwhom--directly or indirectly--he receives head-money. It is possible, ofcourse, that one particular sergeant may be drunken, or careless of hisown interests, but in that case the literary recruit has only to applynext door. The opportunities for action in the field of literature arenow so very numerous that it is impossible that any able volunteershould be long shut out of it; and I have observed that the complaintsabout want of employment come almost solely from those unfit forservice. Nay, in the ranks of the literaryarmy there are very many whoshould have been excluded. Few, if any, are there through favour; butthe fact is, the work to be done is so extensive and so varied, thatthere is not a sufficiency of good candidates to do it. And of what iscalled 'skilled labour' among them there is scarcely any. 

The question 'What can you do?' put by an editor to an aspirant, generally astonishes him very much. The aspirant is ready to doanything, he says, which the other will please to suggest. 'But what isyour line in literature? What can you do best--not tragedies in blankverse, I hope?' Perhaps the aspirant here hangs his head; he _has_written tragedies. In which case there is good hope for him, because itshows a natural bent. But he generally replies that he has writtennothing as yet except that essay on the genius of Cicero (at which theeditor has already shaken his head), and that defence of Mary Queen ofScots. Or perhaps he has written some translations of Horace, which heis surprised to find not a novelty; or some considerations upon thevalue of a feudal system. At four-and-twenty, in short, he is but anovergrown schoolboy. He has been taught, indeed, to acquire knowledge ofa certain sort, but not the habit of acquiring; he has been taught toobserve nothing; he is ignorant upon all the subjects that interest hisfellow-creatures, and in his new ambition is like one who endeavours toattract an audience without having anything to tell them. He knows someLatin, a little Greek, a very little French, and a very very little ofwhat are called the English classics. He has read a few recent novelsperhaps, but of modern English literature, and of that (to him at least)most important branch of it, English journalism, he knows nothing. Hisviews and opinions are those of a public school, which are by no meansin accordance with those of the great world of readers; or he is full ofthe class prejudices imbibed at college. In short, he may be as vigorousas a Zulu, with the materials of a first-rate soldier in him, but hisarms are only a club and an assegai, and are of no service. Why shouldhe not be fitted out in early life with literary weapons of precision, and taught the use of them?

I say, again, that poor Paterfamilias looking hopelessly about him, likeQuintus Curtius in the riddle, for 'a nice opening for a young man, ' istotally ignorant of the opportunities, if not for fame and fortune, atleast for competency and comfort, that Literature now offers to a cleverlad. He looks round him; he sees the Church leading nowhere, with muchgreater certainty of expense than income, and demanding a huge sum forwhat is irreverently termed 'gate money;' he sees the Bar, with its highroad leading indeed to the woolsack, but with a hundred by-ways leadingnowhere in particular, and full of turnpikes--legal tutors, legal fees, rents of chambers, etc. --which he has to defray; he sees Physic, atwhich Materfamilias sniffs and turns her nose up. 'Her Jack, with suchagreeable manners, to become a saw-bones! Never!' He sees the army, andthinks, since Jack has such great abilities, it seems a pity to give hima red coat, which costs also considerably more than a black one; And howis Jack to live upon his pay?

After all, indeed, however prettily one puts it, the question is withhim, not so much '_What_ is my Jack to be?' as '_How_ is my Jack tolive?' To one who has any gift of humour there are few things moreamusing than to observe how this vulgar, but really rather importantinquiry, is ignored by those who take the subject of modern education inhand. They are chiefly schoolmasters, who are not so deep in their booksbut that they can spare a glance or two in the direction of theirbanker's account; or fellows of colleges who have no children, andtherefore never feel the difficulties of supporting them. Heaven forbidthat so humble an individual as myself should question their wisdom, orsay anything about them that should seem to smack of irreverence; but Ido believe that (with one or two exceptions I have in my mind) thesystem they have introduced among us is the Greatest Humbug in theuniverse. In the meantime poor Paterfamilias (who is the last man, theyflatter themselves, to find this out) stands with his hands (and verylittle else) in his pockets, regarding his clever offspring, andwondering what he shall do with him. He remembers to have read about aman on his deathbed, who calls his children about him and thanks God, though he has left them nothing to live upon, he has given them a goodeducation, and tries to extract comfort from the reminiscence. That hehas spent money enough upon Jack's education is certain; somethingbetween two or three thousand pounds in all at least, the interest ofwhich, it strikes him, would be very convenient just now to keep him. But unfortunately the principal is gone and Jack isn't. 

Now suppose--for one may suppose anything, however ridiculous--he hadspent two or three hundred pounds at the very most, and brought him upto the Calling of Literature. He believes, perhaps, that it is onlygeniuses that succeed in it (in which case I know more geniuses than Ihad any idea of), and he doesn't think Jack a genius, though Jack'smother does. Or, as is more probable, he regards it as a hand-to-mouthcalling, which to-day gives its disciples a five-pound note, andto-morrow five pence. He calls to mind a saying about Literature being agood stick, but not a good crutch--an excellent auxiliary, but nopermanent support; but he forgets the all-important fact that the remarkwas made half a century ago. 

Poor blind Paterfamilias--shall I couch you? If the operation issuccessful, I am sure you will thank me for it; but, on the other hand, I foresee I shall incur the greatest enmities. Should I encourage cleverJack, and, what is worse, a thousand Jacks who are not clever, to enterupon this vocation, what will editors say to me? I shall have to goabout, perhaps, guarded with two policemen with revolvers, like an Irishgentleman on his landed estate. 'Is not the flood of rubbish to which weare already subjected, ' I hear them crying, 'bad enough, without yourpulling up the sluices of universal stupidity?' My suggestion, however, is intended to benefit them by clearing away the rubbish, and inducing aclearer and deeper stream for the turning of their mills. At the sametime I confess that the lessening of Paterfamilias's difficulties is mymain object. What I would open his eyes to is the fact that a calling, of the advantages of which he has no knowledge, _does_ present itself toclever Jack, which will cost him nothing but pens, ink, and paper toenter upon, and in which, if he has been well trained for it, he willsurely be successful, since so many succeed in it without any trainingat all. Why should not clever Jack have this in view as much as the_ignes fatui_ of woolsacks and mitres? If it has no lordchancellorships, it has plenty of county court appointments; if it hasno bishoprics, it has plenty of benefices--and really, as times go, somepretty fat ones. 

On your breakfast-table, good Paterfamilias, there lies, every morning, a newspaper, and on Saturday perhaps there are two or three. When you goout in the street, you are pestered to buy half a score more of them. Inyour club reading-room there are a hundred different journals. When youtravel by the railway you see at every station a provincial newspaper ofmore or less extensive circulation. Has it never struck you that tosupply these publications with their leading articles, there must be animmense staff of persons called journalists, professing everydescription of opinion, and advocating every conceivable policy? And doyou suppose these gentry only get £70 a year for their work, like acurate; or £60, like a sub-lieutenant; or that they have to pay threetimes those sums for the privilege of belonging to the press, as abarrister does for belonging to his inn? Again, in London at least, there are as many magazines as newspapers, containing every kind ofliterature, the very contributors of which are so numerous, that theyform a public of themselves. That seems at the first blush to militateagainst my suggestion, but though contributors are so common, and uponthe whole so good--indeed, considering the conditions under which theylabour, so wonderfully good--they are not (I have heard editors say) sogood as they might be, supposing (for example) they knew a little ofscience, history, politics, English literature, and especially of theart of composition, before they volunteered their services. At presentthe ranks of journalistic and periodical literature are largelyrecruited from the failures in other professions. The bright youngbarrister who can't get a brief takes to literature as a calling, justas the man who has 'gone a cropper' in the army takes to the wine-trade. And what æons of time, and what millions of money, have been wasted inthe meanwhile!

The announcement written on the gates of all the recognised professionsin England is the same that would-be travellers read on the faces of thepassengers on the underground railway after office hours: 'Our number iscomplete, and our room is limited. ' In literature, on the contrary, though its vehicles may seem as tightly packed, substitution can beeffected. There may be persons travelling on that line in thefirst-class who ought to be in the third, and indeed have no reasonablepretext for being there at all. And if clever Jack could show histicket, he would turn them out of it. 

Again, so far from the space being limited, it is continually enlarging, and that out of all proportion to those who have tickets. We hear fromits enemies that the Church is doomed, and from its friends that it isin danger; there is a small but energetic party who are bent on reducingthe Army, and even on doing away with it; nay, so wicked andpresumptuous has human nature grown, that mutterings are heard andmenaces uttered against the delay and exactions of the Law itself;whereas Literature has no foes, and is enlarging its boundaries in alldirections. It is all 'a-growing and a-blowing, ' as the peripateticgardeners say of their plants; but, unlike their wares, it has its rootsdeep in the soil and is an evergreen. Its promise is golden, and itsprospects are boundless for every class of writer. 

In some excellent articles on Modern Literature in _Blackwood'sMagazine_ the other day, this subject was touched upon with respect tofiction, and might well have filled a greater space, for the growth ofthat description of literature of late years is simply marvellous. Curiously enough, though France originated the _feuilleton_, it was fromAmerica and our own colonies that England seems to have taken the ideaof publishing novels in newspapers. It was a common practice inAustralia long before we adopted it; and, what is also curious, it wasfirst acclimatised among us by our provincial papers. The custom israpidly gaining ground in London, but in the country there is nowscarcely any newspaper of repute which does not enlist the aid offiction to attract its readers. Many of them are contented with verypoor stuff, for which they pay a proportional price; but others clubtogether with other newspapers--the operation has even received thetechnical term of 'forming a syndicate'--and are thereby enabled tosecure the services of popular authors; while the newspapers thusarranged for are published at a good distance from one another, so asnot to interfere with each other's circulation. Country journals, whichare not so ambitious, instead of using an inferior article, will oftenpurchase the 'serial right, ' as it is called, of stories which havealready appeared elsewhere, or have passed through the circulatinglibraries. Nay, the novelist who has established a reputation has manymore strings to his bow: his novel, thus published in the countrynewspapers, also appears coincidently in the same serial shape inAustralia, Canada, and other British colonies, leaving the three-volumeform and the cheap editions 'to the good. ' And what is true of fictionis in a less degree true of other kinds of literature. Travels are'gutted, ' and form articles in magazines, illustrated by the originalplates; lectures, after having served their primary purpose, arepublished in a similar manner; even scientific works now appear first inthe magazines which are devoted to science before performing theirmission of 'popularising' their subject. 

When speaking of the growth of readers, I have purposely not mentionedAmerica. For the present the absence of copyright there is destroyingboth author and publisher; but the wheels of justice, though tardy, aremaking way there. In a few years that great continent of readers will belegitimately added to the audience of the English author, and those thathave stolen will steal no more. 

Nor, in our own country, must we fail to take notice of theestablishment of School Boards. A generation hence we shall have areading public almost as numerous as in America; even the very lowestclasses will have acquired a certain culture which will beget demandsboth for journalists and 'literary persons. ' The harvest will beplenteous indeed, but unless my advice be followed in some shape oranother, the labourers will be comparatively few and superlativelyinadequate. 

I am well aware how mischievous, as well as troublesome, would be theencouragement of mediocrity; and in stating these promising facts I haveno such purpose in my mind. On the contrary, there is an immense amountof mediocrity already in literature, which I think my proposition oftraining up 'clever Jack' to that calling would discourage. I have noexpectation of establishing a manufactory for genius--and indeed, forreasons it is not necessary to specify, I would not do it if I could. But whereas all kinds of 'culture' have been recommended to the youth ofGreat Britain (and certainly with no limit as to the expense ofacquisition), the cultivation of such natural faculties as imaginationand humour (for example) has never been suggested. The possibility ofsuch a thing will doubtless be denied. I am quite certain, however, thatthey are capable of great development, and that they may be brought toattain, if not perfection, at all events a high degree of excellence. The proof, to those who choose to look for it, is plain enough even asmatters stand. Use and opportunity are already producing scores ofexamples of it; if supplemented by early education they might surelyproduce still more. 

There is so great and general a prejudice against special studies, thatI must humbly conclude there is something in it. On the other hand, Iknow a large number of highly--that is broadly--educated persons, whoare desperately dull. 'But would they have been less dull, ' it may beasked, 'if they were also ignorant?' Yes, I believe they would. Theyhave swallowed too much for digestions naturally weak; they have becomeinert, conceited, oppressive to themselves and others--Prigs. And Ithink that even clever young people suffer in a less degree from thesame cause. Some one has written, 'Information is always useful. ' Thisreminds me of the married lady, fond of bargains, who once bought adoor-plate at a sale with 'Mr. Wilkins' on it. Her own name was Jones, but the doorplate was very cheap, and her husband, she argued, _might_die, and then she might marry a man of the name of Wilkins. 'Depend uponit, everything comes in useful, ' she said, 'if you only keep it longenough. '

This is what I venture to doubt. I have myself purchased severaldoor-plates (quite as burthensome, but not so cheap as that goodlady's), which have been of no sort of use to me, and are still on hand. 

_STORY-TELLING. _

The most popular of English authors has given us an account of whatwithin his experience (and it was a large one) was the impression amongthe public at large of the manner in which his work was done. Theypictured him, he says, as a radiant personage whose whole time is devoted to idleness and pastime; who keeps a prolific mind in a sort of corn-sieve and lightly shakes a bushel of it out sometimes in an odd half-hour after breakfast. It would amaze their incredulity beyond all measure to be told that such elements as patience, study, punctuality, determination, self-denial, training of mind and body, hours of application and seclusion to produce what they read in seconds, enter in such a career . .. Correction and recorrection in the blotted manuscript; consideration; new observations; the patient massing of many reflections, experiences, and imaginings for one minute purpose; and the patient separation from the heap of all the fragments that will unite to serve it--these would be unicorns and griffins to them--fables altogether. 

And as it was, a quarter of a century ago, when those words werewritten, so it is now: the phrase of 'light literature' as applied tofiction having once been invented, has stuck, with a vengeance, to thosewho profess it. 

Yet to 'make the thing that is not as the thing that is' is not (thoughit may seem to be the same thing) so easy as lying. 

Among a host of letters received in connection with an article publishedin the _Nineteenth Century_, entitled 'The Literary Calling and itsFuture, ' and which testify in a remarkable manner to the pressing need(therein alluded to) of some remunerative vocation among the so-callededucated classes, there are many which are obviously written under theimpression that Dogberry's view of writing coming 'by nature' isespecially true of the writing of fiction. Because I ventured to hintthat the study of Greek was not essential to the calling of astory-teller, or of a contributor to the periodicals, or even of ajournalist, these gentlemen seem to jump to the conclusion that the lessthey know of anything the better. Nay, some of them, discarding alltheories (in the fashion that Mr. Carlyle's heroes are wont to discardall formulas), proceed to the practical with quite an indecent rapidity;they treat my modest hints for their instruction as so much verbiage, and myself as a mere convenient channel for the publication of theirlucubrations. 'You talk of a genuine literary talent being alwaysappreciated by editors, ' they write (if not in so many words byimplication); 'well, here is an admirable specimen of it (enclosed), andif your remarks are worth a farthing you will get it published for us, somewhere or another, _instanter_, and hand us over the cheque for it. Nor are even these the most unreasonable of my correspondents; for afew, with many acknowledgments for my kindness in having provided alucrative profession for them, announce their intention of throwing uptheir present less congenial callings, and coming up to London (one veryliterally from the Land's End) to live upon it, or, that failing (asthere is considerable reason to expect it will), upon _me_. 

With some of these correspondents, however, it is impossible(independent of their needs) not to feel an earnest sympathy; they haveevidently not only aspirations, but considerable mental gifts, thoughthese have unhappily been cultivated to such little purpose for theobject they have in view that they might almost as well have been leftuntilled. In spite of what I ventured to urge respecting the advantageof knowing 'science, history, politics, English literature, and the artof composition, ' they 'don't see why' they shouldn't get on withoutthem. Especially with those who aspire to write fiction (which, by itsintrinsic attractiveness no less than by the promise it affords ofgolden grain, tempts the majority), it is quite pitiful to note how theycling to that notion of 'the corn-sieve, ' and cannot be persuaded thatstory-telling requires an apprenticeship like any other calling. Theyflatter themselves that they can weave plots as the spider spins histhread from (what let us delicately term) his inner consciousness, andfondly hope that intuition will supply the place of experience. Some ofthem, with a simplicity that recalls the days of Dick Whittington, thinkthat 'coming up to London' is the essential step to this line ofbusiness, as though the provinces contained no fellow-creatures worthyto be depicted by their pen, or as though, in the metropolis, Societywould at once exhibit itself to them without concealment, as fashionablebeauties bare themselves to the photographers. 

This is, of course, the laughable side of the affair, but, to me atleast, it has also a serious one; for, to my considerable embarrassmentand distress, I find that my well-meaning attempt to point out theadvantages of literature as a profession has received a much too freetranslation, and implanted in many minds hopes that are not onlysanguine but Utopian. 

For what was written in the essay alluded to I have nothing to reproachmyself with, for I told no more than the truth. Nor does theunsettlement of certain young gentleman's futures (since by their ownshowing they were to the last degree unstable to begin with) affect meso much as their parents and guardians appear to expect; but I am sorryto have shaken however undesignedly, the 'pillars of domestic peace' inany case, and desirous to make all the reparation in my power. I regretmost heartily that I am unable to place all literary aspirants in placesof emolument and permanency out of hand; but really (with the exceptionperhaps of the Universal Provider in Westbourne Grove) this is hardly tobe expected of any man. The gentleman who raised the devil, and wascompelled to furnish occupation for him, affords in fact the onlyappropriate parallel to my unhappy case. 'If you can do nothing toprovide my son with another place, ' writes one indignant Paterfamilias, 'at least you owe it to him' (as if I, and not Nature herself, had madethe lad dissatisfied with his high stool in a solicitor's office!) 'togive him some practical hints by which he may become a successful writerof fiction. '

One would really think that this individual imagined story-telling to bea sort of sleight-of-hand trick, and that all that is necessary to theattainment of the art is to learn 'how it's done. ' I should not like tosay that I have known any members of my own profession who are 'noconjurors, ' but it is certainly not by conjuring that they havesucceeded in it. 

'You talk of the art of composition, ' writes, on the other hand, anotherangry correspondent, 'as though it were one of the exact sciences; youmight just as well advise your "clever Jack" to study the art of playingthe violin. ' So that one portion of the public appears to consider thecalling of literature mechanical, while another holds it to be a soft ofdivine instinct!

Since the interest in this subject proves to be so wide-spread, I trustit will not be thought presumptuous in me to offer my own humbleexperience in this matter for what it is worth. To the public at large acard of admission to my poor manufactory of fiction--a 'very one-horseaffair, ' as an American gentleman, with whom I had a little difficultyconcerning copyright, once described it--may not afford the samesatisfaction as a ticket for the private view of the Royal Academy; butthe stings of conscience urge me to make to Paterfamilias what amends inthe way of 'practical hints' lie in my power, for the wrong I have doneto his offspring; and I therefore venture to address to those whom itmay concern, and to those only, a few words on the Art of Story-telling. 

The chief essential for this line of business, yet one that is muchdisregarded by many young writers, is the having a story to tell. It isa common supposition that the story will come if you only sit down witha pen in your hand and wait long enough--a parallel case to that whichassigns one cow's tail as the measure of distance between this planetand the moon. It is no use 'throwing off' a few brilliant ideas at thecommencement, if they are only to be 'passages that lead to nothing;'you must have distinctly in your mind at first what you intend to say atlast. 'Let it be granted, ' says a great writer (though not onedistinguished in fiction), 'that a straight line be drawn from any onepoint to any other point;' only you must have the 'other point' to beginwith, or you can't draw the line. So far from being 'straight, ' it goeswabbling aimlessly about like a wire fastened at one end and not at theother, which may dazzle, but cannot sustain; or rather what it doessustain is so exceedingly minute, that it reminds one of the minnowwhich the inexperienced angler flatters himself he has caught, but whichthe fisherman has in fact previously put on his hook for bait. 

This class of writer is not altogether unconscious of the absence ofdramatic interest in his composition. He writes to his editor (I haveread a thousand such letters): 'It has been my aim, in the enclosedcontribution, to steer clear of the faults of the sensational school offiction, and I have designedly abstained from stimulating theunwholesome taste for excitement. ' In which high moral purpose he hasundoubtedly succeeded; but, unhappily, in nothing else. It is quite truethat some writers of fiction neglect 'story' almost entirely, but thenthey are perhaps the greatest writers of all. Their genius is sotranscendent that they can afford to dispense with 'plot;' their humour, their pathos, and their delineation of human nature are amplysufficient, without any such meretricious attraction; whereas our tooambitious young friend is in the position of the needy knife-grinder, who has not only no story to tell, but in lieu of it only holds up hiscoat and breeches 'torn in the scuffle'--the evidence of his desperateand ineffectual struggles with literary composition. I have known suchan aspirant to instance Miss Gaskell's 'Cranford' as a parallel to thebackboneless flesh-and-bloodless creation of his own immature fancy, andto recommend the acceptance of the latter upon the ground of theircommon rejection of startling plot and dramatic situation. The twocompositions have certainly _that_ in common; and the flawless diamondhas some things, such as mere sharpness and smoothness, in common withthe broken beer-bottle. 

Many young authors of the class I have in my mind, while more modest asrespects their own merits, are even still less so as regards theirexpectations from others. 'If you will kindly furnish me with asubject, ' so runs a letter now before me, 'I am sure I could do verywell; my difficulty is that I never can think of anything to writeabout. Would you be so good as to oblige me with a plot for a novel?' Itwould have been infinitely more reasonable of course, and much cheaper, for me to grant it, if the applicant had made a request for my watch andchain;[6] but the marvel is that folks should feel any attractiontowards a calling for which Nature has denied them even the rawmaterials. It is true that there are some great talkers who havemanifestly nothing to say, but they don't ask their hearers to supplythem with a topic of conversation in order to be set agoing. 

 [6] To compare small things with great, I remember Sir Walter Scott being thus applied to for some philanthropic object. 'Money, ' said the applicant, who had some part proprietorship in a literary miscellany, 'I don't ask for, since I know you have many claims upon your purse; but would you write us a little paper gratuitously for the "Keepsake"?'

'My great difficulty, ' the would-be writer of fiction often says, 'ishow to begin;' whereas in fact the difficulty arises rather from his notknowing how to end. Before undertaking the management of a train, however short, it is absolutely necessary to know its destination. Nothing is more common than to hear it said that an author 'does notknow where to stop;' but how much more deplorable is the position of thepassengers when there is no terminus whatsoever! They feel theircarriage 'slowing, ' and put their heads expectantly out of window, butthere is no platform--no station. When they took their tickets, theyunderstood that they were 'booked through' to the _dénouement_, andcertainly had no idea of having been brought so far merely to admire thescenery, for which only a very few care the least about. 

As a rule, anyone who can tell a good story can write one, so therereally need be no mistake about his qualification; such a man will becareful not to be wearisome, and to keep his point, or his catastrophe, well in hand. Only, in writing, there is necessarily greater art. _There_ expansion is of course absolutely necessary; but this is not tobe done, like spreading gold leaf, by flattening out good material. _That_ is 'padding, ' a device as dangerous as it is unworthy; it is muchbetter to make your story a pollard--to cut it down to a mereanecdote--than to get it lost in a forest of verbiage. No line of it, however seemingly discursive, should be aimless, but should have somerelation to the matter in hand; and if you find the story interesting toyourself notwithstanding that you know the end of it, it will certainlyinterest the reader. 

The manner in which a good story grows under the hand is so remarkable, that no tropic vegetation can show the like of it. For, consider, whenyou have got your germ--the mere idea, not half a dozen linesperhaps--which is to form your plot, how small a thing it is comparedwith, say, the thousand pages which it has to occupy in the three-volumenovel! Yet to the story-teller the germ is everything. When I was a veryyoung man--a quarter of a century ago, alas!--and had very littleexperience in these matters, I was reading on a coachbox (for I readeverywhere in those days) an account of some gigantic trees; one of themwas described as sound outside, but within, for many feet, a mass ofrottenness and decay. If a boy should climb up birdsnesting into thefork of it, thought I, he might go down feet first and hands overhead, and never be heard of again. How inexplicable too, as well asmelancholy, such a disappearance would be! Then, 'as when a greatthought strikes along the brain and flushes all the cheek, ' it struck mewhat an appropriate end it would be--with fear (lest he should turn upagain) instead of hope for the fulcrum to move the reader--for a badcharacter of a novel. Before I had left the coachbox I had thought out'Lost Sir Massingberd. '

The character was drawn from life, but unfortunately from hearsay; hehad flourished--to the great terror of his neighbours--two generationsbefore me, so that I had to be indebted to others for his portraiture, which was a great disadvantage. It was necessary that the lost manshould be an immense scoundrel to prevent pity being excited by thecatastrophe, and at that time I did not know any very wicked people. Thebook was a successful one, but it needs no critic to point out how muchbetter the story might have been told. The interest in the gentleman, buried upright in his oak coffin, is inartistically weakened by othersources of excitement; like an extravagant cook, the young author is aptto be too lavish with his materials, and in after days, when the larderis more difficult to fill, he bitterly regrets it. The representation ofa past time I also found it very difficult to compass, and I amconvinced that for any writer to attempt such a thing, when he can avoidit, is an error in judgment. The author who undertakes to resuscitateand clothe with flesh and blood the dry bones of his ancestors, hasindeed this advantage, that, however unlifelike his characters may be, there is no one in a position to prove it; it is not 'a difference ofopinion between himself and twelve of his fellow-countrymen, ' or amatter on which he can be condemned by overwhelming evidence; but, onthe other hand, he creates for himself unnecessary difficulties. I willadd, for the benefit of those literary aspirants to whom these remarksare especially addressed--a circumstance which, I hope, will be taken asan excuse for the writing of my own affairs at all, which wouldotherwise be an unpardonable presumption--that these difficulties arenot the worst of it; for when the novel founded on the Past has beenwritten, it will not be read by a tenth of those who would read it if itwere a novel of the Present. 

Even at the date I speak of, however, I was not so young as to attemptto create the characters of a story out of my own imagination, and Ibelieve that the whole of its _dramatis personae_ (except the chiefpersonage) were taken from the circle of my own acquaintance. This is amatter, by-the-bye, on which considerable judgment and good taste haveto be exercised; for if the likeness of the person depicted isrecognisable by his friends (he never recognises it by any chancehimself), or still more by his enemies, it is no longer a sketch fromlife, but a lampoon. It will naturally be asked by some: 'But if youdraw the man to the life, how can he fail to be known?' For this thereis the simplest remedy. You describe his character, but under anotherskin; if he is tall you make him short, if dark, fair; or you make suchalterations in his circumstances as shall prevent identification, whileretaining them to a sufficient extent to influence his behaviour. In theframework which most (though not all) skilled workmen draw of theirstories before they begin to furnish them with so much even as adoor-mat, the real name of each individual to be described should beplaced (as a mere aid to memory) by the side of that under which heappears in the drama; and I would strongly recommend the builder towrite his real names in cipher; for I have known at least one instancein which the entire list of the _dramatis personae_ of a novel wascarried off by a person more curious than conscientious, and afterwardsrevealed to those concerned--a circumstance which, though it increasedthe circulation of the story, did not add to the personal popularity ofthe author. 

If a story-teller is prolific, the danger of his characters coincidingwith those of people in real life who are unknown to him is much greaterthan would be imagined; the mere similarity of name may of course bedisregarded; but when in addition to that there is also a resemblance ofcircumstance, it is difficult to persuade the man of flesh and bloodthat his portrait is an undesigned one. The author of 'Vanity Fair'fell, in at least one instance, into a most unfortunate mistake of thiskind; while a not less popular author even gave his hero the same nameand place in the Ministry which were (subsequently) possessed by aliving politician. 

It is better, however, for his own reputation that the story-tellershould risk a few actions for libel on account of these unfortunatecoincidences than that he should adopt the melancholy device of usingblanks or asterisks. With the minor novelists of a quarter of a centuryago it was quite common to introduce their characters as Mr. A and Mr. B, and very difficult their readers found it to interest themselves inthe fortunes and misfortunes of an initial:

 It was in the summer of the year 18--, and the sun was setting behind the low western hills beneath which stands the town of C; its dying gleams glistened on the weather-cock of the little church, beneath whose tower two figures were standing, so deep in shadow that little more could be made out concerning them save that they were young persons of the opposite sex. The elder and taller, however, was the fascinating Lord B; the younger (presenting a strong contrast to her companion in social position, but yet belonging to the true nobility of nature) was no other than the beautiful Patty G, the cobbler's daughter. 

This style of narrative should be avoided. 

Another difficulty of the story-teller, and one unhappily in which noadvice can be of much service to him, is how to describe the lapse oftime and of locomotion. To the dramatist nothing is easier than to printin the middle of his playbill, 'Forty years are here supposed to haveelapsed;' or 'Scene I. : A drawing-room in Mayfair; Scene II. :Greenland. ' But the story-teller has to describe how these littlechanges are effected, without being able to take his readers into hisconfidence. [7] He can't say, 'Gentle reader, please to imagine that thewinter is over, and the summer has come round since the conclusion ofour last chapter. ' Curiously enough, however, the lapse of years is fareasier to suggest than that of hours; and locomotion from Islington toIndia than the act, for instance, of leaving the room. If passion entersinto the scene, and your heroine can be represented as banging the doorbehind her, and bringing down the plaster from the ceiling, the thing iseasy enough, and may be even made a dramatic incident; but to describe, without baldness, Jones rising from the tea-table and taking hisdeparture in cold blood, is a much more difficult business than you mayimagine. When John the footman has to enter and interrupt a conversationon the stage, the audience see him come and go, and think nothing of it;but to inform the reader of your novel of a similar incident--andespecially of John's going--without spoiling the whole scene by theintroduction of the commonplace, requires (let me tell you) the touch ofa master. 

 [7] That last, indeed, is a thing which, with all deference to some great names in fiction, should in my judgment never be done. It is hard enough for him as it is to simulate real life, without the poor showman's reaching out from behind the curtain to shake hands with his audience. 

When you have got the outline of your plot, and the characters that seemappropriate to play in it, you turn to that so-called 'commonplacebook, ' in which, if you know your trade, you will have set down anythingnoteworthy and illustrative of human nature that has come under yournotice, and single out such instances as are most fitting; and finallyyou will select your scene (or the opening one) in which your drama isto be played. And here I may say, that while it is indispensable thatthe persons represented should be familiar to you, it is not necessarythat the places should be; you should have visited them, of course, inperson, but it is my experience that for a description of the salientfeatures of any locality the less you stay there the better. The man whohas lived in Switzerland all his life can never describe it (to theoutsider) so graphically as the (intelligent) tourist; just as the manwho has science at his fingers' ends does not succeed so well as the manwith whom science has not yet become second nature, in making anabstruse subject popular. 

Nor is it to be supposed that a story with very accurate local colouringcannot be written, the scenes of which are placed in a country which thewriter has never beheld. This requires, of course, both study andjudgment, but it can be done so as to deceive, if not the native, atleast the Englishman who has himself resided there. I never yet knew anAustralian who could be persuaded that the author of 'Never Too Late toMend' had not visited the underworld, or a sailor that he who wrote'Hard Cash' had never been to sea. The fact is, information, concerningwhich dull folks make so much fuss, can be attained by anybody whochooses to spend his time that way; and by persons of intelligence (whoare not so solicitous to know how blacking is made) can be turned, in amanner not dreamt of by cram-coaches, to really good account. 

The general impression perhaps conveyed by the above remarks will bethat to those who go to work in the manner described--for many writersof course have quite other processes--story-telling must be a mechanicaltrade. Yet nothing can be farther from the fact. These preliminaryarrangements have the effect of so steeping the mind in the subject inhand, that when the author begins his work he is already in a worldapart from his everyday one; the characters of his story people it; andthe events that occur to them are as material, so far as the writer isconcerned, as though they happened under his roof. Indeed, it is aquestion for the metaphysician whether the professional story-teller hasnot a shorter lease of life than his fellow-creatures, since, inaddition to his hours of sleep (of which he ought by rights to have muchmore than the usual proportion), he passes a large part of his sentientbeing outside the pale of ordinary existence. The reference to sleep 'byrights' may possibly suggest to the profane that the storyteller has aclaim to it on the ground of having induced slumber in hisfellow-creatures; but my meaning is that the mental wear and tear causedby work of this kind is infinitely greater than that produced by mereapplication even to abstruse studies (as any doctor will witness), andrequires a proportionate degree of recuperation. 

I do not pretend to quote the experience (any more than the mode ofcomposition) of other writers--though with that of most of my brethrenand superiors in the craft I am well acquainted--but I am convinced thatto work the brain at night in the way of imagination is little short ofan act of suicide. Dr. Treichler's recent warnings upon this subject arestartling enough, even as addressed to students, but in theirapplication to poets and novelists they have far greater significance. It may be said that journalists (whose writings, it is whispered, have aclose connection with fiction) always write in the 'small hours, ' buttheir mode of life is more or less shaped to meet their exceptionalrequirements; whereas we storytellers live like other people (only morepurely), and if we consume the midnight oil, use perforce another systemof illumination also--we burn the candle at both ends. A great novelistwho adopted this baneful practice and indirectly lost his life by it(through insomnia) notes what is very curious, that notwithstanding hismind was so occupied, when awake, with the creatures of his imagination, he never dreamt of them; which I think is also the general experience. But he does not tell us for how many hours _before_ he went to sleep, and tossed upon his restless pillow till far into the morning, he wasunable to get rid of those whom his enchanter's wand had summoned. [8]What is even more curious than the story-teller's never dreaming of theshadowy beings who engross so much of his thoughts, is that (so far asmy own experience goes at least) when a story is once written and donewith, no matter how forcibly it may have interested and excited thewriter during its progress, it fades almost instantly from the mind, andleaves, by some benevolent arrangement of nature, a _tabula rasa_--ablank space for the next one. Everyone must recollect that anecdote ofWalter Scott, who, on hearing one of his own poems ('My hawk is tired ofperch and hood') sung in a London drawing-room, observed with innocentapprobation, 'Byron's, of course;' and so it is with us lesser folks. Avery humorous sketch might be given (and it would not be overdrawn) ofsome prolific novelist getting hold, under some strange roof, of the'library edition' of his own stories, and perusing them with greatsatisfaction and many appreciative ejaculations, such as 'Now this _is_good;' 'I wonder how it will end;' or 'George Eliot's, _of course_!

 [8] Speaking of dreams, the composition of Khubla Khan and of one or two other literary fragments during sleep has led to the belief that dreams are often useful to the writer of fiction; but in my own case, at least, I can recall but a single instance of it, nor have I ever heard of their doing one pennyworth of good to any of my contemporaries. 

Although a good allowance of sleep is absolutely necessary forimaginative brain work, long holidays are not so. I have noticed thatthose who let their brains 'lie fallow, ' as it is termed, for anyconsiderable time, are by no means the better for it; but, on the otherhand, some daily recreation, by which a genuine interest is excited andmaintained, is almost indispensable. It is no use to 'take up a book, 'and far less to attempt 'to refresh the machine, ' as poor Sir Walterdid, by trying another kind of composition; what is needed is analtogether new object for the intellectual energies, by which, thoughthey are stimulated, they shall not be strained. 

Advice such as I have ventured to offer may seem 'to the general' ofsmall importance, but to those I am especially addressing it is worthyof their attention, if only as the result of a personal experienceunusually prolonged; and I have nothing unfortunately but advice tooffer. To the question addressed to me with such _naïveté_ by so manycorrespondents, 'How do you make your plots?' (as if they wereconsulting the Cook's Oracle), I can return no answer. I don't know, myself; they are sometimes suggested by what I hear or read, but morecommonly they suggest themselves unsought. 

I once heard two popular story-tellers, A who writes seldom, but withmuch ingenuity of construction, and B who is very prolific in picturesof everyday life, discoursing on this subject. 

'Your fecundity, ' said A, 'astounds me; I can't think where you get yourplots from. '

'Plots?' replied B; 'oh! I don't trouble myself about _them_. To tellyou the truth, I generally take a bit of one of yours, which is amplysufficient for my purpose. '

This was very wrong of B; and it is needless to say I do not quote hissystem for imitation. A man should tell his own story withoutplagiarism. As to Truth being stranger than Fiction, that is allnonsense; it is a proverb set about by Nature to conceal her own want oforiginality. I am not like that pessimist philosopher who assumed hermalignity from the fact of the obliquity of the ecliptic; but the truthis, Nature is a pirate. She has not hesitated to plagiarise from even sohumble an individual as myself. Years after I had placed my wickedbaronet in his living tomb, she starved to death a hunter in Mexicounder precisely similar circumstances; and so late as last month she hasdone the same in a forest in Styria. Nay, on my having found occasion ina certain story ('a small thing, but my own') to get rid of the wholewicked population of an island by suddenly submerging it in the sea, what did Nature do? She waited for an insultingly short time (if heridea was that the story would be forgotten), and then reproduced thesame circumstances on her own account (and without the leastacknowledgment) in the Indian seas. My attention was drawn to both thesebreaches of copyright by several correspondents, but I had no redress, the offender being beyond the jurisdiction of the Court of Chancery. 

When the story-teller has finished his task and surmounted everyobstacle to his own satisfaction, he has still a difficulty to face inthe choice of a title. He may invent indeed an eminently appropriateone, but it is by no means certain he will be allowed to keep it. Ofcourse he has done his best to steer clear of that borne by any othernovel; but among the thousands that have been brought out within thelast forty years, and which have been forgotten even if they were everknown, how can he know whether the same name has not been hit upon? Hegoes to Stationers' Hall to make inquiries; but--mark the usefulness ofthat institution--he finds that books are only entered there under theirauthors' names. His search is therefore necessarily futile, and he hasto publish his story under the apprehension (only too well founded, as Ihave good cause to know) that the High Court of Chancery will prohibitits sale upon the ground of infringement of title. 

_PENNY FICTION. _

It is now nearly a quarter of a century ago since a popular novelistrevealed to the world in a well-known periodical the existence of the'Unknown Public;' and a very curious revelation it was. He showed usthat the few thousands of persons who had hitherto imagined themselvesto be the public--so far, at least, as their being the arbiters ofpopularity in respect to writers of fiction was concerned--were in factnothing of the kind; that the subscribers to the circulating libraries, the members of book clubs, the purchasers of magazines and railwaynovels, might indeed have their favourites, but that these last were'nowhere, ' as respected the number of their backers, in comparison withnovelists whose names and works appear in penny journals and nowhereelse. 

This class of literature was of considerable dimensions even in the dayswhen Mr. Wilkie Collins first called attention to it; but the luxurianceof its growth has since become tropical. His observations are drawn fromsome half a dozen specimens of it only, whereas I now hold in myhand--or rather in both hands--nearly half a hundred of them. Thepopulation of readers must be dense indeed in more than one sense thatcan support such a crop. 

Doubtless the individual circulation of none of these serials is equalto that of the most successful of them at the date of their firstdiscovery; but those who read them must, from various causes, of whichthe most obvious is the least important, have trebled in number. Population, that is to say, has increased in very small proportion ascompared with the increase of those who very literally run and read--theperipatetic students, who study on their way to work or even as theywork, including, I am sorry to say, the telegraph boy on his errand. 

Nevertheless, notwithstanding its gigantic dimensions, the UnknownPublic remains practically as unknown as ever. The literary wares thatfind such favour with it do not meet the eye of the ordinary observer. They are to be found neither at the bookseller's nor on the railwaystall. But in back streets, in small dark shops, in the company of cheaptobacco, hardbake (and, at the proper season, valentines), their leaveslie thick as those in Vallombrosa. Early in the week is theirspringtime, when they are put forth from Heaven knows whatprinting-houses in courts and alleys, to lie for a few days only on thecounter in huge piles. On Saturdays, albeit that is their nominalpublishing day, they have for the most part disappeared. For this sortof literature has one decidedly advanced feature, and possesses onevirtue of endurance--it comes out ever so long before the date it bearsupon its title-page, and 'when the world shall have passed away' will, by a few days at least, if faith is to be placed in figures, survive it. 

Why it should have any date at all no man can tell. There is nothing inthe contents that is peculiar to one year--or, to say truth, of oneera--rather than another. As a rule, indeed, time and space are alikeannihilated in them, in order to make two lovers happy. The generalterms in which they are written is one of their peculiar features. Onewould think that, instead of being as unlike real life as storiesprofessing to deal with it can be, they were photographs of it, and thatthe writers, as in the following instance, had always the fear of thelaw of libel before their eyes:

 We must now request our readers to accompany us into an obscure _cul de sac_ opening into a narrow street branching off Holborn. For many reasons we do not choose to be more precise as to locality. 

Of course in this _cul de sac_ is a Private Inquiry Office, with adetective in it. But in defining even him the novelist gives himself notrouble to arouse excitement in his readers: they have paid their pennyfor the history of this interesting person, and, that being done, theymay read about him or not, as they please. One would really think thatthe author of the story was also the proprietor of the periodical. 

 Those who desire (he says) to make the acquaintance of this somewhat remarkable person have only to step with us into the little dusky room where he is seated, and we shall have much pleasure in introducing him to their notice. 

--A sentence which has certainly the air of saying, 'You may beintroduced to him, or you may let it alone. '

The coolness with which everything is said and done in penny fiction isindeed most remarkable, and should greatly recommend it to thatrespectable class who have a horror of 'sensation. ' In a story, forexample, that purports to describe University life (and is as much likeit as the camel produced from the German professor's self-consciousnessmust have been to a real camel) there is an underplot of an amazingkind. The wicked undergraduate, notwithstanding that he has theadvantage of being a baronet, is foiled in his attempt to win theaffections of a young woman in humble life, and the virtuous hero ofthe story recommends her to the consideration of his negro servant:

 'Talk to her, Monday, ' whispered Jack, 'and see if she loves you. '

 For a short time Monday and Ada were in close conversation. 

 Then Monday uttered a cry like a war-whoop. 

 'It am come all right, sare. Missy Ada says she not really care for Sir Sydney, and she will be my little wife, ' he said. 

 'I congratulate you, Monday, ' answered Jack. 

 In half an hour more they arrived at the house of John Radford, plumber and glazier, who was Ada's father. 

 Mr. And Mrs. Radford and their two sons received their daughter and her companions with that unstudied civility which contrasts so favourably with the stuck-up ceremony of many in a higher position. They were not prejudiced against Monday on account of his dark skin. 

 It was enough for them that he was the man of Ada's choice. 

 Mrs. Radford even went so far as to say, 'Well, for a coloured gentleman, he is very handsome and quite nice mannered, though I think Ada's been a little sly in telling us nothing about her engagement to the last. '

 They did not know all. 

 Nor was it advisable that they should. 

Still they knew something--for example, that their new son-in-law was ablack man, which one would have thought might have struck them asphenomenal. They take it, however, quite quietly and as a matter ofcourse. Now, surely, even among plumbers and glaziers, it must bethought as strange for one's daughter to marry a black man as a lord. Yet, out of this dramatic situation the author makes nothing at all, buttreats it as coolly as his _dramatis personae_ do themselves. Now _my_notion would have been to make the bridegroom a black lord, and then toportray, with admirable skill, the conflicting emotions of hismother-in-law, disgusted on the one hand by his colour, attracted on theother by his rank. But 'sensation' is evidently out of the line of thepenny novelist: he gives his facts, which are certainly remarkable, thenleaves both his characters and his readers to draw their ownconclusions. 

The total absence of local scenery from these half hundred romances isalso curious, and becomes so very marked when the novelists are soimprudent as to take their _dramatis personae_ out of England, that onecan't help wondering whether these gentlemen have ever been in foreignparts themselves, or even read about them. Here is the conclusion of aromance which leaves nothing to be desired in the way of brevity, but isunquestionably a little abrupt and vague:

 A year has passed away, and we are far from England and the English climate. 

Whither 'we' have gone the author does not say, nor even indicate thehemisphere. It will be imagined, perhaps, that we shall find out wherewe are by the indication of the flora and fauna. 

 A lady and gentleman before the dawn of day have been climbing up an arid road in the direction of a dark ridge. 

Observe, again, the ingenious vagueness of the description: an 'aridroad' which may mean Siberia, and a 'dark ridge' which may mean theHimalayas. 

 The dawn suddenly comes upon them in all its glory. Birds twittered in their willow gorges, and it was a very glorious day. Arthur and Emily had passed the night at the ranche, and he had now taken her up to look at the mine which at all events had introduced them. He had previously taken her to see his mother's grave, the mother whom he had so loved. The mine after some delay proved more prosperous than ever. It was not sold, but is the 'appanage' of the younger sons of the house of Dacres. 

With the exception of the 'ranche, ' it will be remarked that there isnot one word in the foregoing description to fix locality. The mine andthe ranche together seem indeed to suggest South America. But--I ask forinformation--do birds twitter there in willow gorges? Younger sons ofnoble families proverbially come off second best in this country, but ifone of them found his only 'appanage' was a mine, he would surely withsome justice make a remonstrance. 

The readers of this class of fiction will not have Dumas at anyprice--or, at all events, not at a penny. Mr. Collins tells us how'Monte Christo' was once spread before them, and how they turned fromthat gorgeous feast with indifference, and fell back upon their tripeand onions--their nameless authors. But some of those who write for themhave adopted one peculiarity of Dumas. The short jerky sentences whichdisfigure the 'Three Musketeers, ' and indeed all that great novelist'sworks, are very frequent with them, which induces me to believe thatthey are paid by the line. 

On the other hand, some affect fashionable description and conversationwhich are drawn out in 'passages that lead to nothing' of an amazinglength. 

 'Where have I been, ' replied Clyde with a carelessness which was half forced 'Oh, I have been over to Higham to see the dame. '

 'Ah, yes, ' said Sir Edward, 'and how is the poor old creature?'

 'Quite well, ' said Clyde, as he sat down and took up the menu of the elaborate dinner. 'Quite well, she sent her best respects, ' he added, but he said nothing of the lodger, pretty Miss Mary Westlake. 

 And when, a moment afterwards, the door opened and Grace came flowing in with her lithe noiseless step, dressed in one of Worth's masterpieces, a wonder of amber, satin, and antique lace, he raised his eyes and looked at her with an earnest scrutiny--so earnest that she paused with her hand on his chair, and met his eyes with a questioning glance. 

 'Do you like my new dress?' she said with a calm smile. 

 'Your dress?' he said. 'Yes, yes, it is very pretty, very. ' But to himself he added, 'Yes, they are alike, strangely alike. '

Which last remark may be applied with justice to the conversations ofall our novelists. There appears no necessity for their commencement, noreason for their continuance, no object in their conclusion; the readerfinds himself in a forest of verbiage from which he is extricated onlyat the end of the chapter, which is always, however, 'to be continued. '

It is true that these story-tellers for the million generally keep 'agallop for the avenue' (an incident of a more or less exciting kind tofinish up with), but it is so brief and unsatisfactory that it hardlyrises to a canter; the author never seems to get into his stride. Thefollowing is a fair example:

 But before we let the curtain fall, we must glance for a moment at another picture--a sad and painful one. In one of those retreats, worse than a living tomb, where reside those whose reason is dead, though their bodies still live, is a small spare cell. The sole occupant is a woman, young and very beautiful. Sometimes she is quiet and gentle as a child; sometimes her fits of frenzy are frightful to witness; but the only word she utters is 'Revenge, ' and on her hand she always wears a plain gold band with a cross of black pearls. 

This conclusion, which I chanced upon before I read the tale whichpreceded it, naturally interested me immensely. Here, thought I, is atlast an exciting story; I shall now find one of those literary prizes inhopes, perhaps, of hitting upon which the penny public endures so manyblanks. I was quite prepared to have my blood curdled; my lips wereready for a full draught of gore; yet, I give you my word, there wasnothing in the whole story worse than a bankruptcy. 

This is what makes the success of penny fiction so remarkable; there isnothing whatever in the way of dramatic interest to account for it; norof impropriety either. Like the lady friend of Dr. Johnson, whocongratulated him that there were no improper words in his dictionary, and received from that unconciliatory sage the reply, 'You have beenlooking for them, have you?' I have carefully searched my fifty samplesof penny fiction for something wrong, and have not found it. It is aspure as milk, or, at all events, as milk-and-water. Unlike the MinervaPress, too, it does not deal with eminent persons: wicked peers arerare; fraud is usually confined within what may be called its naturallimits--the lawyer's office; the attention paid to the heroines not onlyby their heroes, but by their unsuccessful and objectionable rivals, isgenerally of the most honourable kind; and platitude and dulness holdundisputed sway. 

In one or two of these periodicals there is indeed an example of themediaeval melodrama; but 'Ralpho the Mysterious' is by no meansthrilling. Indeed, when I remember that 'Ivanhoe' was once published ina penny journal and proved a total failure, and then contemplate thepopularity of 'Ralpho, ' I am more at sea as to what it is that attractsthe million than ever. 

 'Noble youth, ' cried the King as he embraced Ralpho, 'to you we must entrust the training of our cavalry. I hold here the list which has been made out of the troops which will come at the signal. To certain of our nobles we have entrusted certain of our _corps d'armée_, but unto you, Ralpho, we must entrust our horse, for in that service you can display that wonderful dexterity with the sword which has made your name so famous. '

 'Sire, ' cried our hero, as he dropped on one knee and took the King's hand, pressing it to his lips, 'thou hast indeed honoured me by such a reward, but I cannot accept it. '

 'How!' cried the King; 'hast thou so soon tired of my service?'

 'Not so, sire. To serve you I would shed the last drop of my blood. But if I were to accept this command, I should cease to do the service for the cause which now it has pleased you to say I have done. No, sire, let me remain the guardian of my King--his secret agent. I, with my sword alone, will defend my country and my King. '

 'Be not rash, Ralpho; already hast thou done more than any man ever did before. Run no more danger. '

 'Sire, if I have served you, grant my request. Let it be as I have said. '

 'It shall be so, mysterious youth. Thou shalt be my secret agent. Take this ring, and wear it for my sake; and, hark ye, gentlemen, when Ralpho shows that ring, obey him as if he were ourselves. '

 'We will, ' cried the nobles. 

 Then the King took the Star of St. Stanislaus, and fixed it on our hero's breast. 

Now, to my mind, though his preferring to be 'a secret agent' tobecoming a generalissimo of the Polish cavalry is as modest as it isoriginal, Ralpho is too 'goody-goody' to be called 'the Mysterious. ' Hereminds me, too, in his way of mixing chivalry with self-interest, ofthose enterprising officers in fighting regiments who send inapplications for their own V. C. S while their comrades remain in modestexpectation of them. 

I am inclined to think, however, from the following advertisement, thatsome author has been recently piling up the virtues of his hero toostrongly for the very delicate stomachs of the penny public, who, it isevident, resent superlatives of all kinds, and are commonplace andconventional to the marrow of their bones: 'T. B. TIMMINS is informedthat he cannot be promised another story like "Mandragora, " since, indeciding the contents of our journal, the tastes of readers have to beconsidered whose interest cannot be aroused by the impossible deeds ofimpossible creatures. ' Alas! I wish from my heart I knew what 'deeds' or'creatures' _do_ arouse the interest of this (to me) inexplicablepublic; for though I have before me the stories they obviously takedelight in, why they do so I cannot tell. 

At the 'Answers to Correspondents, ' indeed, which form a leading featurein most of these penny journals, one may exclaim, with the colonel in'Woodstock, ' when, after many ghosts, he grapples with Wildrake: 'Thouat least art palpable. ' Here we have the real readers, asking questionsupon matters that concern them, and from these we shall surely get atthe back of their minds. But it is unfortunately not so certain thatthese 'Answers to Correspondents' are not themselves fictions, like allthe rest--only invented by the editor instead of the author, and comingin handy to fill up a vacant page. It is, to my mind, incredible that apublic so every way different from that of the Mechanic's Institute, andto whom mere information is likely to be anything but attractive, shouldbe genuinely solicitous to learn that 'Needles were first made inEngland in Cheapside, in the reign of Queen Mary, by a negro fromSpain;' or that 'The family name of the Duke of Norfolk is Howard, although the younger members of it call themselves Talbot. '

Even the remonstrance of 'Our Correspondence Editor' with a gentlemanwho wishes to learn 'How to manufacture dynamite' seems to meartificial; as though the idea of saying a few words in season againstexplosive compounds had occurred to him, without any particularopportunity having really offered itself for the expression of hisviews. 

There are, however, one or two advertisements decidedly genuine, andwhich prove that the readers of penny fiction are not so immersed inromance but that they have their eyes open to the main chance and theirmaterial responsibilities. 'ANXIOUS TO KNOW, ' for example, is informedthat 'The widow, unless otherwise decreed, keeps possession of furnitureon her marriage, and the daughter cannot claim it;' while SKIBBS isassured that 'After such a lapse of time there will be no danger of awarrant being issued for leaving his wife and family chargeable to theparish. '

As when Mr. Wilkie Collins made his first voyage of discovery into theseunknown latitudes, the penny journals are largely used for formingmatrimonial engagements, and for adjudicating upon all questions ofpropriety in connection with the affections. 'It is just bordering onfolly, ' 'NANCY BLAKE' is informed, 'to marry a man six years yourjunior. ' In answer to an inquiry from 'LOVING OLIVIA' whether 'anengaged gentleman is at liberty to go to a theatre without taking hisyoung lady with him, ' she is told 'Yes; but we imagine he would notoften do so. '

Some tender questions are mixed up with others of a more practical sort. 'LADY HILDA' is informed that 'it is very seldom children are bornhealthy whose father has married before he is three-and-twenty; thatlong engagements are not only unnecessary but injurious; and thatwashing the head will remove the scurf. ' 'LEONE' is assured that 'it isnot necessary to be married in two churches, one being quitesufficient;' that 'there is no truth in the saying that it is unlucky tomarry a person of the same complexion;' and that 'a gentle aperient willremove nettle-rash. '

'VIRGINIE' (who, by the way, should surely be VIRGINIUS) is thustenderly sympathised with:

'It does seem rather hard that you should be deprived of all opportunityof having a _tête-à-tête_ with your betrothed, owing to her beingobliged to entertain other company, although there are others of thefamily who can do so; still, as her mother insists upon it, and will notlet you enjoy the society of her daughter uninterrupted, you mightresort to a little harmless strategy, and whenever your stated eveningsfor calling are broken in on that way, ask the young lady to take a walkwith you, or go to a place of amusement. She can then excuse herself toher friends without a breach of etiquette, and you can enjoy your_tête-à-tête_ undisturbed. '

The photographs of lady correspondents which are received by the editorsof most of these journals are apparently very numerous, and, if we maybelieve their description of them, all ravishingly beautiful. It is nowonder they receive many applications of the following nature:

'CLYDE, a rising young doctor, twenty-two, fair, with a nice house andservants; being tired of bachelor life, wishes to receive thecarte-de-visite of a dark, fascinating young lady, of from seventeen totwenty years of age; no money essential, but good birth indispensable. She must be fond of music and children, and very loving andaffectionate. '

Another doctor:

'Twenty-nine, of a loving and amiable disposition, and who has atpresent an income of £120 a year, is desirous to make an immediateengagement with a lady about his own age, who must be possessed of alittle money, so that by their united efforts he may soon become amember of a lucrative and honourable profession. '

How the 'united efforts' of two young people, however enthusiastic, canmake a man an M. D. Or an M. R. C. S. (except that love conquers all things)is more than one can understand. The last advertisement I shall quoteaffects me nearly, for it is from an eminent member of my ownprofession:

'ALEXIS, a popular author in the prime of life, of an affectionatedisposition, and fond of home, and the extent and pressing nature ofwhose work have prevented him from mixing much in society, would be gladto correspond with a young lady not above thirty. She must be of apleasing appearance, amiable, intelligent, and domestic. '

If it is with the readers of penny fiction that Alexis has establishedhis popularity, I would like to know how he did it, and who he is. Todiscover this last is, however, an impossibility. These novelists allwrite anonymously, nor do their works ever appear before the public inanother guise. There is sometimes a melancholy pretence to the contraryput forth in the 'Answers to Correspondents. ' 'PHOENIX, ' for example, isinformed that 'The story about which he inquires will not be publishedin book form at the time he mentions. ' But the fact is it will never beso published at all. It has been written, like all its congeners, forthe unknown millions and for no one else. 

Some years ago, in a certain great literary organ, it was stated of oneof these penny journals (which has not forgotten to advertise theeulogy) that 'its novels, are equal to the best works of fiction to begot at the circulating libraries. ' The critic who so expressed himselfmust have done so in a moment of hilarity which I trust was not producedby liquor; for 'the best works of fiction to be got at the circulatinglibraries' obviously include those of George Eliot, Trollope, Reade, Black, and Blackmore, while the novels I am discussing are inferior tothe worst. They are as crude and ineffective in their pictures ofdomestic life as they are deficient in dramatic incident; they arevapid, they are dull. Indeed, the total absence of humour, and even ofthe least attempt at it, is most remarkable. There is now and then adescription of the playing of some practical joke, such as tying twoChinamen's tails together, the effect of the relation of which ismelancholy in the extreme, but there is no approach to fun in the wholepenny library. And yet it attracts, it is calculated, four millions ofreaders--a fact which makes my mouth water like that of Tantalus. 

When Mr. Wilkie Collins wrote of the Unknown Public it is clear he wasstill hopeful of them. He thought it 'a question of time' only. 'Thelargest audience, ' he says, 'for periodical literature in this age ofperiodicals must obey the universal law of progress, and sooner or laterlearn to discriminate. When that period comes the readers who rank bymillions will be the readers who give the widest reputations, who returnthe richest rewards, and who will therefore command the services of thebest writers of their time. ' This prophecy has, curiously enough, beenfulfilled in a different direction from that anticipated by him whouttered it. The penny papers--that is, the provincial pennynewspapers--_do_ now, under the syndicate system, command the servicesof our most eminent novel writers; but Penny Fiction proper--that is tosay, the fiction published in the penny literary journals--is just whereit was a quarter of a century ago. 

With the opportunity of comparison afforded to its readers one would saythis would be impossible, but as a matter of fact, the opportunity is_not_ offered. The readers of Penny Fiction do not read newspapers;political events do not interest them, nor even social events, unlessthey are of the class described in the _Police News_, which, Iremark--and the fact is not without significance--does not need to addfiction to its varied attractions. 

But who, it will be asked, _are_ the public who don't read newspapers, and whose mental calibre is such that they require to be told by acorrespondence editor that 'any number over the two thousand willcertainly be in the three thousand'?

I believe, though the vendors of the commodity in question profess tobe unable to give any information on the matter, that the majority arefemale domestic servants. 

As to what attracts them in their favourite literature, that is a muchmore knotty question. My own theory is that, just as Mr. Tupper achievedhis immense popularity by never going over the heads of his readers, and showing that poetry was, after all, not such a difficult thing tobe understood, so the writers of Penny Fiction, in clothing veryconventional thoughts in rather high-faluting English, have found thesecret of success. Each reader says to himself (or herself), 'That is_my_ thought, which I would have myself expressed in those identicalwords, if I had only known how. 

_HOTELS. _

The desire for cheap holidays--as concerns going a long distance forlittle money--is no doubt very general, but it is not universal. Itdemands, like the bicycle, both youth and vigour. In mature years, notonly because we are more fastidious, but because we are less robust, the element of cheapness, though always agreeable, is subsidiary tothat of comfort. For my own part, if the chance were offered me totravel night and day for forty-eight hours anywhere--though it was tothe Elysian Fields--and that in a Pullman car, and for nothing, I wouldrather go to Southend at my own expense from Saturday to Monday. Suppose the former journey to be commenced by a Channel passage andcontinued in a third-class carriage, I would rather stop at home. Orif, in addition to the other discomforts, I am to be a unit among 100excursionists, with a coupon that insures my being lodged on the sixthfloor everywhere, I had rather take a month's quiet holiday in Londonat the House of Detention. 

These things are matters of taste; but it is certain that a very largenumber of people, who, like myself, are neither rich nor in a positionwhich justifies them in giving themselves airs, consider quiet, comfort, and the absence of petty cares the most essential conditionsof a holiday. These views necessitate some expense and generally limitthe excursions of those who entertain them to their native land; but, on the other hand, they have their advantages. They give one, forexample, a great experience in the matter of hotels. 

As I idly flutter the yellow leaves of the advertisements of inns in'Bradshaw, ' they call up pictures in my mind quite undreamt of by theproprietors. I have been a sojourner in almost all of these which aredescribed as 'situated in picturesque localities. ' They are all--it isin print and must be true--'first-class' hotels; they have most of them'unrivalled accommodation;' not a few of them have been 'patronised byRoyalty, ' and one of them even by 'the Rothschilds. ' These last, ofcourse, are great caravanserais, with 'magnificent ladies'drawing-rooms' and 'replete' (a word that seems to have taken servicewith the licensed victuallers) 'with every luxury. ' They make up (aterm unfortunately suggestive of transformation) hundreds of beds; theyhave equipages and 'night chamberlains;' '_On y parle français_;' '_Manspricht Deutsch_. ' Of some of these there is quite a little biography, beginning with the year of their establishment and narrating theirhappy union with other agreeable premises, like a brick and mortarnovel. I remember them well: their 'romantic surroundings' or 'theirexclusive privilege of meeting trains upon the platform;' theiraccurate resemblance to 'a gentleman's own house' (with 'areception-room 80 feet by 90 feet'); their 'douche and spray baths;'their 'unexceptionable tariff;' and even their having undergone those'extensive alterations, ' through which I also underwent something, which they did not allow for in the bill. 

These hotels are all more or less satisfactory as to appearance;furnished, not, indeed, with such taste, nor so lavishly, as theirrivals on the Continent, but handsomely enough; they are much cleanerthan foreign inns; and if their reference to 'every sanitaryimprovement which science can suggest' is a little tall, even for anadvertisement, one never has cause to shudder as happens in some placesin France proper and in Brittany everywhere. Though it must be admittedthat _tables d'hôte_ abroad are not the banquets which the travellingBriton believes them to be, our own hotel public dinners are inferiorto their originals, and, what is very hard, those who pay for anentertainment in private suffer from them. The guest who happens todine later than the _table d'hôte_ in his own apartment can hardlyescape getting things 'warmed up;' and if he dines at the same time hehas nobody to wait on him. There is one thing that presses with greatseverity on paterfamilias--the charge which is made at many of thelarge hotels of 1s. 6d. A day for attendance on each person. Half aguinea a week for service is a high price even for a bachelor; but whenthis has to be paid for every member of the family, it is ruinous. Young ladies who dine at the same table and do not give half thetrouble of 'single gentlemen' ought not to be taxed in this way. It isurged by many that since attendance is charged in the bill, ' thereshould be no other fees. But the lover of comfort will alwayscheerfully pay for a little extra civility; nor do I think that thispractice--any more than that of feeing our railway porters--is a publicdisadvantage. The waiter does not know till the guest goes whether heis a person of inflexible principles or not, and, therefore, hopeameliorates his manners and shapes his actions to all. As to getting'attendance' out of the bill, now it has once got into it, that Ibelieve to be impossible. There it is, like the moth in one'sdrawing-room sofa. And yet I am old enough to remember how poor AlbertSmith plumed himself on the benefit he bestowed upon the public, as hehad imagined, by introducing a fixed charge for all services and doingaway with 'Please, sir, boots. ' In this country, and, to say truth, inmost others, 'Please, sir, boots, ' is indigenous and not to be doneaway with. We did very much better under the voluntary system, althougha few people who did not deserve it, but simply could not afford to belavish, were called in consequence 'screws. '

To pay the wages of another man's servants is absurd, and reminds oneof the 'plate, glass, and linen' that used to be charged for at theposting-house on the Dover road with every threepenny-worth ofbrandy-and-water, I have been asked 6d. For an orange (when orangeswere cheap) at a London hotel, upon the ground that they never chargedless than 6d. For anything; and I have read of 'an old established andfamily hotel' near Piccadilly, where the charge for putting the _Times_upon a guest's breakfast-table was 6d. Up to this present year ofgrace. 'Gentlemen and families had always been supplied with it at thatprice, ' said the landlord, when remonstrated with, 'and it was hisprinciple, and his customers approved it, to keep things as they were. 'It must be admitted, however, that matters have changed for the betterin this respect elsewhere; and, at all events, the printed tariff thatmay now be consulted in every modern hotel enables you to know what youare spending. 

Things are improved, too, in the way of light and air; both the publicand private rooms of our hotels are far more cheerful and betterappointed than they used to be, and instead of the four-posters thereare French beds. The one great advantage that our new system possessesover the old is, indeed, the sleeping accommodation. The 'skimpy'mattress, the sheet that used to come untucked through shortness, leaving the feet tickled by the blanket, and the thin, limp thing thatcalled itself a feather bed, are only to be found in ancienthostelries. 

On the other hand, it must be confessed that the food has deteriorated;the bill of fare, indeed, is more pretentious, but the materials areinferior, and so is the cooking. The well-browned fowl, with its richgravy and the bread-sauce that used to be its homely but agreeableattendant, has disappeared. The bird appears now under a French title, and is in other respects unrecognisable; as an Irish gentleman onceexplained it to me, it is not only that the thing appears under an_alias_, but the _alias_ comes up instead of the thing. There is oneessential which the old hotel often omitted to serve with your chicken, and which the new hotel supplies--the salad. This, however, few hotelcooks in England--and far less hotel waiters--can be trusted toprepare. Their simple plan is to deluge the tender lettuce with somehateful ingredient called 'salad mixture, ' poured out of a peculiarlyshaped bottle, such as the law now compels poisons to be sold in; andthe jewel is deserving of its casket--it is almost poison. Nor, alas!is security always to be attained by making one's salad for one's self. For supposing even that the lettuce is fresh and white, and notmanifestly a cabbage that is pretending to be a lettuce, how about theoil? Charles Dickens used to say that he could always tell thecharacter of an inn from its cruets; if they were dirty and neglected, all was bad. The cruets are now clean enough in all hotels ofpretension; but alas for that bottle which should contain (and perhapsdid at some remote period contain) the oil of Lucca! On the fingers ofone hand I could count all the hotels in England which have not givenme bad oil. Whether it was never good, or whether it has gone bad, Ileave to those philosophers who investigate the origin of evil. I onlyknow that it tastes as hair-oil smells. As to the soups, they are noworse than they used to be, and no better; there is soup and there ishotel soup. 

'Gravy soup, fried sole, _entrée_, leg of mutton, and apple tart' usedto be the unambitious _menu_ of the old-fashioned inn. The _entrée_ wasterrible, but the fish, meat, and sweet were excellent. I will saynothing of the _entrées_ now; I am not in a position to say anything, for not being of a sanguine temperament, and having but a few years tolive, I do not venture upon them. But it is undeniable that our bill offare is greatly more varied than it used to be, and that the way inwhich the table is arranged is much more attractive. At the greathotels in the neighbourhood of London where rich, or at all eventsprodigal people, go to dine in the summer months, this is especiallythe case. All these establishments affect fine dinners, yet how seldomit is they give you good ones! Their wines, though monstrously dear, are very fair; indeed, of the champagnes at least you may make certainby looking at the corks; but the food! How many of their fancifullynamed dishes might be included under the common title, Fiasco!

It was once suggested to a decayed man of fashion that an excellentprofession for him to take up would be the proprietorship of an hotelof this class. 'You know what is really worth eating, ' said aninfluential friend of his, 'and these caterers for your own classevidently don't; if you will undertake the management of the _Mammoth_(naming an inn of very high repute), I will furnish the funds. ' But theman of fashion, who had spent his all with very little to show for it, had at least acquired some knowledge of his fellow-creatures. 'I amdeeply obliged to you, ' he said, 'but were I to accept your offer Ishould only lose your money. There are but a very few people in theworld who know a good dinner when it is set before them; and a verylarge class (including all the ladies, who are only solicitous aboutits _looking_ good) do not care whether it is good or bad. In privatelife if a dinner consists of many courses, is given at a fine house, and is presumably expensive, nineteen-twentieths of those who sit downto it are satisfied. The twentieth alone says to himself, 'How muchbetter I should have dined at home!' I have been at scores and scoresof great dinner-parties where the very plates were cold and nobody butmyself has observed it. '

I have no doubt the gentleman of fashion was right; delicate cookingwould be entirely thrown away upon the general palate. The fair sex, the young, the hungry, the easy-going, the ignorant--how large amajority of the 'frequenters' of hotels do these classes embrace! Andit must also be remarked that to cook food (except whitebait)delicately in large quantities is a very difficult operation indeed. 

Upon the whole, I think, our large hotels, 'arranged on the Continentalsystem, ' are well adapted for those who frequent them, and they show areadiness to adopt improvements. An immense number of well-to-do peoplego to Brighton, to Scarborough, and scores of other places to get achange and fresh air, but also to find the same amusements to whichthey have been accustomed in London; and, on the whole, they get whatthey want without paying very much too much for it. But what drivesmany quiet folks abroad is their disinclination to meet with all thisgaiety and public life; they do not mind it so much when it is mixedwith the foreign element, and they are also under the impression thatpicturesque scenery is a peculiarity of the Continent. I believe thatmore English people have visited Switzerland than have seen the LakeDistrict and the Channel Islands, and very many more than havetravelled in North Devon and Cornwall. The chief reason of theirabstinence in this respect is, however, their dread of the want of'accommodation. ' To the last two counties, with the exception of sometowns, such as Ilfracombe, approachable by sea, or a direct railwayroute, folks never go in crowds, and never will go. It is true thereare no mammoth hotels to be found there; but for picturesque situationand a certain homely comfort, that takes one not only into anotherworld, but another generation, there is nothing equal to certain littleinns in these out-of-the-way places. In Wales also, and even in theIsle of Wight, there are perfect bowers of bliss of this description, still undesecrated by the excursionist. Not ten years ago, in a part ofNorth Devon which shall be nameless, I came, with my wife and daughter, upon an inn of this description. We were all enraptured with theexquisite beauty of its situation, and were so imprudent as to express, in the presence of the landlady, our wish to live and die there. 'Well, indeed, sir, ' she said, 'I am delighted to see you, but I hope you arenot going to stay very long. ' 'My dear madam, ' I remonstrated, aghastat this remark, 'are we, then, such very objectionable-lookingpersons?' 'Bless your heart, no, sir, it isn't that; but the fact is, we have only room for three, and if parties come and come, and alwaysfind us full (through your being here, you know), they will think it isno use coming, and we shall lose our custom. ' We did stay on, however, a pretty long time--it was a place of ineffable beauty, such as oneparts from almost with tears--and when on our departure I asked for mybill, the landlady said, 'Dear me, sir, would you kindly tell me whatday you come upon, for I ha' lost my account of it?' The life we led atthat inn was purely pastoral; the clotted cream was of that consistencythat it was meat and drink in one; but although the fare was homely, itwas good of its kind, and admirably cooked. There was fresh fish everyday--for we were too far from railways for that Gargantuan ogre, 'theLondon market, ' to deprive us of it--and tender fowls, and jams of allkinds such as no money could buy. 

The landlady had a genius for making what she called 'conserves, ' andevery cupboard in the queer little house was filled with them. In thesitting-room was a quantity of old china and knick-knacks, brought bythe sailors of the place from foreign lands; the linen was white assnow, and smelt of lavender. Outside the inn was a sea that stretchedto Newfoundland, and cliffs that caught the sunset--such scenery as isnot surpassed by that of the Tyrol (though, of course, in a verydifferent line), and be sure I was afraid of no comparison between our'Travellers' Rest' and any Tyrolean inn. It is noteworthy that thishostelry of ours was so peculiarly and picturesquely placed that itcould only be approached on foot, which reminds me of another place ofentertainment for man, but not for beast. 

In appearance, 'The Strangers' Welcome' (as I will take leave to termit) is more ambitious than 'The Rest, ' but it is of the same simpletype. In some respects it is even more primitive; no sign hangs overits door, nor is any other symbol of its vocation visible, 'Liberty, 'not 'License, ' as one may say without much metaphor, being its motto. It is on an island, so insignificant in extent that horse exercise isimpossible on it. What it lacks in superficial area is more than madeup, however, in its stupendous height. From the 'Welcome, ' though itlies in a dell, one looks down perhaps a hundred sheer feet upon theocean. Its solemn murmur, even in calm, always reaches the place, andwhen in storm, its spray. As one watches it from the lawn among thefuchsias, one scarcely knows which mood becomes it best. The fuchsiasgrow against our walls and tap at our window-panes in the morning asthough they were roses; they even make their homes in the rocks, likethe conies. The island is a very garden of fuchsias, tall as trees; andthere are no other trees. The 'Welcome' itself is a sort of farmhousewithout the farm; there is a goat or two and a donkey to be seen aboutit, which would account for the milk having an alien flavour, if it hadone. But the 'Welcome' has excellent milk, so that there must be somecows somewhere. From the cliff-top you may see Alderney, for our inn isamong the Channel Islands. When a storm comes you must stop where youare; for until the last waves of it have ceased there is no approach tous from the world without. To the stranger it seems probable at suchseasons that the little place will burst up from below, for beneath itare caverns innumerable, filled with furious waves like sea monstersroaring for our lives. The sea, in short, has honeycombed it, andrenews her vows to be its ruin with every gale. Yet the 'Welcome' lastsour time, and will last that of many generations, who will continue, however, doubtless to believe that the sublimities of Nature areunattainable short of Switzerland. 

My memory now transports me to a mountain district in the north, but onthis side of the border; and here, again, the inn is signless, and hasno appearance of an inn at all. It is situated on the last of a greatchain of hills, with lakes among them. It has lawns and shrubberies, but few flowers; Nature frowns on every hand, even in sunshine, whenthe waterfalls flow like silver, and the crags are decked with diamonds. There are no 'trencher-scraping, napkin-carrying, ' waiters in the house, but country damsels attend upon you, and a motherly dame, their mistress, expresses her hope every morning that you have slept well. If you havenot, it is the fault of your conscience: you have had a poet's recipefor it, for you have been 'within the hearing of a hundred streams'all night. Will you go up the Fells, or will you row on the Lake?These are your simple alternatives; there is no brass band, nopromenade, no pier, no anything that the vulgar like. Yet once a weekat least a great spectacle can be promised you without crossing theinn threshold (indeed, when the promise is kept it is better to be onthe right side of it)--a thunder-storm among the hills. The arrangementsfor lighting the place, of which you may have complained, not withoutreason, are then in perfection, and the silence is broken with avengeance. It is difficult to imagine the grandeurs of a sham-fight--abattle without corpses--but here you have them. First the musketry, thenthe guns, with the explosion of the powder-magazine--repeated aboutforty times by the mountain echoes--at the end of it. When all is overyou sit down to such a supper as Lucullus would have given a year oflife for, and which, in all probability--for he had no prudence--wouldhave shortened it for him. At the 'Retreat, ' as it is called, amongother native delicacies, they give you fresh char cooked to a turn. Ilike to think that this was the fish that Monte Christo had sent him ina tank to Paris on the occasion of a certain banquet; but all the wealthof the Indies could not have accomplished that; the char (in spite ofits name) does not travel. 

One more reminiscence of country inns; and, though I have more of themin the picture-gallery of my memory, I have done. I conjure up anivy-covered dwelling, long roofed but low, and sheltered by a loftyhill. Its situation is quite solitary, and, save for the cry of theseagull, there reigns about it an unbroken silence. It is on the veryhighway of the world, but the road is noiseless, for it is the sea. From the windows, all day long, we can watch the ships pass by thatcarry the pilgrims of the earth, for their freight is chiefly human. Itis here 'the first ray glitters on the sail that brings our friends upfrom the under world, and the last falls on that which sinks with allwe love below the verge. ' Even at night there is no cessation to thiscoming and going; only, a red light or a white, and the distant strokesof a paddle-wheel in the hush of the moonless void are then the solesigns of all this motion. What hopes and fears contend in unseen heartsunder those moving stars! Is it nothing to have the opportunity towatch them from the ivied porch of the 'Outlook, ' and to welcome thethoughts they arouse within us? On land, too, there are stars, not madein heaven, but their shining is intermittent. As I lie in my bed I cansee the great revolving light on the farthest point of rock that jutsto sea. That is the 'Outlook's' watchman, not of much use to it, indeed, in a practical way, but imparting a marvellous sense ofguardianship and security. 

The chief means of amusement at inns of this kind is supplied byscience in the telescope. You note through it all that comes and goes, and after a day or two can tell-for yourself whither each stately shipis bound, or whence it comes. At the 'Outlook' the food is plain, butgood; the prawns in particular (which the young people, by-the-bye, cancatch for themselves) are of an exquisite flavour, and in size approachthe lobster. Twice a week for four hours this earthly Paradise is as atown taken by assault and given over to pillage. An excursion steamerstops at the little pier and discharges a cargo of excursionists. Butthose to whom the happiness of their fellow-creatures is intolerablecan withdraw themselves at these seasons to the neighbouring Downs andBays, and on their return they will find peace with folded wing sittingas before on the 'Outlook's' flagstaff. 

Such are the inns which I have known, and there are hundreds in beautifulEngland like them. On its rivers in particular there are many charminglittle inns, but, to say truth, although the gentlemen-fishermen are asquiet as mice (from their habits of caution in their calling), thedisciples of the oar are noisy; they get up too early and go to bed toolate, and are too much addicted to melody. Moreover, these houses ofentertainment often carry the principle of home production to excess:their native fare is excellent; but, spring mattresses not growing inthe neighbourhood, the stuffing of the beds is supplied, to judge byresults, from the turnip-field. For the purpose for which they areintended, however, these little hostels are well fitted and have a rivercharm that is indescribable. 

I could speak, too, of excellent hotels set in the grounds of ruinedcastles or abbeys; but the attractions of the latter interfere with therepose of the visitor. Moreover, it has been my chief object, whileadmitting the merits of the _Crown_ (and) _Imperial_, to paint thelily--to point out the violet half hid from the eye. It seems to me apity that so many persons should leave their native land and spendtheir money among foreigners through ignorance of the quietresting-places that await them at home. I have in no way exaggeratedtheir merits, but it must be confessed that they have one seriousdrawback, which, however, only affects bachelors; if Paterfamilias istroubled by it he ought to be ashamed of himself. I allude to the happycouples on their honeymoon whom one is wont to meet with in theseretired bowers. It is aggravating, no doubt, to see how Angelina andEdwin devote themselves to one another without the slightest regard forthe feelings of the solitary stranger. The poor creature has no wish, of course, to thrust his company upon them, still he would like to havehis existence acknowledged; and they ignore it. They have not a word tothrow to him, nor even a glance. Then there are certain endearments, delightful, no doubt, to those who exchange them, but which to thespectator are distraction. What I would recommend to the bachelor as aremedy is a wife of his own. The good Mussulman's idea of futurehappiness is a perpetual honeymoon; and these little Paradises are thevery places to spend it in. The customs of our own country forbid theagreeable variety which has such charms for the Faithful; but, even asit is, I have seen in these pleasant inns a great deal of humanhappiness, such as to the sober lover of his species only adds to theirattraction. 

_MAID-SERVANTS. _

It is a common thing to hear the remark expressed by much-triedmistresses that servants are not 'reasonable beings. ' The observationmay either have been provoked by the misbehaviour of some particulardomestic, or by the injudicious defence of the class by one of the malesex. For the gentlemen have more to urge in favour of our domesticsthan the ladies have, and, as the latter maintain, for a very obviousreason--'they have much less to do with them. ' The statement iscynical, but correct. So long as a man finds his clothes brushed andhis meals well and punctually cooked, he 'does not see much to complainof, ' nor does he give much thought to the pains and trouble which eventhat moderate amount of service entails upon his wife. Unless in greathouseholds, where everything is delegated to a paid housekeeper, it is, indeed, certain that ladies who are resolved to keep a house as itshould be have, now, from various causes, a very hard time of it. Theold feeling of feudal service, though a few examples--both mistressesand servants--may still exist of it, is dead; and in its place we havethe employer and the hireling. There are faults, of course, on bothsides; mistresses are accustomed to look upon their servants too muchas machines, and in the working thereof do not, perhaps, estimatesufficiently the advantages of the use of sweet oil; while servants aremore prone to 'eye-service' than were ever the housemaids of Ephesus. Which of the two began it I cannot tell, but a certain antagonism hasgrown up between these two classes which shakes the pillars of domesticpeace. At the root of it all, as at the root of most evils, liesignorance, and in the servants' case ignorance of a stupendous nature. 

I have had in my household an under-nurse, who, upon the family'sleaving town for a short holiday, was enjoined to see that the birds inthe nursery (canaries) were well supplied with sand. When we came backwe found them all starved to death. She had given them sand, but, alas!no seed. This was a girl from the country, who, one would think, wouldhave known what birds fed upon; otherwise one does not expect muchintelligence from Arcadia. When our last importation (anunder-housemaid) 'turned on the gas' in the upper apartments as she wasdirected to do, but omitted to light it, I thought it very excusable;she had not been accustomed to gas. On the other hand, when hermistress told her to 'look to the fire' of a certain room, I contend wehad a right to expect that that fire should be kept in. It was not so, however, and when the lady inquired, 'Why did you not look to it, as Itold you?' the girl replied, 'Well, I did, mum; the door was open and Ilooked at the fire every time I passed. ' She appeared to attach somesort of igneous power to the human eye. 

Each of these young ladies came to us very highly recommended by thewife of the clergyman of her native place. Surely, in the curriculum ofthe village school, something else beside the catechism ought to havebeen included; yet, of the things they were certain to be set todo--the merest first principles of domestic service--they had beentaught nothing; and in learning them at our expense they cost us tentimes their wages. 

It may be said, indeed, that when you employ a young girl who has neverbeen out to service before, you secure honesty, chastity, and sobriety, and must not look for the artificial virtues; but, unhappily, thingsare not very much better when you engage an experienced hand. The ladyof the house should not, of course, expect too much (in these days shemust be of a very sanguine temperament if she falls into _that_ error);she will think it necessary to warn the new arrival--although she'knows her place' and is 'a thorough housemaid'--that a velvet pilecarpet, for example, should not be brushed backwards. But on moreobvious matters she will probably leave the 'thorough housemaid' to herown devices, the result of which is that the boards beside thestair-carpets are washed with soda the first morning, which takes thedirt off effectually--and the paint also. An hour or two before she wascaught at this, she has, perhaps, utterly spoilt a polished grate ortwo by rubbing them with scouring paper instead of emery powder. 

Paterfamilias feels these things when he has to pay the bill, but hiswife feels them in the meantime, and it is more than is to be expectedof human nature that she can welcome cordially such an addition to herhousehold. A prejudice against the girl springs up in her mind, whichis very promptly responded to, and the mutual respect that ought togrow up between them is nipped in the bud. I am sorry to say that goodhousewives are almost always opposed to having servants well educated;they think that 'knowledge puffs up, ' blows them above their places, and encourages a taste for light literature which is opposed to thearts of brushing and cleaning. What the 'higher education' of domesticservants is to be under the School Boards I know not; but I hope theywill not imagine, as the Universities do, that their duty is only toteach their pupils how to educate themselves. I confess I agree withthe housewives, that, for young persons intended for service, reading, writing, and arithmetic, with the use of the scrubbing and hearthbrushes, are far preferable acquirements to those of the same threegreat principles with the use of the globes. Whether there are anyhandbooks in existence, other than cookery books, to teach the dutiesof servants I know not; but, even if there are, servants will neverread them of their own free will. Not one in a hundred has asufficiently strong desire to improve herself for that. They must betaught like children, and when they _are_ children, if any good is tocome of it. 

It is to me astounding, and certainly makes me very suspicious of theadvocates of women's rights, that they have done little or nothing inthis direction. Why should not some of that immense energy which is nowexpended on platforms be directed into this less ambitious but morenatural channel? There are tens of thousands of persons of their ownsex, not indeed out of employment, but who are obtaining employment onfalse pretences, who would do so honestly enough if they had had but alittle early training. Unfortunately, the ladies of the platform do notin general stoop to such small things as domestic matters; they do notcare about mere comfort, they even perhaps resent it because it is sodear to tyrannous man. If they would only turn their attention to theeducation of their humbler sisters, they would win over all theirenemies and put to shame the cynic who has associated Man's Lefts withWomen's Rights. 

The only School for Servants I am acquainted with sent us the worst weever had, and if it had not been for the very handsome fee it chargedboth us and her for our mutual introduction, I should not haverecognised it as an educational establishment at all. 

It will naturally be said by men (not by their wives, for they knowbetter), 'But surely self-interest will cause a servant to qualifyherself for a place, since, having done so, she will command betterwages. ' This is the mistake of the political economists, who, rightenough in the importance they attach to self-interest, gravely err insupposing it to be always of a material kind. They start with the ideathat everybody wants to make as much money as possible. So they do; butwith a large majority this desire is subordinate to the wish forleisure and enjoyment. Trades unionism, with all its faults, is foundedon this important fact in human nature--that many of us prefer narrowmeans, with comparative leisure, to affluence with toil. That thisnotion, if universal, would destroy good work of all kinds and makeperfection impossible, is beside the question, or certainly neverenters into the minds of those chiefly concerned in the matter. 'A goodday's work for a good day's wage' is a fine sentiment; but 'half aday's work for half a day's wage' suits some people even better; while'half a day's work for a good day's wage' suits them better still. Inold times the sense of 'service being no inheritance' begat habits ofgood conduct as well as thrift, for in most well-conducted households, servants' wages were made proportionate to their length of service. Butnowadays a lady's promise of raising a servant's wages every year isquite superfluous, since it is ten to one against her keeping her forthe first twelve months. It is no wonder, then, that while theconviction of service being of a temporary character is, at least, asstrong as ever, the course of conduct it now suggests is to make asmuch as possible out of it while it lasts, in the way of perquisites, etc. With our cooks, especially, it is not too much to say that wagesare often a secondary object as compared with the opportunity of makinga purse for themselves; and the recognised privilege of selling thedripping affords cover for a multitude of petty delinquencies which ifnot positive thefts have a strong family resemblance to them. 

Before leaving the subject of short terms of service, it should benoted that the modern servant openly avows her love of change. Anexcellent mistress, and a very kind one, has told me that housemaidsand kitchenmaids have given her warning again and again for no othercause than this. They have avowed themselves quite happy and contentedin their place, but they want 'fresh woods and pastures new. ' When JackMytton was reminded by his lawyer that a certain estate he was about tosell had been in his family for 500 years, he replied, 'Then it's hightime it should go out of it;' and the same reflection occurs to ourJanes and Bessies. They have been in their present situation a yearperhaps, or two at most--indeed, two years is considered in the worldbelow stairs the extreme point for any person of spirit to remain underone roof--and it is high time they should leave it. One would naturallythink that, in the case of young women at all events, they would beslow to exchange even a moderately comfortable place for a home amongstrangers; that they would bear the ills they know of, even if illsexist, rather than venture on those of which they know nothing; butthis is far from being the case. Nor do they even quit their place inorder 'to better themselves. ' They have absolutely no reason except thelove of change. Behaviour of this sort naturally gives some colour tothe remark already quoted that servants are not 'reasonable beings. ' Iwas almost a convert to that opinion myself when, on one occasion, having asked a female domestic to be good enough to put my boots on thetree, she literally obeyed my order. She hung all my boots on the treein the garden, and it was very wet weather. But to young persons whocome from the country everything is pardonable--except 'temper. '

The growth of this parasite in both town and country is, however, quitealarming. Little as mistresses dare to say to the disadvantage ofservants when leaving their employment, no matter for what reason, theydo sometimes remark of them that their temper is 'uncertain. ' When thishappens and the fact is communicated to Jane or Betsy by the lady towhom they have proposed themselves, they have one invariable method ofself-defence: 'Temper, mum? Well, I 'ave my faults, I daresay, but not_that_; all as knows me knows my temper is 'eavenly. But the fact is, mum, Mrs. Jones [her late mistress] was a bit flighty. ' And she touchesher forehead, and even sometimes winks, to indicate aberration of theintellect. A really good-tempered servant is now rare; and there arevery few who will bear 'speaking to' when their work is neglected orill-done. 

What, however, always puts them in the highest good humour is anexpensive breakage. When Susan comes to say, 'Oh, please, mum, I've 'ada haccident with the pier glass, ' her face is wreathed in smiles. To amistress who cannot relieve her feelings by strong language, as a manwould do, this behaviour is very aggravating. If servants do notactually delight in these misfortunes, I am afraid not one in twentyshows the least consideration for her employer's purse. It ischaritable to say, when Thomas or Jane leaves the gas burning allnight, or the sun-blinds out in the pouring rain, that they have 'nohead;' but it is my experience that they are very careful, and, indeed, take quite extraordinary precautions, with respect to their ownproperty. I am afraid that the true reason of the waste andextravagance among servants is that they have no attachment to theiremployers, and of course it is less troublesome to be lavish than to beeconomical. All the education in the world cannot make selfish personsunselfish; but it can surely implant in them some sense of duty. Atpresent, so long as a servant is not absolutely dishonest, herconscience rarely troubles her. This is especially the case with ourcooks, who also--that 'dripping' question making their path soslippery--draw the line between honesty and its contrary very fineindeed. 

Moreover, they know less of what they pretend to know than any otherclass of servant. The proof of this is in the fact that not one in ahundred of them will cook you a dinner on trial. I have often said to acook, 'Your character is satisfactory enough in other respects; but, before engaging you, will you show what you can do by sending up onegood dinner, for which I will pay you at the ordinary rate--namely, half-a-guinea?' She won't do it; she says she can cook for a prince, and affects to be hurt at the proposition. The consequence is that fora month, at least, we are slowly poisoned. Once only I hired a cook whoaccepted these terms. I am bound to say she sent us up a most excellentdinner, but when I sent for her to pay the half-guinea she was deaddrunk on the kitchen floor. She had taken a bottle of port wine and oneof stout while serving up that entertainment, and afterwards confessedthat during her arduous duties she required 'constant support. ' Again, it is by no means unusual for cooks to succeed to admiration for a weekand then to begin to spoil everything, the proverb respecting a 'newbroom' applying, curiously enough, even more to them than to the'housemaids. '

These observations are no doubt severe, but they are not unjust; nor doI for a moment imply that servants are always to blame, and nevermistresses. There are faults on both sides. Ladies often showthemselves as 'unreasonable' as their female domestics. For example, although very solicitous for the settlement of their own daughters inlife, they often do not give sufficient opportunities for theirmaid-servants to find husbands. A girl in service is quite as anxiousto get a husband as her young mistresses, and, indeed, it is of muchmore consequence for her to do so. She sees her youth slipping awayfrom her in a place where no 'followers' are allowed, and it is nowonder that she 'wants a change. ' She has a right to have her holidaysand her 'Sundays out, ' and it is the mistress's duty not only to grantthem, but to make some inquiry as to how she spends them. Many ladieswho go to church with much regularity never take the smallest interestin the moral conduct of those to whom they stand, morally if notlegally, _in loco parentis_, and who may, perhaps, have no otheradviser. 

Mistresses of all ranks, too, show a lamentable want of principle inthe matter of character-giving. It wants, no doubt, a certain strengthof mind to write the truth. 'The girl is going, thank Heaven, ' they sayto themselves, and they are glad to get rid of her, without a row, atthe easy price of a small falsehood. They lay the flattering unction totheir souls that they are concealing certain facts in order 'not tostand in the way of the poor girl's future. ' What they are really doingis an act of selfishness, cruel as regards the lady who is trusting totheir word, and baneful as regards the public good. It is the goodcharacters which make the bad servants. In a certain primitive districtof England, where ministers are 'called' from parish to parish, one ofthe churchwardens of X complained to the churchwardens of Y that hislate importation from the Y pulpit was not very satisfactory. 'Andyet, ' he said, 'you all cracked him up enormously. ' 'Yes, ' replied thechurchwarden of Y, 'and you will have to crack him up too before youget rid of him. '

Now, it is only ignorance which causes ladies to believe that there isany necessity to 'crack up' the character of a servant. They are notobliged (though, of course, if the servant has behaved well it would beinfamous to withhold it) to give her any character at all, and they maystate the most unpleasant truth (if they are quite certain of the factand can prove it) without the least fear of an action for libel. Thelaw does not punish them for telling the truth about their servants, and in another matter also it is more just than it is supposed to be. There is a superstition among servants that when leaving theirsituations before their time is out they have a right to claim boardwages, and that even when dismissed for gross misconduct they have aright to their ordinary wages for the remainder of the month; but theseare mere popular errors. The only case with which I am acquainted whereneither of these dues was demanded was rather a curious one. A widowlady advertised for a cook and a housemaid, and procured them by thefirst cast of her net. They came together with an open avowal of theirprevious acquaintanceship; they were attached to one another, theysaid, and did not wish to be in separate service, and wages were not somuch an object to them as opportunities of friendship. The lady, whohad an element of romance in her, was touched with this expression ofsentiment; it was also a great convenience to her to be so quicklysuited; and, their characters being good, she engaged them. They hadcome from a house of much greater pretensions than her own, and hadtaken higher wages, which might have attracted her suspicions; but shehad very little work for them to do, and she concluded that 'an easyplace' had had its attractions for them. Her servants were well treatedand well fed, and were allowed to see their friends; but she objectedto evening visits, and required the back door to be locked and the keyplaced in her possession at nine o'clock every evening. If the frontdoor was opened she could hear it from every part of her modestresidence (and, being very nervous, she used often to fancy that itopened when it did not), while a wire for the use of the policemanconnected the ground-floor with an alarm bell in her own room in caseof fire or other contingency. The two servants had been six days withher when this alarm bell was pealed one night with great violence. Shelooked out of window, and beheld a cab laden with luggage standing ather door. She expected nobody; but whoever had come was more welcomethan 'thieves' or 'fire, ' and she went up to the maid's room to bidthem answer the door. She found to her great astonishment--for it wastwo in the morning--the apartment empty, and while she was there thealarm-bell sounded again with increased fury. Looking over thebalusters, she perceived a light in the hall and inquired who wasthere. 'Well, it's us two, ' returned the cook, 'we're just agoin, sogood-bye. It ain't at all the sort o' place for us, and you ain't thesort o' missis. ' Then there was a shout of laughter, the front door wasopened and slammed to, and the cab drove off with its tenants, leavingtheir mistress to her lonely meditations. The two friends had come ontrial, it seemed, and had had enough of it. 

That they made no claim for wages of any kind seems quite curious whenone considers what sort of servants, and in what sort of circumstances, do demand them. And, as a rule, masters and mistresses give in to theextortion. Yet the law is on their side, nor have they any reason tocomplain of it in other respects. The improvement that is needed is inthemselves, and in their relations to those in their employment. Ouryoung ladies are so engaged in their accomplishments and theiramusements that they have no time to acquire a knowledge of domesticaffairs, so that when they marry they know no more of a housewife'sduties than their husbands. No wonder men of moderate means shrink frommarriage when wives have become a source of discomfort and expense, instead of their contraries, and have lost the name of helpmate. Howcan they be in a position to teach their servants when they themselvesare grossly ignorant of what they would have them learn? There arecertain village schools, indeed, which profess to train their pupilsfor domestic service, but they only teach them to be maids-of-all-work, the least remunerated and the hardest-worked of all the daughters oftoil. They offer no premium to diligence and perfection. 

This state of things is very hard both upon mistresses and servants, but it is not irremediable, and the remedy must come from the upper ofthe two classes. Schools are as necessary for servants as they are forother people; they must be taught their calling before they canpractise it; and schools for servants must therefore be instituted. With schools will come certificates of merit, and servants will then bepaid for what they can really do, and not, as now, in proportion totheir powers of audacity of assertion. 

_MEN-SERVANTS. _

The subject of men-servants is by no means of such universal interestas that of maid-servants, and those who suffer from them are not onlyless numerous, but less deserving of pity; as a lady of limited meansonce put it in my hearing, 'They can better afford to be robbed andmurdered' On the other hand, whatever truth may be in the dogma thatwhere a woman is bad she is worse than a bad man, it is certain thatwhen a man-servant is bad he can do more mischief than a badmaid-servant. In many cases he is a necessity, not because folks arerich, but because they have large families, and the service isconsequently too heavy to be undertaken solely by women. I have knownmany householders who, weary of the trouble and annoyance given bymen-servants, have resolved to engage only those of the other sex, andwho have had to resort to men-servants again for what may be calledphysical reasons. 

When this happens, however, both master and mistress should agree tothe arrangement, or at all events be both informed that it has beenmade. Only last autumn a lady friend of mine adopted it in the absenceof her husband abroad, and forgot to apprise him of it by letter. Hearrived home late at night, and, letting himself in with a latch-key, took the strange man for a burglar, and was almost the death of him bystrangulation before he could explain that he was the new butler. 

No woman can bring up a luncheon or dinner tray for a dozen peopletwice a day without sooner or later coming to grief with it. And hereit is appropriate to say that in places where there is much heavy workit is only reasonable that wages should be higher than where the workis light. Whereas, upon such irrational grounds is our whole system ofdomestic service built, that this is hardly ever taken intoconsideration. Since the servant is told beforehand what he or she willhave to do, it is taken for granted that the conditions are acceptableto them; whereas, the fact is that the capability of performing theirduties is the very last thing to enter their minds. They cannot affordto remain 'out of a situation, ' and therefore take the first thatoffers itself as a stopgap, with no more intention of permanentlyremaining there than a European who accepts an appointment in Turkey, and with the same object--namely, to make as much as possible out ofthe Turks in the meantime. 

In the case of a man-servant, especially in London, no writtencharacter should ever be held sufficient. A personal interview with hislate master or mistress is indispensable. This gives a little trouble, no doubt, on both sides; but those who grudge it, for such a purpose, must indeed be grossly selfish, and when they engage a ticket-of-leaveman for their butler get no worse than they deserve. One of the bestbutlers, however, I ever knew was a ticket-of-leave man--engaged on thefaith of a written character, which was, of course, a forged one, andwho remained with his employer no less than eighteen months. If hisspeculations on the turf had been successful, he might have parted withhim the best of friends, and perhaps have purchased a residence in thesame square; but something went wrong with the brother to Bucephalus, whom he had backed for the Derby, and the poor man had to dispose ofthe whole of his master's family plate to pay his own debts of honourand defray his travelling expenses--probably to some considerabledistance, as the police could never hear of him. The risk in taking abutler without a personal guarantee of at least his honesty andsobriety can indeed hardly be exaggerated. If a clever fellow, hisinfluence over his fellow-servants of the other sex is very great, andit is a recognised maxim of the class never 'to tell upon one another'so long as they remain good friends. I have heard an experiencedhousewife say there is nothing she dreads so much as an unbrokenharmony below stairs; like silence in the nursery, it is ominous of allsorts of mischief. 

Of course, the ticket-of-leave man was an extreme case; but it iscertain that some butlers who are not thieves are always treading onthe very confines of roguery. They are like trustees who, though theywill not touch the principal entrusted to them, not only omit to put itout to the best advantage, but will sometimes even pocket a portion ofthe interest 'for their trouble. ' I remember reading a curious case ofthis sort. A gentleman who had been with his family in Switzerland fornine months was met by a London acquaintance on his return, whoexpressed his regret at his having been in trouble at home. 'Nay, Ihave been in no trouble, ' he replied, 'and, indeed, none of us havebeen at home. ' 'But a month ago when I was passing down your street Isurely saw a funeral standing at your door?' Nor had his eyes deceivedhim. The butler in charge had let the house for a couple of months, andbut for his singular ill-luck in one of his tenants happening to dieduring their temporary occupation of it, he would have pocketed therent (_minus_ the money requisite to keep the maids' mouths shut) andhis master would have been none the wiser. It is said that it is onlywhen we have lost a friend that we come to value him at his true worth;and it is certain that it is only when one's butler has left us and thetongues of his fellow-servants are loosened that we come to learn hisdemerits--the difference between his real character and his writtenone. If he is a rogue, his evil influence remains behind him, and, nextto the maidservants, it is the page who suffers most from it. Hebecomes--poor little fellow!--almost by necessity an accessory to hisdelinquencies, plays pilot-fish to the other's shark, and himself growsup to swell the host of bad servants and that army of martyrs theirmasters and mistresses. 

A common cause of a butler's ruin, and for which he is much to bepitied, is his having married unfortunately. I had once a good servantwhom I was very loth to lose, but whose departure became necessary fromhis constantly being visited by a wife in advanced stages ofintoxication. Housewives generally prefer a married man for theirservant, for reasons that are not inscrutable. I do not wish to differfrom such good authorities. But though I have no objection to my butlerbeing married, I do object to maintain his wife, which, if he be ongood terms with the cook, there is a strong probability of my having todo. As to his own eating, Heaven forbid that I should grudge it to him;but it is curious and utterly subversive of all medical dogma that bothmen-servants and maidservants, who take, of course, comparativelylittle exercise, should, nevertheless, contrive to eat more apiece fordinner than two average Alpine climbers. Four meals a day, and three ofthem meat meals, is their usual rate of sustenance, and the food mustnot only be frequent and plentiful, but very good. It is a gratifyingproof of the rapid influence of civilisation that the daughter of afarm-labourer, accustomed at home to consider bacon a treat and beef awindfall, will, after a month's experience of her London place, declineto eat cold meat of any kind, reject salt butter as 'not fit for aChristian, ' and become quite a _connoisseur_ as to the strength ofbitter ale. Indeed, two of our present female domestics are'recommended' to drink claret because beer makes them bilious. I do notmind giving them claret, but I think it hard that under suchcircumstances I should have had a butler give me warning because thefemale domestics are 'not select enough. ' My own impression is, thoughI scarcely like to mention it, because he was a married man, that heconsidered them too plain. 

The reasons, or at all events the professed reasons, which servantsgive for leaving their situations are sometimes very curious. One manleft a family of my acquaintance because he said he was interfered withby the young ladies. 'Good gracious, what do you mean?' inquired hismistress. Her daughters, it appears, were accustomed to arrange theflowers for the dinner-table, whereas, as he imagined, he had apeculiar gift for that kind of decoration himself. 

On the other hand, it is sometimes difficult for a sensitive master ormistress to give the true reason for their parting with a servant. Afriend of mine had a footman who, through trick, or some defect in hisrespiratory organs, used to blow like a grampus, and indeed more like awhale, while waiting at table. It was not a vice, of course, but it wasvery objectionable, and guests who were bald especially objected to it. My friend consulted with his butler, who admitted that 'John did blowlike a pauper' (meaning, as I suppose, a porpoise), and undertook tobreak the subject to him. It is quite common to find candidates forservice very deaf, and if they contrive to pass their 'entranceexamination' (for which no doubt they sharpen their faculties), theystay with you for a month at least with an excellent excuse for makingit a holiday, since, whatever you tell them to do they cannot hear anddo not do it, or do something else which they like better. Mistresseswho are silent about moral disqualifications are much more so, ofcourse, about physical ones, and have no scruples in ridding themselvesof a deaf man. 

The worst class of men-servants, perhaps, are those who are said to'require a master;' which means that when he happens to be not at homethey neglect everything. A friend of mine who happened to take a week'sholiday, alone, discovered on his return that his family might almostas well have had no servant at all as the man he left with them; he wasgenerally out, and when at home had not even troubled himself to answerthe drawing-room bell. Some men-servants are always running out; theyhave 'just stepped round the corner, ' they say, 'to post a letter;'which in nine cases out of ten means to have a dram at thepublic-house. The servants who 'require a master' sometimes retaintheir situation with a very selfish one by devoting themselves to hisservice at the expense of the rest of the family. 'John suits me verywell, ' he says, 'and thoroughly understands his duties, ' which in thiscase means the length of the master's foot. 

On the other hand, there are some men-servants who, one would think, ought to belong to the other sex, so utterly ignorant they are of thatbranch of their duty which they call 'valeting. ' A lady blessed with ascientific husband, who certainly did not take much notice whether hewas 'valeted' or not, once complained to his man of his neglect in thisparticular. 'When your master comes in, William, you should look afterhim, and see to his hat and coat, and pay him little attentions. ' Sothe next time the man of science came in he was not a little surprisedby William (who, it is fair to say, came from the country) running upand taking his hat off his head, like some highly-trained retriever. Happy the master to whom a worse thing has never happened at the handsof his retainer!

The main thing to be dreaded in men-servants--next to downrightdishonesty--is, of course, intoxication. If a man has been long inone's service and gets drunk for once and away, it may well be forgivenhim; but when your new servant gets drunk, wait till he is sober enoughto receive his wages, and then dismiss him--if you can. Not long ago Ihad occasion to discharge a butler for habitual intoxication; he wasnever quite drunk, but also never quite sober; he was a sot. I made himfetch a cab, and saw his luggage put upon it, and I tendered him hismonth's wages. But he refused to leave the house without board wages. Of course, I declined to pay him any such thing; and, as he persistedin leaning against the dining-room door murmuring at intervals, 'Iwants my board wages, ' I sent for a policeman. 'Be so good, ' I said, 'as to turn this drunken person out of my house. ' 'I daren't do it, sir, ' was the reply; 'that would be to exceed my duty. ' 'Then, why areyou here?' 'I am here, sir, to see that you turn the man out yourselfwithout using unnecessary violence. ' 'The man' was six feet high and asstout as a beer-barrel. I could no more have moved him than Skiddaw, and he knew it. 'I stays here, ' he chanted in his maudlin way, 'till Igets my board wages. ' Fortunately, two Oxford undergraduates happenedto be in the house, to whom I mentioned my difficulty, and I shall noteasily forget the delighted promptitude with which they seized upon theoffender and 'ran him out' into the street. He fled down the area stepsat once with a celerity that convinced me he was accustomed to beingturned out of houses, and tried to obtain re-admission at theback-door. It was fortunately locked, but when I said to the policeman, '_Now_, please to remove that man, ' he answered, 'No, sir; that wouldbe to exceed my duty; he is still upon your premises and a member ofyour household. ' As it was raining heavily, the delinquent, thoughsympathised with by a great crowd round the area railings, presentlygot tired of his position and went away. But supposing my young Oxfordfriends had not been in the house and he had fallen upon me (a littleman) in the act of expulsion; or supposing I had been a widow lady withno protector, would that too faithful retainer have remained in myestablishment for ever?

I have purposely addressed myself to that large class of the communityonly who are said 'to keep a man-servant'--that is, one man, assisted, perhaps, by a page. Those who keep butler, footman, coachman, grooms, and valets are comparatively few in number, and know nothing of theinconveniences which their less wealthy fellow-countrymen endure. Inlarge establishments, if William is drunk, John is sober, and the workis done for the rich man by somebody; especially, too, if William isdrunk, there are John and Thomas to turn him out of the house and havedone with him. But it is certain that the lower Ten Thousand are not ina satisfactory condition as respects their men-servants; hardly moreso, in fact, than the Hundred Thousand are in regard to their maids. The men-servants, however, are not so ignorant of their duties as arethe latter, and if only their masters would have the courage to tellthe truth when giving them their 'characters, ' there would be a greatimprovement in them. Against the masters themselves (unlike themistresses) I have never heard much complaint. Most of them object tobe 'bothered' and 'troubled, ' and are willing enough to put everythinginto their man's hands, including the key of the Cellar, if only theycould trust him; but at present, alas! this is a very large 'If. '

_WHIST-PLAYERS. _

If cards are the Devil's books, Whist is the _édition de luxe_ of them. Whist-playing is one of the few vices of the upper classes that has notin time descended to the lower, with whom the ingenious and attractivegame of 'All Fours' has always held its own against it. I have knownbut two men not belonging to the upper ten thousand who played well atwhist. One was a well-known jockey in the South of England, who wasalso, by the way, an admirable billiard-player. He called himself anamateur, but those who played with him used to complain that hisproceedings were even ultra-professional. On the Turf men are almost asequal as they are under it, and this ornament of the pigskin would oncertain occasions (race meetings) take his place at the card-table withsome who were very literally his betters, while others who had moreself-respect contented themselves with backing him. The other example Ihave in my mind was an ancient Cumberland yeoman, who, having lost theuse of his limbs in middle life from having been tossed by a bull, pursued the science under considerable difficulties. A sort ofcard-rack (such as Psycho uses at the Egyptian Hall) was placed infront of him, and behind him stood his little granddaughter who playedthe cards for him by verbal direction. Both these men played a verygood game of the old-fashioned kind, for though the jockey usedsubtleties, they were not of the Clay or Cavendish sort. The asking fortrumps was a device unknown to him, though there were folks whowhispered he would take them under certain circumstances withoutasking, and of the leading of the penultimate with five in the suit itcould be said of him, for once, that he was as innocent as a babe. 

Of course, many persons join the 'upper ten' who come from the lowertwenty (or even thirty), and it need not be said that they are by nomeans inferior in sagacity to their new acquaintances; yet they rarelymake first-rate players. Whist, like the classics, must be learnt youngfor any excellence to be attained in it. Of this Metternich was astriking example. If benevolent Nature ever intended a man for awhist-player one would have supposed that she had done so in his case, but had been baffled by some malign Destiny which had degraded him tothat class by whom, in conjunction with Kings, it was fondly believed, previously to the recent general election, that 'the world wasgoverned. ' Until late in life he never took to whist, when he grewwildly fond of it, and played incessantly, till it is said a certainmemorable event took place which caused him never to touch a cardagain. The story goes that, rapt in the enjoyment of the game, hesuffered a special messenger to wait for hours, to whom if he had givenhis attention more promptly a massacre of many hundred persons wouldhave been prevented. Humanity may drop a tear, but whist had nothing toregret in the circumstance; for in Metternich it did not lose a goodplayer, and, what redeems his intelligence, he knew it. 'I learnt mywhist too late, ' he would say, with more pathos and solemnity, perhaps, than he would have used when speaking of more momentous matters ofomission. 

He must be a wise man indeed who, being an habitual whist-player, isaware that he is a bad one. In games of pure skill, such as chess, and, in a less degree, billiards, a man must be a fool who deceives himselfupon such a point; but in whist there is a sufficient amount of chanceto enable him to preserve his self-complacency for some time--let ussay, his lifetime. If he loses, he ascribes it to his 'infernal luck, 'which always fills his hands with twos and threes; and if he wins, though it is by a succession of four by honours as long as the stringof four-in-hands when the Coaching Club meets in Hyde Park, he ascribesit to his skill. 'If I hadn't played trumps just when I did, ' hemodestly observes to his partner, 'all would have been over with us;'though the result would have been exactly the same had he playedblindfold. To an observer of human nature, who is not himself a loser'on the day, ' there are few things more charming than the genial, gentle self-approval of two players of this class who have justdefeated two experts, and proved, to their own satisfaction, that iffortune gives them 'a fair chance' or 'something like equal cards, ' asthey term the conditions of their late performance, they can play aswell as other people. 

Of course, the term 'good-play' is a relative one; the player who winsapplause in the drawing-room is often thought but little of in placeswhere the rigour of the game is observed; and the 'good, steady player'of the University Clubs is not a star of the first magnitude at thePortland. The best players used to be men of mature years; they are nowthe middle-aged, who, with sufficient practical experience, havederived their skill in early life from the best books. 'It is difficultto teach an old dog new tricks, ' and for the most part the old dogsdespise them. When I hear my partner boast that he is 'none of yourbook-players, ' I smile courteously, and tremble. I know what willbecome of him and me if fortune does not give him his 'fair chance, 'and I seek comfort from the calculation which tells me it is two to oneagainst my cutting with him again. How marvellous it is, when one comesto consider the matter, that a man should decline to receiveinstruction on a technical subject from those who have eminentlydistinguished themselves in it, and have systematised for the benefitof others the results of the experience of a lifetime! With books or nobooks, it is quite true, however, that some men, otherwise of greatintelligence, can never be taught whist; they may have had everyopportunity of learning it--have been born, as it were, with the ace ofspades in their mouth instead of a silver spoon--but the gift ofunderstanding is denied them; and though it is ungallant to say so, Ihave never known a lady to play whist well. 

In the case of the fair sex, however, it may be urged that they havenot the same chances; they have no whist clubs, and the majority ofthem entertain the extraordinary delusion that it is wrong to play atwhist in the afternoon. One may talk scandal over kettle-drums, and goto morning performances at the theatre, but one may not play at cardstill after dinner. There is even quite a large set of male persons who, 'on principle, ' do not play at whist in the afternoon. In seasons ofgreat adversity, when fortune has not given me my 'fair chance' formany days, I have sometimes 'gone on strike, ' as it is termed, andjoined them; but anything more deplorable than such a state of affairsit is impossible to imagine. After their day's work is over, these goodpeople can't conceive what to do with themselves, and, betweenourselves, it is my experience, drawn from these occasional 'intervalsof business, ' that this practice of not playing whist in the afternoongenerally leads to dissipation. 

It is sometimes advanced by this unhappy class, by way of apology, thatthey play at night; which may very possibly be the case, but they don'tplay well. There is no such thing, except in the sense in whichafter-dinner speaking is called 'good, ' as good whist after dinner. Itmay seem otherwise, even to the spectators; but having themselves dinedlike the rest, they are not in a position to give an opinion. Thekeenness of observation is blunted by food and wine; the delicateperceptions are gone; and what is left of the intelligence is generallydevoted to finding faults in your partner's play. The consciousness ofmistakes on your own part, which he is in no condition to discern, instead of suggesting charity, induces irritation, and you arepersuaded, till you get the next man, that you are mated with the worstplayer in all Christendom. Moreover, that 'one more rubber' with whichyou propose to finish is generally elastic (_Indian_ rubber), and yousit up into the small hours and find them disagree with you. If I everwrite that new series of the 'Chesterfield Letters' which I have longhad in my mind, and for which I feel myself eminently qualified, mymost earnest advice to young gentlemen of fashion will be found in thegolden rule, 'Never sit down to whist after dinner;' it is a mistake, and almost an immorality. If they must play cards, let them playNapoleon. 

With regard to finding fault with one's partner, I have no apology tooffer for it under any circumstances; but it must be remembered thatthis does not always arise from ill-temper, or the sense of loss thatmight have been gain. There are many lovers of whist for its own saketo whom bad play, even in an adversary, excites a certain distress ofmind; when a good hand is thrown away by it, they experience the samesort of emotion that a gourmand feels who sees a haunch of venisonspoilt in the carving. In such a case a gentle expression ofdisapproval is surely pardonable. And I have observed that, with one ortwo exceptions (_non Angli sed angeli_, men of angelic temper ratherthan ordinary Englishmen), the good players who never find fault arenot socially the pleasantest. They are men who 'play to win, ' and whothink it very injudicious to educate a bad partner who will presentlyjoin the ranks of the Opposition. 

What is rather curious--and I speak with some experience, for I haveplayed with all classes, from the prince to the gentleman farmer--thebest whist-players are not, as a rule, those who are the most highlyeducated or intellectual. Men of letters, for example (I am speaking, of course, very generally), are inferior to the doctors and thewarriors. Both the late Lord Lytton and Charles Lever had, it is true, a considerable reputation at the whist-table, but though they were goodplayers, they were not in the first class; while the author of 'GuyLivingstone, ' though devoted to the game, was scarcely to be placed inthe second. The best players are, one must confess, what irreverentpersons, ignorant of the importance of this noble pursuit, would term'idlers'--men of mere nominal occupation, or of none, to whom the gamehas been familiar from their youth, and who have had little else to dothan to play it. 

While some men, as I have said, can never be taught whist, a few areborn with a genius for the game, and move up 'from high to higher, 'through all the grades of excellence, with a miraculous rapidity; but, whether good, bad, or indifferent, I have not known half a dozenwhist-players who were not superstitious. Their credulity is, indeed, proverbial, but no one who does not mix with them can conceive theextent of it; it reminds one of the African fetish. The countryapothecary's wife who puts the ivory 'fish' on the candlestick 'forluck, ' and her partner, the undertaker, who turns his chair in hopes torealise more 'silver threepences, ' are in no way more ridiculous thanthe grave and reverend seigneurs of the Clubs who are attracted to 'thewinning seats' or 'the winning cards. ' The idea of going on because'the run of luck' is in your favour, or of leaving off because it hasdeclared itself against you, is logically of course unworthy ofCetywayo. The only modicum of reason that underlies it is the fact thatthe play of some men becomes demoralised by ill-fortune, and may, possibly, be improved by success. Yet the belief in this absurdity isuniversal, and bids fair to be eternal. 'If I am not in a draught, andmy chair is comfortable, you may put me anywhere, ' is a remark I haveheard but once, and the effect of it on the company was much the sameas if in the House of Convocation some reverend gentleman had announcedhis acceptance of the religious programme of M. Comte. 

With the few exceptions I have mentioned, whist-players not only stopvery far short of excellence in the game, but very soon reach theirtether. I cannot say of any man that he has gone on improving foryears; his mark is fixed, and he knows it--though he is exceptionallysagacious if he knows where it is drawn as respects others--and therehe stays till he begins to deteriorate. The first warning of decadenceis the loss of memory, after which it is a question of time (and goodsense) when he shall withdraw from the ranks of the fighting men andbecome a mere spectator of the combat. It was said by a great gamblerthat the next pleasure in life to that of winning was that of losing;and to the real lover of whist, the next pleasure to that of playing agood game is that of looking on at one. 

Whist has been extolled, and justly, upon many accounts; but thepeculiar advantage of the game is, perhaps, that it utilises sociallymany persons who would not otherwise be attractive. Unless a player ispositively disagreeable, he is as good to play whist with as aconversational Crichton. Moreover, though the poet has hinted of theevanescent character of 'friendships made in wine, ' such is not thecase with those made at whist. The phrase, 'my friend and partner, 'used by a well-known lady in fiction, in speaking of another lady, isone that is particularly applicable to this social science, and holdsgood, as it does, alas, in no other case, even when the partner becomesan adversary. 

_RELATIONS. _

It is a favourite utterance of a much 'put-upon' Paterfamilias of myacquaintance, when he finds his family more than usually too much forhim, and cynically confesses his own shortcomings, that 'childrencannot be too particular in their choice of their parents, or begintheir education too early. '

But not only are children a necessity--that is, if the world of men andwomen is to be kept going, concerning the advantage of which thereseems, however, just now, to be some doubt, --but when they havearrived, they cannot, except in very early life, be easily got rid of. In this respect they differ from the relations whose case I am about toconsider, and also possess a certain claim upon us over and above themere tie of blood, since we are responsible for their existence. Theobligation on the other side is, I venture to think, a littleexaggerated. If there is such a thing as natural piety, which, even inthese days, few are found to deny, it is the reverence, it is true, with which children regard their parents; but their moral indebtednessto them as the authors of their being is open to doubt. That theory, indeed, appears to be founded upon false premises; for, unless in thecase of an ancestral estate, I am not aware that the existence ofchildren is much premeditated. On the contrary, their arrival is oftenlooked upon, from pecuniary reasons, with much apprehension, or, atbest, till they do arrive, they may be described, in common phrase, as'neither born nor thought of. ' I am a father myself, but I wish to befair and to take a just view of matters. If a mother leaves her childon a doorstep, for example, the filial bond can hardly be expected tobe very strong. In such a case, indeed, the infant seems to me to havea very distinct grievance against its female parent, and to be under novery overwhelming obligation to its father. 'Handsome is as handsomedoes' is a principle that applies to all relations of life, includingthe nearest; and if duty never absolutely ceases to exist, it is, atall events, greatly moulded by circumstances. 

Patriotism, for instance, is very commendable, but your country must beworth something to make you love it. It is next to impossible that aninhabitant of Monaco, for example, should be patriotic. He can at mostbe only parochial. The love of one's mother is probably the purest andnoblest of all human affections; but some people's mothers are habitualdrunkards, and others professional thieves. Even filial reverence, itis plain, must stop somewhere. That is one of the objections which, with all humility, I feel to the religion of M. Comte. The worship ofmy grandmother would be impossible to me, unless I had reason tobelieve her to have been a respectable person. Her relationship, unlessI had had the advantage of her personal acquaintance, would weigh Ifear, but little with me, and that of my great-grandmother nothing atall. The whole notion of ancestry--unless one's ancestors have beendistinguished people--seems to me ridiculous. If they have _not_ beendistinguished people--folks, that is, of whom some record has beenpreserved--how is one to know that they have been worthy persons, whosemission has been to increase the sum of human happiness? If, on theother hand, they have been only notorious, and done their best todecrease it, I should be most heartily ashamed of them. The pride ofbirth from this point of view--which seems to me a very reasonableone--is not only absurd, but often very reprehensible. We may beexulting, by proxy, in successful immorality, or even crime. Ourboastfulness of our progenitors is necessarily in most cases veryvague, because we know so little about them. When we come to theparticular, the record stops very short indeed--generally at one'sgrandmother, who, by the way, plays a part in the dream-drama ofancestry little superior to that of that 'rank outsider, ' amother-in-law. 'Tell that to your grandmother' is a phrase thatcertainly did not originate in reverence; and even when that lady isproverbially alluded to in a complimentary sense, her intelligence isonly eulogised in connection with the 'sucking of eggs. '

It so happens that I have quite a considerable line of ancestorsmyself, but only one of them ever distinguished himself, and that (hewas an Attorney-General) in a doubtful way; and I confess I don't takethe slightest interest in them. I prefer the pleasant companion withwhom I came up in the train yesterday, and whose name I forgot to ask, to the whole lot of them. 

And if I don't care about ancestors on canvas (for their pictures, ofcourse, are all we have seen of them), I have good cause to be offendedwith them on paper. My favourite biographies--such as that of WalterScott, for example--are disfigured by them. When men sit down to writea great man's life, why should they weary us with an epitome of that ofhis grandfather and grandmother? Of course, the book has to be acertain length. No one is more sensible than myself of the difficultyof providing 'copy' sufficient for two octavo volumes; but I do thinkbiographers should confine themselves to two generations. For my part, I could do with one, but there is the favourite theory of a great man'sinheriting his greatness from the maternal parent, which I am wellaware cannot be dispensed with. It is like the white horse, or ratherthe grey mare, in Wouvermanns's pictures; you can't get rid of it anymore than Mr. Dick could get Charles I. Out of his memorial. For mypart, I always begin biographies at the fourteenth chapter (orthereabouts)--'The subject of this memoir was born, ' etc. ; and even soI find I get quite enough of them. In novels the introduction ofancestry is absolutely intolerable. When I see that hateful chapterheaded 'Retrospective, ' I pass over to the other side, like the Levite, only quicker. What do I care whether our hero's grandfather wasArchbishop of Canterbury or a professional body-snatcher? I don't evencare which of the two was my own personal friend's grandfather, and howmuch less can I take an interest in this imaginary progenitor of thecreation of an author's brain? The introduction of such a colourlessshadow is, to my mind, the height of impertinence. If I were Mr. Mudie, I would put my foot down resolutely and stamp out this literary plague. As George III. , who had an objection to commerce, is said to haveobserved, when asked to confer a baronetcy on one of the Broadwoodfamily, 'Are you sure there is not a piano in it?' so should Mr. M. Inquire of the publisher before taking copies of any novel, 'Are yousure there is not a grandfather in it?'

Again, what a nuisance is ancestry in our social life! It cannot, unhappily, be done away with as a fact, but surely it need not be atopic. How often have I been asked by some fair neighbour at adinner-table, 'Is that Mr. Jones opposite one of the Joneses ofBedfordshire?' One's first impulse is naturally to ask, 'What on earthis that to you or me?' But experience teaches prudence, and I replywith reverence, 'Yes, of Bedfordshire, ' which, at all events, puts astop to argument upon the matter. Moreover, she seems to derive somesort of mysterious satisfaction from the information, and it is alwayswell to give pleasure. 

A well-known wit was once in company with one of the Cavendishes, whohad lately been to America, and was recounting his experiences. 'TheseRepublican people have such funny names, ' he said. 'I met there a manof the name of Birdseye. ' 'Well, and is not that just as good asCavendish?' replied the wit, who was also a smoker. But the remark wasnot appreciated. 

Ancestral people do not, as a rule, appreciate wit; but, on the otherhand, it must be admitted that this is not a defect peculiar to themalone. I once knew a man of letters who, though he had risen to wealthand eminence, was of humble descent, and had a weakness for avoidingallusion to it. His daughter married a man of good birth, but whoseliterary talents were not of a high order. This gentleman wrote aletter applying for a certain Government appointment, and expressed awish for his father-in-law's opinion upon the composition. 'It's a verybad letter, ' was the frank criticism the other made upon it. 'Thewriting is bad, the spelling is indifferent, the style is abominable. Good heavens! where are your relatives and antecedents?' 'If it comesto that, ' was the reply, 'where are yours? For I never hear you speakabout them. ' Nor did he ever hear him, for his father-in-law neverspoke another word to him. 

Nothing, of course, can be more contemptible than to neglect one's poorrelations on account of their poverty; but it is very doubtful whetherthe sum of human happiness is increased by our having so much respectfor the mere tie of kindred, unaccompanied by merit. Other things beingequal, it is obviously natural that one's near relatives should be thebest of friends. But other things are not always equal. Indeed, acertain high authority (which looks on both sides of most questions)admits as much. 'There is a friend, ' it says, 'that sticketh closerthan a brother. The connection, with its consequences, is somewhatsimilar to a partnership in commercial life. If partners pull together, and are sympathetic, nothing can be more delightful than such anarrangement. The tie of business clenches the tie of social attraction. For myself, I am not commercial; but I envy the old firm of Beaumontand Fletcher, and the modern one of Erckmann and Chatrian. But if themembers of the firm do _not_ pull together? Then, surely the bondbetween them is most deplorable, and a divorce _a vinculo_ should beobtained as soon as possible. 

One of the greatest mistakes--and there are many--that we fall intofrom a too ready acknowledgment of the tie of kindred is the obligationwe feel under to consort with relations with whom we have nothing incommon. You may take such persons to the waters of affection, but youcannot make them drink; and the more you see of them the less they arelikely to agree with you. Not once, nor twice, but fifty times, in alife experience that is becoming protracted, I have seen this forciblebringing together of incongruous elements, and the result has beenalways unfortunate. I say 'forcible, ' because it has been rarelyvoluntary; now and then a strong, though, I venture to think, amistaken sense of duty may lead a man to seek the society of one withwhom he has nothing in common save the bond of race; but for the mostpart they are obeying the wishes of another--the sacred injunction, perhaps, of a parent on his death-bed. 'Be good friends, ' he murmurs, 'my children, ' not reflecting, in that supreme and farewell hour, howlittle things, such as prejudice, difference of political or religiousopinions, conflicting interests, and the like, affect us while we arein this world, and how perilous it is to attempt to link like withunlike. I am quite certain that when relations do not, in commonphrase, 'get on well with one another, ' the best chance of theirremaining friends is for them to keep apart. This is gradually becomingrecognised by 'the common sense of most, ' as we see by the falling-offin those family gatherings at Christmas, which only too often partookof the character of that assembly which met under the roof of Mr, Pecksniff, with the disastrous result with which we are all acquainted. 

The more distant the tie of blood, the less reason, of course, there isto consider it; yet it is strange to see how even sensible men willwelcome the Good-for-nothing, who chance to be 'of kin' to them, to theexclusion of the Worthy, who lack that adventitious claim. The effectof this is an absolute immorality, since it offers a premium tounpleasant people, while it heavily handicaps those who desire to makethemselves agreeable. To give a particular example of this, though upona large scale, I might cite Scotland, where, making allowance for theabsence of that University system, which in England is so strong asocial tie, there are undoubtedly fewer friendships, in comparison, than there are with us; this I have no hesitation in attributing toclanship--the exaggeration of the family tie--which substitutesnearness for dearness, and places a tenth cousin above the mostcharming of companions, who labours under the disadvantage of being'nae kin. '

Again, what is more common than to hear it said, in apology for somemanifestly ill-conditioned and offensive person, that he is 'good tohis family'? The praise is probably only so far deserved that he doesnot beat his wife nor starve his children; but, supposing even hetreated them as he should do, and, moreover, entertained his ten-timesremoved cousins to dinner every Sunday, what is that to _me_ who do notenjoy his unenviable hospitality? Let his cousins speak well of him byall means; but let the rest of the world speak as they find. I protestagainst the theory that the social virtues should limit themselves tothe home circle, and still more, that they should extend to the distantbranches of it to the exclusion of the world at large. 

Of Howard, the philanthropist, it is said--and, I notice, said with acertain cynical pleasure--that, notwithstanding his universalbenevolence, he behaved with severity ta his own son. I have not thatintimate acquaintance with the circumstances which, to judge by theconfidence of their assertions, his traducers possess, but I should beslow to believe, in the case of such a father, that the son did notdeserve all he got, or was not forgiven even to the seventy timesseventh offence. There is, however, no little want of reason in theordinary acceptation of the term, 'loving forgiveness. ' He must be avery morose man who does not forgive a personal injury, especially whenthere has been an expression of repentance for it; but there areoffences which, quite independently of their personal sting, manifestin the offender a cruel or bad heart, and 'loving forgiveness' is inthat case no more to be expected than that we should take a serpent whohas already stung us to our bosom. 'It is his nature to, ' as the poetexpresses it, and if that serpent is my relative it is my misfortune, and by no means impresses me with a sense of obligation. Indeed, in thecase of an offensive relation, so far from his having any claim to myconsideration, it seems to me I have a very substantial grievance inthe fact of his existence, and that he owes me reparation for it. 

It is perhaps from a natural reaction, and is a sort of unconsciousprotest against the preposterous claims of kinship, that ourconnections by marriage are so freely criticised, and, to say truth, held in contempt. No one enjoins us to love our wife's relations, indeed, our own kindred are generally dead against them, and especiallyagainst her mother, to whom the poor woman very naturally clings. Thisis as unreasonable in the way of prejudice, as the other line ofconduct is in the way of favouritism. It is, in short, my humbleopinion that, if everyone stood upon his or her own merits, and wastreated accordingly, this world of ours would be the better for it; andof this I am quite sure--it would have fewer disagreeable people in it. I am neither so patriotic nor so thorough-going as the Americancitizen, who, during the late Civil War, came to President Lincoln, andnobly offered to sacrifice on the altar of freedom 'all his able-bodiedrelations;' but I think that most of us would be benefited if they wereweeded out a bit. 

_INVALID LITERATURE. _

It has always struck me as a breach of faith in Charles Lamb to havepublished the fact that dear, 'rigorous' Mrs. Battle's favourite suitwas Hearts: and is in my eyes, notwithstanding Mr. Carlyle's posthumousoutburst, the only blot on his character. His own confession, thoughtendered with a blush, that there is such a thing as sick whist standson totally different grounds; it is not a relaxation of principle, butan acknowledgment of a weakness common to human nature. One of the mostadvanced thinkers and men of science of our time has frankly admittedthat his theological views are considerably modified by the state ofhis health; and if one's ideas on futurity are thus affected, it is nowonder that things of this world wear a different appearance whenviewed from a sick bed. It is not difficult to imagine that whist, forexample, played on the counterpane by three good Samaritans, to whileaway the hours for an afflicted friend, differs from the game whenplayed on a club card-table. Common humanity prevents our saying whatwe think of the play of an invalid who may be enjoying his last rubber;and if the ace of trumps _is_ found under his pillow, we only smile andhope it will not occur again. 

On the other hand, literary taste would, one would think, be the lastthing to vary with our physical condition; yet those who have had longillnesses know better, and will, I am sure, bear me out in theassertion that there are such things as sick books. I do not, ofcourse, speak of devotional works. I am picturing the poor man when heis getting well after a long bout of illness; his mind clear, butinert; his limbs painless, but so languid that they hardly seem tobelong to him; and when he regards their attenuated proportions withthe same sort of feeble interest that is evoked by eggshell china--theyare not useful, still it would be a pity if they broke. 

Then it is that one feels a loathing of the strong meats of literature, and a liking for its milk diet. As to metaphysics, one has had enoughand to spare of _them_ when one was delirious; while the 'Fairy Talesof Science' do not strike one just then as being quite so fairylike asthe poet represents them. As to science, indeed, there is but one thingclear to us, namely, that the theory of evolution is a mistake; forthough one's getting better at all is undoubtedly a proof of thesurvival of the fittest, we are well convinced that we have retrogradedfrom what we were. It would puzzle Darwin himself to fix our positionexactly, but though we lack the tenacity, and especially the colour, ofthe sea-anemone, we seem to be there or thereabouts in the scale ofhumanity. When last prostrated by rheumatic fever, or its remedies, Iremember, indeed, to have been inclined to mathematics. When very ill Ihad suffered agonies in my dreams from the persecutions of animpossible quantity, and perhaps the association of ideas suggested, asI slowly gathered strength, a little problem in statics. It had beentaught me by my dear tutor at Cambridge, whom undergraduates have longceased to trouble, as a proof of the pathos that dwells in figures; andI kept repeating it to myself, with the letters all misplaced, till Ibecame exhausted by tears and emotion. 

As a general rule, however, even mathematics fail to interest theconvalescent. 'Man delights not him; no, nor woman neither;' butLiterature, if light in the hand, and always provided that he has hisback to the window, is a pleasure to him only next to that of his newfound appetite and his first chicken. His taste 'has suffered a sickchange, ' but that by no means implies it has deteriorated. On thecontrary, his critical faculty has fled (which is surely an immenseadvantage), while he has recovered much of that power of appreciationwhich rarely abides with us to maturity. He is not on the outlook formistakes, slips of style, anachronisms; he derives no pleasure from thediscovery of spots in the sun, but is content to bask in the rays ofit. He does not necessarily return to the favourites of his youth, though he has a tendency that way, but the shackles of convention haveslipped away from him with his flesh, and he reads what he likes, andnot what he has been told he ought to like. He has been so long removedfrom public opinion, that, like a shipwrecked crew in an open boat, ithas ceased to affect him; only, instead of taking to cannibalism, hetakes to what is nice. As his physical appetite is fastidious, so hismental palate has a relish only for titbits. If ever there was a timefor a reasonable being to 'dip' into books, or to enjoy 'half-hourswith the best authors, ' this is it; but weak as the patient is, hecommonly declines to have his tastes dictated to; perhaps there is anunpleasant association in his mind, arising from Brand and Liebig, withall 'extracts;' but, at all events, those literary compilations oppressand bewilder him; he objects to the extraordinary fertility of 'Ibid, 'an author whose identity he cannot quite call to mind, and prefers tochoose for himself. 

Biography is out of the question. Long before he has got through thataccount of the hero's great grandmother, from whom he inherited histalents, which is, it seems, indispensable to such works, he yawns, anddevoutly wishing, notwithstanding its fatal consequences to the fourthgeneration, that that old woman had never been born, falls into fitfulslumber. 

Travels are in the same condemnation; he has not the patience to watchthe traveller taking leave of his family at Pimlico, or to follow hiscab as he drives through the streets to the railway station, or toshare the discomforts of his cabin--all necessary, no doubt, to hiseventual arrival in Abyssinia, but hardly necessary to be described. Moreover, the convalescent has probably travelled a good deal on hisown account during the last few weeks, for the bed of fever carries onehither and thither with the velocity, though not the ease, of theenchanted carpet in the 'Arabian Nights. ' The desire of the sick man isto escape from himself and all recent experiences. 

He thinks he will try a little History. Alison? No, certainly notAlison. 'They will be proposing Lingard next, ' he murmurs, and thelittle irritation caused by the well-meant suggestion throws him backfor the next six hours. Presently he tries Macaulay, whom someflatterer has fulsomely called 'as good as a novel, ' but, though thetrial of Warren Hastings gives him a fillip, the rout of Sedgemoor doesaway with the effect of it, and, happening upon the character ofHalifax, he suffers a severe relapse. As a bedfellow, Macaulay is toodeclamatory, though, at the same time, strange to say, he does notalways succeed in keeping one awake. To the sick man Carlyle ispreferable; not his 'Frederick, ' of course, and still less his 'SartorResartus, ' which has become a nightmare, without head or tail, but his'French Revolution. ' One lies and watches the amazing spectacle withouteffort, as though it were represented on the stage. The sea of bloodrolls before our eyes, the roar of the mob sounds in our ears; we arecarried along with the unhappy Louis to the very frontier, and just onthe verge of escape are seized and brought back--King Coach--with himto Paris, in a cold perspiration. 

Some people, when in health and of a sane mind (Mr. Matthew Arnold one_knows_ of, and there may be others), take great delight in 'ParadiseRegained;' all we venture to say is that in sickness it does notsuggest its title. It is said that barley-water goes well witheverything; if so, the epic is the exception which proves the rule. Milton is tedious after rheumatic fever, Spencer is worse. 

 '"Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time, "'

murmurs the invalid, 'I can't stand them. ' He does not mean anythingdepreciatory, but merely that--

 'Like strains of martial music Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour, '

which he is not fit even to think of. He cannot read Keats's'Nightingale, ' but for quite another reason. What arouses 'thoughts toodeep for tears' in the hale and strong is to the sick as the sinkingfor an artesian well. 'The Chelsea Waterworks, ' as Mr. Samuel Wellerobserved of Mr. Job Trotter (at a time when the metropolitan watersupply would seem to have been more satisfactory than at present), 'arenothing to him. ' On the other hand, Shelley's 'Skylark, ' and the'Dramatic Fragments' of Browning, are as cordials to the invalid, whilethe poems of Walter Scott are like breezes from the mountains and thesea. In that admirable essay, 'Life in the Sick-room, ' the authoressjustly remarks, speaking of the advantage of objectivity in sick books, 'Nothing can be better in this view than Macaulay's "Lays, " which carryus at full speed out of ourselves. '

But it is not always that the invalid can read the poets at all; likeMrs. Wititterley, his nerves are too delicately strung for the touch ofthe muse. His chief enjoyment lies in fiction, to the producers ofwhich he can never feel too grateful. I remember, on one occasion whenI was very reduced indeed, taking up 'Northanger Abbey, ' and reading, with almost the same gusto as though I had been a novelist myself, MissAusten's defence of her profession. She says:

 'I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom, so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances to the number of which they are themselves adding, joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely even permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally takes up a novel, is sure to turn from its insipid pages with disgust. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers; and while the abilities of the nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninth abridger of the history of England are eulogised by a thousand pens, there seems a general agreement to slight the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. '

I had quite forgotten till I came upon this passage that Miss Austenhad such 'a kick in her, ' and I remember how I honoured her for it andsympathised with her sentiments. 'When pain and anguish wring thebrow, ' we all know who is the comforter; but next to her, and when thebrow is getting a little better, we welcome the novelist. 

With our face aslant on the pillow, we once more make acquaintance withthe characters that have been the delight of our youth, and find theydelight us still, but with a difference. The animal spirits of Smollettand Fielding are a little too much for us; there is not sympathy enoughin them for our own condition; they seem to have been fellows who werenever ill. Perhaps 'Humphrey Clinker, ' though it drags at the end, andthe political disquisitions are intolerable, is the funniest book thatever was written; but the faculty of appreciation for it is not now inus. We turn with relief to Scott, though not to 'Scott's Works, ' in thesense in which the phrase is generally used, as though they were afoundry from which everything is issued of the same workmanship andexcellence; whereas there is as much difference between them as therewas in her Majesty's ships of old between the gallant seventy-four andthe crazy troopship. The invalid, however, as I have said, is far fromcritical; he only knows what he likes. Judged by this fastidiousstandard, he finds 'Waverley' somewhat wearisome, and, as to the firstpart of it in particular, wonders, not that the Great Unknown shouldhave kept it in his desk for years as a comparative failure, but thathe should have ever taken it from that repository. 'The Antiquary, 'which in health he used to admire, or think he did, exceedingly, hasalso a narcotic effect; but 'Rob Roy' revives him, and 'Ivanhoe' stirshim like a trumpet-call. 

What is very curious, just as the favourite literature of a cripple isalmost always that which treats of force and action, so upon oursick-bed we turn most gladly to scenes of heroism and adventure. Thefamous ride in 'Geoffrey Hamlyn, ' where the fate of the heroine, threatened with worse than death from the bush-rangers, hangs upon thehorse's speed, seems to us, as we lie abed, one of the finest episodesin fiction. 'Tom Cringle's Log, ' too, becomes a great favourite, notmore from its buoyancy and freshness than from the melodramatic sceneswith which it is interspersed. 

In some moods of the sick man's mind, his morbid appetite tends, strange to say, to horrors. He 'snatches a fearful joy' from the weirdand supernatural. I have known those terrible tales of Le Fanu, entitled 'In a Glass Darkly, ' which for dramatic power and eeriness noother novelist has ever approached, devoured greedily by those whosephysical sustenance has been dry toast and arrowroot. 

The works of Thackeray are too cynical for the convalescent; he is forthe present in too good a humour with destiny and human nature to enjoythem. He prefers the more cheerful aspects of life, and resents theleast failure of poetic justice. 

Taking the tenants of the sick ward all round, indeed, I have littledoubt that the large majority would give their vote for Dickens. Hispathos, it is true, is too much for them. Their hearts are as waxen asthough Mrs. Jarley herself had made them. They are just in thecondition to be melted by 'Little Nell, ' and overcome by the death ofPaul Dombey. They read 'David Copperfield' with avidity, but arecareful to avoid the catastrophe of Dora and even the demise of herfour-footed favourite. The book that suits them best is 'MartinChuzzlewit. ' Its genial comedy, quite different from the violentdelights of 'Pickwick, ' is well adapted to their grasp; while itstragedy, the murder of Montague Tigg--the finest description of thebreaking of the sixth commandment in the language--leaves nothing to bedesired in the way of excitement. But here we stray beyond our bounds, for 'Martin Chuzzlewit' is not a 'sick book;' or rather, it is one ofthe very few productions of human genius on the merits of which theopinions of both Sick and Sound are at one. 

_WET HOLIDAYS. _

Even poets when they are on their travels feel the depressing influenceof bad weather. Those lines of the Laureate--

 'But when we crossed the Lombard plain, Remember what a plague of rain-- Of rain at Reggio, at Parma, At Lodi rain, Piacenza rain, '

are not among his best, but they evidently come from his very heart. When he used prose upon that journey his language was probablystronger. It is no wonder, then, that ordinary folks who have only alimited time in which to enjoy themselves, free from the fetters oftoil, resent wet days. They are worst of all when we are touring on theContinent, where it is a popular fallacy to suppose the skies arealways smiling, but at home they are bad enough. In Scotland, nobodybut a Scotchman believes in fine weather, and consequently there is nodisappointment; in England the Lake District is, perhaps, the mostunfortunate spot for folks to be caught in by rain, because if there isno landscape there is nothing. _Spectare veniunt_, and when there areonly the ribs and lining of their umbrellas to look at, their lot ishard indeed. 

Wastwater is a charming place in sunshine--almost the only locality inEngland where things are still primitive and pastoral; but in rain! Ihate exhibitions, but rather than Wastdale in wet weather, give me apanorama. Serious people may talk of 'the Devil's books, ' but even apack of cards, with somebody to play with you, is better under suchcircumstances than no book. 

There is no limit to what human beings may be driven to by stress ofweather, and especially by that 'clearing shower, ' by which thedwellers in Lakeland are wont euphemistically to describe itscontinuous downpours. The Persians have another name for it--'thegrandmother of all buckets. ' I was once in Wastdale with a dean of theChurch of England, respectable, sedate, and a D. D. It had poured fordays without ceasing; the roads were under water, the passes wereimpassable, the mountains invisible; there was nothing to be seen butwaterfalls, and those in the wrong place; there was no literature; thedean's guide-books were exhausted, and his Bible, it is but charitableand reasonable to suppose, he knew by heart. As for me, I had foundthree tourists who could play at whist, and was comparativelyindependent of the elements; but that poor ecclesiastic! For the firstfew days he occupied himself in remonstrating against our playing cardsby daylight; but on the fourth morning, when we sat down to themimmediately after breakfast, he began to take an enforced interest inour proceedings. Like a dove above the dovecot, he circled for an houror two about the table--a deal one, such as thimble-riggers use, borrowed, under protest, from his own humble bedroom--and then, with amurmurous coo about the weather showing no signs of clearing up, hetook a hand. Constant dropping--and it was much worse thandropping--will wear away a stone, and it is my belief if it had gone onmuch longer his reverence would have played on Sunday. 

The spectacle that the roads of the district present at such a time ismost melancholy. Everyone is in a closed car--a cross between a bathingmachine and that convenient vehicle which carries both corpse andmourners; all the windows seem made of bottle glass, a phenomenonproduced by the flattening of the noses of imprisoned tourists; andnothing shines except an occasional traveller in oilskin. In suchseasons, indeed, oilskin (lined with patience) is your only wear. Ordinary waterproofs in such a climate become mere blotting paper, andwith the best of them, without leggings and headgear to match, the poorLondoner might, I do not say just as well be in London (for that is hisaspiration all day long), but just as well go to bed at once, and stopthere. 'But why does he not go home?' it may be asked: a question towhich there are several answers. In the first place (for one must takethe average in such cases) because he is a fool. Secondly, like therest of the well-to-do world, he has suffered the summer, whereinwarmth and sunshine are really to be had, to slip by, and has only thefag end of it in which to take holiday. It is now or never--or at allevents now or next year--with him. All his friends, too, are out oftown, flattening _their_ noses against window panes; his club is underrepair, his house in brown holland, his servants on board wages. Likethe young gentleman in Locksley Hall, he is so absolutely at the end ofhis resources, that an 'angry fancy' is all that is left to him. Ofcourse, under its influence he sits down and writes to the _Times_;but, if the humblest of its correspondents may venture to say sowithout offence, even that does not help him much. That suicidesincrease in wet autumns is notorious; but that murders should in thesesequestered vales maintain the even tenor of their way is a feather inthe cap of human nature. In lodgings, where the pent-up tourist has noone but his wife and family to speak to, where Dick and Tom _will_ rompin his only sitting-room, and Eliza Jane practises all day on the crazypiano, this forbearance is especially creditable. 

Even in hotels, however, there is great temptation. On thenorth-eastern coast, in particular, when the weather has, as the phrasegoes, 'broken up, ' and the sky and sea have both become one durabledrab, the best of women grow irritable, the men morose. At the _tabled'hôte_, which even the most exclusive are driven to frequent forcompany, as sheep huddle together in storm, Dislike ripens to Hate withfrightful rapidity. Our neighbour, who always--for it seemsalways--gets the last of the mushrooms at breakfast, or finishes theoyster sauce at dinner before our very eyes, we are very far, indeed, from loving as ourselves. Our _vis-à-vis_, the man on his honeymoon, iseven still more offensive. We resent his happiness, which is apparentlyuninfluenced by the state of the weather, and our wife wonders what hecould have seen in that chit of a girl to attract his attention. Toourselves she seems a great deal too good for him, and in our rareintervals of human feeling we regard her with the tenderestcommiseration. The importance attached to meals, and the time we takeover them, have no parallel save among the Esquimaux. The leastincident that happens in the hotel is of more moment to us than theoverthrow of Empires. The whispered news that a fellow guest has beentaken seriously ill, and that a medical consultation has been held uponthe case, is a matter to be deplored, of course, but one which is notwithout its consolations. 'Who is it? What is it? Nothing catching I dohope?' (this last uttered with genuine anxiety) are questions that areheard on every side. The general impression is that some lovely younglady of fashion on the drawing-room floor has been seized with pains inher limbs--and no wonder--from exposure to the elements. Her mothercomes down every morning and selects dainties for the sick-room fromthe public breakfast table; those who are near enough to do so inquirein dulcet tones, 'How is your invalid this morning?' The reply is, 'Better, much better, ' which somehow falls short of expectation. Eventhe most giddy and frivolous of girls has no excuse for frighteningpeople for nothing. 

At luncheon one day a very fat, strong boy makes his appearance, and issupplied with soup. All his neighbours who have no soup are wild withenvy, though they are well acquainted with that soup at dinner, andknow that it is bad. 'What is the meaning of it? Why this favouritism?'we inquire of the waiter furiously. 'Well, you see, sir, he is betternow; but that is the invalid. ' The delicate, attractive creature wehave pictured to ourselves with pains in her limbs turns out, afterall, to be a hulking schoolboy, probably bilious from over-eating. Thepublic indignation is excessive, while the subject of it, quiteunconscious of the fact, has another plate of soup. 

The wild weather out of doors is not, of course, confined to the land, and the sea would be a fine sight if it was not invisible. The waves, indeed, are so high that the fishing-boats which have remained out allnight are often warned off, or, as it is locally termed, 'burned off, 'from the harbour bar. A tar barrel is lighted for this purpose on theheadland, and it is the only thing which the eternal rain cannotutterly squelch and extinguish. Occasionally we venture down upon thepier to see the boats make the harbour, which, not a little to ourdisappointment, they never fail to do. There are huge buttresses ofstone against the pier-head, behind which the new comer imagines he maycrouch in perfect safety, till the third wave comes in and convinceshim to the contrary. No one ever dreams of 'burning' _him_ off--givinghim one word of warning of that unpleasant contingency; for to behold afellow creature more drenched and dripping than ourselves is verysoothing. As to the dangers of maritime life, we are all agreed thatthey are greatly overrated; and some sceptics even go so far as tosuggest that the skeleton ship, half embedded in the sands, which soimpresses visitors in fine weather, is not a genuine wreck at all, buthas been placed there by the Town Corporation to delude the public. 

Now and then we splash down to the quay to see a few million ofherrings sold at four shillings a hundred, which will presently inducephilanthropic fishmongers in London to advertise 'a glut this morning, 'and to retail them at threepence apiece. At rare intervals we explorethe dripping town. It is amazing what a fascination the smallpicture-shops, to which at home we should never give a glance, affordus; even the frontispieces to popular music have unwonted attractions;while the pottery-shops, full of ware made from clay 'peculiar to thelocality, ' are only too seductive to our wives, who purchase largelywhat they believe to be great bargains, till they find on their returnhome the identical articles in Oxford Street, at half the price. InLondon we never visit the British Museum itself, unless to escort somecountry cousin, but at Barecliff-on-Sea, in wet weather, the miserablelittle local Institute, with its specimens of strata, its calf with twoheads in spirits, and its petrified toad, is an irresistibletemptation. The great event of the day, however, is the wading down tothe railway-station (which is in a quagmire) to meet the express trainwhich brings more victims, 'unconscious of their doom, ' to Barecliff, and who evidently flatter themselves that the pouring rain is anexceptional phenomenon; it also brings the London newspapers, for whichwe fight and struggle (the demand being greatly in excess of thesupply) and think ourselves fortunate if we secure a supplement. It istrue there is a _Times_ in the smoking-room of the hotel, but it isalways engaged five deep, is the cause of terrible quarrels, and everyafternoon we expect to see it imbrued in gore. 

In the evening, when one does not mind the wet so much--'its tooth isnot so keen because it is not seen'--there are dissipations at 'theRooms by the Sea. ' Amateur charitable concerts are given there, inwhich it is whispered that this and that lady at the _table d'hôte_will take part, who become public characters and objects of immenseinterest in consequence. Thither, too, come 'the inimitable Jones, 'from the Edgware Road Music Hall, with his 'unrivalled _répertoire_ ofcomic songs;' the Spring Board Family, who have been 'pronounced by thegeneral consensus of the medical faculty in London to be unique, ' ashaving neither joints nor backbone; and Herr von Deft, 'who will repeatthe same astounding performances which have electrified the reigningfamilies of Europe. ' The serious people (for whom 'the glee-singers ofMesopotamia' are also suspected of dropping a line) are angled for bywhite-cravatted lecturers, who enhance their statistics of conversionby the exhibition of poisoned arrows, and of clubs, on which, with themicroscope, may be detected the hairs of missionary martyrs. In fineweather, of course, these attractions would be advertised in vain; butthe fact is, our whole community has been reduced by the cruelty of theelements to a sort of second childhood; the rain which permeateseverything is softening our brain. 

This is only too evident from the conversation in the hotel porch wherethe men meet every morning to discuss the topic of the day--theweather. A sullen gloom pervades them--the first symptom of mentalaberration. Those, on the other hand, who express their opinion that it'really seems to be clearing a little' are in more advanced stages. Wewho are less afflicted shake our heads, and murmur painfully, but alsowith a considerable touch of contempt, 'Poor fellows!'

The piano in the ladies' drawing-room is always going, but it excitesno soothing influence; there is an impression in the hotel that theperformers are foreigners, and should be discouraged. But there is oneinstrument hanging in the hall on which everyone plays, native oralien, and every note is discord. It is the barometer. People talk ofthe delicacy of scientific instruments; if they are right, the shockswhich that barometer survives proves it to be an exception. Batter itas we may, and do, the faithful needle, with a determination worthy ofa better cause, maintains its position at 'Much Rain. ' The manager isappealed to vehemently, coarsely; he shrugs his shoulders, protestswith humility that he cannot help the weather, or affirms it isunprecedented--which we do not believe. Other managers--in theEngadine, for example--the papers say, are providing excellent weather;what does he mean by it?

At last one morning, wetter than ever, some noble spirit, the Tell ofour liberties, exclaims, 'Who would be free, himself must strike theblow. ' His actual words (if one was not writing history) are, 'Hang meif I stand this any longer, ' and they strike the keynote of everybody'sthought. He goes away by the next train, and his departure is followedby the same effects as the tapping of a reservoir. The hotel company--Imean the inmates; the company goes into bankruptcy--stream off at onceto their own homes. That journey through the pouring rain is thehappiest day of our wet holiday. How beautiful looms soaking, soppy, smoky London! In that excellent town who cares for rain?

 'Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes spout. '

Pooh! pooh! Call a cab--call two!

_TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. _

It was held by wise men of old that adversity was the test offriendship, but as his Excellency the Minister of the United States hasobserved, _per_ Mr. Biglow, 'They did not know everything down inJudee;' and among other subjects of which those ancient writers werenecessarily ignorant was that of Continental travel. The coming togrief of a friend is unquestionably very inconvenient; as a millionaireof my acquaintance observes (under the influence, as he confidentlybelieves, of benevolent emotion), 'One likes to see one's friendsprosperous;' but even when they are not so, it requires some effort tofollow the dictates of prudence and cast them off. And, after all, theman, even though you may cut him, remains the same; as fit for thepurposes of friendship as ever, except for his pecuniary condition. There is no such change in his relation to oneself as Emerson describesin one of his essays; his words I forget, and his works are miles away, but the man he has in his mind has in some way fallen short ofexpectation--declined, perhaps, to lend the philosopher money. 'Yesterday, ' he says, 'my friend was the illimitable ocean; to-day heis a pond. ' He had come to the end of him. And some friends, as mylittle child complains as he strokes his black kitten, 'end so soon. '

There are no circumstances, however, under which friendship comes sooften to a violent and sudden death as under the pressure of travel. Itis like the fate which the Scientific ascribe to a box sunk in the sea;after a certain depth, which varies according to the strength of thebox, the weight of the superincumbent water bursts it up. It is merelya question of how deep or how strong. Our travelling companion remainsour friend for a day, for a week, for even a month; but at the month'send he is our friend no longer. Our relations have probably become whatthe diplomatists term 'strained' long before that date, but a day comeswhen the tension becomes intolerable; the cable parts and we lose him. Unfortunately, not always, however; there are circumstances--such asbeing on board ship, for example--when we thus part without partingcompany. A long voyage is the most terrible trial to which friendshipcan be subjected. It is like the old sentence of pressing to death, 'asmuch as he can bear, and more. ' It is doubtful, for example, whetherfriendship has ever survived a voyage to Australia. I have sometimesasked a man whether he knew So-and-So, who hails, like himself, fromMelbourne, and he has replied, 'We came over in the same ship'--'Onlythat, and nothing more, ' as the poet puts it; but his tone has anunmistakable significance, and one perceives at once that the topic hadbetter not be pursued. 

A very dear friend of mine once proposed that we should go round theworld together; he offered to pay all my expenses, and painted theexpedition in rose-colour. But I had the good sense to decline theproposal. I felt I should lose my friend. Even yachting is a verydangerous pastime in this respect, especially when the vessel isbecalmed. In that case, like the sea itself, one's friend soon becomesa pond. Conceive, then, what it must be to go round the world with him!Is it possible, both being human, that we can still love one anotherwhen we have got to Japan, for instance? And then we have to come backtogether! How frightful must be that moment when he tells us the samestory he told at starting, and we feel that he has come to the end ofhis tether, and is going to tell _all_ his stories over again! This iswhy it so often happens that only one of two friends returns from anylong voyage they have undertaken together. What has become of theother? A question that one should never put to the survivor. It iscertain that great travellers, and especially those who travel by sea, have a very different code of morals from that which they conform to athome. Human life is not so sacred to them. Perhaps it is in thisrespect that travel is said to enlarge the mind. That it does notsharpen it, however, whatever it may do for the temper, is tolerablycertain. In their habits travellers are singularly conventional. Theyare compelled, of course, to suffer certain inconveniences, but theyendure others, and most serious ones, quite unnecessarily, merelybecause it is the custom so to do. In crossing the Atlantic, forexample, a man of means will submit to be shut up in a close cupboardfor ten days with an utter stranger, though by paying double fare hecan get a cabin to himself. This arises from no desire for economy, butsimply because he does not think for himself; other travellers do thelike, and he follows their example. Yet what money could recompense himfor occupying for the same time _on land_ a double-bedded room--not tosay a mere china closet--with a man of whom he knows nothing exceptthat he is subject to chronic sickness? A pleasant sort of travellingcompanion indeed, yet, strange to say, the commonest of all. Wherethere is a slender purse this terrible state of things (supposingtravel under such circumstances to be compatible with pleasure at all, which, for my part, I cannot imagine) is not a matter of choice; butwhere it can be avoided why is it undergone?

There is nothing that convinces me of the folly of mankind so much asthose advertisements we see in the summer months with respect totravelling companions, from volunteers of both sexes: 'Wanted, atravelling companion for a few months on the Continent, etc. Thehighest references will be required. ' The idea of going with a strangerupon a tour of pleasure must surely originate in Hanwell, and theadventurer may think himself fortunate if it does not end in Broadmoor. References, indeed! Who can answer for a fellow-creature's temper, patience, unselfishness, during such an ordeal as a protracted tour? Noone who has not travelled with him already; and one may be tolerablycertain his certificate does not come from _that_ quarter. It is truesome people are married to strangers by advertisement; but theircompanionship, as I am given to understand, does not generally last formonths, or anything like it. 

Imagine two people, as utterly unknown to one another, except by letter(and 'references'), as the _x_ and _y_ of an equation, meeting for thefirst time at the railway-station! With what tremors must each regardthe other! What a relief it must be to X. To find that Y. Is at least awhite man; on the other hand, it must rather dash his hopes, if theyare set on pedestrianism, to find that his _compagnon de voyage_ has awooden leg. Yet what are his mere colour and limbs compared with histemperament and disposition? If one did not know the frightful risksone's fellow-creatures incur every day for little pleasure and lessprofit, one would certainly say these people must be mad. 

But if instead of X. And Y. , it is even A. And B. , men who have knownone another for years, and in every relation but as fellow-travellers, there is risk enough in such a venture. One night, after dinner at theclub, they agree with effusion to take their autumn trip together; theyare warm with wine and with the remembrance of their collegefriendship--which extended perhaps, when they afterwards come to thinkabout it, a very little way. What days they will have in Switzerlandtogether! What mornings (to see the sunrise) upon mountain-tops! Whatevenings on Lucerne! What nights in Paris! A. Thinks himself fortunateindeed in having secured B. 's society for the next three months--a manwith such a reputation for conversation; even T. , the cynic of theclub, has testified to his charm of manner. By-the-bye, what wasit--exactly--T. Had said of B. ? A. Cannot remember it at the moment, but recalls it on the night before they start together. 'B. Is acharming fellow, only he has this peculiarity--that if there is onlyone armchair in a room, B. Is sure to get it. '

B. , on the other hand, congratulates himself on A. 's excessive goodsense, which even T. Had knowledged. What was it--exactly--T. Had saidof A. ? He cannot remember it at the moment, but recalls it on the nightbefore they start together. 'A. Is such a thoroughly practical fellow;he has committed many follies, and not a few crimes, but he can lay hishand on the place where his heart should be, and honestly aver that hehas never given sixpence to anybody. ' Full of misgivings, and withdemonstrations of satisfaction that are in themselves suspicious, theymeet at the terminus. A. Has a little black bag, which contains hisall; it frees him from all trouble about luggage, and (especially) fromthe necessity of paying a porter. He is resolved not to lose a moment, nor spend a sixpence, in a Custom-house. To his horror, he perceivesthat B. , whose one idea is comfort, has a portmanteau speciallydesigned for him (apparently upon the model of Noah's Ark), and whichcan scarcely be got into the luggage-van. This article delays themtwenty-four hours at every frontier, because the ordinary authoritiesdecline to open it upon the ground that it contains an infernalmachine, and have to telegraph to their Government for instructions. 

Again, B. Is no doubt a charming conversationalist--in English; but hedoes not know one single word of any other language. He requires everyobservation of their alien fellow-travellers to be translated, and thensays 'Oh!' discontentedly, or 'It seems to me that foreigners have noideas. ' And not for one moment can A. Get rid of him. If there _is_ afriend that sticketh closer than a brother, it is the TravellingCompanion who is dependent upon you for interpretation. It is needlessto say that under these circumstances the glass of Friendship fallsfrom 'Set Fair' to 'Stormy' with much rapidity. After A's fourthquarrel with a waiter about half a franc, B. Calls him a 'mean hound, 'and takes the opportunity of returning to his native land with a Frenchcount, who speaks perfect English, and robs him of his watch and chainand the contents of his pocket-book on board the steamer. A. And B. Meet one another daily at the club for years afterwards, but withoutrecognition. 

Their case, of course, is an extreme one; but that of C. And D. Isalmost as bad. They are men of prudence, and persuade E. To go withthem, as a makeweight. 'If we should ever disagree, ' they say, 'as towhat is to be done--which, however, is to the last degree improbable--themajority of votes shall carry it'--an arrangement which only delays theinevitable event--

 'Three little nigger boys went the world to view, The third was left in Calais, and then there were two. '

They find the makeweight intolerable before they have crossed theChannel, and, having agreed to cut their cable from him, are from thatmoment never in the same mind about anything else. It is a modernversion of the three brigands who stole the Communion plate. C. And D. Push E. Over the precipice, and C. Stabs D. At a supper for which D. Has purveyed poisoned wine. 

The only way to secure a really eligible travelling companion is to tryhim first in short swallow-flights, or rather pigeon-flights, fromhome. Take your bird with you for a few days' outing near home; then, if he proves pleasant, for a week's tour in Cornwall; then for ten daysin Scotland, where, if you meet with the usual weather, and he stillkeeps his temper and politeness, you may trust yourself to himanywhere. Out of twenty failures there will, perhaps, be one success. In this manner I have discovered in time, in my dearest and nearestfriends, the most undreamt of vices. One man, F. , hitherto muchrespected as a Chancery barrister, has, as it has turned out, beenintended by nature for a professional pedestrian. His true calling isto walk 'laps' round the Agricultural Hall or at Lillie Bridge, withnothing on to speak of save a handkerchief round his forehead. 'Let uswalk' is his one cry as soon as he becomes a travelling companion. Andhe is not content to do this when he arrives at any place of interest, but insists upon walking _there_--perhaps along a dusty road, or overturnip-fields. I like walking myself in moderation--say a mile out anda mile in; but not, certainly not, twenty miles at a stretch, and at aspeed which precludes conversation. This class of travelling companionis very dangerous. If he does not get his walking he becomes malignant. My barrister, at least, being denied the opportunity of drawing outmarriage-settlements, conveying land, or otherwise plundering thecommunity, took to practical jokes. Having a suspicion of hispedestrian powers, from the extreme length of his legs, I took G. Withus, a man whom I could trust in that respect, and who fancied he hadheart complaint. G. And I took our exercise alone together in a fly. One day we took a long drive--four miles or more--to a well-known bay. The vehicle could not get down to the sea, so we descended on foot, leaving it at the top of the cliff, with the strictest orders to theman not to stir till we came back. When we returned the fly was gone. How we reached our hotel, Heaven knows! but we did arrive there, in thelast stage of exhaustion. The driver of the carriage, whom we met nextday, informed us that a gentleman had been thrown from his horse on thecliff-top and had broken his leg, and that, under the circumstances, hehad ventured to disobey our instructions and take the poor fellow home. Years afterwards I discovered that nothing of the kind had happened, but that the fiendish F. Had given the driver a sovereign to play thattrick upon us. F. Is a judge now, and has been lately trying electioncases. I wonder what he thinks of himself when he rebukes offenders forthe heinous crime of bribery!

Again, I always thought H. A pleasant fellow till we went together toCornwall. He had gone through the first ordeal of a few days nearerhome to my satisfaction, but at Penzance he broke out. He was sodreadfully particular about his food that nothing satisfied him--noteven pilchards three times a day; and the way he went on at the waitersis not to be described by a decent pen. The attendant at Penzance wasnot, I am bound to say, a good waiter. He said, though he habituallyput his thumb in every dish, he 'hadn't quite got his hand in, ' and wasnot used to the business. ' 'Used! you know nothing about it!' exclaimedH. , viciously. Then the poor fellow burst into tears. 'Pray be patientwith me, good gentlemen, ' he murmured. 'I do my best; but until lastWednesday as ever was I was a pork-butcher. ' One cannot stand atravelling companion who makes the waiters cry. 

The worst kind of fellow-traveller is one who, to use his ownscientific phrase for his complaint, suffers from 'disorganisation ofthe nervous centres. ' At home his little weaknesses do not strike you. You may not be on the spot when he flies across Piccadilly Circus, pursued, as he fancies, by a Brompton omnibus which has not yet reachedSt. James's Church, and is moving at a snail's pace; you may not havebeen with him on that occasion when, in his eagerness to be in time forthe 'Flying Dutchman, ' he arrives at Paddington an hour before itstarts, and is put into the parliamentary train which is shunted atSlough to let the 'Dutchman' pass; but when you come to travel with himyou know what 'nerves' are to your cost. On the other hand, this is theeasiest kind of travelling companion to get rid of; for you have onlyto feign a sore throat, with feverish symptoms, and off he flies on thewings of terror, leaving you, as he thinks--if he _has_ a thoughtexcept for his nervous centres--to the tender mercies of a foreigndoctor, to hireling nurses, and to a grave in the strangers' cemetery. 

THE END.