Transcribers Note: Title and Table of contents Added. 

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THE IDLER MAGAZINE. 

AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY. 

MAY 1893

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CONTENTS

THE IDLER. AN INGENUE OF THE SIERRAS. BY BRETT HART. 

THE MODERN BABYLON. BY CYNICUS. 

MY FIRST BOOKS. "UNDERTONES" AND "IDYLLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. "

BALDER'S BALL. BY P. VON SCHÖNTHAN. 

LIONS IN THEIR DENS. V. --THE LORD LIEUTENANT AT DUBLIN CASTLE. BY RAYMOND BLATHWAYT. 

THE FEAR OF IT. BY ROBERT BARR. 

MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NILIHILIST. BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF. 

MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NILIHILIST. BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF. 

PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET. BY SCOTT RANKIN. 

MY SERVANT JOHN. BY ARCHIBALD FORBES. 

THE IDLER'S CLUB. THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT. 

 * * * * *[Illustration: "THE SIMPLE QUESTION I'VE GOT TO ASK YE IS _this_--DIDYOU SIGNAL TO ANYBODY FROM THE COACH WHEN WE PASSED GALLOPER'S?"]

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THE IDLER. 

_AN INGENUE OF THE SIERRAS. _

BY BRET HARTE. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. S. BOYD. 

I. 

We all held our breath as the coach rushed through the semi-darkness ofGalloper's Ridge. The vehicle itself was only a huge lumbering shadow;its side-lights were carefully extinguished, and Yuba Bill had justpolitely removed from the lips of an outside passenger even the cigarwith which he had been ostentatiously exhibiting his coolness. For ithad been rumoured that the Ramon Martinez gang of "road agents" were"laying" for us on the second grade, and would time the passage of ourlights across Galloper's in order to intercept us in the "brush" beyond. If we could cross the ridge without being seen, and so get through thebrush before they reached it, we were safe. If they followed, it wouldonly be a stern chase with the odds in our favour. 

The huge vehicle swayed from side to side, rolled, dipped, and plunged, but Bill kept the track, as if, in the whispered words of theExpressman, he could "feel and smell" the road he could no longer see. We knew that at times we hung perilously over the edge of slopes thateventually dropped a thousand feet sheer to the tops of the sugar-pinesbelow, but we knew that Bill knew it also. The half visible heads of thehorses, drawn wedge-wise together by the tightened reins, appeared tocleave the darkness like a ploughshare, held between his rigid hands. Even the hoof-beats of the six horses had fallen into a vague, monotonous, distant roll. Then the ridge was crossed, and we plungedinto the still blacker obscurity of the brush. Rather we no longerseemed to move--it was only the phantom night that rushed by us. Thehorses might have been submerged in some swift Lethean stream; nothingbut the top of the coach and the rigid bulk of Yuba Bill arose abovethem. Yet even in that awful moment our speed was unslackened; it was asif Bill cared no longer to _guide_ but only to drive, or as if thedirection of his huge machine was determined by other hands than his. Anincautious whisperer hazarded the paralysing suggestion of our "meetinganother team. " To our great astonishment Bill overheard it; to ourgreater astonishment he replied. "It 'ud be only a neck and neck racewhich would get to h--ll first, " he said quietly. But we wererelieved--for he had _spoken!_ Almost simultaneously the wider turnpikebegan to glimmer faintly as a visible track before us; the wayside treesfell out of line, opened up and dropped off one after another; we wereon the broader tableland, out of danger, and apparently unperceived andunpursued. 

[Illustration: "STRUCK A MATCH AND HELD IT FOR HER. "]

Nevertheless in the conversation that broke out again with therelighting of the lamps and the comments, congratulations andreminiscences that were freely exchanged, Yuba Bill preserved adissatisfied and even resentful silence. The most generous praise of hisskill and courage awoke no response. "I reckon the old man waz justspilin' for a fight, and is feelin' disappointed, " said a passenger. Butthose who knew that Bill had the true fighter's scorn for any purelypurposeless conflict were more or less concerned and watchful of him. Hewould drive steadily for four or five minutes with thoughtfully knittedbrows, but eyes still keenly observant under his slouched hat, and then, relaxing his strained attitude, would give way to a movement ofimpatience. "You aint uneasy about anything, Bill, are you?" asked theExpressman confidentially. Bill lifted his eyes with a slightlycontemptuous surprise. "Not about anything ter _come_. It's what _hez_happened that I don't exackly sabe. I don't see no signs of Ramon's gangever havin' been out at all, and ef they were out I don't see why theydidn't go for us. "

"The simple fact is that our _ruse_ was successful, " said an outsidepassenger. "They waited to see our lights on the ridge, and, not seeingthem, missed us until we had passed. That's my opinion. "

"You aint puttin' any price on that opinion, air ye?" enquired Bill, politely. 

"No. "

"'Cos thar's a comic paper in 'Frisco pays for them things, and I'veseen worse things in it. "

"Come off! Bill, " retorted the passenger, slightly nettled by thetittering of his companions. "Then what did you put out the lights for?"

"Well, " returned Bill, grimly, "it mout have been because I didn't keerto hev you chaps blazin' away at the first bush you _thought_ you sawmove in your skeer, and bringin' down their fire on us. "

The explanation, though unsatisfactory, was by no means an improbableone, and we thought it better to accept it with a laugh. Bill, however, resumed his abstracted manner. 

"Who got in at the Summit?" he at last asked abruptly of the Expressman. 

"Derrick and Simpson of Cold Spring, and one of the 'Excelsior' boys, "responded the Expressman. 

"And that Pike County girl from Dow's Flat, with her bundles. Don'tforget her, " added the outside passenger, ironically. 

"Does anybody here know her?" continued Bill, ignoring the irony. 

"You'd better ask Judge Thompson; he was mighty attentive to her;gettin' her a seat by the off window, and lookin' after her bundles andthings. "

"Gettin' her a seat by the _window_?" repeated Bill. 

"Yes, she wanted to see everything, and wasn't afraid of the shooting. "

"Yes, " broke in a third passenger, "and he was so d----d civil that whenshe dropped her ring in the straw, he struck a match agin all yourrules, you know, and held it for her to find it. And it was just as wewere crossin' through the brush, too. I saw the hull thing through thewindow, for I was hanging over the wheels with my gun ready for action. And it wasn't no fault of Judge Thompson's if his d----d foolishnesshadn't shown us up, and got us a shot from the gang. "

Bill gave a short grunt--but drove steadily on without further commentor even turning his eyes to the speaker. 

We were now not more than a mile from the station at the cross roadswhere we were to change horses. The lights already glimmered in thedistance, and there was a faint suggestion of the coming dawn on thesummits of the ridge to the West. We had plunged into a belt of timber, when suddenly a horseman emerged at a sharp canter from a trail thatseemed to be parallel with our own. We were all slightly startled; YubaBill alone preserving his moody calm. 

"Hullo!" he said. 

The stranger wheeled to our side as Bill slackened his speed. He seemedto be a "packer" or freight muleteer. 

"Ye didn't get 'held up' on the Divide?" continued Bill, cheerfully. 

"No, " returned the packer, with a laugh; "_I_ don't carry treasure. ButI see you're all right, too. I saw you crossin' over Galloper's. "

"_Saw_ us?" said Bill, sharply. "We had our lights out. "

"Yes, but there was suthin' white--a handkerchief or woman's veil, Ireckon--hangin' from the window. It was only a movin' spot agin thehillside, but ez I was lookin' out for ye I knew it was you by that. Good night!"

He cantered away. We tried to look at each other's faces, and at Bill'sexpression in the darkness, but he neither spoke nor stirred until hethrew down the reins when we stopped before the station. The passengersquickly descended from the roof; the Expressman was about to follow, butBill plucked his sleeve. 

"I'm goin' to take a look over this yer stage and these yer passengerswith ye, afore we start. "

"Why, what's up?"

"Well, " said Bill, slowly disengaging himself from one of his enormousgloves, "when we waltzed down into the brush up there I saw a man, ezplain ez I see you, rise up from it. I thought our time had come and theband was goin' to play, when he sorter drew back, made a sign, and wejust scooted past him. "

"Well?"

"Well, " said Bill, "it means that this yer coach was _passed throughfree_ to-night. "

"You don't object to _that_--surely? I think we were deucedly lucky. "

Bill slowly drew off his other glove. "I've been riskin' my everlastin'life on this d----d line three times a week, " he said with mockhumility, "and I'm allus thankful for small mercies. _But_, " he addedgrimly, "when it comes down to being passed free by some pal of a hossthief and thet called a speshal Providence, _I aint in it_! No, sir, Iaint in it!"

II. 

It was with mixed emotions that the passengers heard that a delay offifteen minutes to tighten certain screw-bolts had been ordered by theautocratic Bill. Some were anxious to get their breakfast at Sugar Pine, but others were not averse to linger for the daylight that promisedgreater safety on the road. The Expressman, knowing the real cause ofBill's delay, was nevertheless at a loss to understand the object of it. The passengers were all well known; any idea of complicity with the roadagents was wild and impossible, and, even if there was a confederate ofthe gang among them, he would have been more likely to precipitate arobbery than to check it. Again, the discovery of such a confederate--towhom they clearly owed their safety--and his arrest would have beenquite against the Californian sense of justice, if not actually illegal. It seemed evident that Bill's Quixotic sense of honour was leading himastray. 

[Illustration: "'THERE WAS SUTHIN' WHITE HANGIN' FROM THE WINDOW. '"]

The station consisted of a stable, a waggon shed, and a buildingcontaining three rooms. The first was fitted up with "bunks" or sleepingberths for the _employés_, the second was the kitchen, and the third andlarger apartment was dining-room or sitting-room, and was used asgeneral waiting-room for the passengers. It was not a refreshmentstation, and there was no "bar. " But a mysterious command from theomnipotent Bill produced a demi-john of whiskey, with which hehospitably treated the company. The seductive influence of the liquorloosened the tongue of the gallant Judge Thompson. He admitted to havingstruck a match to enable the fair Pike Countian to find her ring, which, however, proved to have fallen in her lap. She was "a fine, healthyyoung woman--a type of the Far West, sir; in fact, quite a prairieblossom! yet simple and guileless as a child. " She was on her way toMarysville, he believed, "although she expected to meet friends--afriend--in fact, later on. " It was her first visit to a large town--infact, any civilised centre--since she crossed the plains three yearsago. Her girlish curiosity was quite touching, and her innocenceirresistible. In fact, in a country whose tendency was to produce"frivolity and forwardness in young girls, he found her a mostinteresting young person. " She was even then out in the stable-yardwatching the horses being harnessed, "preferring to indulge a pardonablehealthy young curiosity than to listen to the empty compliments of theyounger passengers. "

[Illustration: "SHE WAS WATCHING THE REPLACING OF LUGGAGE IN THE BOOT. "]

The figure which Bill saw thus engaged, without being otherwisedistinguished, certainly seemed to justify the Judge's opinion. Sheappeared to be a well-matured country girl, whose frank grey eyes andlarge laughing mouth expressed a wholesome and abiding gratification inher life and surroundings. She was watching the replacing of luggage inthe boot. A little feminine start, as one of her own parcels was thrownsomewhat roughly on the roof, gave Bill his opportunity. "Now there, " hegrowled to the helper, "ye aint carting stone! Look out, will yer! Someof your things, miss?" he added, with gruff courtesy, turning to her. "These yer trunks, for instance?"

She smiled a pleasant assent, and Bill, pushing aside the helper, seized a large square trunk in his arms. But from excess of zeal, orsome other mischance, his foot slipped, and he came down heavily, striking the corner of the trunk on the ground and loosening its hingesand fastenings. It was a cheap, common-looking affair, but the accidentdiscovered in its yawning lid a quantity of white, lace-edged feminineapparel of an apparently superior quality. The young lady utteredanother cry and came quickly forward, but Bill was profuse in hisapologies, himself girded the broken box with a strap, and declared hisintention of having the company "make it good" to her with a new one. Then he casually accompanied her to the door of the waiting-room, entered, made a place for her before the fire by simply lifting thenearest and most youthful passenger by the coat-collar from the stoolthat he was occupying, and, having installed the lady in it, displacedanother man who was standing before the chimney, and, drawing himself upto his full six feet of height in front of her, glanced down upon hisfair passenger as he took his waybill from his pocket. 

"Your name is down here as Miss Mullins?" he said. 

She looked up, became suddenly aware that she and her questioner werethe centre of interest to the whole circle of passengers, and, with aslight rise of colour, returned "Yes. "

"Well, Miss Mullins, I've got a question or two to ask ye. I ask itstraight out afore this crowd. It's in my rights to take ye aside andask it--but that aint my style; I'm no detective. I needn't ask it atall, but act as ef I knowed the answer, or I might leave it to be askedby others. Ye needn't answer it ef ye don't like; ye've got a friendover ther--Judge Thompson--who is a friend to ye, right or wrong, jestas any other man here is--as though ye'd packed your own jury. Well, thesimple question I've got to ask ye is _this_--Did you signal to anybodyfrom the coach when we passed Galloper's an hour ago?"

We all thought that Bill's courage and audacity had reached its climaxhere. To openly and publicly accuse a "lady" before a group ofchivalrous Californians, and that lady possessing the furtherattractions of youth, good looks and innocence, was little short ofdesperation. There was an evident movement of adhesion towards the fairstranger, a slight muttering broke out on the right, but the veryboldness of the act held them in stupefied surprise. Judge Thompson, with a bland propitiatory smile, began: "Really, Bill, I must protest onbehalf of this young lady--" when the fair accused, raising her eyes toher accuser, to the consternation of everybody answered with the slightbut convincing hesitation of conscientious truthfulness:

"_I did. _"

"Ahem!" interposed the Judge, hastily, "er--that is--er--you allowedyour handkerchief to flutter from the window. I noticed it myself, casually--one might say even playfully--but without any particularsignificance. "

The girl, regarding her apologist with a singular mingling of pride andimpatience, returned briefly:

"I signalled. "

"Who did you signal to?" asked Bill, gravely. 

"The young gentleman I'm going to marry. "

A start, followed by a slight titter from the younger passengers, wasinstantly suppressed by a savage glance from Bill. 

"What did you signal to him for?" he continued. 

"To tell him I was here, and that it was all right, " returned the younggirl, with a steadily rising pride and colour. 

"Wot was all right?" demanded Bill. 

"That I wasn't followed, and that he could meet me on the road beyondCass's Ridge Station. " She hesitated a moment, and then, with a stillgreater pride, in which a youthful defiance was still mingled, said:"I've run away from home to marry him. And I mean to! No one can stopme. Dad didn't like him just because he was poor, and dad's got money. Dad wanted me to marry a man I hate, and got a lot of dresses and thingsto bribe me. "

"And you're taking them in your trunk to the other feller?" said Bill, grimly. 

"Yes, he's poor, " returned the girl, defiantly. 

"Then your father's name is Mullins?" asked Bill. 

"It's not Mullins. I--I--took that name, " she hesitated, with her firstexhibition of self-consciousness. 

"Wot _is_ his name?"

"Eli Hemmings. "

A smile of relief and significance went round the circle. The fame ofEli or "Skinner" Hemmings, as a notorious miser and usurer, had passedeven beyond Galloper's Ridge. 

"The step that you're taking, Miss Mullins, I need not tell you, is oneof great gravity, " said Judge Thompson, with a certain paternalseriousness of manner, in which, however, we were glad to detect aglaring affectation, "and I trust that you and your affianced have fullyweighed it. Far be it from me to interfere with or question the naturalaffections of two young people, but may I ask you what you know ofthe--er--young gentleman for whom you are sacrificing so much, and, perhaps, imperilling your whole future? For instance, have you known himlong?"

The slightly troubled air of trying to understand--not unlike the vaguewonderment of childhood--with which Miss Mullins had received thebeginning of this exordium, changed to a relieved smile of comprehensionas she said quickly, "Oh, yes, nearly a whole year. "

"And, " said the Judge, smiling, "has he a vocation--is he in business?"

"Oh, yes, " she returned, "he's a collector. "

"A collector?"

"Yes; he collects bills, you know, money, " she went on, with childisheagerness, "not for himself--_he_ never has any money, poor Charley--butfor his firm. It's dreadful hard work, too, keeps him out for days andnights, over bad roads and baddest weather. Sometimes, when he's stoleover to the ranch just to see me, he's been so bad he could scarcelykeep his seat in the saddle, much less stand. And he's got to takemighty big risks, too. Times the folks are cross with him and won't pay;once they shot him in the arm, and he came to me, and I helped do it upfor him. But he don't mind. He's real brave, jest as brave as he'sgood. " There was such a wholesome ring of truth in this pretty praisethat we were touched in sympathy with the speaker. 

"What firm does he collect for?" asked the Judge, gently. 

"I don't know exactly--he won't tell me--but I think it's a Spanishfirm. You see"--she took us all into her confidence with a sweepingsmile of innocent yet half-mischievous artfulness--"I only know becauseI peeped over a letter he once got from his firm, telling him he musthustle up and be ready for the road the next day--but I think the namewas Martinez--yes, Ramon Martinez. "

In the dead silence that ensued--a silence so profound that we couldhear the horses in the distant stable-yard rattling their harness--oneof the younger "Excelsior" boys burst into a hysteric laugh, but thefierce eye of Yuba Bill was down upon him, and seemed to instantlystiffen him into a silent, grinning mask. The young girl, however, tookno note of it; following out, with lover-like diffusiveness, thereminiscences thus awakened, she went on:

[Illustration: "AND--THEN CAME THE RAIN!"]

"Yes, it's mighty hard work, but he says it's all for me, and as soon aswe're married he'll quit it. He might have quit it before, but he won'ttake no money of me, nor what I told him I could get out of dad! Thataint his style. He's mighty proud--if he is poor--is Charley. Why thar'sall ma's money which she left me in the Savin's Bank that I wanted todraw out--for I had the right--and give it to him, but he wouldn't hearof it! Why, he wouldn't take one of the things I've got with me, if heknew it. And so he goes on ridin' and ridin', here and there andeverywhere, and gettin' more and more played out and sad, and thin andpale as a spirit, and always so uneasy about his business, and startin'up at times when we're meetin' out in the South Woods or in the farclearin', and sayin': 'I must be goin' now, Polly, ' and yet alwaystryin' to be chiffle and chipper afore me. Why he must have rid milesand miles to have watched for me thar in the brush at the foot ofGalloper's to-night, jest to see if all was safe, and Lordy! I'd havegiven him the signal and showed a light if I'd died for it the nextminit. There! That's what I know of Charley--that's what I'm runningaway from home for--that's what I'm running to him for, and Idon't care who knows it! And I only wish I'd done it afore--and Iwould--if--if--if--he'd only _asked me!_ There now!" She stopped, panted, and choked. Then one of the sudden transitions of youthfulemotion overtook the eager, laughing face; it clouded up with the swiftchange of childhood, a lightning quiver of expression broke overit--and--then came the rain!

I think this simple act completed our utter demoralisation! We smiledfeebly at each other with that assumption of masculine superiority whichis miserably conscious of its own helplessness at such moments. Welooked out of the window, blew our noses, said: "Eh--what?" and "I say, "vaguely to each other, and were greatly relieved and yet apparentlyastonished when Yuba Bill, who had turned his back upon the fairspeaker, and was kicking the logs in the fireplace, suddenly swept downupon us and bundled us all into the road, leaving Miss Mullins alone. Then he walked aside with Judge Thompson for a few moments; returned tous, autocratically demanded of the party a complete reticence towardsMiss Mullins on the subject matter under discussion, re-entered thestation, re-appeared with the young lady, suppressed a faint idioticcheer which broke from us at the spectacle of her innocent face oncemore cleared and rosy, climbed the box, and in another moment we wereunder way. 

"Then she don't know what her lover is yet?" asked the Expressman, eagerly. 

"No. "

"Are _you_ certain it's one of the gang?"

"Can't say _for sure_. It mout be a young chap from Yolo who bucked aginthe tiger [1] at Sacramento, got regularly cleaned out and busted, andjoined the gang for a flier. They say thar was a new hand in that jobover at Keeley's--and a mighty game one, too--and ez there was somebuckshot onloaded that trip, he might hev got his share, and that wouldtally with what the girl said about his arm. See! Ef that's the man, I've heered he was the son of some big preacher in the States, and acollege sharp to boot, who ran wild in 'Frisco, and played himself forall he was worth. They're the wust kind to kick when they once get afoot over the traces. For stiddy, comf'ble kempany, " added Billreflectively, "give _me_ the son of a man that was _hanged!_"

"But what are you going to do about this?"

"That depends upon the feller who comes to meet her. "

"But you aint going to try to take him? That would be playing it prettylow down on them both. "

"Keep your hair on, Jimmy! The Judge and me are only going to rastlewith the sperrit of that gay young galoot, when he drops down for hisgirl--and exhort him pow'ful! Ef he allows he's convicted of sin andwill find the Lord, we'll marry him and the gal offhand at the nextstation, and the Judge will officiate himself for nothin'. We're goin'to have this yer elopement done on the square--and our waybillclean--you bet!"

"But you don't suppose he'll trust himself in your hands?"

"Polly will signal to him that it's all square. "

"Ah!" said the Expressman. Nevertheless in those few moments the menseemed to have exchanged dispositions. The Expressman looked doubtfully, critically, and even cynically before him. Bill's face had relaxed, andsomething like a bland smile beamed across it, as he drove confidentlyand unhesitatingly forward. 

Day, meantime, although full blown and radiant on the mountain summitsaround us, was yet nebulous and uncertain in the valleys into which wewere plunging. Lights still glimmered in the cabins and few ranchbuildings which began to indicate the thicker settlements. And theshadows were heaviest in a little copse, where a note from JudgeThompson in the coach was handed up to Yuba Bill, who at once slowlybegan to draw up his horses. The coach stopped finally near the junctionof a small cross road. At the same moment Miss Mullins slipped down fromthe vehicle, and, with a parting wave of her hand to the Judge who hadassisted her from the steps, tripped down the cross road, anddisappeared in its semi-obscurity. To our surprise the stage waited, Bill holding the reins listlessly in his hands. Five minutes passed--aneternity of expectation, and--as there was that in Yuba Bill's facewhich forbade idle questioning--an aching void of silence also! This wasat last broken by a strange voice from the road:

"Go on--we'll follow. "

[Illustration: "A PARTING WAVE OF HER HAND. "]

The coach started forward. Presently we heard the sound of other wheelsbehind us. We all craned our necks backward to get a view of theunknown, but by the growing light we could only see that we werefollowed at a distance by a buggy with two figures in it. EvidentlyPolly Mullins and her lover! We hoped that they would pass us. But thevehicle, although drawn by a fast horse, preserved its distance always, and it was plain that its driver had no desire to satisfy our curiosity. The Expressman had recourse to Bill. 

"Is it the man you thought of?" he asked, eagerly. 

"I reckon, " said Bill, briefly. 

"But, " continued the Expressman, returning to his former scepticism, "what's to keep them both from levanting together now?"

Bill jerked his hand towards the boot with a grim smile. 

"Their baggage. "

"Oh!" said the Expressman. 

"Yes, " continued Bill. "We'll hang on to that gal's little frills andfixin's until this yer job's settled, and the ceremony's over, jest asef we waz her own father. And, what's more, young man, " he added, suddenly turning to the Expressman, "_you'll_ express them trunks ofhers _through to Sacramento_ with your kempany's labels, and hand herthe receipts and cheques for them, so she _can get 'em there_. That'llkeep _him_ outer temptation and the reach o' the gang, until they getaway among white men and civilisation again. When your hoary-headed olegrandfather--or, to speak plainer, that partikler old whiskey-soakerknown as Yuba Bill, wot sits on this box, " he continued, with adiabolical wink at the Expressman--"waltzes in to pervide for a youngcouple jest startin' in life, thar's nothin' mean about his style, youbet. He fills the bill every time! Speshul Providences take a back seatwhen he's around. "

When the station hotel and straggling settlement of Sugar Pine, nowdistinct and clear in the growing light, at last rose within rifleshoton the plateau, the buggy suddenly darted swiftly by us--so swiftly thatthe faces of the two occupants were barely distinguishable as theypassed--and, keeping the lead by a dozen lengths, reached the door ofthe hotel. The young girl and her companion leaped down and vanishedwithin as we drew up. They had evidently determined to elude ourcuriosity, and were successful. 

But the material appetites of the passengers, sharpened by the keenmountain air, were more potent than their curiosity, and, as thebreakfast-bell rang out at the moment the stage stopped, a majority ofthem rushed into the dining-room and scrambled for places without givingmuch heed to the vanished couple or to the Judge and Yuba Bill, who haddisappeared also. The through coach to Marysville and Sacramento waslikewise waiting, for Sugar Pine was the limit of Bill's ministration, and the coach which we had just left went no further. In the course oftwenty minutes, however, there was a slight and somewhat ceremoniousbustling in the hall and on the verandah, and Yuba Bill and the Judgere-appeared. The latter was leading, with some elaboration of manner anddetail, the shapely figure of Miss Mullins, and Yuba Bill wasaccompanying her companion to the buggy. We all rushed to the windows toget a good view of the mysterious stranger and probable ex-brigand whoselife was now linked with our fair fellow-passenger. I am afraid, however, that we all participated in a certain impression ofdisappointment and doubt. Handsome and even cultivated-looking, heassuredly was--young and vigorous in appearance. But there was a certainhalf-shamed, half-defiant suggestion in his expression, yet coupled witha watchful lurking uneasiness which was not pleasant and hardly becomingin a bridegroom--and the possessor of such a bride. But the frank, joyous, innocent face of Polly Mullins, resplendent with a simple, happyconfidence, melted our hearts again, and condoned the fellow'sshortcomings. We waved our hands; I think we would have given threerousing cheers as they drove away if the omnipotent eye of Yuba Bill hadnot been upon us. It was well, for the next moment we were summoned tothe presence of that soft-hearted autocrat. 

We found him alone with the Judge in a private sitting-room, standingbefore a table on which there was a decanter and glasses. As we filedexpectantly into the room and the door closed behind us, he cast aglance of hesitating tolerance over the group. 

"Gentlemen, " he said slowly, "you was all present at the beginnin' of alittle game this mornin', and the Judge thar thinks that you oughter belet in at the finish. _I_ don't see that it's any of _your_ d----dbusiness--so to speak--but ez the Judge here allows you're all in thesecret, I've called you in to take a partin' drink to the health of Mr. And Mrs. Charley Byng--ez is now comf'ably off on their bridal tower. What _you_ know or what _you_ suspects of the young galoot that'smarried the gal aint worth shucks to anybody, and I wouldn't give it toa yaller pup to play with, but the Judge thinks you ought all to promiseright here that you'll keep it dark. That's his opinion. Ez far as myopinion goes, gen'lmen, " continued Bill, with greater blandness andapparent cordiality, "I wanter simply remark, in a keerless, offhandgin'ral way, that ef I ketch any God-forsaken, lop-eared, chuckle-headedblatherin' idjet airin' _his_ opinion----"

"One moment, Bill, " interposed Judge Thompson with a grave smile--"letme explain. You understand, gentlemen, " he said, turning to us, "thesingular, and I may say affecting, situation which our good-heartedfriend here has done so much to bring to what we hope will be a happytermination. I want to give here, as my professional opinion, that thereis nothing in his request which, in your capacity as good citizens andlaw-abiding men, you may not grant. I want to tell you, also, that youare condoning no offence against the statutes; that there is not aparticle of legal evidence before us of the criminal antecedents of Mr. Charles Byng, except that which has been told you by the innocent lipsof his betrothed, which the law of the land has now sealed for ever inthe mouth of his wife, and that our own actual experience of his actshave been in the main exculpatory of any previous irregularity--if notincompatible with it. Briefly, no judge would charge, no jury convict, on such evidence. When I add that the young girl is of legal age, thatthere is no evidence of any previous undue influence, but rather of thereverse, on the part of the bridegroom, and that I was content, as amagistrate, to perform the ceremony, I think you will be satisfied togive your promise, for the sake of the bride, and drink a happy life tothem both. "

[Illustration: THE JUDGE AND MISS MULLINS. ]

I need not say that we did this cheerfully, and even extorted from Billa grunt of satisfaction. The majority of the company, however, who weregoing with the through coach to Sacramento, then took their leave, and, as we accompanied them to the verandah, we could see that Miss PollyMullins's trunks were already transferred to the other vehicle under theprotecting seals and labels of the all-potent Express Company. Then thewhip cracked, the coach rolled away, and the last traces of theadventurous young couple disappeared in the hanging red dust of itswheels. 

But Yuba Bill's grim satisfaction at the happy issue of the episodeseemed to suffer no abatement. He even exceeded his usual deliberatelyregulated potations, and, standing comfortably with his back to thecentre of the now deserted bar-room, was more than usually loquaciouswith the Expressman. "You see, " he said, in bland reminiscence, "whenyour old Uncle Bill takes hold of a job like this, he puts it straightthrough without changin' hosses. Yet thar was a moment, young feller, when I thought I was stompt! It was when we'd made up our mind to makethat chap tell the gal fust all what he was! Ef she'd rared or kicked inthe traces, or hung back only ez much ez that, we'd hev given him jestfive minits' law to get up and get and leave her, and we'd hev totedthat gal and her fixin's back to her dad again! But she jest gave alittle scream and start, and then went off inter hysterics, right on hisbuzzum, laughing and cryin' and sayin' that nothin' should part 'em. Gosh! if I didn't think _he_ woz more cut up than she about it--a minitit looked as ef _he_ didn't allow to marry her arter all, but thatpassed, and they was married hard and fast--you bet! I reckon he's hadenough of stayin' out o' nights to last him, and ef the valleysettlements hevn't got hold of a very shining member, at least thefoothills hev got shut of one more of the Ramon Martinez gang. "

"What's that about the Ramon Martinez gang?" said a quiet potentialvoice. 

Bill turned quickly. It was the voice of the Divisional Superintendentof the Express Company--a man of eccentric determination of character, and one of the few whom the autocratic Bill recognised as an equal--whohad just entered the bar-room. His dusty pongee cloak and soft hatindicated that he had that morning arrived on a round of inspection. 

"Don't care if I do, Bill, " he continued, in response to Bill'sinvitatory gesture, walking to the bar. "It's a little raw out on theroad. Well, what were you saying about Ramon Martinez gang? You haven'tcome across one of 'em, have you?"

"No, " said Bill, with a slight blinking of his eye, as he ostentatiouslylifted his glass to the light. 

"And you _won't_, " added the Superintendent, leisurely sipping hisliquor. "For the fact is, the gang is about played out. Not from want ofa job now and then, but from the difficulty of disposing of the resultsof their work. Since the new instructions to the agents to identify andtrace all dust and bullion offered to them went into force, you see, they can't get rid of their swag. All the gang are spotted at theoffices, and it costs too much for them to pay a fence or a middleman ofany standing. Why, all that flaky river gold they took from theExcelsior Company can be identified as easy as if it was stamped withthe company's mark. They can't melt it down themselves; they can't getothers to do it for them; they can't ship it to the Mint or AssayOffices in Marysville and 'Frisco, for they won't take it without ourcertificate and seals, and _we_ don't take any undeclared freight_within_ the lines that we've drawn around their beat, except frompeople and agents known. Why, _you_ know that well enough, Jim, " hesaid, suddenly appealing to the Expressman, "don't you?"

Possibly the suddenness of the appeal caused the Expressman to swallowhis liquor the wrong way, for he was overtaken with a fit of coughing, and stammered hastily as he laid down his glass, "Yes--ofcourse--certainly. "

"No, sir, " resumed the Superintendent cheerfully, "they're pretty wellplayed out. And the best proof of it is that they've lately been robbingordinary passengers' trunks. There was a freight waggon 'held up' nearDow's Flat the other day, and a lot of baggage gone through. I had to godown there to look into it. Darned if they hadn't lifted a lot o'woman's wedding things from that rich couple who got married the otherday out at Marysville. Looks as if they were playing it rather low down, don't it? Coming down to hard pan and the bed rock--eh?"

The Expressman's face was turned anxiously towards Bill, who, after ahurried gulp of his remaining liquor, still stood staring at the window. Then he slowly drew on one of his large gloves. "Ye didn't, " he said, with a slow, drawling, but perfectly distinct, articulation, "happen toknow old 'Skinner' Hemmings when you were over there?"

"Yes. "

"And his daughter?"

"He hasn't got any. "

"A sort o' mild, innocent, guileless child of nature?" persisted Bill, with a yellow face, a deadly calm and Satanic deliberation. 

"No. I tell you he _hasn't_ any daughter. Old man Hemmings is aconfirmed old bachelor. He's too mean to support more than one. "

"And you didn't happen to know any o' that gang, did ye?" continuedBill, with infinite protraction. 

"Yes. Knew 'em all. There was French Pete, Cherokee Bob, Kanaka Joe, One-eyed Stillson, Softy Brown, Spanish Jack, and two or threeGreasers. "

"And ye didn't know a man by the name of Charley Byng?"

[Illustration: "'YE DIDN'T KNOW A MAN BY THE NAME OF CHARLEY BYNG?'"]

"No, " returned the Superintendent, with a slight suggestion of wearinessand a distraught glance towards the door. 

"A dark, stylish chap, with shifty black eyes and a curled upmerstache?" continued Bill, with dry, colourless persistence. 

"No. Look here, Bill, I'm in a little bit of a hurry--but I suppose youmust have your little joke before we part. Now, what _is_ your littlegame?"

"Wot you mean?" demanded Bill, with sudden brusqueness. 

"Mean? Well, old man, you know as well as I do. You're giving me thevery description of Ramon Martinez himself, ha! ha! No--Bill! you didn'tplay me this time. You're mighty spry and clever, but you didn't catchon just then. "

He nodded and moved away with a light laugh. Bill turned a stony face tothe Expressman. Suddenly a gleam of mirth came into his gloomy eyes. Hebent over the young man, and said in a hoarse, chuckling whisper:

"But I got even after all!"

"How?"

"He's tied up to that lying little she-devil, hard and fast!"

[Illustration: IDLERS]

THE MODERN BABYLON. 

BY CYNICUS. 

[Illustration: THE MODERN PHAETON]

 The day is done for honest thriving Through Speculation's reckless driving. 

[Illustration: THE SCAPEGOAT]

[Illustration: LAW & JUSTICE]

 Your distance Madam, for you see You dare not, unless I agree

[Illustration: SAMSON AGONISTES]

[Illustration: MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN. ]

MY FIRST BOOKS. 

"UNDERTONES" AND "IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. "

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE HUTCHINSON. 

(PHOTOGRAPHS BY MESSRS. FRADELLE AND YOUNG. )

My first serious effort in Literature was what I may call adouble-barrelled one; in other words, I was seriously engaged upon TwoBooks at the same time, and it was by the merest accident that they didnot appear simultaneously. As it was, only a few months divided one fromthe other, and they are always, in my own mind, inseparable, or Siamese, twins. The book of poems called _Undertones_ was the one; the book ofpoems called _Idyls and Legends of Inverburn_ was the other. They werepublished nearly thirty years ago, when I was still a boy, and as theyhappened to bring me into connection, more or less intimately, with someof the leading spirits of the age, a few notes concerning them may be ofinterest. 

[Illustration: MR. BUCHANAN'S HOUSE. ]

A word, first, as to my literary beginnings. I can scarcely remember thetime when the idea of winning fame as an author had not occurred to me, and so I determined very early to adopt the literary profession, adetermination which I unfortunately carried out, to my own life-longdiscomfort, and the annoyance of a large portion of the reading public. When a boy in Glasgow, I made the acquaintance of David Gray, who wasfired with a similar ambition to fly incontinently to London--

 The terrible City whose neglect is Death, Whose smile is Fame!

and to take it by storm. It seemed so easy! "Westminster Abbey, " wrotemy friend to a correspondent; "if I live, I shall be buried there--sohelp me God!" "I mean, after Tennyson's death, " I myself wrote to PhilipHamerton, "to be Poet-laureate!" From these samples of our callowspeech, the modesty of our ambition may be inferred. Well, it allhappened just as we planned, only otherwise! Through some blunder ofarrangement we two started for London on the same day, but fromdifferent railway stations, and, until some weeks afterwards, one knewnothing of the other's exodus. I arrived at King's Cross Railway Stationwith the conventional half-crown in my pocket; literally and absolutely, half-a-crown; I wandered about the Great City till I was weary, fell inwith a Thief and Good Samaritan who sheltered me, starved and struggledwith abundant happiness, and finally found myself located at 66, Stamford Street, Waterloo Bridge, in a top room, for which I paid, whenI had the money, seven shillings a week. Here I lived royally, with DukeHumphrey, for many a day; and hither, one sad morning, I brought my poorfriend Gray, whom I had discovered languishing somewhere in the Borough, and who was already death-struck through "sleeping out" one night inHyde Park. [2] "Westminster Abbey--if I live, I shall be buried there!"Poor country singing-bird, the great Dismal Cage of the Dead was not for_him_, thank God! He lies under the open Heaven, close to the littleriver which he immortalised in song. After a brief sojourn in the "dearold ghastly bankrupt garret at No. 66, " he fluttered home to die. 

To that old garret, in these days, came living men of letters who wereof large and important interest to us poor cheepers from the North:Richard Monckton Milnes, Laurence Oliphant, Sydney Dobell, among others, who took a kindly interest in my dying comrade. But afterwards, when Iwas left to fight the battle alone, the place was solitary. Everreserved and independent, not to say "dour" and opinionated, I made nofriends, and cared for none. I had found a little work on the newspapersand magazines, just enough to keep body and soul alive, and whileoccupied with this I was busy on the literary Twins to which I referredat the opening of this paper. What did my isolation matter, when I hadall the gods of Greece for company, to say nothing of the fays andtrolls of Scottish Fairyland? Pallas and Aphrodite haunted that oldgarret; out on Waterloo Bridge, night after night, I saw Selene and allher nymphs; and when my heart sank low, the Fairies of Scotland sang melullabies! It was a happy time. Sometimes, for a fortnight together, Inever had a dinner--save, perhaps, on Sunday, when a good-natured Hebewould bring me covertly a slice from the landlord's joint. My favouriteplace of refreshment was the Caledonian Coffee House in Covent Garden. Here, for a few coppers, I could feast on coffee and muffins--muffinssaturated with butter, and worthy of the gods! Then, issuing forth, full-fed, glowing, oleaginous, I would light my pipe, and wander outinto the lighted streets. 

[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE HALL. ]

Criticisms for the _Athenæum_, then edited by Hepworth Dixon, brought meten-and-sixpence a column. I used to go to the old office in WellingtonStreet and have my contributions measured off on the current numberwith a foot-rule, by good old John Francis, the publisher. I wrote, too, for the _Literary Gazette_, where the pay was lessprincely--seven-and-sixpence a column, I think, but with all extractsdeducted! The _Gazette_ was then edited by John Morley, who came to theoffice daily with a big dog. "I well remember the time when you, a boy, came to me, a boy, in Catherine Street, " wrote honest John to me yearsafterwards. But the neighbourhood of Covent Garden had greater wonders!Two or three times a week, walking, black bag in hand, from CharingCross Station to the office of _All the Year Round_ in WellingtonStreet, came the good, the only Dickens! From that good Genie the poorstraggler from Fairyland got solid help and sympathy. Few can realisenow what Dickens was then to London. His humour filled its literaturelike broad sunlight; the Gospel of Plum-pudding warmed every poor devilin Bohemia. 

At this time, I was (save the mark!) terribly in earnest, with a doggeddetermination to bow down to no graven literary Idol, but to judge menof all ranks on their personal merits. I never had much reverence forGods of any sort; if the Superior Persons could not win me by love, Iremained heretical. So it was a long time before I came close to anyliving souls, and all that time I was working away at my poems. Then, alittle later, I used to go o' Sundays to the open house of WestlandMarston, which was then a great haunt of literary Bohemians. Here Ifirst met Dinah Muloch, the author of _John Halifax_, who took a greatfancy to me, used to carry me off to her little nest on Hampstead Heath, and lend me all her books. At Hampstead, too, I foregathered with SydneyDobell, a strangely beautiful soul, with (what seemed to me then) veryeffeminate manners. Dobell's mouth was ever full of very prettyLatinity, for the most part Virgilian. He was fond of quoting, as anexample of perfect expression, sound conveying absolute sense of thething described, the doggrel lines--

 "Down the stairs the young missises ran To have a look at Miss Kate's young man!"

The sibilants in the first line, he thought, admirably suggested theidea of the young ladies slipping along the banisters and peeping intothe hall!

But I had other friends, more helpful to me in preparing my firsttwin-offering to the Muses: the faces under the gas, the painted womenon the Bridge (how many a night have I walked up and down by theirsides, and talked to them for hours together), the actors in thetheatres, the ragged groups at the stage doors, London to me, then, wasstill Fairyland! Even in the Haymarket, with its babbles of Nymph andSatyr, there was wonderful life from midnight to dawn--deep sympathywith which told me that I was a born Pagan, and could never be reallycomfortable in any modern Temple of the Proprieties. On other pointsconnected with that old life on the borders of Bohemia, I need nottouch; it has all been so well done already by Murger, in the _Vie deBohème_, and it will not bear translation into contemporary English. There were cakes and ale, pipes and beer, and ginger was hot in themouth too! _Et ego fui in Bohemiâ_! There were inky fellows and bouncinggirls, _then_; _now_ there are only fine ladies, and respectable, God-fearing men of letters. 

[Illustration: THE DINING ROOM. ]

It was while the Twins were fashioning, that I went down in summer timeto live at Chertsey on the Thames, chiefly in order to be near to one Ihad long admired, Thomas Love Peacock, the friend of Shelley and theauthor of _Headling Hall_--"Greekey Peekey, " as they called him, onaccount of his prodigious knowledge of things and books Hellenic. I soongrew to love the dear old man, and sat at his feet, like an obedientpupil, in his green old-fashioned garden at Lower Halliford. To him Ifirst read some of my _Undertones_, getting many a rap over the knucklesfor my sacrilegious tampering with Divine Myths. What mercy could _I_expect from one who had never forgiven "Johnny" Keats for his frightfulperversion of the sacred mystery of Endymion and Selene? and who washorrified at the base "modernism" of Shelley's "Prometheus Unbound?" Butto think of it! He had known Shelley, and all the rest of the demigods, and his speech was golden with memories of them all! Dear old Pagan, wonderful in his death as in his life. When, shortly before he died, hishouse caught fire, and the mild curate of the parish begged him towithdraw from the library of books he loved so well, he flatly refusedto listen, and cried roundly, in a line of vehement blank verse, "By theimmortal gods, I will not stir!" [3]

Under such auspices, and with all the ardour of youth to help, my Book, or Books, progressed. Meantime, I was breaking out into poetry in themagazines, and writing "criticism" by the yard. At last the time camewhen I remembered another friend with whom I had corresponded, and whoseadvice I thought I might now ask with some confidence. This was GeorgeHenry Lewes, to whom, when I was a boy in Glasgow, I had sent a bundleof manuscript, with the blunt question, "Am I, or am I not, a Poet?" Tomy delight he had replied to me with a qualified affirmative, sayingthat in the productions he had "discerned a real faculty, and _perhaps_a future poet. I say perhaps, " he added, "because I do not know yourage, and because there are so many poetical blossoms which never come tofruit. " He had, furthermore, advised me "to write as much as I feltimpelled to write, but to publish nothing"--at any rate, for a couple ofyears. Three years had passed, and I had neither publishedanything--that is to say, in book form--nor had I had any furthercommunication with my kind correspondent. To Lewes, then, I wrote, reminding him of our correspondence, telling him that I _had_ waited, not two years, but three, and that I now felt inclined to face thepublic. I soon received an answer, the result of which was that I went, on Lewes's invitation, to the Priory, North Bank, Regent's Park, and metmy friend and his partner, better known as "George Eliot. "

But, as the novelists say, I am anticipating. Sick to death, David Grayhad returned to the cottage of his father, the hand-loom weaver, atKirkintilloch, and there had peacefully passed away, leaving as hislegacy to the world the volume of beautiful poems published under theauspices of Lord Houghton. I knew of his death the hour he died; awakingin my bed, I was certain of my loss, and spoke of it (long before theformal news reached me) to a temporary companion. This by the way; butwhat is more to the purpose is that my first grief for a beloved comradehad expressed itself in the words which were to form the "proem" of myfirst book--

 Poet gentle hearted, Are you then departed, And have you ceased to dream the dream we loved of old so well? Has the deeply-cherish'd Aspiration perished, And are you happy, David, in that heaven where you dwell? Have you found the secret We, so wildly, sought for, And is your soul enswath'd at last in the singing robes you fought for?

[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM. ]

Full of my dead friend, I spoke of him to Lewes and George Eliot, telling them the piteous story of his life and death. Both were deeplytouched, and Lewes cried, "Tell that story to the public"; which I did, immediately afterwards, in the _Cornhill Magazine_. By this time I hadmy Twins ready, and had discovered a publisher for one of them, _Undertones_. The other, _Idyls and Legends of Inverburn_, was aruggeder bantling, containing almost the first _blank verse_ poems everwritten in Scottish dialect. I selected one of the poems, "WillieBaird, " and showed it to Lewes. He expressed himself delighted, andasked for more. I then showed him the "Two Babes. " "Better and better!"he wrote; "publish a volume of such poems and your position is assured. "More than this, he at once found me a publisher, Mr. George Smith, ofMessrs. Smith and Elder, who offered me a good round sum (such it seemedto me then) for the copyright. Eventually, however, after "Willie Baird"had been published in the _Cornhill_, I withdrew the manuscript fromMessrs. Smith and Elder, and transferred it to Mr. Alexander Strahan, who offered me both more liberal terms and more enthusiasticappreciation. 

It was just after the appearance of my story of David Gray in the_Cornhill_ that I first met, at the Priory, North Bank, with RobertBrowning. It was an odd and representative gathering of men, only onelady being present, the hostess, George Eliot. I was never much of ahero-worshipper; but I had long been a sympathetic Browningite, and Iwell remember George Eliot taking me aside after my first _tête-à-tête_with the poet, and saying, "Well, what do you think of him? Does he comeup to your ideal?" He _didn't_ quite, I must confess, but I afterwardslearned to know him well and to understand him better. He was delightedwith my statement that one of Gray's wild ideas was to rush over toFlorence and "throw himself on the sympathy of Robert Browning. "

Phantoms of these first books of mine, how they begin to rise around me!Faces of friends and counsellors that have flown for ever; the sibyllineMarian Evans with her long, weird, dreamy face; Lewes, with his big browand keen thoughtful eyes; Browning, pale and spruce, his eye like askipper's cocked-up at the weather; Peacock, with his round, mellifluousspeech of the old Greeks; David Gray, great-eyed and beautiful, likeShelley's ghost; Lord Houghton, with his warm worldly smile andeasy-fitting enthusiasm. Where are they all now? Where are the roses oflast summer, the snows of yester year? I passed by the Priory to-day, and it looked like a great lonely Tomb. In those days, the house where Ilive now was not built; all up here Hampstead-ways was grass and fields. It was over these fields that Herbert Spencer and George Eliot used towalk on their way to Hampstead Heath. The Sibyl has gone, but the greatPhilosopher still remains, to brighten the sunshine. It was not my luckto know him _then_--would it had been!--but he is my friend andneighbour in these latter days, and, thanks to him, I still get glimpsesof the manners of the old gods. 

[Illustration: THE STUDY. ]

With the publication of my two first books, I was fairly launched, I maysay, on the stormy waters of literature. When the _Athenæum_ told itsreaders that "this was _poetry_, and of a noble kind, " and when Lewesvowed in the _Fortnightly Review_ that even if I "never wrote anotherline, my place among the pastoral poets would be undisputed, " I supposeI felt happy enough--far more happy than any praise could make me now. Poor little pigmy in a cockle-boat, I thought Creation was ringing withmy name! I think I must have seemed rather conceited and "bounceable, "for I have a vivid remembrance of a _Fortnightly_ dinner at the Star andGarter, Richmond, when Anthony Trollope, angry with me for expressing adoubt about the poetical greatness of Horace, wanted to fling a decanterat my head! It was about this time that an omniscient publisher, afteran interview with me, exclaimed (the circumstance is historical), "Idon't like that young man; he talked to me as if he was God Almighty, or_Lord Byron!_" But in sober truth, I never had the sort of conceit withwhich men credited me; I merely lacked gullibility, and saw, at thefirst glance, the whole unmistakable humbug and insincerity of theLiterary Life. I think still that, as a rule, the profession of lettersnarrows the sympathy and warps the intelligence. When I saw theimportance which a great man or woman could attach to a piece ofperfunctory criticism, when I saw the care with which this EminentPerson "humoured his reputation, " and the anxiety with which thatEminent Person concealed his true character, I found my young illusionsvery rapidly fading. On one occasion, when George Eliot was very muchpestered by an unknown lady, an insignificant individual, who had thrustherself somewhat pertinaciously upon her, she turned to me and asked, with a smile, for my opinion? I gave it, rudely enough, to the effectthat it was good for "distinguished people" to be reminded occasionallyof how very small consequence they really were, in the mighty life ofthe World!

From that time until the present I have pursued the vocation into whichfatal Fortune, during boyhood, incontinently thrust me, and havesubsisted, ill sometimes, well sometimes, by a busy pen. I may, therefore, with a certain experience, if with little authority, imitatethose who have preceded me in giving reminiscences of their firstliterary beginnings, and offer a few words of advice to my youngerbrethren--to those persons, I mean, who are entering the profession ofLiterature. To begin with, I entirely agree with Mr. Grant Allen in hisrecent avowal that Literature is the poorest and least satisfactory ofall professions; I will go even further, and affirm that it is one ofthe least ennobling. With a fairly extensive knowledge of the writers ofmy own period, I can honestly say that I have scarcely met oneindividual who has not deteriorated morally by the pursuit of literaryFame. For complete literary success among contemporaries, it isimperative that a man should either have no real opinions, or be able toconceal such as he possesses, that he should have one eye on the marketand the other on the public journals, that he should humbug himself intothe delusion that book-writing is the highest work in the Universe, andthat he should regulate his likes and dislikes by one law, that ofexpediency. If his nature is in arms against anything that is rotten inSociety or in Literature itself, he must be silent. Above all, he mustlay this solemn truth to heart, that when the World speaks well of himthe World will demand the _price_ of praise, and that price willpossibly be his living Soul. He may tinker, he may trim, he may succeed, he may be buried in Westminster Abbey, he may hear before he dies allthe people saying, "How good and great he is! how perfect is his art!how gloriously he embodies the Tendencies of his Time!"[4] but he willknow all the same that the price has been paid, and that his living Soulhas gone, to furnish that whitewashed Sepulchre, a Blameless Reputation. 

[Illustration: MR ROBERT BUCHANAN AND HIS FAVOURITE DOG. ]

For one other thing, also, the Neophyte in Literature had better beprepared. He will never be able to subsist by creative writing unless itso happens that the form of expression he chooses is popular in form(fiction, for example), and even in that case, the work he does, if heis to live by it, must be in harmony with the social and artistic_status quo_. Revolt of any kind is always disagreeable. Three-fourthsof the success of Lord Tennyson (to take an example) was due to the factthat this fine poet regarded Life and all its phenomena from thestandpoint of the English public school, that he ethically andartistically embodied the sentiments of our excellent middle-classeducation. His great American contemporary, Whitman, in some respectsthe most commanding spirit of this generation, gained only a fewdisciples, and was entirely misunderstood and neglected by contemporarycriticism. Another prosperous writer, to whom I have already alluded, George Eliot, enjoyed enormous popularity in her lifetime, while themost strenuous and passionate novelist of her period, Charles Reade, wasentirely distanced by her in the immediate race for Fame. In Literature, as in all things, manners and costume are most important; the hall-markof contemporary success is perfect Respectability. It is not respectableto be too candid on any subject, religious, moral, or political. It isvery respectable to say, or imply, that this country is the best of allpossible countries, that War is a noble institution, that the ProtestantReligion is grandly liberal, and that social evils are only diversifiedforms of social good. Above all, to be respectable, one must have"beautiful ideas. " "Beautiful ideas" are the very best stock-in-trade ayoung writer can begin with. They are indispensable to every completeliterary outfit. Without them, the short cut to Parnassus will never bediscovered, even though one starts from Rugby. 

_BALDER'S BALL. _

BY P. VON SCHÖNTHAN. 

ILLUSTRATED BY J. GÜLICH. 

Balder had begged me to give him a bed for the night. He was going to aball that evening, and had business early the following morning inBerlin. He lived in such an out-of-the-way suburb that it would be quiteimpossible for him to go home to sleep. I was only too delighted to beof service to him. Although I could not offer him a bed, it would beeasy to improvise a shakedown on which he could have a few hours' rest. I set to work at once, and did the best I could for him, using a bundleof rags for the pillows, and my old dressing-gown for the mattress. WhenBalder saw it, he declared that nothing could be more to his taste. 

[Illustration: "WALKED INTO MY ROOM. "]

It was long past midnight, when I was awakened from a refreshing sleepby somebody fumbling with a key at the lock of my door. Several bunglingattempts were made before the key was fitted into the lock successfully. At last, Balder walked into my room. He presented rather a comicalappearance, with his crush-hat on one side of his head like the leaningtower of Pisa, and a short overcoat, with his long tail-coat peepingbeneath. His face was flushed, partly with excitement, and he appearedpossessed of a burning desire to relate his adventures to somebody. Ihad been looking at him with one eye; the other, nearest him, I kepttight shut, and did not move, for I had no desire to enter intoconversation with him. But my friend was not so easily shaken in hispurpose; he came close to my bedside, stepping on my boot-jack, so thatit fell over with a terrible noise, and held the lighted candle within afew inches of my nose. It was impossible for even the most shamelessshammer of sleep to hold out any longer. I opened my eyes, and said inthe sleepiest tone I could assume:

"Enjoyed yourself?"

[Illustration: "ON THE SIDE OF MY BED. "]

"Famously, my dear fellow, " answered Balder, seating himself on the sideof my bed, although I forestalled his intention, and left hardly an inchfor him to sit on. Then he entered into a long and not very lucidrigmarole on souls which are destined to come together. The story wasrendered all the more difficult to understand from the fact that I keptfalling asleep, and dreaming between his rhapsodies; but I gathered thatBalder had met with a young Spanish lady at the mask ball, whoapparently possessed the soul which he was fated to meet, and that shewas the only person on earth who could make him happy. He had spent thewhole evening with her, and she had promised to meet him at the nextball. At his request she had lifted her veil for one instant, revealinga face of Madonna-like beauty. It was a simple story, but when a man'sbrain is fired with love he lingers over it. The words grace, Southerncolouring, eyes like a gazelle, etc. , must have been repeated veryoften, for I dreamed later on that I was repeating them to myself. 

I bore it all patiently, for hospitality is a sacred duty, and, besides, the state which Balder's mind was in demanded and deservedconsideration. 

As he went on with his story, he raised his voice, perhaps to rouse myflagging attention. Suddenly, somebody coughed in the next room. It wasnot a natural cough, but an artificial one, evidently intended by mylandlady to serve as a gentle reminder that at two o'clock in themorning all respectable people should be in bed and quiet. My room wasonly separated from the apartment in which my landlady and her daughterslept by a door, which was hidden on either side by a high wardrobe, through which, in spite of this precaution, voices could be heard verydistinctly. I informed Balder of this fact, but, unfortunately, heutterly refused to take my advice and go quietly to bed. He said hecould not sleep, and, unhappily, catching sight of my coffee-machine, headded that he would like some coffee. 

"Sleep if you can, " he said; "I can manage it all for myself. " He thenremoved his coat, dressed himself in the dressing-gown which acted ashis mattress, and started to get some water from the kitchen, knockingthings down on the way, and opening and shutting all the wrong doors. Ibecame resigned, and made up my mind not to waste my breath on any freshwarnings. Somebody else coughed. It was Fräulein Lieschen this time, mylandlady's daughter. At any other time, Balder himself would have shownmore consideration. 

[Illustration: "STARTED TO GET SOME WATER. "]

Most extraordinary noises proceeded from the water-tap in the kitchen. At last the kitchen door banged, and Balder re-appeared again. Iexpressed my regret that I had no methylated spirit, but he said it didnot matter, and catching hold of a bottle of my expensive brandy, poureda lot into the lamp. Then he sat gazing into the blue flame withoutblinking. 

Crash! went the glass globe, and the boiling water poured all over thetable and put out the fire. I sprang out of my bed. "Good gracious!" Iexclaimed, "the whole thing will explode. " He said nothing, but beganto pick up the hot pieces of glass patiently. The coughing in the nextroom became louder than ever. 

"For heaven's sake!" I went on, "try to be quiet if you can. The peoplein the next room want to go to sleep. _Don't_ you hear them coughing?"

"Well! I never heard of such impudence! That coughing has disturbed mefor some time. Anybody would think you'd got into an almshouse for oldwomen--Where is the sugar?"

"Up there, in the cigar-box. But don't knock that rapier down. "

Balder climbed up on a cane chair. It gave way. Klirr! The rapier fellon the floor, and Balder with it. 

"Confound you, do take care. Didn't I warn you?" An energetic knockingat the door of communication interrupted me. 

"Herr Reif, I must really beg you to be quiet, " called my landlady'sdaughter, not by any means in her sweetest tones. "We've been kept awakefor the last hour. "

"That's nothing to us, " said Balder from the floor, where he was gropingfor the rapier that had rolled under the wardrobe. 

"Do be quiet! That is my landlady's daughter, a very respectable girl--"

"Well, is nobody respectable except her? What do you pay rent for?" Hisface grew red with rage, and, placing his mouth close to the door, hecalled out, "What do you want with Reif? He's in bed. I only wanted toreach down the sugar, and the old rapier fell on my head--a thing thatmight happen to anybody! Just lie down quietly and go to sleep. Such afuss about nothing! Are we in a hospital?"

[Illustration: "IT GAVE WAY!"]

"Do be quiet, Balder!" I begged, and my pleading at least had the effectof silencing whatever else was on his tongue. He thought no more of thesugar, but sat at the table and drank his self-brewed coffee without it. When he had finished it he lighted a cigarette, at which he puffed awaytill the room was full of smoke. As I lay and looked at him, I fell intothat peaceful state in which dreaming and reality are so much mixed thatit is hard to distinguish between them. And then Balder disappeared inclouds of smoke, and I heard and saw no more. I was awakened again by alight being held near my face. Balder was standing at my bedside withthe candle in his hand. "Ah! I'm glad you've been asleep again!" hesaid, as I half-opened my eyes and looked at him. "I want to make a poemto my Spaniard. Have you got a rhyming dictionary anywhere about?"

"There, on the lowest shelf of the bookcase, but _do_ be quiet. "

He got the book without knocking anything down; refilled his coffee-cup, and leant back in his chair, and murmured--

 "Where shall I meet thee? On the Guadelquiver? "On the Sequara? On the fair Zucar? "Or any other far-off Spanish river..... "

Sleep again overpowered me, and I knew nothing till I was awakened by anoisy discussion taking place close to me. Balder stood with his face tothe door, engaged in a hot dispute with my neighbours. 

"The devil himself couldn't collect his thoughts with that coughinggoing on, " he was saying as I woke up. 

"I was coughing to make you quiet, that endless murmuring made me sonervous!" cried Fräulein Lieschen, her voice trembling with annoyance. 

[Illustration: "I'M GLAD YOU'VE BEEN ASLEEP. "]

"I'm writing a poem, I tell you, and when one is composing a poem onemust murmur. If you can't sleep through it, you can't be healthy. Youmust have eaten too much supper, or something. You can congratulateyourself that you've got such a lodger as Reif. Do you understand me? Ifyou had me I'd teach you----"

Again and again, in as persuasive a voice as I could assume, I beggedthe orator at the wardrobe to put an end to the speech he was deliveringon his views of a landlady's duties towards her tenants. At length mypatience gave way, and, sitting up in bed, I commanded him in a voice ofauthority to give, over his poetry and recitation, and to blow out thelight and get into bed. Balder at length seemed to realise that he wastrespassing on my hospitality, and that a certain amount of respect wasdue to my wishes as his host. He became silent; put his manuscriptcarefully into my dressing-gown pocket; cast one last fiery glance atthe door, and retired to bed. 

I do not know if he saw the daughter of sunny Spain, with hergazelle-like eyes in his dreams, but I do know that he snored as if hewere dreaming of a saw-mill. 

About three hours later, the winter daylight struggled into the room. Balder got up and dressed himself as quietly as a mouse. He seemed asthough he was trying to make up for the disturbance he had made in thenight, or, rather, in the morning. He excused himself most politely forwaking me up, but said that he felt that he could not leave withoutsaying good-bye, and thanking me for my kind hospitality. Then he leftthe room, closing the door softly behind him. At the same moment, Iheard the door of my landlady's room open. Half a minute's dead silencefollowed, and then Balder fell back into my room like one stunned. 

[Illustration: "IN A HOT DISPUTE. "]

"Who is that girl that came out of the next room?" he askedbreathlessly. 

"Fräulein Lieschen, of course, the daughter of my landlady, to whom youwere kind enough to deliver a lecture in the middle of the night----"

"She is my Spanish girl!" he gasped, grinding his teeth, and shaking hishead disconsolately. He took a long time to recover himself. He sat downagain on the side of my bed, as he had done on his return from theball. But in what a different mood! He made me swear to him that I wouldnever reveal his name to Fräulein Lieschen, but that I would excuse himwithout giving any clue to his identity, for the disturbance he hadcaused in the night. This duty I willingly undertook. 

Fräulein Lieschen, who was a good-natured girl, looked at the matterfrom the comical side, and readily accepted my unknown friend's apology;and whenever we met on the stairs after that, she would say jokingly, "Please remember me to your funny friend!"

[Illustration: "REMEMBER ME TO YOUR FUNNY FRIEND!"]

"LIONS IN THEIR DENS. "

V. --THE LORD LIEUTENANT AT DUBLIN CASTLE. 

BY RAYMOND BLATHWAYT. 

(_PHOTOGRAPHS AND ILLUSTRATIONS BY LAFAYETTE, OF DUBLIN, AND BYRNE, OFRICHMOND. _)

[Illustration: THE HON. MRS ARTHUR HENNIKER. ]

The Lord Lieutenant's sister, Mrs. Arthur Henniker, who is helping himto do the honours of the Castle, and whom I had known in London, Mr. Fulke Greville, and I, were wandering round the curious old-fashionedbuildings and courtyards that constitute the domain of Dublin Castle onebright breezy day in early spring. A military band was playing oppositethe principal entrance, whilst the guard was being mounted in preciselythe same manner as at the guard mounting at St. James's. The scene wasbrilliant and inspiriting in the extreme. As we passed through anarchway we came somewhat suddenly upon the massive Round Tower, from thetop of which floated the Union Jack, and which dates back to a periodnot later than that of King John. Close to the Round Tower, which bearsso curious a resemblance to the still more magnificent tower of the samename at Windsor, is the Chapel Royal. Here we found the guardian, aquaint, and garrulous and most obliging old person, waiting to show usover the handsome, albeit somewhat gloomy, building. Very exact andparticular was our _cicerone_ in pointing out to us the old fourteenthcentury painted windows, the special pews reserved for His Excellency, and the ladies and gentlemen of the court; the coats of arms belongingto the various Governors of Ireland, extending over a period of manyhundreds of years--all these, I say, he carefully pointed out, drawingespecial attention to one over which, at the moment, a thin ray ofgolden sunlight was falling, and which, he informed me, was the coat ofarms of the Earl of Rochester--poor Rochester, the gay, the witty, thewicked, and the repentant. On quitting the chapel we began to ascend, under the auspices of another guide, a tremendously steep staircase, which is cut inside the fifteen-feet stone wall which leads to thechamber in the Round Tower wherein the Ulster King-at-Arms preserves theancient records of the Castle. On our pilgrimage up this weary flight ofstairs the guide drew our attention to a gloomy little dungeon, cut outof the thickness of the wall, in which there is but little light, andwherein the musty smell of ages is plainly discernible. "This, "whispered Mr. Greville in my ear, "reminds me of Mark Twain's 'InnocentsAbroad. '" After a glance at the record chamber, which was crammed withdocuments, we passed, with a sense of relief, into the bright sunny airand the large courtyard, round which are built the handsome loftystables in which the Castle horses--of which there are an immensenumber--are kept, and which stables, Colonel Forster, the Master of theHorse, told me, are upwards of two hundred years old. 

[Illustration: THE CASTLE. ]

[Illustration: CASTLE YARD. BAND PLAYING. ]

"And now, Mr. Blathwayt, " said Mrs. Henniker, as we passed the twosentries on guard at the entrance to the great hall, and proceeded up astaircase lined with rifles and through long sunlit corridors, "you mustcome with me to my own special sanctum, and rest yourself, after theobject lessons in history which we have been giving you this morning. "Here, in a lofty, white-panelled room, with long windows looking downupon the private gardens of the Castle in which His Excellency andCaptain Streatfield, one of the A. D. C. 's, were walking up and down, Mrs. Henniker and I sat talking of the past almost more than we did of theactual present. For, though my hostess is quite a young woman, yet as adaughter of the celebrated Richard Monckton Milnes, the first LordHoughton, she cannot fail to have the most delightful reminiscences ofthe many celebrities with whom her father was so fond of filling hishouse. 

[Illustration: GRAND STAIRCASE, DUBLIN CASTLE. ]

"But, " said she, "proud as I am of my father, I am quite as proud of mygrandfather, Richard Pemberton Milnes, for he was only twenty-two yearsof age when he refused the choice of a seat in the Cabinet, either asChancellor of the Exchequer or Secretary at War. My grandmother, Mrs. Pemberton Milnes, in her diary for 1809, says that one morning, while wewere at breakfast, a king's messenger drove up in a post-chaise and fourwith a despatch from Mr. Perceval, offering my husband the choice of aseat in the Cabinet. Mr. Milnes immediately said, 'Oh, no, I will notaccept either; with my temperament I should be dead in a year. ' Andnothing could induce him to do so either, " continued Mrs. Henniker, "norcould he be induced to accept the Peerage which was offered him by LordPalmerston in 1856. "

"But your father was not so rigid in his views as your grandfather, washe, Mrs. Henniker?" said I. 

[Illustration: HIS EXCELLENCY LORD HOUGHTON IN HIS STUDY. ]

"No, " she replied, "certainly he was not, although I don't think that hequitted the House of Commons, which he always loved, without a pang ofreal regret. Amongst the many kind congratulations he received--for noman ever had more friends--was a very pretty one from his old friend, Mrs. Proctor, in which she said:

 "'He enters from the common air Into that temple dim; He learns among those ermined Peers The diplomatic hymn. His Peers? Alas! when will they learn To grow up Peers to him?'"

"You must have met many interesting people at your father's house?" Iobserved, during the course of our conversation. 

[Illustration: THE HON. MRS. HENNIKER IN HER BOUDOIR. ]

"Why, yes, " replied she, with an amused smile, "don't you know theridiculous story that Mr. Wemyss Reid, in his charming biography of myfather, tells, and which, indeed, I believe was first told by Sir HenryTaylor, in his autobiography? I will tell it you. You know my father wasacquainted with everybody, and his greatest pleasure in life was tointroduce the notoriety of the moment to the leading members of EnglishSociety. On the particular occasion on which this story was told, it isalleged that somebody asked whether a certain murderer--it wasCourvoisier, I think, the valet who killed his master--had been hangedthat morning, and my aunt immediately answered, 'I hope so, or Richardwill have him to his breakfast party next Thursday. ' But this story, Mr. Blathwayt, is really absolutely without foundation. I have here, "continued Mrs. Henniker, "a very interesting book of autographs, which Ihave kept for as far back as I can remember, and in which everybody whocame to our house had to write their names, " and as she spoke she placedin my hands a large volume, on every page of which was a photograph andan autograph. There was Lecky, the historian; and Trench, the lateArchbishop of Dublin; Sir Richard Burton, the traveller; and OwenMeredith, the poet. There was a portrait of Swinburne when quite a youngman, together with his autograph. "I have known Mr. Swinburne all mylife, " remarked Mrs. Henniker. "I used to play croquet with him when Iwas quite a little girl, and laugh at him because he used to get in sucha passion when I won the game. " There was John Bright's signature, therewas that of Philippe d'Orléans and General Chanzy, and last, but notleast, there was that of Charles Dickens. 

[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM, DUBLIN CASTLE. ]

"My father, " explained Mrs. Henniker, "was a very old friend of Dickens, and, curiously enough, his grandmother was a housekeeper at Crewe Hall, where my mother was born, and I have often heard her say that thegreatest treat that could be given her and her brother and sister was anafternoon in the housekeeper's room at Crewe, for Mrs. Dickens was asplendid story-teller, and used to love to gather the children round herand tell them fairy stories. And so it was only natural that my mothershould feel a special interest in Charles Dickens, when she came to knowhim in after life. I believe that the very last time that he ever dinedout was at my father's house, when a dinner was specially arranged toenable the Prince of Wales and the King of the Belgians to make hisacquaintance. Even at that time, poor man, he was suffering so much fromrheumatic gout that he had to remain in the dining room until the guestshad assembled, so that he was introduced to the Prince at the dinnertable. I might mention that Dean Stanley wrote to my father, asking himto be one of those who should place before him the proposal that CharlesDickens should be buried in the Abbey. "

[Illustration: THRONE ROOM, DUBLIN CASTLE. ]

Amongst the many interesting letters and papers that Mrs. Hennikershowed me was one from Mr. Gladstone to herself congratulating her onher first novel "Sir George, " for Mrs. Henniker, notwithstanding therather unfortunate fact that she has many social duties to attend to, which must necessarily hinder her in what would otherwise be a brilliantliterary career, is a remarkably fine writer of a certain class offiction, and notably of what may be termed the Society novel. But almostbetter than her novels, of which she has produced some two or threewithin the last few years, are her short stories, of which she publishedone, a singularly able study of lower middle-class life, in an earlynumber of the "Speaker, " and which many of the readers of that journalwill remember under the title of a "Bank Holiday. " With reference to"Sir George, " Mr. Gladstone, who is a very old friend of her family, wrote: "My dear Mrs. Henniker, --It is, I admit, with fear and tremblingthat I commonly open a novel which is presented to me. " He then goes onto speak in strong terms of eulogy of the book which she had sent tohim. The letter was not without a special interest as giving one aglimpse into the mind of the G. O. M. On what must be one of the mostarduous duties of his hardworking life. Referring to the publication ofher most recent novel, "Foiled, " which is a depiction of Society life asit actually is, and not, as is so frequently the case, of the writer'simagination as to what Society is or should be, I asked Mrs. Henniker ifshe wrote her stories from life. 

[Illustration: THE PICTURE GALLERY. ]

"Well, " she replied, "of course there is a general idea in my storieswhich is taken from the life I see around me, but, as a rule, I drawfrom my own imagination. I am a very quick writer, and I wrote 'SirGeorge' in one summer holiday. Mr. T. P. O'Connor wanted me to write anovel to start the new edition of his Sunday paper with, but, unfortunately, I had none ready. I find myself that, for charactersketching, next to studying people from life, the best thing is tocarefully go through the writings of such people as Alfred de Musset, whose little _caprices_ are so delicate. I think that the best Societynovelists at present, who write with a real knowledge of the people theyare describing, are W. E. Norris, Julian Sturgis, and Rhoda Broughton. "We continued in conversation for some time longer, until the time camefor afternoon tea, when Mrs. Henniker suggested that we should join therest of the party in the drawing room. 

Here we found a number of the A. D. C. 's engaged in merry conversation;most of them are quite young men, immensely popular in the DublinSociety and on the hunting field, where even in that great sportingcountry they are usually to be found well in the first flight. We sattalking for a few minutes, when the door suddenly opened, and a tall, singularly handsome, well-groomed young man, in morning dress, enteredthe room. Upon his appearance, Mrs. Henniker and her sister, LadyFitzgerald, and the remaining ladies and gentlemen present, rose totheir feet, for this was His Excellency the Viceroy of Ireland. It willinterest my American readers to learn that, not only do Mrs. Hennikerand Lady Fitzgerald always rise upon their brother's entrance into theroom, but it is further their custom, as it is the bounden duty of everylady, to curtsey to him profoundly on leaving the luncheon or dinnertable. His Excellency at once joined in our conversation. We werediscussing parodies at the moment, and somebody had stated--indeed Ithink it was myself--that a certain parody which had been quoted, andover which we had been laughing very heartily, was by the well-knownCambridge lyrist, C. C. Calverley. 

[Illustration: LADY FITZGERALD. ]

"No, " said Lord Houghton, "it is not by Calverley, it is by----. But, "said he, "the funniest thing I ever heard was this, " and he repeated, with immense humour, and with wonderful vivacity, a set of lines whichthrew us all into fits of laughter. I regret I am unable to recall them. The conversation drifting to memories of some of his father's celebratedfriends, His Excellency told me a delightful story of Carlyle. Itappeared that the grim old Chelsea hermit had once, when a child, savedin a teacup three bright halfpence. But a poor old Shetland beggar witha bad arm came to the door one day. Carlyle gave him all his treasure atonce. In after life, in referring to the incident, he used to say: "Thefeeling of happiness was most intense; I would give £100 now to havethat feeling for one moment back again. "

Mrs. Henniker and the Lord Lieutenant and myself drifted into quietconversation, whilst the general talk buzzed around us. She had told methat her brother had written a prize poem at Harrow, and that his recentpublications, "Stray Verses, " had all been done in a year. 

"His verses are curiously unlike those of my father, " she said. "He isvery catholic in his tastes; my father's were more poems ofreflection--they were full of the sentiment of his day. He was muchinfluenced by Mathew Arnold and his school. My brother's are much morelyrical. 

[Illustration: ST. PATRICK'S HALL. ]

"It is a curious thing, " continued Mrs. Henniker, "that one or two of myfather's poems, which were thought least of at the time, have reallybecome the most popular and the best known. There is a story concerningone of them which he often used to tell. He was visiting some friendshere in Ireland, and the beat of the horses' feet upon the road as hedrove to the house seemed to hammer out in his head certain rhythmicalideas which quickly formed themselves into rhyme. As soon as he got tothe house he went to his room and wrote the words straight out. It wasthe well-known song beginning--

 "'I wandered by the brookside, '

And having the refrain--

 "'But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. '

"When he came down to dinner he showed these verses to his friends. Theyall declared that they were unworthy of him, and advised him to throwthem into the fire. However, he did not take their advice; the momentthey were published, they caught the ear of the public, they were set tomusic, and they were to be heard wherever one went. Indeed, a friend ofhis who was sailing down a river in the Southern States of NorthAmerica, about a year afterwards, heard the slaves, as they hoed in theplantations, keeping time by singing a parody of the lines which had bythen become universally familiar. And one day, in later years, my fatherwas walking in London with a friend; they were passing the end of astreet when they heard a man singing--he stopped and listened, and thenrushed after the man. He came back a few moments afterwards, bearing aroughly printed paper in his hands. "

[Illustration: RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, FIRST LORD HOUGHTON. ]

"'I knew it was my song that he was singing, ' he said, and he wasperfectly right. He was much delighted. 

"'It's a curious fact, ' observed the Lord Lieutenant to me, 'and onewhich Wemyss Reid specially notes in his biography, that my fatherproduced the greater part of his poetry between 1830 and 1840, just whenhe was going most into Society. '"

"And you've gone in a good deal for writing verses yourself, followingin your father's footsteps, have you not, Mrs. Henniker?" said I. "Oh, "she replied, "I began writing verses very early in my life, and the mostamusing part of it is that, though I was a perfect little imp, I beganwith writing hymns. In fact, " said she, as she showed me a letter whichher father had written to a friend when she was seven years of age, "myfather had to check my early attempts in that direction. " I read withsome amusement what Lord Houghton had written about his little daughter, and I transcribe his words the more readily that they appear to me togive a glimpse into the mind of the poet and of his ideas on the originand making of poetry. He writes:

[Illustration: GROUP OF A. D. C. 'S. ]

"The second little girl has developed into a verse writer of a verycurious ability. She began theologically and wrote hymns, which I soonchecked on observing that she put together words and sentences out ofthe sacred verse she knew, and set her to write about things she saw andobserved. What she now produces is very like the verse of William Blake, and containing many images that she could never have read of. Shecannot write, but she dictates them to her elder sister, who isastonished at the phenomenon. We, of course, do not let her see that itis anything surprising, and the chances are that it goes off as she getsolder and knows more. The lyrical faculty in many nations seems tobelong to a childish condition of mind, and to disappear with experienceand knowledge. "

[Illustration: DEBUTANTES ARRIVING. ]

The conversation drifted into a discussion on the present system ofinterviewing, and Mrs. Henniker told me, with much amusement, of areporter of the _St. Louis Republic_ who called upon her father when hevisited America, who, indeed, would not be denied, but forced his wayinto Lord Houghton's bedroom, where he found him actually in bed, andwho, in relating what had passed between them, expressed his pleasure athaving seen "a real live lord, " and recorded his opinion that he was"as easy and plain as an old shoe!"

[Illustration: ASCENDING THE STAIRCASE. ]

Lord Houghton must have been a welcome guest in a country where humourand the capacity for after-dinner speeches are so warmly appreciated asin America. No more brilliant after-dinner speaker ever existed thanRichard Monckton Milnes, and the capacity for public speech, which wassuch a characteristic of the first Lord Houghton, exists no lessgracefully in his poetic and now Vice-Regal son; but it was, perhaps, asa humorist that the father specially excelled, and in glancing throughthe many letters and papers which his daughter showed me I soondiscovered this. Writing to his wife many years ago, he said: "Have youheard the last argument in favour of the Deceased Wife's Sister's Bill?It is unanswerable--if you marry two sisters, you've only onemother-in-law. " And again, on another occasion, in writing to hissister, he quaintly remarks: "I left Alfred Tennyson in our rooms at thehotel; he is strictly _incognito_, and known by everybody except T. , whoasked him if he was a Southerner, assuming that he was an American. "

[Illustration: "WAITING. "]

[Illustration: "TO BE PRESENTED. "]

We sat talking long, revolving many memories, until the shades ofevening darkened down upon the beautiful room, and broke up the party. Ijoined the A. D. C. 's in their own special sanctum. There are nine on theStaff, of whom two are always on duty. Their names are asfollows:--Capt. H. Streatfield, Capt. A. B. Ridley, Capt. M. O. Little, Capt. C. W. M. Fielden, Capt. Hon. H. F. White, Lieut. F. Douglas-Pennant, Lieut. A. P. M. Burke, Lieut. S. J. Meyrick, Lieut. C. P. Foley, and theHon. C. B. Fulke-Greville. From what they told me I judged that the lifeat the Castle must be singularly pleasant and interesting. Capt. Streatfield, who is a very _doyen_ among A. D. C. 's, has in that capacityled a life full of interest and variety, for he told me that for someyears he was A. D. C. To the Governor-General of Canada, and that later onin life he accompanied the late Duke of Clarence as his A. D. C. In India. 

The evening drifted on until it was time to dress for dinner, and weassembled, a large party of men and women, many of whom were inuniform, and some of whom displayed the pale Vice-Regal blue of thehousehold facings in the long drawing room next to that room in which wehad had afternoon tea. As His Excellency appeared, preceded by the StateSteward, Capt. The Hon. H. White, and followed by Lord Charlemont, theComptroller, we all passed through the rooms to St. Patrick's Hall, while the band played some well-known tunes. Capt. Streatfield hadcleverly sketched for me in the afternoon the curious device formed bythe tables, which was originally designed by Lord Charlemont himself, the whole giving the exact effect of a St. Andrew's Cross. Two hugespreading palms, placed in the hollows of the cross, overshadowed theVice-Regal party, which, together with the beautiful music, the groupedbanners upon the lofty walls, and the subdued lights, and the excellentdinner, all went towards the making of a very delightful evening indeed. 

[Illustration: THE ORDEAL. ]

A little later on that night--and dinner upon this occasion wasspecially early--His Excellency held a "Drawing room. " The scene uponthis occasion was particularly brilliant; the long perspectives, thesubdued lighting of the rooms, and the artistic grouping of rare exoticsand most exquisite plants and flowers constituting a _tout ensemble_, the beauty of which will never fade from my memory. The ceremony itselfwas a singularly stately and graceful one. His Excellency, clad in Courtdress, stood in the middle of the throne room, surrounded by the greatofficers of State in their robes of office. The _aides-de-camp_ stood ina semicircle between the doorway and the dais. The first ladies to bepresented were His Excellency's own sisters. It was speciallyinteresting to notice the entry of the _débutantes_, many of whom werevery beautiful, and almost all of whom were very graceful. Each younggirl carried her train, properly arranged, upon her left arm during herprogress through the corridor, drawing-room, and ante-room, until shepassed the barrier and reached the entrance to the presence chamber;there a slight touch from the first A. D. C. In waiting released it fromher arm, and two ushers, who were standing opposite, spread it carefullyupon the floor. I noticed that the A. D. C. Was careful not to let theladies follow one another too quickly, which was evidently a trial tosome of them. At the right moment he would take the card which each ladybore in her hand, pass it on to the semicircle of _aides_ who stoodwithin the room, who in their turn passed it on to the Chamberlain, whostood at the Lord Lieutenant's right hand. He having received it, thenread it aloud, and presented her to the Viceroy. The Viceroy took her bythe right hand, which was always ungloved, kissed her lightly on thecheek, whilst the lady curtsied low to him; then, gracefully backing, she retired, always with her face to the dais, from the Vice-Regalpresence. The gentlemen attending the drawing room were not, of course, presented. They simply passed through the throne room, several at atime, bowing two or three times to the Viceroy, and so joined theirparty waiting for them in the long gallery. 

At the end of the "Drawing room, " the Lord Lieutenant and the ladies andgentlemen of the household, and some of the State officials, formed aprocession, and marched with no little grace and stateliness round themagnificent hall of St. Patrick, whilst the strains of the NationalAnthem re-echoed down the long corridors and out into the star-lit windynight. 

[Illustration: CREWE HALL. ]

THE FEAR OF IT. 

BY ROBERT BARR. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. S. BOYD. 

The sea was done with him. He had struggled manfully for his life, butexhaustion came at last, and, realising the futility of furtherfighting, he gave up the battle. The tallest wave, the king of thatroaring tumultuous procession racing from the wreck to the shore, tookhim in its relentless grasp, held him towering for a moment against thesky, whirled his heels in the air, dashed him senseless on the sand, and, finally, rolled him over and over, a helpless bundle, high up uponthe sandy beach. 

Human life seems of little account when we think of the trifles thatmake towards the extinction or the extension of it. If the wave thatbore Stanford had been a little less tall, he would have been drawn backinto the sea by one that followed. If, as a helpless bundle, he had beenturned over one time more or one less, his mouth would have pressed intothe sand, and he would have died. As it was, he lay on his back witharms outstretched on either side, and a handful of dissolving sand inone clinched fist. Succeeding waves sometimes touched him, but he laythere unmolested by the sea with his white face turned to the sky. 

Oblivion has no calendar. A moment or an eternity are the same to it. When consciousness slowly returned, he neither knew nor cared how timehad fled. He was not quite sure that he was alive, but weakness ratherthan fear kept him from opening his eyes to find out whether the worldthey would look upon was the world they had last gazed at. His interest, however, was speedily stimulated by the sound of the English tongue. Hewas still too much dazed to wonder at it, and to remember that he wascast away on some unknown island in the Southern Seas. But the purportof the words startled him. 

"Let us be thankful. He is undoubtedly dead. " This was said in a tone ofinfinite satisfaction. 

There seemed to be a murmur of pleasure at the announcement from thosewho were with the speaker. Stanford slowly opened his eyes, wonderingwhat these savages were who rejoiced in the death of an inoffensivestranger cast upon their shores. He saw a group standing around him, buthis attention speedily became concentrated on one face. The owner of it, he judged, was not more than nineteen years of age, and the face--atleast so it seemed to Stanford at the time--was the most beautiful hehad ever beheld. There was an expression of sweet gladness upon it untilher eyes met his, then the joy faded from the face, and a look of dismaytook its place. The girl seemed to catch her breath in fear, and tearsfilled her eyes. 

[Illustration: "HE IS UNDOUBTEDLY DEAD. "]

"Oh, " she cried, "he is going to live. " She covered her face with herhands, and sobbed. 

Stanford closed his eyes wearily. "I am evidently insane, " he said tohimself. Then, losing faith in the reality of things, he lostconsciousness as well, and when his senses came to him again he foundhimself lying on a bed in a clean but scantily furnished room. Throughan open window came the roar of the sea, and the thunderous boom of thefalling waves brought to his mind the experiences through which he hadpassed. The wreck and the struggle with the waves he knew to be real, but the episode on the beach he now believed to have been but a visionresulting from his condition. 

[Illustration: "A PLACID-FACED NURSE STOOD BY HIS BED. "]

A door opened noiselessly, and, before he knew of anyone's entrance, aplacid-faced nurse stood by his bed and asked him how he was. 

"I don't know. I am at least alive. "

The nurse sighed, and cast down her eyes. Her lips moved, but she saidnothing. Stanford looked at her curiously. A fear crept over him thatperhaps he was hopelessly crippled for life, and that death wasconsidered preferable to a maimed existence. He felt wearied, though notin pain, but he knew that sometimes the more desperate the hurt, theless the victim feels it at first. 

"Are--are any of my--my bones broken, do you know?" he asked. 

"No. You are bruised, but not badly hurt. You will soon recover. "

"Ah!" said Stanford, with a sigh of relief. "By the way, " he added, withsudden interest, "who was that girl who stood near me as I lay on thebeach?"

"There were several. "

"No, there was but one. I mean the girl with the beautiful eyes and ahalo of hair like a glorified golden crown on her head. "

"We speak not of our women in words like those, " said the nurse, severely; "you mean Ruth, perhaps, whose hair is plentiful and yellow. "

Stanford smiled. "Words matter little, " he said. 

"We must be temperate in speech, " replied the nurse. 

"We may be temperate without being teetotal. Plentiful and yellow, indeed! I have had a bad dream concerning those who found me. I thoughtthat they--but it does not matter. She at least is not a myth. Do youhappen to know if any others were saved?"

"I am thankful to be able to say that every one was drowned. "

Stanford started up with horror in his eyes. The demure nurse, withsympathetic tones, bade him not excite himself. He sank back on hispillow. 

"Leave the room, " he cried feebly. "Leave me--leave me. " He turned hisface toward the wall, while the woman left silently as she had entered. 

[Illustration: "HE NOTICED THAT THE DOOR HAD NO FASTENING. "]

When she was gone Stanford slid from the bed, intending to make his wayto the door and fasten it. He feared that these savages, who wished himdead, would take measures to kill him when they saw that he was going torecover. As he leaned against the bed, he noticed that the door had nofastening. There was a rude latch, but neither lock nor bolt. Thefurniture of the room was of the most meagre description, clumsily made. He staggered to the open window, and looked out. The remnants of thedisastrous gale blew in upon him and gave him new life, as it hadformerly threatened him with death. He saw that he was in a village ofsmall houses, each cottage standing in its own plot of ground. It wasapparently a village of one street, and over the roofs of the housesopposite he saw in the distance the white waves of the sea. Whatastonished him most was a church with its tapering spire at the end ofthe street--a wooden church such as he had seen in remote Americansettlements. The street was deserted, and there were no signs of life inthe houses. 

"I must have fallen in upon some colony of lunatics, " he said tohimself. "I wonder to what country these people belong--either toEngland or the United States, I imagine--yet in all my travels I neverheard of such a colony. "

There was no mirror in the room, and it was impossible for him to knowhow he looked. His clothes were dry and powdered with salt. He arrangedthem as well as he could, and slipped out of the house unnoticed. Whenhe reached the outskirts of the village he saw that the inhabitants, both men and women, were working in the fields some distance away. Coming towards the village was a girl with a water-can in either hand. She was singing as blithely as a lark until she saw Stanford, whereuponshe paused both in her walk and in her song. Stanford, never a backwardman, advanced, and was about to greet her when she forestalled him bysaying:

"I am grieved, indeed, to see that you have recovered. "

The young man's speech was frozen on his lip, and a frown settled on hisbrow. Seeing that he was annoyed, though why she could not guess, Ruthhastened to amend matters by adding:

"Believe me, what I say is true. I am indeed sorry. "

"Sorry that I live?"

"Most heartily am I. "

"It is hard to credit such a statement from one so--from you. "

"Do not say so. Miriam has already charged me with being glad that youwere not drowned. It would pain me deeply if you also believed as shedoes. "

The girl looked at him with swimming eyes, and the young man knew notwhat to answer. Finally he said:

"There is some horrible mistake. I cannot make it out. Perhaps ourwords, though apparently the same, have a different meaning. Sit down, Ruth, I want to ask you some questions. "

Ruth cast a timorous glance towards the workers, and murmured somethingabout not having much time to spare, but she placed the water-cans onthe ground and sank down on the grass. Stanford throwing himself on thesward at her feet, but, seeing that she shrank back, he drew himselffurther from her, resting where he might gaze upon her face. 

Ruth's eyes were downcast, which was necessary, for she occupied herselfin pulling blade after blade of grass, sometimes weaving them together. Stanford had said he wished to question her, but he apparently forgothis intention, for he seemed wholly satisfied with merely looking ather. After the silence had lasted for some time, she lifted her eyes forone brief moment, and then asked the first question herself. 

"From what land do you come?"

"From England. "

"Ah! that also is an island, is it not?"

He laughed at the "also, " and remembered that he had some questions toask. 

[Illustration: "SHE LIFTED HER EYES FOR ONE BRIEF MOMENT. "]

"Yes, it is an island--also. The sea dashes wrecks on all four sides ofit, but there is no village on its shores so heathenish that if a man iscast upon the beach the inhabitants do not rejoice because he hasescaped death. "

Ruth looked at him with amazement in her eyes. 

"Is there, then, no religion in England?"

"Religion? England is the most religious country on the face of theearth. There are more cathedrals, more churches, more places of worshipin England than in any other State that I know of. We send missionariesto all heathenish lands. The Government, itself, supports the Church. "

"I fear, then, I mistook your meaning. I thought from what you said thatthe people of England feared death, and did not welcome it or rejoicewhen one of their number died. "

"They do fear death, and they do not rejoice when it comes. Far from it. From the peer to the beggar, everyone fights death as long as he can;the oldest cling to life as eagerly as the youngest. Not a man but willspend his last gold piece to ward off the inevitable even for an hour. "

"Gold piece--what is that?"

Stanford plunged his hand into his pocket. 

"Ah!" he said, "there are some coins left. Here is a gold piece. "

The girl took it, and looked at it with keen interest. 

"Isn't it pretty?" she said, holding the yellow coin on her pink palm, and glancing up at him. 

"That is the general opinion. To accumulate coins like that, men willlie, and cheat, and steal--yes, and work. Although they will give theirlast sovereign to prolong their lives, yet will they risk life itself toaccumulate gold. Every business in England is formed merely for thegathering together of bits of metal like that in your hand; hugecompanies of men are formed so that it may be piled up in greaterquantities. The man who has most gold has most power, and is generallythe most respected; the company which makes most money is the one peopleare most anxious to belong to. "

Ruth listened to him with wonder and dismay in her eyes. As he talkedshe shuddered, and allowed the yellow coin to slip from her hand to theground. 

"No wonder such a people fears death. "

"Do you not fear death?"

"How can we, when we believe in heaven?"

"But would you not be sorry if someone died whom you loved?"

"How could we be so selfish? Would you be sorry if your brother, orsomeone you loved, became possessed of whatever you value in England--alarge quantity of this gold, for instance?"

"Certainly not. But then you see--well, it isn't exactly the same thing. If one you care for dies you are separated from him, and----"

"But only for a short time, and that gives but another reason forwelcoming death. It seems impossible that Christian people should fearto enter Heaven. Now I begin to understand why our forefathers leftEngland, and why our teachers will never tell us anything about thepeople there. I wonder why missionaries are not sent to England to teachthem the truth, and try to civilise the people?"

"That would, indeed, be coals to Newcastle. But here comes one of theworkers. "

"It is my father, " cried the girl, rising. "I fear I have beenloitering. I never did such a thing before. "

The man who approached was stern of countenance. 

"Ruth, " he said, "the workers are athirst. "

The girl, without reply, picked up her pails and departed. 

"I have been receiving, " said the young man, colouring slightly, "someinstruction regarding your belief. I had been puzzled by several remarksI heard, and wished to make inquiries regarding them. "

"It is more fitting, " said the man, coldly, "that you should receiveinstruction from me or from some of the elders than from one of theyoungest in the community. When you are so far recovered as to be ableto listen to an exposition of our views, I hope to be able to put forthsuch arguments as will convince you that they are the true views. If itshould so happen that my arguments are not convincing, then I mustrequest that you will hold no communication with our younger members. They must not be contaminated by the heresies of the outside world. "

[Illustration: "RUTH AT THE WELL. "]

Stanford looked at Ruth standing beside the village well. 

"Sir, " he said, "you underrate the argumentative powers of the youngermembers. There is a text bearing upon the subject which I need notrecall to you. I am already convinced. "

[Illustration: POLITICAL EXILES EN ROUTE FOR SIBERIA]

MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NIHILIST. 

BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. ST. M. FITZ-GERALD. 

INTRODUCTION. 

BY MRS. MONA CAIRD. 

In giving to the world her exciting and terrible story, "MademoiselleSophie" has also conveyed incidentally some idea of her remarkablecharacter. As I had the privilege of hearing from her own lips all thatshe relates in this series of papers, I can supplement her unintentionalself-portraiture by recording the impression that she made upon me atour first meeting. 

I had always taken a strong interest in the political movements ofRussia and in the Slavonic races whose character and temperament havesomething more or less mysterious to the Western mind. The Russian novelpresents rather than explains this mystery. It is perhaps to the Tartarblood that we must attribute the incomprehensible element. Between theEast and the West, there is, psychologically speaking, a great gulffixed. 

There are times when the reader of Russian fiction begins to wonderwhether he or the author is not a little off his mental balance, sofantastic, so inconsequent, yet so insanely logical (so to put it) arethe beings with whom he finds himself surrounded--beings, however, evidently and bewilderingly human, so that though they may appearscarcely in their right minds (as we should judge our compatriots), theycan never be mistaken for mere figures of sawdust and plaster such aspeople extensive realms of Western fiction. It is the reality of thecharacters, coupled with their eccentric demeanour (the most humdrumSlav appears wildly original to the inexperienced Anglo-Saxon), thatstirs anxiety. 

Would "Mademoiselle Sophie" be like one of these erratic creations, orwould she resemble the heroines of Russian political history whosemarvellous courage and endurance excite the wonder of all who can evendimly realise what it must be to live from moment to moment in imminentperil of life and limb, and in ceaseless anxiety as to the fate ofrelatives and friends? Of all the trials that "Mademoiselle Sophie" wentthrough, this last, she told me, was the worst. The absolute silence, the absolute ignorance in which she had to pass her days, seemed to havebroken her wonderful spirit more than any other hardship. 

It is not every day in the Nineteenth century that one comes in contactwith a human being who has had to submit to the "ordeal by fire" in thisliteral mediæval fashion; who has endured perils, insults, physicalprivations and torments, coupled with intense and ceaseless anxiety foryears; and this in extreme youth before the troubles and difficulties oflife have more gradually and gently taught the lessons of endurance andsilent courage that probably have to be learnt by all who are destinedto develop and gather force as they go, and not to dwindle and weaken, as seems to be the lot of those less fortunate in circumstance or lesswell-equipped at birth for the struggles that in one form or anotherpresent themselves in every career. 

Russia is a nation that may almost be said to have preserved to this daythe conditions of the Middle Ages. It affords, therefore, to the curiousan opportunity for the study of the effect upon human character of theseconditions. Here are still retained, to all intents and purposes, thethumbscrew and the rack; indeed, this is the case in a literal sense, for "Mademoiselle Sophie" told me that it was certain that prisonerswere sometimes tortured in secret, after the good old-fashioned methods, not exactly officially (since the matter was kept more or less dark), but nevertheless by men in the employment of the Government who wereable to take advantage of the powers bestowed by their office topractise despotism even to this extreme. 

Many of the so-called Nihilists or Revolutionists (as "MademoiselleSophie" insisted on styling the more moderate party to which shebelongs) seem to stand in the position of the early Protestants, whenthey protested against the abuses of the Catholic Church while retainingtheir reverence for the institution itself. 

It is not against the Government, so much as against the illegal andtyrannous cruelty practised by many of its officials, that a certainsection of the "Revolutionists" raise a remonstrance. It is astonishinghow conservative some of these terrible "Revolutionists" appear to be. Many of them still look to the Tzar with a pathetic conviction that allwould be well, if only the cry of his distressed children could reachhis paternal ears. They ask so little; they would be thankful for suchsmall mercies; yet there is apparently slight hope that the Tzar will beallowed to hear or would listen to the appeal of his much-enduringpeople!

"Mademoiselle Sophie" had promised to take tea with me on a particularafternoon, and to give me an account of her imprisonment. I had heardthe general outlines before, but was anxious to hear her tell the talein her own words. I may mention here that "Mademoiselle Sophie's"acquaintance had been _sought_, and that the idea of writing her storyfor publication in England did not emanate from her. Of her veracitythere is not the faintest question; moreover, there was, evidently, nomotive for deception. 

Though I had heard that "Mademoiselle Sophie" had been a mere girl whenshe was first sent to face the rigours of a Russian prison, I wasscarcely prepared to see anyone so young and fragile-looking as the ladyin black who entered the room, with a quiet, reserved manner, courteousand dignified. I felt something like a thrill of dismay when I realisedthat it was an extremely sensitive woman who had gone through the scenesthat she describes in these pages. She had been the more ill-preparedfor the hardships of prison-life from having passed her childhood amidstevery care and comfort. 

[Illustration: MRS. MONA CAIRD. ]

She was singularly reticent and self-possessed. In speaking, there wasno emotional emphasis, whatever she might be saying. The only comment onher narrative that one could detect was an occasional touch of coldscorn or irony. The more terrible the incident that she related, themore quiet became her tones. 

It seemed as if the flame of indignation had burnt itself out in theyears of suffering that she had passed through. The traces of thoseyears were in her face. Its very stillness and pallor seemed to tellthe tale of pain endured silently and in solitude for so long. It waswritten, too, in the steadfast quality that expressed itselfin her whole bearing, and in the entire absence of any pettyself-consciousness. In spite of the awful nervous strain that she hadendured she had no little restless habits or movements of any kind. 

One felt in her a vast reserve force and a dauntless courage. It wascourage of a kind that is almost terrible, for it accompanied a highlyorganised and imaginative temperament, a nervous temperament, be itobserved, which implies _controlled_ and _ordered_, not _uncontrolled_and _disordered_ nervous power. The half-hysterical persons who classthemselves among the possessors of this temperament are apt to overlookthat important distinction. 

"Mademoiselle Sophie" gained none of her courage from insensitiveness. Her whole life was dedicated to the cause of her country, and thepersonal elements had been sacrificed to this object beyond herself: theforlorn hope which has already claimed so many of the noblest andbravest spirits in all the Tzar's dominions. 

After "Mademoiselle Sophie" left that afternoon, I could not helpplacing her in imagination beside the average woman that our owncivilisation has produced (not a fair comparison doubtless); and thelatter seemed painfully small in aim and motive, pitifully petty andfussy and lacking in repose and dignity when compared with the calmheroine of this Russian romance. 

But human beings are the creations of their circumstances, and thecircumstances of a Western woman's life are not favourable to thedevelopment of the grander qualities, though, indeed, they are oftenharassing and bewildering, and cruel enough to demand heroism as greateven as that of "Mademoiselle Sophie. " I think it would be salutary forall of us--men as well as women of the West--to come more often withinthe influence of such natures as this; natures that command the tributeof admiration and the reverence that one must instantly yield to greatmoral strength and nobility. 

MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NIHILIST. 

BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. ST. M. FITZ-GERALD. 

I. 

DEAR MESSIEURS, You have asked me for a few reminiscences of the time when I took a moreor less active part in the Revolutionary Movement in Russia--a sort ofautobiographical sketch, to be published in English. As I never had thegood fortune to render any really important service to my country, Ihave no right to draw public attention upon myself, and no wish to doso. But my experiences, of which I have told you a good deal by word ofmouth, have been, save for sundry personal details, very like those ofthousands of other young Russians, who, unwilling and unable to acceptquietly the order of things that weighs so heavily upon their country, have devoted all their strength and all their faculties to the greatstruggle for freedom, which you of Western Europe call the NihilisticMovement. In your opinion, it is just because of its simplicity and itslikeness to many others, that the story of my life may possess somevalue; and perhaps you are right. At any rate, since to interest if buta small number of people in the lot of those who serve "the cause, " willbe to serve the cause still further--and it is, for the rest, the causeof common humanity and justice--I herewith put at your disposition suchof my souvenirs as I am at liberty to make public, at the same timereminding you of your promise to preserve my incognito intact. 

And now for my facts:

It was the year 188-. My brother had been arrested during the winter. At the beginning of the spring I went to X----, to the house of my uncleand aunt, to pass the summer, and to rest after the emotional strain Ihad been under. At least, such was the explanation of my leaving St. Petersburg which I gave to the police of that city, when I asked themfor a passport for the interior of the Empire. As a matter of fact, Iwas anxious to see certain of my brother's friends at X----, with theobject of trying, with their assistance, to destroy the traces of hislast visit there--traces which, if discovered by the police, might beextremely detrimental to Serge's interests. On my arrival in thetown--where, by the way, it was my habit to pass all my holidays--Ifound the Nihilist community, many of whose members were old friends ofmine, in serious trouble. The police had just been making a terribleraid among them. Many had been arrested. The others, under strictsurveillance, were daily expecting to be arrested in their turn. 

[Illustration: "SERGE WAS ARRESTED. "]

[Illustration: "TEACHING THEM TO READ AND WRITE. "]

This circumstance, apart from the regret it caused me, had aconsiderable influence upon my relations with the local revolutionaryorganisation. The centre of this organisation was a group of young menand women, who, besides the revolutionary agitation that they werecarrying on, were in correspondence with other groups of the same sort, for the purpose of exchanging books, helping comrades to escape fromprison and fly the country, and so forth. X---- is a big town, chieflygiven up to manufactures; and at the time of which I speak there wasgathered around this central group a sort of duplex association, composed, on the one hand, of well-educated young folks, and, on theother, of working men. As a precautionary measure, the association as awhole was split up into a number of small circles, or clubs, that metseparately, and knew nothing of one another. It was especially in thesesmaller clubs that the members of the central group carried on theirpropaganda, the aim of which was then, as it is to-day, to alter thepresent method of government, to rid the country of the despotism thatbears so heavily upon it, and stops its development, and thus to makepossible at once an improvement in the condition of the labouringclasses, and a reconstruction of Russian society upon a more rationaland a more humane basis. With the working people, however, therevolutionists were often forced to begin by teaching them to read andwrite. Outside of all these clubs, there were in the town a good manypeople who, while taking no direct part in the movement, sympathisedwith it, and did what they could to aid and abet it by gifts of money, and by providing refuge for such of the active members as were hidingfrom the police. With these very useful friends the revolutionists keptup more or less continuous relations. 

The programme of the group at X---- needed for its accomplishment alarge force of devoted and trustworthy workers; and the arrests that hadbeen made just before my arrival had considerably thinned their ranks. This circumstance, as I have said, changed the nature of my ownrelations with the revolutionary organisation. Hitherto my visits to thetown had been short, only to spend my school holidays in fact. Veryyoung, moreover, I had never belonged to any of the clubs; and myfriendships with their members had been purely personal. Now, however, Iwas older, and I had come to stop at X---- for several months. In theface of the gaps the late arrests had made in the little army ofrevolutionists, I felt that I must enlist. I offered my services, andthey were accepted. 

Towards the middle of the summer, my uncle and aunt went to Moroznoië, alittle village near the town where their property lay. Leaving St. Petersburg before the end of the University year, I, a student ofmedicine, had been obliged to put off my examinations until the autumn. These examinations, or rather, my necessity to work and prepare forthem, coupled with the presence of a fine public library at X----, gaveme the pretext I needed to stay behind during the family villegiatura. After some opposition, and a good deal of talk about the superiority ofcountry air, my uncle and aunt consented--the more easily, perhaps, because, after all, I was not to be alone; my Aunt Vera and two servantswere to remain in the town house. Besides, my uncle and his wife wereoften coming back for a day or two at a time, and I promised to pass allmy Sundays with them. This arrangement suited me perfectly. My AuntVera, my dead father's sister, was the sweetest and gentlest of women, an invalid, with an infinite tenderness for Serge and myself, theorphans of her favourite brother. The servants also, an old nurse and agardener, were entirely devoted to my family and to me. I was thereforefree, mistress of the house, of my time, of myself. Divided between mystudies, a few visits paid and received, and my weekly trip toMoroznoië, my life flowed peacefully, monotonously enough--on thesurface. 

[Illustration: "WE ARE BETRAYED!"]

Down deep, alas! it was not the same. Our revolutionary group was beingharried by the police, and their arrests and domiciliary visits wereconducted with so much skill and certainty, we were forced to believeat last that we were betrayed by a traitor or a spy among our ownnumbers. Strictly watched by the police, who kept us "moving on, "avoided on that account by some of our friends, and knowing perfectlywell that a single false step might bring ruin not only upon ourselves, but upon many others, we were obliged to be extremely cautious, and notto meet too often. A few furtive interviews now and again for theinterchange of news, a few sparsely attended rendezvous for the purposeof keeping the threads of our organisation together, were pretty nearlyall that we thought safe to permit ourselves. This mode of life--sotranquil to outward appearance, but in reality so full of anxiety foreach and all; a life without a to-morrow, so that when we parted we didnot know whether we should ever meet again, and it became our habit tosay _Adieu_ instead of _Au revoir_--lasted for me about five months. Melancholy enough, indeed, it had notwithstanding a charm of its own, acharm that sprang partly, perhaps, from the consciousness of dangersincurred for a noble object, and from the feeling of grave moralresponsibility that we all had. A few episodes of that time are deeplyfixed in my memory. A meeting we held one evening at twilight in a richpark near the town, a park that belonged to a high personage at theImperial Court, whose son was one of us. There we met and whispered, andthe murmur of the leaves overhead and the deepening shadows of thenightfall lent an intense colour of poetry to the situation. And thenanother meeting, in the poor little lodging of a factory-operative--aspecial meeting, called because our suspicions of treason within our ownranks had centred now upon a certain individual, a student, a collegefriend of my cousins, a constant visitor at our house. At this meeting aplan was adopted to test our suspect, and prove whether or not he wasthe guilty man. I, the next time he called, was to put him on a falsescent; I was to tell him that a reunion of Nihilists would be held at agiven place and a given time; and then we would await developments. Iwas also to draw him out, if possible, and make him convict himself fromhis own mouth. But this I could not do. I put him on the false scent;but I couldn't draw him out. It is terrible to hold the life of a humanbeing between your hands, even though that human being be the basest ofcowards and traitors. 

Well, at the time and place that I told him of, surely enough, thepolice turned up, and naturally they found nobody there. But during thetwo following nights twenty fresh arrests took place; and I was one ofthose arrested. My cousins' friend, feeling himself discovered andmenaced, had made haste to deliver us into the hands of our enemies!

[Illustration: "I WAITED A MOMENT TO TAKE BREATH. "]

That evening I had come home rather late, and had then sat and chattedfor a long while with aunt Vera, so that it was well towards midnightbefore I started to go to bed. Half-way upstairs, I was stopped by anoise; footsteps and stifled voices, mingled with the clang of spurs andsabres. I waited a moment, to take breath, which had failed mesuddenly; then I went back downstairs. A violent pull at the bell, animperative pull, sounded at the garden gate; and in a moment wasfollowed by another at the door of the house. It woke the old nurse, andbrought my aunt Vera from her room. Having been a little forewarned byme of the possibility of such a visit as this, she questioned me with afrightened glance. I answered "Yes, " by a sign of the head, and beggedher under my breath to delay "them" as long as possible before letting"them" come in. The idea of being able to render me a service, perhapsthe last, gave her strength and courage; and while slowly, very slowly, she moved towards the door, where the nocturnal visitors were gettingimpatient and trying to force the lock, I went into the dining-room. Amoment later I heard her sweet trembling voice assuring Monsieur leColonel de Gendarmerie that there was no one in the house; all thefamily were at Moroznoië; my uncle had been in town on Monday, but hadleft again on Tuesday, and wouldn't return till the end of next week;and there was no one here but herself, the speaker, and a young ladyvisiting her. In this little respite, which I had arranged for myselfwithout too well knowing why, I remained inert in the room, lightedfeebly by a single candle, and tried to gather my thoughts together:they were slow enough to respond to my efforts. My first notion was thatof flight, and, automatically, I opened a window. Close at hand, behindsome shrubbery, I perceived the glitter of a gendarme's uniform. Therewould surely be others in the garden and in the courtyard; and for therest, fly--? How, and whither? I shut the window, and coming back to themiddle of the room, I caught a glimpse of myself in the chimney-glass. Iwas very pale. Was I going to be a coward? This question, and that paleface in the mirror, awoke in me other thoughts, brought back to mymemory other faces: that of my brother, who, a few months before, hadgone so bravely from his home, to which he would never return, to theprison that he would perhaps never leave; those of friends latelyarrested; those of so many, many noble men and women. Was I going to bea coward? So the examples set by these others turned my attention frommyself, calmed me, gave me strength. I could hear the voice of ColonelP----, who, impatient of my aunt's parleying, briefly bade her hold hertongue, and conduct him to the presence of her niece, MademoiselleSophie. That voice, rude and gross, had the effect of changing the moraldepression which I had felt a moment ago into a sort of intense nervousexcitement; and at the moment when the Colonel, followed by his men, appeared upon the threshold of the dining-room, honouring me with thevery least respectful of bows, I, instead of saluting him in return, methim with a gaze as fixed and haughty as his own. 

[Illustration: "MET HIM WITH A GAZE AS FIXED AND HAUGHTY AS HIS OWN. "]

A minute later the Colonel was installed at the dinner-table, with thewhole household arraigned before him, and everybody forbidden to leavethe room. He asked my aunt Vera for the keys of the house, and thesearch began. The gendarmes scattered themselves through all the rooms, through the garden, the courtyard, the offices, and turned everythingupside down, emptying wardrobes and cupboards, unmaking the beds, movingthe articles of furniture to see that nothing was hidden behind them, and trying the screws to discover if there were any secret drawers. Inmy bedroom, which was of course the object of a very particularattention, a spy dressed in civilian's costume got up on the tables andchairs, and tapped on the walls. Another drew the ashes, still hot, fromthe stove, and examined them by the light of a lamp, held by a biggendarme. From time to time these men would come back to thedining-room, bringing armfuls of books, and school papers belonging tomy cousins, which they would deposit upon the table before ColonelP----. After looking them over, he would throw them aside with suchmanifest ill humour, that I, who by this time had myself completelyunder control, couldn't let the occasion pass to condole with him on thesad nature of his trade. The whole search was a useless and odiousfarce, for I knew that there was nothing in the house of the kind theywere looking for. Still I wasn't sorry to let them prolong it, for thatgave me more time to stay there at home, beside my aunt Vera, who, smaller and feebler and paler than ever, turned her dear eyes, full offear and tenderness, upon my face, and kept stroking my hand with hertwo trembling ones. 

[Illustration: "A LAMP HELD BY A BIG GENDARME. "]

The search was nearly over, when a gendarme came in from the stable witha great parcel of books, done up in green cloth, which he laid beforethe Colonel. Opened, the parcel proved to contain not books only, but_forbidden_ books--books by Herbert Spencer, by Mr. Ruskin, by MonsieurRenan! I was astonished at seeing them, and my first thought was thatthey belonged to my brother, who might have forgotten them there in thestable, or to my cousins, who, without being revolutionists, wereinterested in forbidden literature just because it was forbidden. Sowhen the Colonel, having finished his inspection of them, asked me whomthey belonged to, I answered quietly, "To me. " My aunt Vera, to whom Ihad always promised never to bring "forbidden" things into the house, looked at me sadly, reproachfully. Ah! my dear aunt, I lied in sayingthey were mine; but in my situation a few forbidden books couldn'tmatter much; whereas for the others, for my innocent cousins--who knowswhat serious trouble they might have got them into?

The Colonel demanded, "Where do these books come from?"

"From the people who had them last. "

"Their names?"

"What, Colonel! You, the chief of the secret police of X----, you don'tknow!"

This answer kindled a light of anger in his little Chinese eyes. For mypart, I had spoken very slowly, looking steadily at him, and smiling asif it were a jest; but it wasn't exactly a jest. While the Colonel hadbeen questioning me, I had reflected. It was impossible that my cousinsshould have had books of this sort in their possession without speakingto me about them; and it was most unlikely that they could have belongedto Serge, who, always very careful, made it a strict rule never to bringanything of a compromising nature to our uncle's house. But I had oftenheard that the political police, to create evidence against people whomthey strongly suspected, but who were too prudent for their taste, andalso to make their arrests appear less arbitrary in the eyes of thepublic, had a pleasant habit of bringing "forbidden" things with them tothe houses where they made their perquisitions, for the sake ofsupplying what they might not be able to find. Was this what hadhappened now? Had I been caught in such a trap?

That was what I asked the Colonel in the form of a little jest. 

Did he understand? He answered with a piece of advice: that I should beless gay. For the rest, he was in a hurry; he looked at his watch;announced that all was over, and that I was under arrest; and called forwitnesses to sign the _procès-verbal_. Our gardener ran out to findsomebody. He came back with two people who had been attracted to ourhouse by the lights and the noise. One was a cabman, the other was Dr. A----, a neighbour who had recently come to live at X----, and whom weknew only by sight. These men stared at me with surprise and curiosity. I scarcely saw them. The words "Under arrest" had completely upset myAunt Vera, who, till then so calm, was now crying bitterly, covering mewith kisses, and repeating, "My child! My child!" The old nurse also wascrying, sobbing, and muttering to herself. Just when I feel that Imyself am about to give way, and cry too--that which I am anxious, mostanxious, not to do--she, the old nurse, throws herself at the Colonel'sfeet, and begs grace for me, telling him that I am too young, too frail, to go to prison, that I have been coughing these many days, that I maydie there! This makes the Colonel smile. For me, I tell the old nurse toget up. I scold her. Stupefied, trembling, she sinks to the floor in acorner of the room, and weeps for me as the Russian peasants weep fortheir dead, mingling with her sobs memories of our common past, praisesof my good qualities, and so forth. All this, uttered in a lowsing-song, is like a sort of funeral dirge. 

[Illustration: "THROWS HERSELF AT THE COLONEL'S FEET. "]

I hear it still at the moment when the Colonel shuts me into a cab, withtwo gendarmes facing me, and another on the box beside the driver, towhom the order is given, "The fortress!"

Sophie Wassilieff. 

(_To be continued. _)

PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET. 

BY SCOTT RANKIN. 

BRET HARTE. 

"'When a man is interviewed he, consciously or unconsciously, prepareshimself for it and isn't at all natural. Suppose, for instance, youfound your man in a railway car, and entered casually into conversationwith him. Then you would probably get his real thoughts--the man as heis. But, of course, when a man is asked questions, and sees the answerstaken down in shorthand, it is a very different thing. '"--Bret Harte. 

MY SERVANT JOHN. 

BY ARCHIBALD FORBES. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BY FREDERIC VILLIERS. 

Goa is a forlorn and decayed settlement on the west coast of Hindustan, the last remaining relic of the once wide dominions of the Portuguese inIndia. Its inhabitants are of the Roman Catholic faith, ever since inthe 16th century St. Francis Xavier, the colleague of Loyola in thefoundation of the Society of Jesus, baptised the Goanese in a mass. Itsonce splendid capital is now a miasmatic wreck, its cathedrals andchurches are ruined and roofless, and only a few black nuns remain tokeep alight the sacred fire before a crumbling altar. Of all Europeannations the Portuguese have intermingled most freely with the duskyraces over which they held dominion, with the curious result that theoffspring of the cross is darker in hue than the original colouredpopulation. To-day, the adult males of Goa, such of them as have anyenterprise, emigrate into less dull and dead regions of India, and arefound everywhere as cooks, ship-stewards, messengers, and in similarmenial capacities. They all call themselves Portuguese, and ownhigh-sounding Portuguese surnames. Domingo de Gonsalvez de Soto willcook your curry, and Pedro de Guiterraz is content to act as dry nurseto your wife's babies. The vice of those dusky noblemen is theiraddiction to drink. 

[Illustration: "JOHN. "]

The better sort of these self-expatriated Goanese are eager to serve astravelling servants, and when you have the luck to chance on areasonably sober fellow, no better servant can be found anywhere. Beinga Christian, he has no caste, and has no religious scruples preventinghim from wiping your razor after you have shaved, or from eating hisdinner after your shadow has happened to fall across the table. InBombay there is a regular club or society of these Goanese travellingservants, and when the transient wayfarer lands in that city from thePeninsular and Oriental mail boat, one of the first things he is advisedto do is to send round to the "Goa Club" and desire the secretary tosend him a travelling servant. The result is a lottery. The man arrives, mostly a good-looking fellow, tall and slight, of very dark olivecomplexion, with smooth glossy hair, large soft eyes, and well-cutfeatures. He produces a packet of chafed and dingy testimonials ofcharacter from previous employers, all full of commendation, and not oneof which is worth the paper it is written on, because the good-naturedprevious employer was too soft of heart to speak his mind on paper. Ifby chance a stern and ruthless person has characterised Bartolomeo deBraganza as drunken, lazy, and dishonest, Bartolomeo, who has learnt toread English, promptly destroys the "chit, " and the stern man's objectis thus frustrated. But you must take the Goa man as he comes, for it isa law of the society that its members are offered in strict successionas available, and that no picking and choosing is to be allowed. Whenwith the Prince of Wales during his tour in India, the man who fell tome, good, steady, honest Francis, was simply a dusky jewel. My comrade, Mr. Henty, the well-known author of so many boys' books, rather crowedover me because Domingo, his man, seemed more spry and smart than did myFrancis. But Francis had often to attend on Henty as well as myself, when Domingo the quick-witted was lying blind drunk at the back of thetent, and once and again I have seen Henty carrying down on his back tothe departing train the unconscious servant on whom at the beginning hehad congratulated himself. 

[Illustration: "THE OLD AMEER. "]

In the summer of 1876, Shere Ali, the old Ameer of Afghanistan, took itinto his head to pick a quarrel with the Viceroy of British India. LordLytton was always spoiling for a fight himself, and thus there was everyprospect of a lively little war. If war should occur, it was my duty tobe in the thick of it, and I reached Bombay well in time to see theopening of the campaign. Knowing the ropes, within an hour of landing Isent to the "Goa Club" for a servant, begging that, if possible, I mighthave worthy Francis, who had fully satisfied me during the tour of thePrince. Francis was not available, and there was sent me a tall, prepossessing-looking young man, who presented himself as "John Assissisde Compostella de Crucis, " but was quite content to answer to the nameof "John. "

John seemed a capable man, but was occasionally muzzy. After visitingSimla, the headquarters of the Viceroy, I started for the frontier, where the army was mustering. On the way down I spent a couple of daysat Umballa, to buy kit and saddlery. The train by which I was going totravel up-country was due at Umballa about midnight. I instructed Johnto have everything at the depôt in good time, and went to dine at themess of the Carbineers. In due time I reached the station, accompaniedby several officers of that fine regiment. The train was at theplatform; my belongings I found in a chaotic heap, crowned by John fastasleep, who, when awakened, proved to be extremely drunk. I could notdispense with the man; I had to cure him. There was but one chance ofdoing this. I gave him then and there a severe beating. A fatigue partyof Carbineers pitched my kit into the baggage car, and threw John inafter it. Next day he was sore, but penitent. There was no need to sendhim to Dwight, even if that establishment had been in the Punjaubinstead of in Illinois. John was redeemed without resorting to thechloride of gold cure, and in his case at least, I was quite assuccessful a practitioner as any Dr. Keeley could have been. John deCompostella, &c. , was a dead sober man during my subsequent experienceof him, at least till close on the time we parted. 

[Illustration: "EXTREMELY DRUNK. "]

And, once cured of fuddling, he turned out a most worthy and efficientfellow. He lacked the dash of Andreas, but he was as true as steel. Inthe attack on Ali Musjid, in the throat of the Khyber Pass, the nativegroom, who was leading my horse behind me, became demoralised by therather heavy fire of big cannon balls from the fort, and skulked to therear with the horse. John had no call to come under fire, since thegroom was specially paid for doing so; but abusing the latter for acoward in the expressive vernacular of India, he laid hold of the reins, and was up right at my back just as the close musketry fighting began. He took his chances through it manfully, had my pack pony up within halfan hour after the fighting was over, and before the darkness fell hadcooked a capital little dinner for myself and a comrade, whosecommissariat had gone astray. Next morning the fort was found evacuated. I determined to ride back down the pass to the field telegraph post atits mouth. The General wrote in my notebook a telegram announcing thegood news to the Commander-in-Chief; and poor Cavagnari, the politicalofficer, who was afterwards massacred at Cabul, wrote another message tothe same effect to the Viceroy. I expected to have to walk some distanceto our bivouac of the night; but lo! as I turned to go, there was Johnwith my horse, close up. 

[Illustration: "JUST AS THE CLOSE MUSKETRY FIGHTING BEGAN. "]

In one of the hill expeditions, the advanced section of the force Iaccompanied had to penetrate a narrow and gloomy pass which was beset oneither side by swarms of Afghans, who slated us severely with theirlong-range jezails. With this leading detachment there somehow was nosurgeon, and as men were going down and something had to be done, itdevolved upon me, as having some experience in this kind of work inprevious campaigns, to undertake a spell of amateur surgery. Johnbehaved magnificently as my assistant. With his light touch and longlissom hands, the fellow seemed to have a natural instinct forsuccessful bandaging. I was glad that we could do no more than bandage, and that we had no instruments, else I believe that John would not havehesitated to undertake a capital operation. As for the Afghan bullets, he did not shrink as they splashed on the stones around him; he did nottreat them with disdain; he simply ignored them. The soldiers swore thathe ought to have the war medal for the good and plucky work he wasdoing; and a Major protested that if his full titles, which John alwaysgave in full when his name was asked, had not been so confoundedly long, he would have asked the General to mention the Goa man in despatches. 

[Illustration: "THERE WAS JOHN WITH MY HORSE. "]

John liked war, but he was not fond of the rapid changes of temperatureup on the "roof of the world" in Afghanistan. During one twenty-fourhours at Jellalabad, we had one man killed by a sunstroke, and anotherfrozen to death on sentry duty in the night. On Christmas morning, whenI rose at sunrise, the thermometer was far below freezing point; thewater in the brass basin in my tent was frozen solid, and I was glad towrap myself in furs. At noon the thermometer was over a hundred in theshade, and we were all so hot as to wish with Sydney Smith that we couldtake off our flesh and sit in our bones. John was delighted when, asthere seemed no immediate prospect of further hostilities inAfghanistan, I departed therefrom to pay a visit to King Thebaw, ofBurmah, who has since been disestablished. When in his capital ofMandalay, there came to me a telegram from England informing me of themassacre by the Zulus of a thousand British soldiers at Isandlwana, inSouth Africa, and instructing me to hurry thither with all possiblespeed. John had none of the Hindoo dislike to cross the "dark water, "and he accompanied me to Aden, where we made connection with a pottylittle steamer, which called into every paltry and fever-smellingPortuguese port all along the east coast of Africa, and at lengthdropped us at Durban, the seaport of the British colony of Natal, inSouth Africa, and the base of the warlike operations against the Zulus. 

[Illustration: "POOR CAVAGNARI. "]

There are many Hindoos engaged on the Natal sugar plantations, and inthat particularly one-horse Colony, every native of India is knownindiscriminately by the term of "coolie. " John, it is true, was a nativeof India, but he was no "coolie"; he could read, write, and speakEnglish, and was altogether a superior person. I would not take him upcountry to be bullied and demeaned as a "coolie, " and I made for him anarrangement with the proprietor of my hotel that during my absence Johnshould help to wait in his restaurant. During the Zulu campaign I wasabominably served by a lazy Africander and a lazier St. Helena boy. WhenUlundi was fought, and Cetewayo's kraal was burned, I was glad to returnto Durban, and take passage for India. John, I found, had during myabsence become one of the prominent inhabitants of Durban. He had nowthe full charge of the hotel restaurant--he was the centurion of thedinner-table, with men under him, to whom he said "do this, " and theydid it. His skill in dishes new to Natal, especially in curries, hadcrowded the restaurant, and the landlord had taken the opportunity ofraising his tariff. He came to me privily, and said frankly that Johnwas making his fortune for him, that he was willing to give him a sharein his business in a year's time if he would but stay, and meantime wasready to pay him a stipend of twenty dollars a week. The wages at whichJohn served me, and I had been told I was paying him extravagantly, waseleven dollars a month. I told the landlord that I should not think ofstanding in the way of my man's prosperity, but would rather influencehim in favour of an opportunity so promising. Then I sent for John, explained to him the hotel-keeper's proposal, and suggested that heshould take time to think the matter over. John wept. "I no stay here, master, not if it was hundred rupees a day! I go with master; I no stopin Durban!" Nothing would shake his resolve, and so John and I came toEngland together. 

[Illustration: "JOHN BEHAVED MAGNIFICENTLY. "]

The only thing John did not like in England was that the street boysinsisted on regarding him as a Zulu, and treating him contumeliouslyaccordingly. His great delight was when I went on a round of visits tocountry houses, and took him with me as valet. Then he was the hero ofthe servants' hall. I will not say that he lied, but from anecdotes ofhim that occasionally came to my ears, it would seem he created theimpression that he habitually waded in knee-deep gore, and that he wasin the habit of contemplating with equanimity battle-fields litteredwith the slaughtered combatants. John was quite the small lion of thehour. He had very graceful ways, and great skill in making tastefulbouquets. These he would present to the ladies of the household whenthey came downstairs of a morning, with a graceful salaam, and theexpression of a hope that they had slept well. The spectacle of John, seen from the drawing-room windows of Chevening, Lord Stanhope's seat inKent, as he swaggered across the park to church one Sunday morning infrock coat and silk hat, with a buxom cook on one arm and a tall andlean lady's maid on the other, will never be effaced from therecollection of those who witnessed it with shrieks of laughter. 

[Illustration: "A BUXOM COOK ON ONE ARM AND LEAN LADY'S MAID ON THEOTHER. "]

In those days I lived in a flat, my modest establishment consisting ofan old female housekeeper and John. For the most part my two domesticswere good friends, but there were periods of estrangement during whichthey were not on speaking terms; and then they sat on opposite sides ofthe kitchen table, and communicated with each other exclusively bywritten notes of an excessively formal character, passed across thetable. This stiffness of etiquette had its amusing side, but wasoccasionally embarrassing, since neither was uniformly intelligible withthe pen. The result was that sometimes I got no dinner at all, and atother times, when I was dining alone, the board groaned with theprofusion, and when I had company there would not be enough to go round;these awkwardnesses arising from the absence of a good understandingbetween my two domestics. I could not part with the old female servant, and I began rather to tire of John, whose head had become considerablyswollen because of the notice which had been taken of him. It was allvery well to be in a position to gratify ladies who were giving dinnerparties, and who wrote me little notes asking for the loan for a fewhours of John, to make that wonderful prawn curry of which he had thesole recipe. But John used to return from that culinary operation verylate, and with indications that his beverage during his exertions hadnot been wholly confined to water. To my knowledge he had a wife in Goa, yet I feared he had his flirtations here in London. Once I charged himwith inconstancy to the lady in Goa, but he repudiated the aspersionwith the quaint denial: "No, master, many ladies are loving me, but Idon't love no ladies!"

However, I had in view to spend a winter in the States, and resolved tosend John home. He wept copiously when I told him of this resolve, andprofessed his anxiety to die in my service. But I remained firm, andreminded him that he had not seen his wife in Goa for nearly threeyears. That argument appeared to carry little weight with him; but hetearfully submitted to the inevitable. I made him a good present, andobtained for him from the Peninsular and Oriental people a free passageto Bombay, and wages besides in the capacity of a saloon steward. I sawhim off from Southampton; at the moment of parting he emitted lugubrioushowls. He never fulfilled his promise of writing to me, and I gave upthe expectation of hearing of him any more. 

Some two years later, I went to Australia by way of San Francisco andNew Zealand. At Auckland I found letters and newspapers awaiting me fromSydney and Melbourne. Among the papers was a Melbourne illustratedjournal, on a page of which I found a full-length portrait of theredoubtable John, his many-syllabled name given at full length, with amemoir of his military experiences, affixed to which was a fac-simile ofthe certificate of character which I had given him when we parted. Itwas further stated that "Mr. Compostella de Crucis" was for the presentserving in the capacity of butler to a financial magnate in one of thesuburbs of Melbourne, but that it was his intention to purchase thegoodwill of a thriving restaurant named. Among the first to greet me onthe Melbourne jetty was John, radiant with delight, and eager toaccompany me throughout my projected lecture tour. I dissuaded him inhis own interest from doing so; and when I finally quitted the pleasantcity by the shore of Hobson's Bay, John was running with success the"Maison Doré" in Burke Street. I fear, if she is alive, that his wife inGoa is a "grass widow" to this day. 

[Illustration: The Idler's Club Subject for Discussion The ArtisticTemperament. ]

[Sidenote: Dr. Parker says It depends upon the health of the artist. ]

Is the artistic temperament a blessing or a curse? We should firstdecide what the artistic temperament means. Artistic is a large word. Itincludes painting, acting, poetry, music, literature, preaching. Whetherthe temperament is a blessing or a curse largely depends upon the healthof the artist. If De Quincey was an artist, the artistic temperament wasa curse. So also with Thomas Carlyle. So also with Charles Lamb. Theartistic temperament is creative, sympathetic, responsive; it seeseverything, feels everything, realises everything, on a scale ofexaggeration. It is in quest of ideals, and all ideals are more or lessin the clouds, and not seldom at the tip-top of the rainbow. Those whoundertake such long journeys are subject to disappointment and fatigueby the way; if ever they do come to the end of their journey it isprobably in a temper of fretfulness and exasperation. A sudden knock atthe door may drive an artist into hysterics. He is always working at theend of his tether. There is nothing more tantalising than an eternalquest after the ideal; like the horizon, it recedes from the traveller;like the mirage, it vanishes before the claims of hunger and thirst. Onthe other hand, it has enjoyments all its own. The idealist is alwaysface to face with a great expectation. Perhaps to-night he may realiseit; certainly in the morning it will be much nearer; and as for thethird day, it will be realised in some great festival of delight. Thereis, too, a subtle selfishness in this quest after the ideal--the HolyGrail of the imagination. The artist keeps the secret from his brotherartists until he can startle them with some gracious surprise. He almostpities them, as he thinks of the revelation that is about to dawn uponunsuspecting and slumberous minds. Postponement of this surprise is atorment to the mind which had planned its dazzling disclosure. Thegreatest pain of all to the artistic temperament is that it lives in theworld of the Impossible and the Unattainable. That arm must be veryweary which for a lifetime has been stretched out towards the horizon. Then think of the cross-lights, the mingled colours, the uncalculatedrelations which enter into the composition of the dreamer's life, andsay whether that life is not more of a chaos than a cosmos. If theartistic temperament came within the range of our own choice and will, possibly we could do something with it; but inasmuch as it is ours byheredity, and not by adoption, we must do the best we can with thestubborn fatality. 

 * * * * *

[Sidenote: Mrs. Lynn Linton thinks it depends upon ourselves. ]

If to feel keenly be a nobler state than to drone with blunt edgesthrough that thicket of myrtle and nightshade we call life, then is theartistic temperament a blessing. If the oyster be more enviable than thenightingale, then is it a curse. It all depends on our angle, and thecolours we most prefer in the prism. He who has the artistic temperamentknows depths and heights such as Those Others cannot even imagine. Thefeet that spring into the courts of heaven by a look or a word--by theglory of the starry night or the radiance of the dawn--stray down intothe deepest abysses of hell, when Love has died or Nature forgets tosmile. To the artistic temperament there is but little of the mean ofthings. The "Mezzo Cammin" is a line too narrow for their eager steps. Proportion is the one quality in emotional geometry which is left out oftheir lesson of life. Their grammar deals only with superlatives; andthe positive seems to them inelastic, dead and common-place. Imaginativesympathy colours and transforms the whole picture of existence. By thissympathy the artistic of temperament knows the secrets of souls, andunderstands all where Those Others see nothing. And herein lies onesource of those waters of bitterness which so often flood his heart. Feeling for and with his kind, as accurately as the mirror reflects theobject held before it, he finds none to share the pain, the joy, theindignation he endures by this sympathy, which is reflection. He visitsthe Grundyite, who says "Shocking, " "Not nice, " when human naturewrithes in its agony and cries aloud for that drop of water which he, the virtuous conformist, refuses. He goes to the flat-footed andbroad-waisted; those who plod along the beaten highway, and turn neitherto the right hand nor to the left, neither to the hills nor the hollows. But he speaks a foreign language, and they heed him not. The iron-boundcare nought. Does that cry of suffering raise the price of stocks orlower that of grain? Tush! let it pass. To each back its own burden. Sohe carries the piteous tale whereby his heart is aching for sympathy, and Those Others give him stones for bread and a serpent for a fish. Then he looks up to heaven, and asks if there be indeed a God to sufferall this wrong; or if there be, How long, O Lord, how long! The artistictemperament is not merely artistic perception, with which it is so oftenconfounded. You may be steeped to the lips in that temperament, and yetnot be able to arrange flowers with deftness, draw a volute, or strike atrue chord. And you may be able to do all these, and yet be dead inheart and cold in brain--a mere curly-wigged poodle doing its clevertricks with dexterity, and obedient to the hand that feeds it. Theartistic temperament is not this, but something far different. Would youknow what it is, and what it brings? It is the Key of Life, withoutwhich no one can understand the mysteries nor hear the secret music; andit plants a dagger in the flesh, with the handle outward. And at thishandle, the careless, the brutal, the malicious, and the densewitted--all Those Others--lunge, pull, and twist by turns. But they donot see the blood trickling from the wound; and they would neither carenor yet desist if they did. 

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[Sidenote: Rutland Barrington regards it as a mixed blessing. ]

The artistic temperament is a most decidedly "mixed" blessing, and themore artistic the more mixed! This is strongly demonstrated to mepersonally in the person of a _friend_ of my school days who has becomein later years an _acquaintance_ only; a falling away, due entirely tothe abnormal development of his artistic temperament, which will notallow him to see any good in anything or anybody that does not come upto his ideal, the artistic temperament in _his_ case taking the form ofa kind of mental yellow jaundice! Of course, I consider that I myselfpossess this temperament, and am willing to admit that the naturalfriction caused by the meeting with a less highly developed temperament(?) than his own may have led to the feeling of mental and artisticsuperiority which has convinced _one_ of us that association with the_other_ is undesirable! I fancy that the two classes most stronglyinfluenced by this temperament are the painters and the actors, whodisplay characteristics of remarkable resemblance, as, for instance, allpainters (I use the word "painters" because "artists" is applied equallyto both classes) are fully alive to the beauties of Nature in all hervaried moods, but, when those beauties are depicted on the canvasses of_others_, are somewhat prone to discover a comprehension of thosebeauties inferior to their own! So, too, with actors, the majority ofwhom possess the feeling, though they may not always express it, that, although Mr. Garrick Siddons's efforts were distinctly _good_, there_are_ people, not a hundred miles off, who _might_ have shone to moreadvantage in the part! There is no doubt that the artistic temperamentmagnifies all the pleasures of one's life by the infusion of a keenerzest for enjoyment, the natural outcome of such temperament, but thereverse of the medal is equally well cut, and the misfortunes anddisappointments of life are the more keenly felt in consequence of thepossession of this temperament! Whether the balance is equallymaintained or not is a question only to be answered by the individual, but I incline to the belief that life is smoother to the phlegmatic thanthe artistic temperament!--though I should not believe it would bepossible to find any person possessing the latter who would be willingto renounce it, in spite of its disadvantages, so I must perforceconclude it to be a blessing! _Q. E. D. _

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[Sidenote: Miss Helen Mathers looks upon it as a curse. ]

If the artistic temperament will enable a man to be rendered profoundlyhappy by one of those trifles that Nature strews each day in ourpath--say a salmon-pink sunset seen through the lacing of tall blackboles of leafless trees, or a flower, happed upon unexpectedly, thatreads you a half-forgotten lesson in "country art"--that same man willbe reduced to abject misery and real suffering by a dirty tablecloth, avulgar, uncongenial companion, or even the presence of a bright bluegown in a chamber subdued to utmost harmonies in gold and yellow. Thecurse with him follows all too swiftly on the blessing of enjoyment--andlasts longer. And in matters of love, the artistic temperament is adoubtful blessing. The shape of a man's nose will turn a woman's eyesaway from the goodness of his character, and a badly-fitting coat sooutrage her beauty-loving propensities, that she is provoked intomistaking her mind's approval for real heart affection, and she choosesthe artistic man, only to find, probably, that, like the O'Flaherty, onecannot comfortably worship a lily, without a considerable amount ofmutton chops as well--and in the end she may sigh for the tasteless manwho yet had the taste to love her. 

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[Sidenote: We worship the "beautiful" too much. ]

I think most of us carry this tendency to worship the beautiful too far, and our scorn for the physically unsatisfactory is one of our cruellestand most glaring latter-day faults. It is true we are equally cordiallyhard on ourselves, and hate our vile bodies, when their aches and painsintrude themselves between us and our soul's delight--for it is from thePagan, not the Christian, point of view that most lovers of beautyregard life. And if a man's taste require costly gratification of it, say by pictures, by marbles, by the thousand and one sumptuous triflesthat go to make the modern house beautiful, then that man is notpossessed of true taste, and he will be poorer in his palace than if hedwelt ragged in Nature's lap, with all her riches, and those of his ownmind, at his disposal. For the true artistic sense impels one to workalways--and always to better and not worsen, what it touches. Theartistic sense that lazes, and lets other people work to gratify it, isa bastard one, more, it is immoral, and neither bestows, nor receives, grace. It cannot be fashioned, it may not be bought, this strange senseof the inward beauty of things; nor a man's wife, nor his own soul, norhis beautiful house shall teach it him, and he will never be one withthe Universe, with God, understanding all indeed, but not by writtenword or speech, but by what was born in him. And though he may sufferthrough it too, though to the ugly, the deaf, and the afflicted, such agift may seem bestowed in cruellest irony, still when all is said anddone I can think of no better summary of the whole than that given byPhilip Sydney's immortal lines on love. You all know them--

 "He who for love hath undergone The worst that can befall Is happier thousandfold than he Who ne'er hath loved at all ... For in his soul a grace hath reigned That nothing else could bring. "

[Sidenote: Alfred C. Calmour is doubtful. ]

The artistic temperament is both a blessing and a curse. It is ablessing when it lifts a man's soul out of the slough of vulgarcommonplace, and turns his thoughts to the contemplation of noblethings, while at the same time it enables him to give something to theworld which it would not willingly lose, and for which he can obtainadequate remuneration. But it (the artistic temperament) is a curse whenit tempts a man from that honest employment which provides him withbread and butter, and leaves him a defeated, disappointed, andheartbroken wretch, unable to return to that humble course of life whichhad happily supplied his daily wants. 

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[Sidenote: Mrs. Panton considers it a fantastic demon. ]

Personally speaking, I consider the possession of the artistictemperament a distinct curse to those unfortunate folk who have to livewith the owner of this fantastic demon; while if the possessor knows howto deal with his old Man of the Sea he has a most powerful engine at hiscommand: for once let the world at large know that the "artistictemperament" has entered into him, his strangest freaks become more thanput-up-able with, and the brighter he is in company, and the moreirritable and offensive he is at home, the more law is given him, andthe less work, and, may I add, decency, is expected of him, until heappears to agree with his compeers or followers, and begins to be aseccentric as he likes. Commencing with long hair touching his shoulders, and with an absence of the use of Someone's soap, he passes on throughmystic moonlight glances to a still more artistic appreciation of thecharms of Nature at her simplest, until Mrs. Grundy looks askance, andduchesses and other leaders of Society squabble over him, and try oneagainst the other for the honour and pleasure of his society. So far, then, the artistic temperament is for its possessor a fine thing, for itcannot put up with indifferent fare and lodging: it can only prove itsexistence by the manner in which it annexes all that is richest, mostbeautiful, and, to use a byegone slang word, most Precious. For it isreserved the luxurious Chesterfield or Divan, heaped with rainbow-likecushions, and placed in the most becoming light, until the quick, unhappy day dawns when another "artistic temperament" comes to the fore, and the first retires perforce, if not a better, certainly a sadder, man, for all that has been happening unto him. Now comes the time whenone sees the slow-witted creature sinking gradually into the merehaunter of the Gaiety bar: when the sacred lamp burns brightly, andcauses him to recollect, sadly indeed, the days that are no more. Or wefind the man who has learned his bitter lesson, and recognising that_he_ still exists--albeit the beast is dead--turns to the work he wasmeant to do, and does that nobly, though the mad and beautiful days ofhis youth have done, and all that caused life to be lovely has fadedslowly into the _ewigkeit_. 

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[Sidenote: But that, if true, it must often be a delight. ]

If the "artistic temperament" is true and not a sham, to the owner atleast it must often be a sheer delight, for the elf or "troll" whichgoes by this name takes such possession of the owner that under hisguidance he sees "What man may never see, the star that travels far. ""The light" that the poet declares shone on sea or shore, shines for himalways, if for no one else: he walks with Beatrice in Paradise, not inthe "other place;" and his delight in the mere rapture of existence issuch that he hardly cares to speak for joy, and for the certainty thatnot one living creature on earth would understand him if he did. Foreven if he recognised another elf or troll, peeping out of the eyes of afriend, it would not be his own familiar spirit, and, in consequence, hewould not understand the other, because no two of these fantasticcreatures ever speak entirely alike. But if we mention those who have toexist with the owner of this fantastic Will-o'-the-wisp--for he is asoften absent as present--this makes the whole thing a matter ofspeculation. I feel as if I could not do justice to the idea, for I, too, have lived once on a time with these others; and I would rather notrepeat the experiment. 

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[Sidenote: Joseph Hatton declares it to be the choicest gift of all. ]

_Punch's_ illustration of Lord Beaconsfield's announcement that he was"on the side of the angels" casts somewhat of a shadow over thesentiment; yet I feel constrained to quote it, as representing my ownfeelings in regard to the question whether the artistic temperament is acurse or a blessing. Shakespeare had it; Dickens had it; and Thackerayconfessed that he would have been glad to black Shakespeare's boots. Onemay well be convinced that it is a blessing by the penalties whichHeaven exacts from its possessors. It means the capacity to enjoy andappreciate the beautiful; with the great poets and novelists it meansthe power to express the beautiful and describe it "in thoughts thatbreathe and words that burn. " On the other hand, it means experiencing akeener sense of pain than those are capable of who do not possess tendersusceptibilities. But in the spirit of "better fifty years of Europethan a cycle of Cathy" the miseries that belong to the poetictemperament are better than the pleasures that go with its opposite. Tofeel the full glory of the sun, the joy of the Western wind, to hear theaphonous whisperings of the flowers, to be fancifully cognisant of "themusic of the spheres"; better this with only a garret for yourenvironment, than to be a wealthy Peter Bell in a palace, or a lord ofmany acres who sees nothing beyond its intrinsic value in a Turner, andfinds Shelley poor stuff and Tennyson only a rhymster. It is theartistic temperament that lives up to the glories of Nature, andunderstands the parables; and you need not be a writing poet to have it. There is many a poet who never wrote a line, many a romancist who nevercontributed to a magazine. The ploughboy whistling behind his team, thegardener lovingly pruning his vines, the angler sitting in the shade ofsummer trees, even the playgoer craning his neck over the gallery andfailing to catch the last words of Hamlet on the stage, may be blessedwith something of "the divine afflatus, " to be born utterly withoutwhich is to require at the Maker's hands a compensation. Thus He givesin a lower form the trick of money-making, the rank of birthright, thecheap distinction of a high place in society; with poverty He joins thepeace of humble content, a solid faith in the bliss of a future state, and the rough enjoyment of perfect health. But the poetic temperament isthe choicest gift of all; it may have occasional glimpses of thebottomless pit, but it can make its own heaven, and paint its ownrainbow upon "the storms of life. "

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[Sidenote: Angelina wants to concentrate genius. ]

The artistic temperament implies genius--and "there's the rub, " for weothers don't understand genius. The Almighty bestowed the blessing; wehave superadded the curse of an ignorant reception. The Genius is thechild of his century. _We_ persist in relegating him to his family. Heasks for materials and room to create. We answer him, "Go to--thou artidle. Put money in thy purse. " We bind him with cords ofconventionality, and deliver him into the hands of the Philistines. Wedeclare him to be a rational animal who could pay his bills if hechose--and we County Court him if he does not. We build and maintainstately edifices for the accommodation of paupers, criminals, andidiots; but for the Genius there is not even the smallest parishallowance made to his relatives to pay for a keeper. How _can_ he expandunder present conditions? "_Es bildet ein Talent sich in der stille_, "says Goethe, and I think you will admit that there is precious little of"_der stille_" to be found either in ordinary domestic life, or thatrefuge of the desperate, a garret in Bloomsbury. Picture to yourselfOrpheus executing frenzied violin _obbligati_ to the family baby(teething)--or Apollo hastily descending the slopes of Olympus to arguewith a tax collector, or irate landlady! Alas! few survive this sort ofthing. What I would propose is a Grand National Society for thePrevention of Cruelty to Genius--including a National Asylum for itsreception and maintenance. Geniuses would be fed and clothed, and havetheir hair cut by the State, who would adopt and cherish them duringlife, and bequeath them to posterity at death. In this blissful retreatthey would be preserved from the chilling influences of the outer world, liberally supplied with foolscap, musical instruments, and padded cells, and protected from all that had hitherto oppressed them--including cats, organ-grinders, creditors, and matrimony. Worshippers of the oppositesex would be allowed to express their appreciation sensibly, bycontributions to the box at the door. Just think of the enormousadvantage which would be gained by thus concentrating our Genius as wedo our other illuminating forces; the saving of brain power by avoidingoutside friction. Why there need be absolutely _no_ waste! Genius couldbe "laid on, " at a fixed rate, and "lions" supplied by annualsubscription. 

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[Sidenote: Florence Marryat believes it to be a blessing. ]

Surely--without a manner of doubt--a Blessing--the greatest blessingever bestowed by Heaven on Man--the best panacea for the troubles ofthis life--the magic wand that, for the time being, opens the door of aParadise of our own creation. And in order to procure this enjoyment, itis not necessary that the artist should be successful. Disappointmentmay be the issue of his attempt, but the attempt itself--the knowledgethat he _can_ attempt--is so delightful. The work may never reach theartistic ideal--it seldom does--but no artist believes in failure, whilst the child of his brain is germinating. It looks so promising--itgrows so fast--the ideas which are to render it immortal press soquickly one upon the other, that he has hardly time to graspthem--whilst his breast heaves and his eye sparkles, and his whole framequivers with the sense of power to conceive and to bring to the birth. No fear enters his mind then that his offspring will prove to bestunted, deformed, or weakly. It is his own--no man has begot it beforehim--and he can take no interest in anything else, until it iscompleted. Is this not true of the Painter, as he stands with hischarcoal in hand thinking out his picture for next year's Academy?--ofthe Composer, seated before his piano and running his fingers withapparent want of design over the keys?--of the Author, as he walks toand fro and plans the details of his new plot?--of the Poet, as he gazesup into the skies and hears the rhythm of his lines in the "music of thestars?" True, that the finely-organised and sensitive temperament of theArtist suffers keenly when jarred by the discord of the world--that itamounts almost to a curse to be interrupted when in the throes of a newconception (just thought of and hardly grasped) by someone who has nomore notion of what he is undergoing than a deal table would have, andpulls him back roughly from his Paradise to the sordid details of Life, putting all his airy fancies to flight, perhaps, by the process. Butneither this materialistic world, nor all the fools that inhabit it, canever really rob the Artist of the joy--in which "no strangerintermeddleth"--of the Realm of fancy which is his own domain, inheritedby right of his genius. Though he may pass through Life unappreciatedand unsuccessful, let him still thank God for the Divine power which hasbeen given him--the power to create! It will tide him over the loss ofthings, which other men cut their throats for--it will stand him instead of wife and child--in stead of friends and companionship. 

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[Sidenote: And that the true artist is never alone. ]

Is the true Artist ever alone? Do not the creatures of his brain walkbeside him wherever he may go? Do they not lie down with him and rise upwith him, and even when he is old and grey, his heart still keeps fresh, from association with the Young and Beautiful, with the blossoms ofWomanhood and of Spring, that have bloomed upon his canvas--with thenotes of the birds and the sounds of falling water that his fingers haveconjured to life upon his instrument--with the fair maidens and nobleyouths that he has accompanied through so many trials and conducted tosuch a blissful termination in his pages. And beyond all this--beyondthe joy of conception and the pride of fruition--there is an addedblessing on the artistic temperament. Surely the minds which are alwaysstriving after the ideally Perfect must be, in a measure, refined andpurified by the height of the summit they try to reach. "We needs mustlove the highest, when we see it. " It is a Blessing to have the desireto reach the highest, even though we fail, and our natures are raised bythe mere contemplation of it. So that the Artist may well forget therebuffs and cold douches which he receives from those who cannotsympathise with him, and thank Heaven that he can walk out of theirworld into his own. 

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[Sidenote: Zangwill draweth a distinction. ]

There are two aspects of the artistic temperament--the active orcreative side, and the passive or receptive side. It is impossible topossess the power of creation without possessing also the power ofappreciation; but it is quite possible to be very susceptible toartistic influences while dowered with little or no faculty oforigination. On the one hand is the artist--poet, musician, orpainter--on the other, the artistic person to whom the artist appeals. Between the two, in some arts, stands the artistic interpreter--theactor who embodies the aëry conceptions of the poet, the violinist orpianist who makes audible the inspirations of the musician. But in sofar as this artistic interpreter rises to greatness in his field, in sofar he will be found soaring above the middle ground, away from theartistic person, and into the realm of the artist or creator. Joachimand De Reszke, Paderewski and Irving, put something of themselves intotheir work; apart from the fact that they could all do (in some caseshave done) creative work on their own account. So that when theinterpreter is worth considering at all, he may be considered in thecreative category. Limiting ourselves then to these two main varietiesof the artistic temperament, the active and the passive, I should saythat the latter is an unmixed blessing, and the former a mixed curse. 

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[Sidenote: He speaketh of ye curse. ]

What, indeed, can be more delightful than to possess good æstheticfaculties--to be able to enjoy books, music, pictures, plays! Thisartistic sensibility is the one undoubted advantage of man over otheranimals, the extra octave in the gamut of life. Most enviable of mankindis the appreciative person, without a scrap of originality, who hasevery temptation to enjoy, and none to create. He is the idle heir totreasures greater than India's mines can yield; the bee who sucks atevery flower, and is not even asked to make honey. For him poets sing, and painters paint, and composers write. "_O fortunatos nimium_, " whonot seldom yearn for the fatal gift of genius! For _this_ artistictemperament is a curse--a curse that lights on the noblest and best ofmankind! From the day of Prometheus to the days of his English laureateit has been a curse

 "To vary from the kindly race of men, "

and the eagles have not ceased to peck at the liver of men'sbenefactors. All great and high art is purchased by suffering--it is notthe mechanical product of dexterous craftsmanship. This is one part ofthe meaning of that mysterious _Master Builder_ of Ibsen's. "Then I sawplainly why God had taken my little children from me. It was that Ishould have nothing else to attach myself to. No such thing as love andhappiness, you understand. I was to be only a master builder--nothingelse. " And the tense strings that give the highest and sweetest notesare most in danger of being overstrung. 

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[Sidenote: And its compensations. ]

But there are compensations. The creative artist is higher in the scaleof existence than the man, as the man is higher than the beatifiedoyster for whose condition, as Aristotle pointed out, few would betempted to barter the misery of human existence. The animalhas consciousness, man self-consciousness, and the artistover-consciousness. Over-consciousness may be a curse, but, like theprimitive curse--labour--there are many who would welcome it!

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FOOTNOTES:

[1] _i. E. _, Gambled at Faro. 

[2] See the writer's _Life of David Gray_. 

[3] I have given a detailed account of Peacock in my "Look RoundLiterature. "

[4] O those "Tendencies of one's Time"! O those dismal Phantoms, conjured up by the blatant Book-taster and the Indolent Reviewer! Howmany a poor Soul, that would fain have been honest, have they bewilderedinto the Slough of Despond and the Bog of Beautiful Ideas!--R. B. 

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