The monthly magazine, or, British register. Ser. 3, v. 8 (July-Dec. 1842).

The monthly magazine, or, British register. Ser. 3, v. 8 (July-Dec. 1842).

TWO EVENINGS OF A LIFE. I. EVE OF BETROTHMENT— MAY.

Mr heart is like a bird, mother, my heart is like a bird That in a wild wild wood at morn its mate’s low voice has heard ! My blood is dancing so, mother, my brain is throbbing fast — For Henry, indeed, mother, has told his love at last !

The stars look down serene, mother, from out the evening sky. And seem to speak to me, mother, as doth my Henry’s eye. Life wears another aspect now than ever it did wear Before I heard that thrilling voice its thrilling passion swear !

My heart is like a bird, mother, and reels about for joy — Fluttering round its happiness which nothing can destroy ! My brain and heart throb so, mother, I shall not sleep to-night ; So I’ll sit up and watch the stars, they are so very bright.

And when he comes to-morrow morn he will not find me pale, For I shall blush such greetings that my cheek will tell no tale. My heart doth flutter so, mother, I shall not sleep to-night ; So I-ll sit up and watch the stars, they are so very bright.

II. EVE OF DEATH— AUGUST.

Open the window, mother, — let the breeze Waft its cool freshness on my heated brow. Once more let me view the embrowned trees ; They wear a strange mysterious aspect now !

And strange and holy is the deep blue sky ! I ever loved its answerless repose. But now methinks it were less hard to die While all things emblem how life ebbs and flows.

E’en that soft sky draws gently to its breast The bright, the beautiful, but dying Day ; Methinks like it I seek a deathless rest, From restless dark existence far away.

On Young People, and my Love of them. 279

How still ! How sweet.! the low soft hum of Eve ! Nay, dearest Love ! gaze not so sadly still — I do not bid thee not for me to grieve When I’m released from all this pain and ill.

Let thy tears flow, they will relieve thy heart ; And I will whisper tidings from- Above. (For think not, sweet, that we are now to part, — No : I shall hover ever round my Love !)

I do not bid thee not to grieve for me,

But grieve not now — let this our last — last night

Be passed, as every hour used to be

When I was strong — a dream of soft delight !

I am not sad — look deep into mine eyes As you were wont — is not all quiet there ? Yet think — could I wish even Paradise, If I saw you were struggling with despair ?

That sob ! — O God support me ! — Lay your head Upon this lap and weep — or learn to brave All that you must endure when I am dead, — And let me pass with courage to my grave.

Mother, you turn away — is it to weep ? Alas ! my strength will fail me if I see You both afflicted ! — Look at yon blue Deep — There all is love and all serenity !

To you 1 looked for fortitude to die — Yet see ! I am your Teacher — is this well ? Henry, look up at that calm, mystic sky — Is there not Hope there, for your Isabel ?

G. H. L.

ON YOUNG PEOPLE, AND MY LOVE OF THEM.

BT THE AUTHOR OF ” JERNINGHAM, OR THE INCONSISTENT MAN;” ” DOVETON, OR THE MAN OF MANY IMPULSES,” &C.

I think that of all the ancient worthies, though he be not one of the n-nc, I honour Agesilaus the most. I do more than honour, I love him ; for I have just been re-perusing for the hundredth time a little anecdote that is told of him by Plutarch, concerning his riding upon a stick among his children. What wonder, after this, if we read that 1he same kind-hearted warrior was mulcted by the Ephori for en grossing to himself the hearts and affections of his people. John Bodinus, according to Montaigne, disbelieveth this latter story. Did he marvel that a king should have been so loved by his subjects, or that the Ephori — hard task-masters— should have taxed the amiability

280 Ok Young People,

of their sovereign ? — ” Oh ! the latter.” Nay, reader, with submission, not so — it is a common thing to pay the penalty of having too much heart; but kings are not often over-kind.

Again ; we read of Agesilaus — and I think that these anecdotes have a finer flavour, served up in the quaint old language of Sir Thomas North, Knight, than in the modern verbiage of the Wranghams — that ” when he was driven to remove in haste on a sudaine, and to leave one sicke behind him whom he loved dearely ; the sicke man calling him by his name as he was going his way, besought him that he would not forsake him. Agesilaus turned back again and said, ‘ O how hard is it, both to love and to be wise!’ But Agesilaus went, for he loved his country even better than he loved his friend.”

I have gone a little out of my way to narrate these anecdotes ; but Agesilaus was a king and a great general, yet his heart was laden with ” a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,” — and for that they mulcted him. Methinks, that in these days we have our Ephori, moral, literary and political, who would fain punish us for possessing a super abundance of any good gift. How easily could I adduce a score of parallel examples to that which is afforded in olden history by the fate of Timotheus, the Musician. He played so very sweetly that the Ephori condemned him to have four strings cut from his lyre. The only difference now is, that our literary Ephori cut the Aeart-strings of their victims as well — but, faugh ! — go to Rome, ye critical chief magistrates; journey thither bare-footed and bare-headed, doing penance ; for there ye may bend over the graves of two English poets, who, having thoughts of their own, were persecuted; for it seems to be considered a grievous sin to think for one’s self.

My theme is a kindlier one than this. I write of children, and though I am not a father, I am fond of them. While I indite these pages it is Christmas-time, and they are in their merriest mood. I have none before me — none corporeally in my presence — yet methinks I can see them ” with my mind’s eye,” and now they come trooping into my lonely chamber, all smiling. What a beautiful thing is the ” starlight smile of children.” — Cor Cordium — I borrow the words from Shelley’s tomb. But are children happy? — Mr. Godwin, alas! I address myself to the dead — I have the highest respect for his opinions — I am one of his warmest admirers ; but was he right, when he answered this question in his Enquirer, with the words “Probably not ?” What saidst thou in continuance ? “A reasonable man will entertain a suspicion of that eulogium of a condition, which is always made by persons at a distance from it, never by the person himself. I never was told, when a boy, of the superior felicity of youth, but my heart revolted from the assertion. Give me at least to be a man.” Now, is this logical? I think, not at all. When the boy is eager to be a man, his desire is the offspring of ignorance. When the man desires to be a boy, his wish is grounded upon knowledge. All that the child knoweth of manhood is conjectural; but that which the adult knoweth of childhood, is the result of his own experience. Memory is more to be relied upon than the gift of Prophecy, which no one securely possesseth. There never was, I think, a more unsound argumentation. It is self-contradictory; it is not like Mr. Godwin.

and my Love of them. 281

First, he says, that ” a reasonable man will entertain a suspicion of that eulogium of a condition which is always made by persons at a distance from it,” — and then, he declares, that in his childhood, he was wont to exclaim, ” Give me, at least, to be a man ;” when a child, he was surely ” at a distance from ” manhood, and therefore his eulogium of manhood is to be suspected equally with the adult’s eulogium of youth. This, by the Philosopher’s own confession ; and therefore nothing is adduced in proof of the superiority of manhood. How could it be ? — and then to talk about liberty ; which is the greater slave — the child or the man ?

1 have set out with this refutation of a theory, which I hold to be utterly fallacious, because in all that hereafter I shall advance, the entire happiness of childhood will be pre-supposed. I should take no pleasure in the society of young people, were I not convinced that they are entirely happy. It is this conviction — supported as it is by all outward manifestations — that makes my heart leap with joy in the presence of young people. Not happy ? Oh ! do not knock from under me the pillars of that faith. I have lived to see many beautiful de lusions vanish into thin air — I have seen convention usurp the place of nature — prejudice of truth — but to believe that innocence is wretched ness — oh ! no ; not that —

Father of all, though wilful manhood read

Its punishment in soul distress,

Grant the morn of life its natural blessedness.

I do not like Montaigne for having said that, ” Children are of the number of things which are not very much to be desired ;” just as though children were to be classed in the same category with agues, tyrannies, hanging, and the ” red pestilence,”* — all things ” not very much to be desired.” I like the philosophy of the Vicar of Wakefield much better, who begins his admirable history by observing, ” he was ever of opinion, that the honest man, who married and brought up a large family, did more service than he who continued single, and only talked of population,” — a prophetic hint to the Malthusians — good Dr. Prim rose, I honour you. What; children not to be desired ? I see, upon the cover of the Comic Almanac, which I have bought as a present for one of my school-boy cousins, the figure of an antiquated lady, who is the type of one of the signs zodiacal — Virgo. She is talking to her parrot, and she has beside her a cat and one of my abomina tions, a lap-dog. I can hear her ; she answereth my question, ” Children, Sir, are necessary evils.” Old maids, Ma’am, are un necessary evils. Je ne vois pas la necessitc, as the courtier replied to the beggar who said that he ” must live.”

In truth I am the most tolerant of men, — I have a very catholic love for my fellows, but I cannot receive into my heart the creature bearing the semblance of humanity, who professeth a dislike or even an indif ference to the loveliest things in nature — which are children. Of what stuff must his heart be made, who can frown upon the first-day sports of these ” young Apprentices,” or turn away from their innocent ca-

* War.

282 On Young People,

resses. ” They are noisy,” say you, ” and they talk nonsense.” Nay, reader, we should have very little noise and very little nonsense in the world, if children talked all the nonsense and made all the noise.

There is an old dandy talking to a young coquette, and she smiles upon him because he is a lord. There are two dowerless nieces of a noble Marquis screeching at the top of their voices some Italian that they do not comprehend — there is a young parson in the pulpit, ex pounding a text of Scripture, the meaning of which he knoweth not at all — there is an Honourable by courtesy just escaped from Oxford, making his maiden speech in the senate-house and talking about a Con stitution, whch is almost as rotten as his own — there is a review in Hyde Park, cannons are bellowing, and officers endeavouring with all the might of their lungs to out-bellow the bellowings of the cannon. — The old dandy is courting — the dowerless ladies are singing — the young parson is preaching — the Honourable by courtesy is legislating — and the cannons ” keeping vp a standing army” — but this is all nonsense and noise — all sound and fury. It is worse than this. The nonsense of manhood is mostly the nonsense of insincerity — the noise is the noise of vice. You hear a loud voice, it is an angry one — a foolish speech, it is a lying one — an obstreperous laugh, it is a drunken one. But the joyous voice, and the ringing laugh, and the unstudied words of chil dren — oh ! pleasant are they to hear and to consider ; for pondering the ways of the young we behold only the workings of Nature. Not yet have they donned the masquerade dress of convention, nor listened to the wily voice of Mammon ; you may see their hearts in their faces, ” readable as an open book :” no misgivings can you have in their pre sence, if you think not of that which is to come — and why anticipate their pollution ? they are innocent — rejoice then in thy knowledge of their innocence, and lift not the veil of futurity. What wisdom is there to forestall in imagination the cold winds of Winter when we are en joying the serenity of Spring ? What wisdom to talk about ” little victims, alas ! regardless of their doom” — or to exclaim — yet how finely was it said 1 — with Charles Lamb’s imaginary cousin, ” What a pity to think that these fine ingenuous lads in a few years will be all changed into frivolous members of parliament.” — A pity indeed ! then where fore think of it ; why suffer such a thought to intrude, or why not in stantly expel it upon its intrusion ?

To love one’s own children is what everybody does ; to love all chil dren is what everybody ought to do. I can never believe that man to be thoroughly depraved who is fond of the society of young people ; such fondness, I think, is indicative of a guileless and a gentle heart. Wordsworth thinks so, too, I am sure ; and what fine things he has written about children. But about the love of them — read ye the cha racter of the ” Wanderer,” the hero so wise and so kind-hearted of the ” Excursion” — the calm yet eloquent old man. Loved he chil dren ? Yes, it is written so.

” And surely never did there live on earth A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports And teasing ways of children vexed not him, Nor could he bid them from his presence, tired With questions and importunate demands.”

278 Two Evenings of a Life.

But in this Russian ice-palace, the earth, where the very statues and stoves are of ice, let us now mutually give hands, and resolve to forgive oftener than heretofore — to remember oftener how few, out of so many thousand thousands, we hold to our impoverished hearts, — how the first ten years of life, and perhaps the last ten, banish affection from our fleeting existence, and how much we have forgotten — how many glow ing hours, how many warm protestations — and how much more we

have lost. And if we are not the better for all this, let us go to the

graves of our departed friends, and say without a blush — ” We love them,” while we forget the living. — Ah, on those mounds, we learn affection as well as greatness.

TWO EVENINGS OF A LIFE. I. EVE OF BETROTHMENT— MAY.

Mr heart is like a bird, mother, my heart is like a bird That in a wild wild wood at morn its mate’s low voice has heard ! My blood is dancing so, mother, my brain is throbbing fast — For Henry, indeed, mother, has told his love at last !

The stars look down serene, mother, from out the evening sky. And seem to speak to me, mother, as doth my Henry’s eye. Life wears another aspect now than ever it did wear Before I heard that thrilling voice its thrilling passion swear !

My heart is like a bird, mother, and reels about for joy — Fluttering round its happiness which nothing can destroy ! My brain and heart throb so, mother, I shall not sleep to-night ; So I’ll sit up and watch the stars, they are so very bright.

And when he comes to-morrow morn he will not find me pale, For I shall blush such greetings that my cheek will tell no tale. My heart doth flutter so, mother, I shall not sleep to-night ; So I-ll sit up and watch the stars, they are so very bright.

II. EVE OF DEATH— AUGUST.

Open the window, mother, — let the breeze Waft its cool freshness on my heated brow. Once more let me view the embrowned trees ; They wear a strange mysterious aspect now !

And strange and holy is the deep blue sky ! I ever loved its answerless repose. But now methinks it were less hard to die While all things emblem how life ebbs and flows.

E’en that soft sky draws gently to its breast The bright, the beautiful, but dying Day ; Methinks like it I seek a deathless rest, From restless dark existence far away.

On Young People, and my Love of them. 279

How still ! How sweet.! the low soft hum of Eve ! Nay, dearest Love ! gaze not so sadly still — I do not bid thee not for me to grieve When I’m released from all this pain and ill.

Let thy tears flow, they will relieve thy heart ; And I will whisper tidings from- Above. (For think not, sweet, that we are now to part, — No : I shall hover ever round my Love !)

I do not bid thee not to grieve for me,

But grieve not now — let this our last — last night

Be passed, as every hour used to be

When I was strong — a dream of soft delight !

I am not sad — look deep into mine eyes As you were wont — is not all quiet there ? Yet think — could I wish even Paradise, If I saw you were struggling with despair ?

That sob ! — O God support me ! — Lay your head Upon this lap and weep — or learn to brave All that you must endure when I am dead, — And let me pass with courage to my grave.

Mother, you turn away — is it to weep ? Alas ! my strength will fail me if I see You both afflicted ! — Look at yon blue Deep — There all is love and all serenity !

To you 1 looked for fortitude to die — Yet see ! I am your Teacher — is this well ? Henry, look up at that calm, mystic sky — Is there not Hope there, for your Isabel ?

G. H. L.

ON YOUNG PEOPLE, AND MY LOVE OF THEM.

BT THE AUTHOR OF ” JERNINGHAM, OR THE INCONSISTENT MAN;” ” DOVETON, OR THE MAN OF MANY IMPULSES,” &C.

I think that of all the ancient worthies, though he be not one of the n-nc, I honour Agesilaus the most. I do more than honour, I love him ; for I have just been re-perusing for the hundredth time a little anecdote that is told of him by Plutarch, concerning his riding upon a stick among his children. What wonder, after this, if we read that 1he same kind-hearted warrior was mulcted by the Ephori for en grossing to himself the hearts and affections of his people. John Bodinus, according to Montaigne, disbelieveth this latter story. Did he marvel that a king should have been so loved by his subjects, or that the Ephori — hard task-masters— should have taxed the amiability

280 Ok Young People,

of their sovereign ? — ” Oh ! the latter.” Nay, reader, with submission, not so — it is a common thing to pay the penalty of having too much heart; but kings are not often over-kind.

Again ; we read of Agesilaus — and I think that these anecdotes have a finer flavour, served up in the quaint old language of Sir Thomas North, Knight, than in the modern verbiage of the Wranghams — that ” when he was driven to remove in haste on a sudaine, and to leave one sicke behind him whom he loved dearely ; the sicke man calling him by his name as he was going his way, besought him that he would not forsake him. Agesilaus turned back again and said, ‘ O how hard is it, both to love and to be wise!’ But Agesilaus went, for he loved his country even better than he loved his friend.”

I have gone a little out of my way to narrate these anecdotes ; but Agesilaus was a king and a great general, yet his heart was laden with ” a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,” — and for that they mulcted him. Methinks, that in these days we have our Ephori, moral, literary and political, who would fain punish us for possessing a super abundance of any good gift. How easily could I adduce a score of parallel examples to that which is afforded in olden history by the fate of Timotheus, the Musician. He played so very sweetly that the Ephori condemned him to have four strings cut from his lyre. The only difference now is, that our literary Ephori cut the Aeart-strings of their victims as well — but, faugh ! — go to Rome, ye critical chief magistrates; journey thither bare-footed and bare-headed, doing penance ; for there ye may bend over the graves of two English poets, who, having thoughts of their own, were persecuted; for it seems to be considered a grievous sin to think for one’s self.

My theme is a kindlier one than this. I write of children, and though I am not a father, I am fond of them. While I indite these pages it is Christmas-time, and they are in their merriest mood. I have none before me — none corporeally in my presence — yet methinks I can see them ” with my mind’s eye,” and now they come trooping into my lonely chamber, all smiling. What a beautiful thing is the ” starlight smile of children.” — Cor Cordium — I borrow the words from Shelley’s tomb. But are children happy? — Mr. Godwin, alas! I address myself to the dead — I have the highest respect for his opinions — I am one of his warmest admirers ; but was he right, when he answered this question in his Enquirer, with the words “Probably not ?” What saidst thou in continuance ? “A reasonable man will entertain a suspicion of that eulogium of a condition, which is always made by persons at a distance from it, never by the person himself. I never was told, when a boy, of the superior felicity of youth, but my heart revolted from the assertion. Give me at least to be a man.” Now, is this logical? I think, not at all. When the boy is eager to be a man, his desire is the offspring of ignorance. When the man desires to be a boy, his wish is grounded upon knowledge. All that the child knoweth of manhood is conjectural; but that which the adult knoweth of childhood, is the result of his own experience. Memory is more to be relied upon than the gift of Prophecy, which no one securely possesseth. There never was, I think, a more unsound argumentation. It is self-contradictory; it is not like Mr. Godwin.

and my Love of them. 281

First, he says, that ” a reasonable man will entertain a suspicion of that eulogium of a condition which is always made by persons at a distance from it,” — and then, he declares, that in his childhood, he was wont to exclaim, ” Give me, at least, to be a man ;” when a child, he was surely ” at a distance from ” manhood, and therefore his eulogium of manhood is to be suspected equally with the adult’s eulogium of youth. This, by the Philosopher’s own confession ; and therefore nothing is adduced in proof of the superiority of manhood. How could it be ? — and then to talk about liberty ; which is the greater slave — the child or the man ?

1 have set out with this refutation of a theory, which I hold to be utterly fallacious, because in all that hereafter I shall advance, the entire happiness of childhood will be pre-supposed. I should take no pleasure in the society of young people, were I not convinced that they are entirely happy. It is this conviction — supported as it is by all outward manifestations — that makes my heart leap with joy in the presence of young people. Not happy ? Oh ! do not knock from under me the pillars of that faith. I have lived to see many beautiful de lusions vanish into thin air — I have seen convention usurp the place of nature — prejudice of truth — but to believe that innocence is wretched ness — oh ! no ; not that —

Father of all, though wilful manhood read

Its punishment in soul distress,

Grant the morn of life its natural blessedness.

I do not like Montaigne for having said that, ” Children are of the number of things which are not very much to be desired ;” just as though children were to be classed in the same category with agues, tyrannies, hanging, and the ” red pestilence,”* — all things ” not very much to be desired.” I like the philosophy of the Vicar of Wakefield much better, who begins his admirable history by observing, ” he was ever of opinion, that the honest man, who married and brought up a large family, did more service than he who continued single, and only talked of population,” — a prophetic hint to the Malthusians — good Dr. Prim rose, I honour you. What; children not to be desired ? I see, upon the cover of the Comic Almanac, which I have bought as a present for one of my school-boy cousins, the figure of an antiquated lady, who is the type of one of the signs zodiacal — Virgo. She is talking to her parrot, and she has beside her a cat and one of my abomina tions, a lap-dog. I can hear her ; she answereth my question, ” Children, Sir, are necessary evils.” Old maids, Ma’am, are un necessary evils. Je ne vois pas la necessitc, as the courtier replied to the beggar who said that he ” must live.”

In truth I am the most tolerant of men, — I have a very catholic love for my fellows, but I cannot receive into my heart the creature bearing the semblance of humanity, who professeth a dislike or even an indif ference to the loveliest things in nature — which are children. Of what stuff must his heart be made, who can frown upon the first-day sports of these ” young Apprentices,” or turn away from their innocent ca-

* War.

282 On Young People,

resses. ” They are noisy,” say you, ” and they talk nonsense.” Nay, reader, we should have very little noise and very little nonsense in the world, if children talked all the nonsense and made all the noise.

There is an old dandy talking to a young coquette, and she smiles upon him because he is a lord. There are two dowerless nieces of a noble Marquis screeching at the top of their voices some Italian that they do not comprehend — there is a young parson in the pulpit, ex pounding a text of Scripture, the meaning of which he knoweth not at all — there is an Honourable by courtesy just escaped from Oxford, making his maiden speech in the senate-house and talking about a Con stitution, whch is almost as rotten as his own — there is a review in Hyde Park, cannons are bellowing, and officers endeavouring with all the might of their lungs to out-bellow the bellowings of the cannon. — The old dandy is courting — the dowerless ladies are singing — the young parson is preaching — the Honourable by courtesy is legislating — and the cannons ” keeping vp a standing army” — but this is all nonsense and noise — all sound and fury. It is worse than this. The nonsense of manhood is mostly the nonsense of insincerity — the noise is the noise of vice. You hear a loud voice, it is an angry one — a foolish speech, it is a lying one — an obstreperous laugh, it is a drunken one. But the joyous voice, and the ringing laugh, and the unstudied words of chil dren — oh ! pleasant are they to hear and to consider ; for pondering the ways of the young we behold only the workings of Nature. Not yet have they donned the masquerade dress of convention, nor listened to the wily voice of Mammon ; you may see their hearts in their faces, ” readable as an open book :” no misgivings can you have in their pre sence, if you think not of that which is to come — and why anticipate their pollution ? they are innocent — rejoice then in thy knowledge of their innocence, and lift not the veil of futurity. What wisdom is there to forestall in imagination the cold winds of Winter when we are en joying the serenity of Spring ? What wisdom to talk about ” little victims, alas ! regardless of their doom” — or to exclaim — yet how finely was it said 1 — with Charles Lamb’s imaginary cousin, ” What a pity to think that these fine ingenuous lads in a few years will be all changed into frivolous members of parliament.” — A pity indeed ! then where fore think of it ; why suffer such a thought to intrude, or why not in stantly expel it upon its intrusion ?

To love one’s own children is what everybody does ; to love all chil dren is what everybody ought to do. I can never believe that man to be thoroughly depraved who is fond of the society of young people ; such fondness, I think, is indicative of a guileless and a gentle heart. Wordsworth thinks so, too, I am sure ; and what fine things he has written about children. But about the love of them — read ye the cha racter of the ” Wanderer,” the hero so wise and so kind-hearted of the ” Excursion” — the calm yet eloquent old man. Loved he chil dren ? Yes, it is written so.

” And surely never did there live on earth A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports And teasing ways of children vexed not him, Nor could he bid them from his presence, tired With questions and importunate demands.”

and my Love of them. 283

Anon I will write a commentary upon these lines — and I will speak of the ” teazing ways” and the ” importunate demands” — neither teazing nor importunate to me and to all true lovers of children. Oh ! many a frown have I seen changed into a smile — many a ” get away” have I heard converted into ” come hither” — many a curse turned into a blessing — many a reproach into a kiss — when, assailed by ” a ques tion” or ” importunate demand,” the incipient wrath of the person in terrupted has been suddenly checked by the sweet beseeching smile, that plays upon the face of his childish assailant, — that look, oh ! how well I know it — of playful roguishness and dolorous timidity — that hy brid look denoting an arrested impulse, the old expression not yet chased away by the new tide of emotions within — that appealing look, arch yet fearful, when the eye laughs though it glisten, and the lip scarcely knows whether to settle itself into a smile or a pout. Such a look, even more than a soft answer, ” turneth away wrath.”

But in this I have made a digression ; for having once introduced the name of Wordsworth and spoken of the Excursion, it was my in tent to have pointed out to the reader one other passage at least wherein the love of children is touched upon in verse strangely ex pressive. The Author and the Wanderer set out together on a visit to one called the Solitary. An afflicted and desponding man was he, “lacking faith in the great truths of religion, and confidence in the virtue of mankind.” Yet for all’ this he loved children dearly ; and when the travellers neared his abode, they beheld a sign of this love in ” a cool recess and fanciful” — a sort of summer penthouse, large enough to shelter ” a full grown man” from the influences of sun or shower — a turf-built fabric, rude, but for a purpose, —

” And the whole plainly wrought by children’s hands ! Whose simple skill had thronged the grassy floor With work of frame less solid, a proud show Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; Nor wanting ornaments of walks between, With mimic trees inserted in the turf, And gardens interposed.” —

Now is not this natural ? How old are you, reader ? Are you young enough to remember having ” inserted” — no, ” insert” is not the word, children would say stuck — certain ” mimic,” no ! sham, trees, of green branches, into new-laid mould. Oh ! think a little — when you were very young had you not a garden of your own ? and having sown seeds in it, were you not disappointed by the tardiness of their upspringing ? and, being disappointed, did you not endeavour to anticipate nature by “planting” small branches of laurel, or red-fruited arbutus, or a bunch of plucked roses, in the slowly-productive soil which you had taken under your immediate patronage ? — You have, oh ! I’m sure you have ; and when yonr childish ingenuity has been thus displayed, you have summoned your mother and your nurse, and your brothers and your sisters, triumphantly, to look at your beautiful garden.

There is wisdom in what I write, if you can but discover it, and I would that ye should ponder these things. Ye are the children ; I wish you to think a little — now what are the branches that never take root ? and what is the soil in which ye plant them ?

284 On Young People,

But, back again to Wordsworth and the Solitary. Upon this little turf-built summer-house look ” the Author and the Wanderer” smilingly. I pass over the story of Voltaire’s Candide, and with a reason — but what saith the Wanderer when he beholds the mossy structure ” wrottght by children’s hands,” and couples the appearance thereof with the un meet volume he had found ?

— ” Here then has been to him Retreat within retreat, a sheltering place Within how deep a shelter ! He had fits, E’en to the last, of genuine tenderness. And loved the haunts of children ; here, no doubt, He sometimes played with them”

They thought him dead ; small cause had they so to think, for pre sently he, the Solitary, appeared, but not solitary then; — now listen, and you shall hear what he was doing — he, the lover of children —

— ” dealing from a store Which, on a leaf, he carried in his hands, Strings of ripe currants ; gift by which he strove, With intermixture of endearing words, To soothe a child who walked beside him, weeping, As if disconsolate”

And what better than this could he have been doing ; what more noble than to ” suffer little children ?” What more generous than to soothe the afflicted ? But, I pause, for I have my misgivings : I am sceptical as to the meaning of the fact in thus pourtraying the affection of this blighted spirit for young children. Unlike the desponding Solitary, I place my ” confidence in the virtue of mankind ;” cheerful is my phi losophy, and full of sunshine my heart ; but Truth, above all other things, hath claims most paramount, and I must listen to them. Crabbe, Byron, Rochefoucault, I do not honour their names ; but ever and anon their flinty souls emitted a scintillation of truth.

It will be said that my writings are inconclusive. It is not my de sire that they should be otherwise. I wish my readers to follow me in my inquiries. I am an inquirer — a searcher ; I am digging in the earth, diving in the water, after Truth —

” Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Michal, Two points in the adventure of the diver, — One, when a beggar, he prepares to plunge — One, when a prince, he rises with the pearl ? Festus, I plunge”

I plunge, and my pearl is Truth ; God grant that I may rise with it.

I have lent my copy of Paracelsus to a young painter, so that I may have done Mr. Browning an injury by mis-quoting the words of his poem. When Dr. Johnson asked Hannah More what she esteemed the highest compliment that can be paid to an author, she presently made answer, ” To quote him ,” and Dr. Johnson said that she was right ; but to mis-quote an author it is barbarous. I think that Robert Browning’s Paracelsus will be suffered to occupy a niche in the select

and my Love of them. 285

library of Prince Posterity. I know nothing more about the poem than that I have read it ; and about the author no. more than that he is a poet. It is nothing to me whether the book has found readers, or whether it has been praised by the critics. Whether the author be a Tory or a Radical, an Aristocrat or an Operative, I care not. I never saw him — I never heard of him before I read his name upon the title- page of his book ; but now I know that he is a genuine poet ; I am sure of it ; I am not more certain that the sun giveth light when it shines.

But ! what was I saying ere I began to speak of his poem ? Oh ! truth, golden truth, was my theme. We do not arrive at truth by dogmatizing, but by inquiring. ” Yes, we were both philosophers,i’ said the shade of Bayle to the shade of Plato, in Lord Lyttleton’s Dia logues of the Dead, ” but my philosophy was the deepest ; you dog matized and I doubted.” This was intended by ” the good lord” as a keen stroke of irony, but I do not think that it is a remarkably happy one. “The dogmatist,” says Watts, “is sure of everything; the sceptic believes nothing.” To doubt, then, is surely as wise as to dogmatize ; but Plato did neither, he inquired ; and, after long in quiries, he found.

I have taken the spade into my hand, and over my shoulder is the mattock, for I am now going forth to dig. I am a sinner ; and the ore that I seek, more precious is than gold ; it is Truth. Wilt thou dig with me, reader ? and deeply, for this ore lieth not near the surface ; it is interwoven with the rubbish of error ; but from the enclosing mass it must be extricated — and by us ? nay, that is presumption ; but I will plant my foot upon the spade, and try.

What is the love of children ? Is it weakness, or is it strength ? Is it greatness, or is it littleness ? Is it philanthropy- now do not start at this seemingly paradoxical question — Is it philanthropy, I ask ; or is it not, rather, misanthropy ?

To this I answer that it may be either ; according to the soil in which it is planted, does it grow up a weed or a flower. The love of children 13 not universally a manifestation of benevolence ; often proceeds it from bitterness of heart — often is it pride, and not lowliness — often ex presses it nothing else but a hatred and a contempt of the world.

I have commented upon two illustrative examples — one historical and one poetical — of the love which full-grown men sometimes bear to little children. These examples will assist me still further — Agesilaus and the Solitary of the Excursion.

And firstly of Agesilaus. — We find him romping with his children — but we know the nobility of his nature — we know how by all men he was loved. Great and generous and universally benevolent was Agesilaus of Lacedeemon. ” He was so mild and courteous,” writes Plutarch, ” that every courteous word wrought in him better obedience than any feare could doe.” Knowing his nature, then, we can neither accuse him of pride, nor of bitterness, nor of a mean spirit; we can not say that his love of children was nothing better than the scum of misanthropy. It was a beautiful and hallowed affection — ifc was another and not the dullest jewel in the crown of his lustrous virtue. This is so very manifest, that I am almost ashamed of myself for in sisting upon such palpable common-places.

28G On Young People,

But the Solitary of Wordsworth’s ” Excursion,” — why did lie love children ? Because he was disgusted with men. And this is common ; the feeling is identical with that which often generates an attachment to animals. It is misanthropy — nothing better. They who delight much in the companionship of brutes are seldom very fond of their fellows.

I agree with Ceesar, who, ” seeing in Rome, one day, certaine rich and wealthy strangers having little dogs and monkeys in their armes, and that they made marvellous much of them, asked if the women of their country had no children, wisely reproving them by this ques tion, for that they bestowed their natural love and affection upon brute beasts, which they should, with all kindness, bestowe upon men.”* — This from Plutarch— I know that in the Spectator there is a capital paper reprehending this passion for dogs and monkeys ; but I have not the leisure to search for it. This, at least, is an unseemly expenditure of affection ; and as we liken ourselves unto that which we love,

” As a lover or a chameleon Grows like what it looks upon,”

I cannot think otherwise than that it is wasting beauty upon a beast.

It is most frequently a misanthropical affection. In the bitterness of his heart Lord Byron erected a monument to his dog; and he inscribed thereon an epitaph which concluded with this notable and well-known couplet, —

” To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise, I never knew but one — and here he lies.”

To compliment the carcass of a dead dog at the expense of humanity was a noble contrivance to spit his lordly venom at the world. There was Pope too — he was bitter enough to write that ” Histories are more full of the examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends,” — an untruth of the worst order — a malicious one. Arcades ambo. But Agesilaus was deformed also ; and I love him the better for his deformity. He indeed was a bright exception ; and beautiful his character alto gether. He made not himself ” even with nature,” but he returned good for evil, and was the kindest of men. I think that to Lord Byron, the profligate Alcibiades was the most dazzling character of antiquity. The son of Clinias also had a large dog, ” exceeding faire,” saith the Biographer; yet methinks he loved nothing save himself and that ; — but as a pendant to this treatise I will some day write a commentary upon ” Pet Animals, and my Disgust of them,” beginning with Caligula’s horse.

In some morbid bosoms the love of children is identical with this affection for beasts. ” Oh ! I do so delight in children,” quoth Misanthropos, ” because they are so unlike to men.”

This is bitterness ; but the love of children is often the scum of pride. Children are weak and helpless, they cling to us, and therefore we love them. ” This is generosity ! ” No ; it is pride — pride that apesliumility. Children do net set up their pretensions against our own, and therefore we love them dearly. I do not say that of such

• North’s Plutarch — Life of Pericles.

nnd my Love of them. •287

materials our affection for young people is always constituted ; but so, doubtless, sometimes it is. I am only maintaining, now, that the love of children is not uniformly an amiable feeling. Beyond a question, it is pleasant to patronize, and we patronize young people. From a manuscript fiction which may some day see the light, I select a pas sage which purporteth to explore the penetralia of these emotions. Thus writeth the imaginary autobiographer.

” I am always very urbane and tolerant towards my inferiors ; and if ever I be hard and uncompromising, it is towards them who consider them selves superior to me. This is by no means an uncommon trait, and I think that it originates in pride; not in frothy, superficial arrogance, but in genuine, deep-seated pride. An arrogant man is imperious, a proud man condescending towards the lowly. The one despises those beneath him : the other hates those above him. The proudest men are the kindest to their inferiors; they love the poor for being poor, and are the most courteous towards those whom it is the greatest condescension to favour. Arrogance loves to trample upon — pride to patronize the humble. I was a proud man ; I certainly was not an arrogant one.”

And from pride of this nature oftentimes proceedeth the love of chil dren ; for children are weak and lowly ; they look up to us for pro tection and patronage, and it is certainly pleasing to be looked up to and to congratulate ourselves on our superior strength. Is not this truth ? I hope not ; though I fear that it is ; for I would fain adopt a more cheerful philosophy. Nothing but the conviction that I am labouring in the cause of Truth could have upheld me throughout all this time that I have been painfully anatomizing the worser parts of man’s nature; but anon the better segment shall be displayed, and I will write of pure love in my second essay, and of the beautiful objects that awaken it — of little children and of their thousand graces ; all shall be gay and cheerful and amiable; I will not vituperate, but praise. Bear with me, then, and forgive what I have written, for that which I am about to write will exolve me, I hope, from all charges of malignity. It is a hard thing, at times, to be compelled to unravel the tangled web of truth.

LOVE LIGHTLY PLEASED-

Let faire or foule my Mistresse be, Or low, or tall, she pleaseth me : Or let her walk, or stand, or sit, The posture hers, I’m pleas’d with it. Or let her tongue be still, or stir, Gracefull is ev’ry thing from her. Or let her Grant, or else Deny, My Love will Jit each Historic

vol. xcvi.

Herrick.

The Works of the Right Honourable Joseph Addison, Volume 2 (Google Books)

Punch on Children: A Panorama, 1845-1865 – Page 19
https://books.google.com.ph › books

David Duff – 1975 – ‎Snippet view
On this occasion the result was a definite plus, as the baby girl, thus tended, became the mother of Earl Mountbatten of … The feeling was in line with that adopted towards lap dogs, spinster ladies with ‘Fido’ on a lead being a favourite target.

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Our boys and girls, a monthly magazine – Page 23
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Snippet view – ‎More editions
All its features fell into the circle almost as completely as those of the man in the moon. … very attentive to his work ; and his skill had rescued from the jaws of death many a sleek animal that was toiling on the arable land or frisking in the pastures. … An aged maiden lady of eccentric habits had a lap-dog, which was dearer to her than anything in the world. This animal fell sick, and seemed likely to die.

No. 343. THURSDAY, APRILS.

Err at et Mine ,

Hue renit, hinc Mac, et quoslibct occi/pat nrtus
Spiritu.1: iqve Jcris humana in corpora transit,
Jnque feras noster-

Pvtiiag. Ap. Or.

Will Honeycomb, who loves to shew upon occasion, all the little learning he has picked up, told us yesterday at the club, that he thought there might be a great deal said for the transmigration of souls, and that the eastern parts of the world believed in that doctrine to this day. “Sir Paul Ricaut (says he) gives us an account of several well-disposed Mahometans, that purchase the freedom of any little bird they see confined to a cage, and think they merit as much by it, as we should do here by ransoming any of our countrymen from their captivity at Algiers. You must know (says Will) the reason is, because they consider every animal as a brother or a sister in disguise, and therefore think themselves obliged to extend their charity to them, though under such mean circumstances. They will tell you (says Will) that the soul of a man, when he dies, immediately passes into the body of another man, or of some brute, which he resembled in his humor, or his fortune, when he was one of us.”

As I was wondering what this profusion of learning would end in, Will told us that Jack Freelove, who was a fellow of whim, made love to one of those ladies who throw away all their fondness on parrots, monkies, and lap-dogs. Upon going to pay her a visit one morning, he writ a very pretty epistle upon this hint. “Jack (says he) was conducted into the parlour, where he diverted himself for some time with her favourite monkey, which was chained in one of the windows; till at length observing a pen and ink lie by bhu, be writ the following letter to his mistress, in the person of the monkey; and upon her not coming down so soon as he expected, left it in the window, and went about his business.’

“The lady soon after coming into the parlour, and seeing her monkey look upon a paper with great earnestness, took it up, and to this day is in somedoubt (says Will) whether it was written by Jack or the monkey.”

“Madam,

“Not having the gift of speech, I have a long time waited in vain for an opportunity of making myself known to you; and having at present the conveniences of pen, ink, and paper, by me, I gladly take the occasion of giving you my history in writing, which I could not do by word of mouth. You must know, Madam, that about a thousand years ago I was an Indian brachman, and versed in all those mysterious secrets which your European philosopher, called Pythagoras, is said to have learned from our fraternity. I had so ingratiated myself, by my great skill in the occult sciences, with a daemon whom I used to converse with, that he promised to grant me whatever I should ask of him. I desired that my soul might never pass into the body of a brute creature; but this he told me Mras not in his power to grant me. I then begged that into whatever creature I should chance to transmigrate, I might still retain my memory, and be conscious that I was the same person who lived in different animals. This he told me was within his power, and accordingly promised, on the word of a da?mon, that he would grant me what I desired. From that time forth I lived so very unblameably, that I was made president of a college of brach* mans, an office which I discharged with great integrity till the day of my death.

“I was then shuffled into another human body, and acted my part so well in it, that I became first minister to a prince who reigned upon the banks of the Ganges. I here lived in great honour for several years, but by degrees lost all the innocence of the, brachman, being obliged to rifle and oppress the people to enrich my sovereign; till at length I became so odious, that my master, to recover his credit with his subjects, shot me through the heart with an arrow, as 1 was one day addressing myself to him at the head of his army.

“Upon my next remove I found myself in the woods under the shape of a jackall, and soon listed myself in the service of a lion. I used to yelp near his den about midnight, which was his time of rousing, and seeking after his prey. lie always followed me in the rear; and when I had run down a fat buck, a wild goat, or an hare, after he had feasted very plentifully upon it himself, would now and then throw me a bone, that was but half picked, for my encouragement; but, upon my being unsuccessful in two or three chases, he gave me such a confounded gripe in his anger, that I died of it.

“In my next transmigration I was again set upon two legs, and became an Indian tax-gatherer; but having been guilty of great extravagancies, and being married to an expensive jade of a wife, I ran so cursedly in debt, that I durst not shew my head. I could no sooner step out of my house, but I was arrested by somebody or other that lay in wait for me. As I ventured abroad one night in the dusk of the evening, I was taken up, and hurried into a dungeon, where I died a few months after.

“My soul then entered into a flying-fish, and in that state led a most melancholy life for the space of six years. Several fishes of prey pursued me when I was in the water; and if I betook myself to my wings, it was ten to one but I had’ a flock of birds aiming at me. As I was one day flying amidst > a fleet of ships, I observed a huge sea-gull whetting his bill, and hovering just over my head: upon my dipping into the water to avoid him, I fell into the mouth of a monstrous shark, that swallowed me down in an instant.

“1 was some years afterwards, to my great surprise, an eminent banker in Lombard-street; and remembering how I had formerly suffered for want of money, became so very sordid and avaricious, that the whole town cried shame of me. I was a miserable little old fellow to look upon, for I had in a manner starved myself, and was nothing but skin and bone when I died.

“I was afterwards very much troubled and amazed to find myself dwindled into an emmet. I was heartily concerned to make so insignificant a figure, and did not know but some time or other, I might be reduced to a mite, if 1 did not mend my manners. I therefore applied myself with great diligence to the offices that were allotted me, and was generally looked upon as the noblest ant in the whole molehill. I was at last picked up, as I was groaning under a burden, by an unlucky cock-sparrow that lived in the neighbourhood, and had before made great depredations upon our commonwealth.

“I then bettered my condition a little, and lived a whole summer in the shape of a bee: but being tired with the painful and penurious life I had undergone in my two last transmigrations, I fell into the other extreme, and turned drone. As I one day headed a party to plunder an hive, we were received so warmly by the swarm which defended it, that we were most of us left dead upon the spot.

“I might tell you of many other transmigrations which I went through; how I was a town-rake, and afterwards did penance in a bay gelding for ten years; as also how I was a taylor, a shrimp, and a tom-tit. In the last of these my shapes, I was shot in the Christinas holidays by a young Jack-a-napes, who would needs try his new gun upon me.

“But I shall pass over these and several other stages of my life, to remind you of the young beau who made love to you about six years since. You may remember, Madam, how he masked, and danced, and sung, and played a thousand tricks to gain you; and how he was at last carried off, by a cold that he had got under your window one night in a serenade. I was that unfortunate young fellow, whom you were then so cruel to. Not long after my shifting that unlucky body, I found myself upon a hill in ./Ethiopia, where I lived in my present grotesque shape, till I was caught by a servant of the English factory, and sent over into Great Britain: I need not inform you how I came into your hand. You see, Madam, this is not the first time that you have had me in a chain: I am, however, very happy in this my captivity, as you often bestow on me those kisses and caresses which I would have given the world for when I was a man. I hope this discovery of my person will not tend to my disadvantage, but that you will still continue your accustomed favours to

“Your most devoted

“Humble servant,

“PuG.'<

P. S. “I would advise your little shock-dog to keep out of my way; for as 1 look upon him to be the most formidable of my rivals, I may chance one time or other to give him such a snap as he won’t like.”

Godey’s Magazine, Volumes 22-23

Godey’s Magazine, Volumes 22-23

MR. AND S. WOODBR1DGE.

Written for the Lady’s Book.

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE. x story or Domstio Lire.

sY MISS LESLIE.

YART I.

The moming subsequent to their arrival in Phila delphia, Harvey Woodbridge proposed to his bride (a New York beauty, to whom he had recently been united, after a very short acquaintance) that she should accompany him to look at the new house he had taken previous to their marriage, and which he had delayed furnishing till the taste of his beloved Char lotte could be consulted as well as his own. Mean while they were staying at one of the principal board ing-houses of his native city.

Ten o’clock was the time finally appointed by the lady for this visit to their future residence : and her husband, after taking a melancholy leave (they had been married but seven days) departed to pass an hour at his place of business.

When he returned, Mr. Woodbridge sprang up stairs three steps at a time (we have just said he had been married only a week) and on entering their apartment he was saluted by his wife as she held out her watch to him, with — ” So, after all, you are ten minutes beyond the hour !”

” I acknowledge it, my dear love” — replied the husband — ” but I was detained by a western cus tomer to whom I have just made a very profitable sale.”

” Still” — persisted the bride, half pouting — ” people should always be punctual, and keep their appoint ments to the very minute.”

“And yet, my dearest Charlotte” — observed Wood- bridge, somewhat hesitatingly — ” I do not find you quite ready to go out with me.”

” Oh ! that is another thing” — replied the lady — ” one may be kept waiting without being ready.”

” That is strange logic, my love” — said Wood- bridge, smiling.

” I don’t know what you call logic” — answered the beautiful Charlotte. ” I learnt all my logic at Mrs. Fooltrap’s boarding-school, where we said a logic lesson twice a week. But I am sure ’tis much easier for a man to hurry with his bargaining than for a lady to hurry with her dressing; that is if she pays any regard to her appearance. I have been pondering for an hour about what I shall put on to go out this moming. I am sadly puzzled among all my new walking-dresses. There are my chaly, and my gros des Indes, and my peau-de-soie, and my foulard—”

” If you will tell me which is which” — interrupted Woodbridge — ” I will endeavour to assist you in your choice. But from its name (foulard, as you call it,) I do not imagine that last thing can be a very nice article.”

” What fools men are !” — exclaimed the lovely Charlotte. — ” Now that is the very prettiest of all my walking-dresses, let the name be what it will. I always did like foulard from the moment I first saw it at Stewart’s. I absolutely doat upon foulard, So that is the very thing I will wear, upon my first ap pearance in Chesnut street as Mrs. Harvey Wood- bridge.”

” Don’t” — said her husband, surveying the dress as she held it up — ” it looks like calico — ”

” Say don’t to me”— exclaimed the bride, threat eningly — ” calico, indeed ! — when it is a French silk at twelve shillings a yard — a dollar and a half as you foolishly say in Philadelphia.”

” Well, well” — replied Woodbridge, pacifyingly — ” wear whatever you please — it is of no consequence.”

” So then, you think it of no consequence how I am drest ! I dare say you would not grieve in the least if I were really to go out in a calico gown — I did suppose that perhaps you took some little interest in me.”

” I do indeed” — answered Woodbridge.

” You confess then that it is but little.”

” No — a very great interest, certainly — and you know that I do. But as to your dress, you, of course, must be the best judge. And to me you always look beautifully.”

” To you, but not to others — I suppose that is what you mean.”

” To every one” — replied the husband — ” I ob served this morning the glance of admiration that ran round the breakfast table as soon as you had taken your seat. That little cap with the yellow ribbon is remarkably becoming to yon.”

” So then, it was the cap and not myself that was admired !” — said the wife. — ” I am sure I am much obliged to the cap. Yellow ribbon, too ! — To call it yellow when it is the most delicate primrose. As if / would wear a yellow ribbon !”

” Indeed, my love” — answered Woodbridge — “you must forgive me if I am not au-fait to all the techni calities of a lady’s toilet. I acknowledge my igno rance with due humility.”

” You well may — I was absolutely ashamed of you one evening at our house in New York, when Mrs. Rouleau and the two Miss Quillings and Miss Bias- fold were present, and we were all enjoying our selves and discussing the last fashions. And thinking you ought to say something by way of joining in the conversation, you called my deep flounce a long tuck.”

” I’ll never do so again” — said Woodbridge, imi tating the tone of a delinquent school-boy.

The foulard silk was energetically put on ; the fair Charlotte pertinaciously insisting on hooking it up the back entirely herself: a herculean task which, in his heart of hearts, her husband was rather glad to be spared. And not knowing that spite gives strength, he stood amazed at the vigour and dexterity with which his lovely bride put her hands behind her and accomplished the feat. When it was done, she took a long survey of herself in the glass, and then turned round to her husband and made a low curtsey, saying — ” There now — you see me in my calico gown.”

Woodbridge uttered no reply : but he thought in his own mind — ” What a pity it is that beauties are so apt to be spoiled!” — He might have added — ” What a pity it is that men are so apt to spoil them.”

AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

At length, after much fixing and unfixing, and putting on and taking off the finishing articles of her attire (particularly half-a-dozen pair of tight-fitting new kid gloves, none of which were quite tight enough) her ignoramus of a husband again offending by calling her pelerine a cape and her scarf a neckeloth, and mistaking the flowers in her bonnet tor little roses when he ought to have known they were almond blossoms, Mrs. Harvey Woodbridge sullenly acknowledged herself ready to go out.

During their walk to the new house, our hero endeavoured to restore the good-humour of his bride by talking to her of the delightful life he anticipated when settled in a pleasant mansion of their own. But his glowing picture of domestic happiness elicited no reply ; her attention being all the time engaged by the superior attractions of numerous ribbons, laces, scarfa, shawls, trinkets, &c, displayed in the shop- windows, and of which, though she could now take only a passing glance, she mentally promised her self the enjoyment of making large purchases at her leisure.

They arrived at their future residence, a genteel and well-finished house of moderate size, where all was so bright new and clean, that it was impossible for the bride not to be pleased with its aspect, as her husband unlocked the doors and threw open the shutters of room after room. Mrs. Woodbridge re joiced particularly on observing that the ceilings of the parlours had centre circles for chandeliers, and she began to consider whether the chandeliers should be bronzed or gdt. She also began to talk of various splendid articles of furniture that would be necessary for the principal rooms. ” Mamma charged me” — said she — ” to have silk damask lounges and chair. cushions, and above all things not to be sparing in mirrors. She said she should hate to enter my par lours if the pier-glasses were not tall enough to reach from the floor to the ceiling ; and that she would never forgive me if my mantel-glasses did not cover the whole space of the wall above the chimney-pieces. She declared that she would never speak to me again if my centre-tables were not well supplied with all eons of elegant things, in silver, and china and co loured glass. And her last words were to remind me of getting a silver card basket, very wide at the top that the cards of the best visiters might be spread out to advantage. The pretty things on Mrs. Over- buy’s enamelled centre-table are said to have cost not less than five hundred dollars.” — ” Was it not her hushand that failed last week for the fourth time ?” — asked Woodbridge. — ” I believe he did” — replied Charlotte — ” but that is nothing. Almost every body’s hushand fails now. Mrs. Overbuy says |it is quite fashionable.” — ” In that respect, as in many others, I hope to continue unfashionable all my life” — re marked Woodbridge. — “That is so like pa'” — ob. served Charlotte. — ” He has the strangest dread of foiling ; though ma’ often tells him that most people seem to live much the better for it, and make a greater show than ever — at least after the first few weeks. And then pa’ begins to explain to her about falling, and breaking, and stopping payment, and debtors and creditors, and all that sort of thing. But •he cuts him short, and says she hates business talk. And so do I, for I am exactly like her.”

At this information Woodbridge felt as if ho was going to sigh ; but he looked at his bride, and, con soled himself with the reflection that he had certainly

married one of the most beautiful girls in America ; and therefore his sigh turned to a smile.

They had now descended to the lower story of the house. “Ah!” — exclaimed Charlotte — “the base ment, back and front, is entirely filled up with cellars. How very ridiculous !” — ” It does not seem so to me” — replied Woodbridge — ” this mode of building is very customary in Philadelphia.” — ” So much the worse” — answered the lady. — ” Now in New York nothing is more usual than to have a nice sitting- room down in the basement-story, just in front of the kitchen.” — “A sort of servants’ parlour, I suppose” — said her husband. ” It is certainly very considerate to allot to the domestics, when not at work, a com fortable place of retirement, removed from the heat, and slop and all the desagremens of a kitchen.”

” How foolishly you always talk” — exclaimed Mrs. Woodbridge. — ” As if we would give the basement- room to the servants ! No we use it ourselves. In ma’s family, as in hundreds of others all over New York, it is the place where we sit when we have no company, and where we always eat.”

” What ! — half under ground” — exclaimed Wood- bridge—” Really I should feel all the time as if I was living in a kitchen.”

” It is very wrong in you to say so,” replied the lady — ” and very unkind to say it to me, when we had a basement-room in our house in New York, and used it constantly. To be sure I’ve heard ma’ say she had some trouble in breaking pa’ into it — but he had to give up. Men have such foolish notions about almost every thing, that it is well when they have somebody to put their nonsense out of their heads.”

” I never saw you in that basement-room” — ob served Woodbridge.

” To be sure you did not. I do not say that it is the fashion for young ladies to receive their beaux in the basement room. But beaux and husbands are different things.”

” You are right” — murmured Woodbridge. — ” If always admitted behind the scenes, perhaps fewer beaux would be willing to take the character of hus bands.”

They now descended the lower staircase, and went to inspect the kitchen, which formed a part of what in Philadelphia is called the back-building. Wood- bridge pointed out to his wife its numerous conve niences ; upon which she told him that she was sorry to find he knew bo much about kitchens. They then took a survey of the chambere ; and on afterwards descending the stairs they came to a few steps branch ing off from the lower landing-place, and entered a door which admitted them into a narrow room in the back-building, directly over the kitchen. This room had short windows, a low ceiling, a small coal-grate, and was in every respect very plainly finished.

” This” — said Woodbridge — ” is the room I in tend for my library.”

” I did not know I had married a literary man” — said Charlotte, looking highly discomposed.

” I am not what is termed a literary man” — re plied her husband — ” I do not write, but I take much pleasure in reading. And it is my intention to have this room fitted up with book-shelves, and furnished with a library-table, a stuffed leather fauteuil, a read ing-lamp, and whatever else is necessary to make it comfortable.”

” Where then is to be our sitting room ? ”

4 MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE.

“We can scat ourselves very well in either the back parlour or the front one. We will have a rock- ing-chair a piece, besides ottomans or sofas.”

” But where are we to eat our meals ?”

” In the back parlour, I think — unless you prefer the front.”

” I prefer neither. We never ate in a parlour at ma’s in spite of all pa’ could say. Down in the base ment story we were so snug, and so out of the way.”

” I have always been accustomed to eating quite above ground” — said Woodbridge — ” I am quite as much opposed to the burrowing system as you say your good rather was.”

“Oh! but he had to give up” — replied Charlotte.

” Which is more than I shall do” — answered her husband — looking very resolute. ” On this point my firmness is not to be shaken.”

” Nobody asks you to eat in the basement story” — said Charlotte — ” because there is none. But this little room in the back-building is the very thing for our common sitting-place — and also to use as a din ing-room.”

” We can dine far more agreeably in one of the parlours.”

” The parlours, indeed ! — suppose somebody should chance to come in and catch us at table, would not you be very much mortified ?”

” By no means — I hope I shall never have cause to be ashamed of my dinner.”

” You don’t know what may happen. After a trial of the expenses of housekeeping, we may find it ne cessary to economize. And whether or not, I can assure you I am not going to keep an extravagant table. Ma’ never did, in spite of pa’s murmurings.”

” Then we will economize in finery rather than in comfort” — said Woodbridge. ” I do not wish for an extravagant table, and I am not a gourmand: but there is no man that does not feel somewhat meanly when obliged, in his own house, to partake of a paltry or scanty dinner ; particularly when he knows that he can afford to have a good one.”

” That was just the way pa’ used to talk to ma’. He said that as the head of the house earned all the market-money — (only think of his calling himself the head of the house,) and gave out a liberal allowance of it, he had a right to expect, for himself and family, a well-supplied and inviting table. He had some old saying that he who was the bread-winner ought to have his bread as he liked it.”

” And in this opinion I think most husbands will coincide with Mr. Stapleford” — said the old gentle man’s son-in-law.

” There will be no use in that, unless their wives coincide also” — remarked the old gentleman’s daugh ter. ” However, to cut the matter short, whatever sort of table we may keep, this apartment must cer tainly be arranged for an eating-room.”

” But we really do not require it for that purpose” — replied her husband, with strange pertinacity — ” and I must positively have it for a library.”

” The truth is, dear Harvey” — said Charlotte, coax- ingly — ” I am afraid if I allow you a regular library, I shall lose too much of your society — think how lonely I shall be when you are away from me at your books. Even were I always to sit with you in the library, (as Mrs. Deadweight does with her husband,) it would be very hard for me to keep silent the whole time, according to her custom. And if, like Mrs.

Le Bore, I were to talk to you all the while you were reading, perhaps you might think it an inter ruption. Mrs. Duncely, who has had four husbands (two lawyers, one doctor, and a clergyman) all of whom spent as little time with her as they could, frequently told us that libraries were of no use but to part man and wife. Dear Harvey, it would break my heart to suppose that you could prefer any thing in the world to the company of your own Charlotte Augusta. So let us have this nice little place for our dining-room, and let us sit in it almost always. It will save the parlours so much.”

” Indeed my dear Charlotte, I do not intend to get any furniture for the parlours of so costly a descrip tion that we shall be afraid to use it.”

” What ! — are we not to have Saxony carpets, and silk curtains, and silk-covered lounges, and large glasses, and chandeliers, and beautiful mantel-lamps ; and above all, a’n’t we to have elegant things for the centre-table ?”

” My design” — answered Woodbridge—” is to fur nish the house throughout, as genteelly, and in as good taste as my circumstances will allow: bul al ways with regard to convenience rather than to show.”

” Then I know not how I can look ma’ in the face !”

” You may throw nil the blame on me, my love.”

” Pray, Mr. Harvey Woodbridge (if I may venture to ask) how will these plain, convenient, comfortable parlours look when we have a party?”

” I do not furnish my house for the occasional reception of a crowd of people, but for the every day use of you and myself, with a few chosen friends in whose frequent visits we can take pleasure.”

” If you mean frequent tea-visits, I can assure you, sir, I shall take no pleasure . in any such trouble and extravagance — with your few chosen friends, indeed ! when it is so much cheaper to have a large party once a year (as we always had at ma’s): asking every presentable person we knew, and every body to whom we owed an invitation; and making one expense serve for all. Though our yearly party was always an absolute squeeze, you cannot think how much we saved by it. — Pa’ called it saying grace over the whole barrel — some foolish idea that he got from Dr. Franklin.”

” For my part” — remarked Woodbridge — ” I hope I shall never be brought to regard social intercourse as a mere calculation of dollars and cents. I would rather, if necessary, save in something else than make economy the chief consideration in regulating the mode of entertaining my friends and acquaintances.”

” Then why do you object to saving our parlours by using them as little as possible ?”

” When our furniture wears out, or ceases to look comme il faut, I hope I shall be able to replace it with new articles, quite as good and perhaps better — particularly if we do not begin too extravagantly at first.”

” I suppose then your plan is to fit up these par. lours with in-grain carpets, maple-chairs, and black hair-cloth sofas : and instead of curtains, nothing but venitian blinds.”

” Not exactly — though young people, on com mencing married life in moderate circumstances, have been very happy with such furniture.”

“More fools they! — For my part, I should be ashamed to show my face to a morning visiter in

MR. AND MRS. WOODBRIDGE. 5

such paltry parlours. That sort of furniture is scarcely better than what I intend for this little upstairs sit ting-room.”

” If this little room is devoted to the purpose you talk of, we must there show our faces to each other.”

” Nonsense, Mr. Woodbridge ! — How can it pos sibly signify what feces married people show to each other ?”

” It signifies much — very much indeed.”

” To put an end to this foolery” — resumed the bride — ” I tell you once for all, Harvey Woodbridge, that I must and will have this very apartment for an eating-room, or a dining-room, or a sitting-room, or whatever you please to call it — to take our meals in without danger of being caught at them, and to stay in when I am not drest and do not wish to be seen.”

” The hiding-room I think would be the best name for it” — murmured Woodbridge.

“Only let us try it awhile” — persisted the fair Charlotte, softening her tone, and looking fondly at her liege-lord — ” think how happy we shall be in this sweet little retreat, where I will always keep a few flower-pots — you know I doat on flowers — imagine your dear Charlotte Augusta in a comfortable wrapper, seated on a nice calico sofa, and doing beautiful wor sted work : and yourself in a round jacket, lolling in a good wooden rocking chair either cane-coloured or green, with slippers on your feet, and a newspaper in your hand. We can have a shelf or two for a few select books. And of an evening, when I do not happen to be sleepy, you can read to mc in the Sum mer at Brighton, or the Winter in London, or Al- macks, or Santo Sebastiano. I have them all. Bro ther Jem bought them cheap at auction. But I never had time to get to the second volume of any of them. So we have all that pleasure to come. And I shall be delighted to have those sweet books read aloud to me by you. You will like them far better than those Scotch novels that people are always talking about.”

Woodbridge looked dubious. Finally, being tired of the controversy, he thought best to end it by say ing — ” Well, well — we’ll let this subject rest for the present.” — But he resolved in his own mind to hold out fur ever against it.

At their boarding-house dinner-table, Mrs. Wood- bridge informed a lady who sat opposite, that she was delighted with her new house ; and that it was a love of a place; particularly a snug little apartment in the back- building which Mr. Woodbridge had promised her for a sitting-room, to save the parlours, as they were to be furnished in very handsome style. Wood- bridge reddened at her pertinacity, and to divert the attention of those around him from a very voluble expose of what she called her plans, he began to talk to a gentleman on the other side of the table about the latest news from Europe.

From this day our heroine spoke of the little sit ting-room as a thing of course, without noticing any of the deprecatory lookings and sayings of her hus band- And she succeeded in teazing him into allow ing her to choose all the furniture of the house with out his assistance: guided only by the taste of one of the female boarders, Mrs. Squanderfield, a lady who bad been married about a twelvemonth, and after commencing house-keeping in magnificent style, her husband (whose affairs had been involved at the time of their marriage,) was obliged at the close of

the winter, to make an assignment for the benefit of his creditors ; and the tradesmen who had supplied it took back the unpaid furniture.

After her parlours had been fitted up in a very showy and expensive manner (not forgetting the cen tre-table and its multitude of costly baubles) Mrs. Woodbridge found that these two rooms had already absorbed so large a portion of the sum allotted by her husband for furnishing the whole house that it was necessary to economize greatly in all the other apartments: and to leave two chambers in the third story with nothing but the bare walls. This discre pancy was much regretted by Mr. Woodbridge, even after his wife had reminded him that these chambers could only have been used as spare bed-rooms, which in all probability would never be wanted as they did not intend keeping a hotel ; and that as to encouraging people to come and stay at her house (even her own relations) she should do no such expensive thing. — ” You may depend on it, my dear,” said she — on the day that they installed themselves in their new abode, ” I shall make you a very economical wife.”

And so she did, as far as comforts were concerned, aided and abetted by the advice of her friend Mrs. Squanderfield who counselled her in what to spend money ; and in what to save it she was guided by the precepts of Mrs. Pinchington, another inmate of the same boarding-house, a widow of moderate income, whose forte was the closest parsimony, and who had broken up her own establishment and gone to board ing ostensibly because she was lonely, but in reality because she could get no servant to live with her. The advice of these two counsellors never clashed, for Mrs. Squanderfield took cognizance of the dress and the parlour arrangements of her pupil, while Mrs. Pinchington directed the housewifery: and both of them found in our heroine an apt scholar.

We need not tell our readers that the fair bride carried her point with regard to the little apartment at the heed of the stairs, which she concluded to de signate as the dining-room, though they ate all their meals in it ; and it became in fact their regular abid ing-place, her husband finding all opposition fruitless, and finally yielding fur the sake of peace.

It took Mrs. Woodbridge a fortnight to recover from the fatigue of moving into their new house : and during this time she was denied to all visiters, and spent the day in a wrapper on the dining-room sofa, sometimes sleeping, and sometimes sitting up at a frame and working in worsted a square-faced lap- dog, with paws and tail also as square as cross-stitch could make them ; this remarkable animal most mira culously keeping his seat upon the perpendicular side of an upright green bank, with three red flowers growing on his right and three blue ones on the left. During the progress of this useful and ornamental piece of needle- work, the lady kept a resolute silence, rarely opening her lips except to check her husband for speaking to her, as it put her out in counting the threads. And if he attempted to read aloud, (even in Santo Sebastiano) she shortly desired him to desist, as it puzzled her head and caused her to confuse the proper number of stitches allotted to each of the various worsted shades. If he tried to interest her by a really amusing book of his own choice, she always went fast asleep, and on raising his eyes from the page he found himself reading to nothing. If, on the other hand, he wished to entertain himself by read ing in silence, he was generally interrupted by some

6 ANACREONTIC BALLAD.

thing like this, preluded by a deep sigh — ” Harvey you are not thinking now of your poor Charlotte Augusta — you never took up a book and read during the week you were courting me. Times are sadly altered now : but I suppose all wives must make up .their minds to be forgotten and neglected after the first fortnight. Don’t look so disagreeable : but if you really care any thing about me, come and wind this gold-coloured worsted — I want it for my dog’s collar.”

The fortnight of rest being over, Mrs. Woodbridge concluded to receive morning visiters and display to them her handsome parlours : which for two weeks were opened every day for that purpose during the usual hours of making calls. Also she availed her- self of the opportunity of wearing in turn twelve new and beautiful dresses, and twelve pelerines and collars equally new and beautiful.

Various parties were made for his bride by the families that knew Harvey Woodbridge, who was much liked throughout the circle in which he had visited : and for every party the bride found that she wanted some new and expensive articles of decoration, notwithstanding her very recent outfit ; she and her ma’ having taken care that the trousseau should in the number and costliness of its items be the admira tion of all New York, that is of the set of people among which the Staplefords were accustomed to revolve.

When the bridal parties were over, Woodbridge was very earnest that his wife should give one her self in return for the civilities she had received from his friends ; for though he had no fondness for parties he thought they should be reciprocated by those who went to them themselves, and who had the appliances and means of entertaining company in a house of their own and in the customary manner. To this pro posal our heroine pertinaciously objected, upon the ground that she was tired and worn out with parties, and saw no reason for incurring the expense and trouble of giving one herself.

” But” — said her husband — ” have you not often told me of your mother’s annual parties. Did she not give at least one every season ?”

” She never did any such thing” — replied Char lotte — ” till after / was old enough to come out. And she had as many invitations herself, before she began to give parties as she had afterwards. It makes no sort of difference. Ladies that dress well and look well, and therefore help to adorn the rooms are under no necessity of making a return (as you call it) even if they go to parties every night in the season. Then, if, besides being elegantly drest, they are belles and beauties (here she fixed her eyes on the glass) their presence gives an eclat which is a sufficient compen sation to their hostess.”

” But if they are not belles and beauties” — observ ed Woodbridge, a little mischievously.

” I don’t know what you are talking about !” — re plied the lady with a look of surprise.

” Well, well” — resumed the husband — ” argue as you will on this subject, you never can convince me that it is right first to lay ourselves under obligations, and then to hold back from returning them, when we have it amply in our power to do so.”

” I am glad to hear you are so rich a man. It was but last week you told me you could not afford to get me that case of emeralds I set my mind upon at Thibaut’s.”

” Neither I can. And excuse me for saying that I think you have already as many articles of jewel lery as the wife of a Market street merchant ought to possess.”

” Are the things you gave me on our wedding-day to last my life-time. Fashion changes in jewellery as well as in every thing else.”

” It cannot have changed much already, as but a few weeks have elapsed since that giorno feliee. How ever, let us say no more about jewels.”

” Oh ! yes — I know it is an irksome topic to hus bands and fathers and all that sort of thing. Pa’ was always disagreeable whenever Marquand’s bill was sent in.”

” To return to our former subject” — resumed Woodbridge — ” I positively cannot be satisfied, if after accepting in every instance the civilities of our friends, we Bhould meanly pass over our obligation of offering the usual return. I acknowledge that I do not like parties; but having in compliance with your wishes accompanied you to so many, we really must make the exertion of giving one ourselves.”

” If you disapprove of parties you ought not to have a party. I thought you were a man that always professed to act up to your principles.”

” I endeavour to do so. And one of my principles is to accept no favours without making a return as far as lies in my power. I disapprove of prodigality, but I hate meanness.”

” It is wicked to hate any thing. But married men get into such a violent way of talking. When pa’ did break out, he was awful. And then, instead of arguing the point, ma’ and I always quitted the room, and left him to himself. He soon cooled down when he found there was nobody to listen to him : and the next day he was glad enough to make his peace and give up.”

Woodbridge could endure no more, but hastily left the room himself : and Charlotte walked to the glass and arranged her curls, and altered the tie of her neck- ribbon ; and then sat down and worked at the ever lasting dog.

102 A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

Written for the Lady’s Book.

A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

sY MISS M . A. sROWNE, LIVERPOOL, ENG.

Every body knows that every English country vil- splendid black horse, Eblis, (that name sadly puzzled

lage has its great man — the Squire, the Vicar, or the the natives !) mixed medicines under the Doctor’s

Lord of the Manor, as the case may be. But most directions, and delivered the same at the houses of

villages have likewise a remarkable man, a person- the sick.

age not necessarily a member of any particular class His patients were the only society with which

of society. The remarkable man of Friarscroft was, Doctor Foster held any communication. He uni.

unquestionably, Dr. Foster. formly refused the squire’s invitations to dinner, the

Friarscroft is a small village situated at some dis- clergyman’s to supper, the old ladies’ to “tea and

tance from the metropolis. It lies in a quiet valley, turn out.” They persecuted him for a year or so, but

amidst well cultivated slopes, interspersed with patch- after that fhey let him alone. He never made any visas,

es of rich woodland, and really is a beautiful spot, save professional ones, and never undertook cases of

with its scattered white houses, its Elizabethan par- nerves or vapours, except to order a blister in the

sonage, and its tall graceful church-spire shooting up. one case, and a dose of rhubarb in the other, which

wards from a clump of dark yew trees. prescriptions were so effectual that a nervous or va-

About the middle of the irregular street stood the pourish subject was soon not to be found in his neigh-

Doctor’s house — an old fashioned edifice with pointed bourhood. But in cases of real suffering no one could

gables and white walls, thickly embowered in ivy, be kinder in manner, or more regular in attendance,

clematis, and honey-suckle. It stood near the road, than the Doctor, although it was always observed

just within a neat row of white palings, and its green that the poorer the patient, the more cheerfully were

door displayed a large brass plate, whereon the name the Doctor’s services given. He seemed to sofien

of Doctor Foster was engraved in very legible cha- towards the parish poor more than all, and his silence

racters. That door had a strange, unnatural appear- and sternness gave way as he listened to the detail

ance, amidst the rich tapestry of leaves and flowers. of their sufferings, and cheered them with the Ian-

The back part of the dwelling, however, had no guage of sympathy and consolation, such blemish. The transome windows looked out Of his skill nobody entertained a doubt, althongh

on a sloping garden, terraced after the fashion of for. some fanciful persons did once attempt to bring in a

mer days, and full of clipped yews and quaint flower rival in the person of Mr. Augustus Popjoy, a spruce

plots. It terminated in a smooth green declivity, Cockney. But after Mr. Popjoy had sojourned three

sloping to the border of a beautiful stream, which mortal months with Mrs. Bell, of the post-office,

here made a graceful bend, widening a little where without gaining further patronage than that of two

it swept from the covert of willows and alders which old maids and a pet lap-dog, he departed one morn-

nearly met over its current a little higher up. ing without beat of drum, leaving his landlady his

Here dwelt Doctor Foster — the only medical creditor for three months rent, hia two maiden cus-

practitioner in Friarscroft, or within some miles there- tomers minus a medical man and a beau, and poor

of. He was about the middle height, rather stout, Shock with a dose of medicine administered on the

and extremely muscular. His garments were always previous evening, which put a period to that amiable

of a by-gone fashion — that is to say, he wore knee quadruped’s existence in the course of the day. breeches, square-toed shoes, with large silver buckles, Doctor Foster’s house was no less singular than

an antiquated coat and waistcoat, and a huge black its master. It was filled from top to bottom with

wig. He was barely thirty when he first came to “curiosities,” as his housekeeper called them. There

Friarscroft, but even then he was similarly clad, and were birds of rare plumage crowding gla*s cases on

during his long residence there the difference of his every shelf. There were strange reptiles, preserved

age was only marked by the increasing rotundity of in spirits — cabinets of shells and -insects — instru-

his person, and the change his bushy eye-brows under- meats, of which the use could only be guessed — and,

went, from black to grizzled, from grizzled to white. above all, books in quantity so numerous, and in

His eyes were dark, quick, and intelligent, his fes- bulk so immense, that some of the ignorant did not tures well shaped, yet his countenance was by no fail to ascribe to Dr. Foster the character of a con- means prepossessing. There was something stern in jurer. But, besides these marvels, there was one his brow, heightened by an air of extreme reserve,” closet that excited the curiosity of every gossip in the and the close compression of lips, which seemed village — aye, and of some who were not gossips, too. shut as with a clasp. You were astonished when The Doctor repeatedly sate there late at night, and he spoke, almost startled ; and yet that deep, rich, though Mrs. Gage, the housekeeper, had listened sonorous voice was any thing but disagreeable. many a time on the stairs in the dead of night, and

On his first arrival in Friarscroft, his family con- applied her eye to the key-hole, she was as often sisted of an old woman, who acted as cook and baffled in her laudable pursuit of knowledge, by the housekeeper, a young gitl who assisted her, and a dead silence of the room, and the key-hole being boy, whose duties were compounded from those of stopped with the key, which was turned within, footman, groom, and journeyman, inasmuch as he She declared, however, that once she heard some- cleaned knives and shoes, looked after the Doctor’s body muttering low in the closet, and that another

A VILLAGE ROMANCE. 103

time her muter came suddenly out before she could slip away, and, as he locked the door behind him, cast on her a look which froze the very blood in her veins.

Darker and darker grew the surmises of the wor thy lieges of Friarscioft as to the contents of the closet. Could the Doctor be a body snatcher, and had he there concealed the mangled remains of a fellow creature? But, if so, from whence did the Doctor procure his ” subjects,” and how were they, conveyed unseen into his premises ? In a village watched by the Argus eyes of seven wakeful spin sters, and two ancient watchmen, it was next to im possible that such a thing could pass undetected. It was more likely that this mysterious closet was a receptacle for the skeletons and preparations, need ful in the Doctor’s profession — so said the more en lightened. It was most likely the Doctor was a wizard, and practised the black art in this secret chamber — so said the ignorant and superstitious. Each settled the question to his own fancy, and, the Doctor meanwhile went on in his daily course, as undisturbed as if there had never been any question about his concerns at all.

He had occupied his domicile in Friarseroft some §is or seven years when an incident occurred which •gain set his neighbours on the qui vine respecting his affairs. They had always been wondering about him since he came amongst them, but the circum stance to which I allude increased their curiosity to > degree that was almost unbearable.

It was a calm starry night in Autumn. All Fri- arscroft was wrapt in repose, and only one solitary light was seen gleaming from a window in the Doc tor’s house. Suddenly the sound of approaching wheels startled several of the inhabitants from their slumbers. It was too early for the arrival of the mail — too late for the return of any of the peaceful villagers from the county town. Nearer came the sound — the rattle of a carriage driven fast and furi ously.. Divers curious persons leaped from their beds, but before they could reach the windows of

their apartments the phenomenon had disappeared

It was only those who were fortunate enough to re side near the centre of the street, who had the satis faction of seeing the vehicle stop suddenly before Doctor Foster’s door, and of hearing his night-bell violently rung. The disturbance was occasioned by s chaise and four with lamps, and as soon as the steps were let down, on the opening of the Doctor’s door, a female figure bearing a large bundle ‘descend ed from the carriage and entered the house. Half an hour elapsed before the door re-opened — then the Doctor himself came forth, supporting the lady, whom he assisted into the carriage. He lingered an instant beside it — then bade the post boys drive on, ami the chaise was whirled rapidly out of sight. The Doctor stood gazing after it, quite unconscious what observing eyes were watching him from the opposite side of the street, and after musing, as it seemed, for some minutes, returned slowly to his house and closed the door.

A few additional circumstances transpired next day, through the medium of Mrs. Gage. She stated, that on hearing a noise in the house, on the previ ous night, she ventured to peep from her chamber, and saw her master conducting a lady into the mys terious closet. Not knowing what was going on, she thought it best to steal down stairs, and ” see if

she could hear what they were doing.” She heard the Doctor speaking very low and steadily, but she could not make out the words he said, except ” Lucy” and ” forgive.” And then she heard the lady sobbing as if her heart would break-, and entreating the Doctor to take care of somebody or other. On hearing them moving, as if they were coming out of the closet, she flew back to her room, and did not dare to look out again until she heard the carriage drive off. Her master went immediately to his room, but she heard him walking up and down all night as he always did when any thing vexed him. In the morning she was summoned to his dressing room, where he showed her a little girl of about two years old, who was sleeping on a sofa. He told her the child must be taken great care of, as it was the orphan of a very particular friend. Mrs. Gage ventured to inquire the infant’s name, and was told, somewhat sharply, she was to be called Miss Emily. Further the deponent knew not, and some might have imagined the whole story to be a figment of Mre. Gage’s active imagina tion, had she not held in her arms the lovely little child who was the heroine of her tale.

Of course Miss Emily was an object of no small interest. Various were the conjectures as to her pa rentage — strict was the scrutiny which her dress and features underwent. But there was nothing in the clear blue eyes — the fair childish face, and the sim ple white frock, which gave the desired information. ” Pity she was not a little older,” said every body, for she might then have remembered something which could have furnished a clue to the mystery ; but, unfortunately, the only words she could speak intelligibly were ” Mamma,” and ” Dash,” or, as she she pronounced it, ” Dass,” which latter name being applied by her to every spaniel she saw, it was con jectured she had left a favourite dog in her former home. As any attempts to penetrate this second mystery of the Doctor’s were found to be useless, they were soon given up, and the curiosity the child’s arrival had at first excited, was replaced by the kinder feelings of affectionate interest awakened by herself. She throve wonderfully under Mrs. Gage’s care, and made herself friends wherever she appeared, not more by the extreme beauty of her person, than by her affectionate disposition, and winning ways. A hap pier little child never existed. She seemed to have that rare gift — a perpetual fountain of joy within herself. She had that sweet and sunny nature which, ever bright itself, sheds gladness on all around it. She was happy at home or abroad ; happy in the Doc tor’s quiet garden, where she trotted about, singing her childish hymns — happy in her walks, her visits, her plays, with or without companions, and, perhaps, happiest of all in the society of a large rough-haired dog, procured by her guardian from some distance, and joyfully recognised as ” Dash” from the moment of his arrival.

For some time Doctor Foster displayed but few tokens of especial regard for the child so mysterious ly consigned to his charge, beyond exceeding care of her health, and an anxiety to heap upon her every species of childish finery that he could devise. But the aspect of affairs changed when Emily was trans formed from an infant into a lovely little girl of seven. The Doctor seemed suddenly smitten with the conviction that she would not always remain a child, and that it was incumbent on him to educate her — so her education commenced accordingly. She

104 A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

was no longer left to the care of Mrs. Gage, she was no longer permitted to spend hours in the fields, with Dash for her sole protector and companion. — She was now the alternate plaything and pupil of the Doctor, and her education his constant hobby. Read ing she had already learnt, she scarcely knew how, and Doctor Foster was surprised and delighted to discorer what rich veins of thought, and feeling, and imagination, were already opening in her mind. The fairy tales she had read were scarcely more fanciful than the fairy scenes she imagined, and now that the Doctor condescended to take an interest in her pur suits, her mind expanded rapidly, and her little heart warmed and gladdened under that genial sympathy. A music master was procured at considerable ex pense from the country town, and, with this excep tion, her guardian generally superintended her stu dies himself. He was an excellent linguist — a man of deep and varied information, and now the stores which had for years lain buried in his solitary mind, were brought to light for the benefit of his lovely and beloved ward. ” She is not like her mother, thank Heaven !” was his muttered expression, while gazing on her animated face and listening to her gay voice — ” She is not like her mother, as I feared, at first, she would have been !”

I have called my story a Romance, and, therefore, I ought to keep my mystery till near the end of its narration ; but I deem it better to quit the beaten ground of tale tellers in general, and hasten to an explanation of so much as may render the Doctor’s mutterings intelligible.

The mother of Emily was a most beautiful and accomplished woman — one who had in her youth been the object of much admiration, and of one affection as sincere as ever glowed in a human breast. She had been early betrothed to him who loved her so truly, but had deserted him when a suitor richer, more fashionable, and of higher rank, sued for her hand. That forsaken lover was Doctor Foster. It was to this circumstance that Friarscroft was in debted for its remarkable man. As soon as the first agony of his disappointment had subsided, he deter mined to leave his native place at once and for ever. He had no near relations living, except a sister, who was happily married to a worthy country Baronet. Independent of his profession he had a considerable property, and with this he retired to Friarscroft, a nook where he might spend the remainder of his life — ” the world forgetting, by the world forgot.”

The fair cause of his self-banishment fluttered on, for some time, the giddy denizen of a circle as heart less as herself. During her years of prosperity she became the mother of two sons, who both died in their infancy. But a darker day — an hour of retri bution — was at hand. The extravagance of herself and her husband, had already reduced their fortune to a trifle. Discontent, uneasiness, and discord, stole gradually into their home. The temper of Mrs. Les lie was not proof against her various vexations, and her health proved as fragile. Her husband grew weary of her and sought a refuge from his comfort less home, and pining wife, amidst all kinds of dissi pation. In the midst of all this gloom, the little Emily made her appearance, and, strange to say, awakened in the sore and crushed heart of her mo ther an affection with which she had never welcomed the infants born in her happier days. Mr. Leslie died soon after the birth of this child, and his widow strug

gled awhile to keep up some appearance of her former grandeur, amongst the fast fading splendours of her mansion. But her health was declining — her re sources nearly exhausted — and she was deeply in debt. Her proud spirit spurned the idea of returning to her own relations ; and her husband’s connections, who had always been averse to his marriage with her, quietly dropped her acquaintance. In this emer gency she resolved to entreat the aid of her slighted lover. It was a strange contradiction in that proud nature ! She, who scorned to apply to her own rela. tives in her distress, felt almost a pleasure in the thought of being obliged to him she had injured. — Perhaps she felt that there was something like expia- thin in the humiliation — or, perhaps, she felt that her most solid ground of reliance was in the sterling truth and kindness of his nature. Her plan was soon laid. She gathered together the little remnants of her property and her really valuable jewels, resolving to fly to the Continent. She left town suddenly, ac. companied only by her little girl. With that child she felt she was about to part for ever. She had deter mined to take her to Dr. Foster’s house, and entreat him to shelter and cherish her. She felt her days were numbered, and the thought of dying abroad and leaving her unprotected babe amongst strangers, was insupportable. We have seen the event. She did reach the Doctor’s residence, and at a much later hour than she had intended, in consequence of an accident on the road. The Doctor was shocked, astonished, grieved, and, at first refused to accept the guardianship of the infant. But there was one argu ment which he felt to be irresistible. ” I am dying,” said the mother, and she drew back the veil from her faded face ; “lam dying, and how can I leave ray only child, a stranger in a strange land ? Yet so must she be left — a wretched, unprotected orphan, if you refuse to receive her.”

Her haggard cheek with its hectic flush, the fear ful brightness of her hollow eye, the altered tone of her voice were indeed sadly corroborative of her as sertion that her death was near at hand. The Doc tor’s heart melted within him.

” Lucy Leslie,” he said, as he took her wasted hand in his — “you have sinned, but you have suffered — from my heart I freely forgive you the falsehood which has cast a shadow over my whole existence. Fear not for your child — she shall be well cared for. But remember, if at any future day you should be anxious to reclaim her, you will not be permitted to do so. She must be mine — wholly and entirely mine ; and no change of circumstance must ever induce you to attempt even to see her. This you must promise — solemnly promise— or I cannot grant your request.”

” I promise,” said Mrs. Leslie, her voice hall choked by sobs — ” It will not be long ere I shall be beyond the temptation of breaking my vow.”

Her foreboding was fulfilled — she died at Florence, about six months after Dr. Foster accepted the guardianship of her daughter. How religiously he kept his promise of protection we have already seen.

I must now entreat my readers to imagine an in terval of ten year*, during which Emily Leslie has been gradually changing from a sweet child into a lovely girl, from a lovely girl to a graceful, budding woman. She is ” little Miss Emily” no longer, but a fair, tall, intelligent maiden of seventeen.

It was a bright summer evening, and Emily Leslie

i

102 A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

Written for the Lady’s Book.

A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

sY MISS M . A. sROWNE, LIVERPOOL, ENG.

Every body knows that every English country vil- splendid black horse, Eblis, (that name sadly puzzled

lage has its great man — the Squire, the Vicar, or the the natives !) mixed medicines under the Doctor’s

Lord of the Manor, as the case may be. But most directions, and delivered the same at the houses of

villages have likewise a remarkable man, a person- the sick.

age not necessarily a member of any particular class His patients were the only society with which

of society. The remarkable man of Friarscroft was, Doctor Foster held any communication. He uni.

unquestionably, Dr. Foster. formly refused the squire’s invitations to dinner, the

Friarscroft is a small village situated at some dis- clergyman’s to supper, the old ladies’ to “tea and

tance from the metropolis. It lies in a quiet valley, turn out.” They persecuted him for a year or so, but

amidst well cultivated slopes, interspersed with patch- after that fhey let him alone. He never made any visas,

es of rich woodland, and really is a beautiful spot, save professional ones, and never undertook cases of

with its scattered white houses, its Elizabethan par- nerves or vapours, except to order a blister in the

sonage, and its tall graceful church-spire shooting up. one case, and a dose of rhubarb in the other, which

wards from a clump of dark yew trees. prescriptions were so effectual that a nervous or va-

About the middle of the irregular street stood the pourish subject was soon not to be found in his neigh-

Doctor’s house — an old fashioned edifice with pointed bourhood. But in cases of real suffering no one could

gables and white walls, thickly embowered in ivy, be kinder in manner, or more regular in attendance,

clematis, and honey-suckle. It stood near the road, than the Doctor, although it was always observed

just within a neat row of white palings, and its green that the poorer the patient, the more cheerfully were

door displayed a large brass plate, whereon the name the Doctor’s services given. He seemed to sofien

of Doctor Foster was engraved in very legible cha- towards the parish poor more than all, and his silence

racters. That door had a strange, unnatural appear- and sternness gave way as he listened to the detail

ance, amidst the rich tapestry of leaves and flowers. of their sufferings, and cheered them with the Ian-

The back part of the dwelling, however, had no guage of sympathy and consolation, such blemish. The transome windows looked out Of his skill nobody entertained a doubt, althongh

on a sloping garden, terraced after the fashion of for. some fanciful persons did once attempt to bring in a

mer days, and full of clipped yews and quaint flower rival in the person of Mr. Augustus Popjoy, a spruce

plots. It terminated in a smooth green declivity, Cockney. But after Mr. Popjoy had sojourned three

sloping to the border of a beautiful stream, which mortal months with Mrs. Bell, of the post-office,

here made a graceful bend, widening a little where without gaining further patronage than that of two

it swept from the covert of willows and alders which old maids and a pet lap-dog, he departed one morn-

nearly met over its current a little higher up. ing without beat of drum, leaving his landlady his

Here dwelt Doctor Foster — the only medical creditor for three months rent, hia two maiden cus-

practitioner in Friarscroft, or within some miles there- tomers minus a medical man and a beau, and poor

of. He was about the middle height, rather stout, Shock with a dose of medicine administered on the

and extremely muscular. His garments were always previous evening, which put a period to that amiable

of a by-gone fashion — that is to say, he wore knee quadruped’s existence in the course of the day. breeches, square-toed shoes, with large silver buckles, Doctor Foster’s house was no less singular than

an antiquated coat and waistcoat, and a huge black its master. It was filled from top to bottom with

wig. He was barely thirty when he first came to “curiosities,” as his housekeeper called them. There

Friarscroft, but even then he was similarly clad, and were birds of rare plumage crowding gla*s cases on

during his long residence there the difference of his every shelf. There were strange reptiles, preserved

age was only marked by the increasing rotundity of in spirits — cabinets of shells and -insects — instru-

his person, and the change his bushy eye-brows under- meats, of which the use could only be guessed — and,

went, from black to grizzled, from grizzled to white. above all, books in quantity so numerous, and in

His eyes were dark, quick, and intelligent, his fes- bulk so immense, that some of the ignorant did not tures well shaped, yet his countenance was by no fail to ascribe to Dr. Foster the character of a con- means prepossessing. There was something stern in jurer. But, besides these marvels, there was one his brow, heightened by an air of extreme reserve,” closet that excited the curiosity of every gossip in the and the close compression of lips, which seemed village — aye, and of some who were not gossips, too. shut as with a clasp. You were astonished when The Doctor repeatedly sate there late at night, and he spoke, almost startled ; and yet that deep, rich, though Mrs. Gage, the housekeeper, had listened sonorous voice was any thing but disagreeable. many a time on the stairs in the dead of night, and

On his first arrival in Friarscroft, his family con- applied her eye to the key-hole, she was as often sisted of an old woman, who acted as cook and baffled in her laudable pursuit of knowledge, by the housekeeper, a young gitl who assisted her, and a dead silence of the room, and the key-hole being boy, whose duties were compounded from those of stopped with the key, which was turned within, footman, groom, and journeyman, inasmuch as he She declared, however, that once she heard some- cleaned knives and shoes, looked after the Doctor’s body muttering low in the closet, and that another

A VILLAGE ROMANCE. 103

time her muter came suddenly out before she could slip away, and, as he locked the door behind him, cast on her a look which froze the very blood in her veins.

Darker and darker grew the surmises of the wor thy lieges of Friarscioft as to the contents of the closet. Could the Doctor be a body snatcher, and had he there concealed the mangled remains of a fellow creature? But, if so, from whence did the Doctor procure his ” subjects,” and how were they, conveyed unseen into his premises ? In a village watched by the Argus eyes of seven wakeful spin sters, and two ancient watchmen, it was next to im possible that such a thing could pass undetected. It was more likely that this mysterious closet was a receptacle for the skeletons and preparations, need ful in the Doctor’s profession — so said the more en lightened. It was most likely the Doctor was a wizard, and practised the black art in this secret chamber — so said the ignorant and superstitious. Each settled the question to his own fancy, and, the Doctor meanwhile went on in his daily course, as undisturbed as if there had never been any question about his concerns at all.

He had occupied his domicile in Friarseroft some §is or seven years when an incident occurred which •gain set his neighbours on the qui vine respecting his affairs. They had always been wondering about him since he came amongst them, but the circum stance to which I allude increased their curiosity to > degree that was almost unbearable.

It was a calm starry night in Autumn. All Fri- arscroft was wrapt in repose, and only one solitary light was seen gleaming from a window in the Doc tor’s house. Suddenly the sound of approaching wheels startled several of the inhabitants from their slumbers. It was too early for the arrival of the mail — too late for the return of any of the peaceful villagers from the county town. Nearer came the sound — the rattle of a carriage driven fast and furi ously.. Divers curious persons leaped from their beds, but before they could reach the windows of

their apartments the phenomenon had disappeared

It was only those who were fortunate enough to re side near the centre of the street, who had the satis faction of seeing the vehicle stop suddenly before Doctor Foster’s door, and of hearing his night-bell violently rung. The disturbance was occasioned by s chaise and four with lamps, and as soon as the steps were let down, on the opening of the Doctor’s door, a female figure bearing a large bundle ‘descend ed from the carriage and entered the house. Half an hour elapsed before the door re-opened — then the Doctor himself came forth, supporting the lady, whom he assisted into the carriage. He lingered an instant beside it — then bade the post boys drive on, ami the chaise was whirled rapidly out of sight. The Doctor stood gazing after it, quite unconscious what observing eyes were watching him from the opposite side of the street, and after musing, as it seemed, for some minutes, returned slowly to his house and closed the door.

A few additional circumstances transpired next day, through the medium of Mrs. Gage. She stated, that on hearing a noise in the house, on the previ ous night, she ventured to peep from her chamber, and saw her master conducting a lady into the mys terious closet. Not knowing what was going on, she thought it best to steal down stairs, and ” see if

she could hear what they were doing.” She heard the Doctor speaking very low and steadily, but she could not make out the words he said, except ” Lucy” and ” forgive.” And then she heard the lady sobbing as if her heart would break-, and entreating the Doctor to take care of somebody or other. On hearing them moving, as if they were coming out of the closet, she flew back to her room, and did not dare to look out again until she heard the carriage drive off. Her master went immediately to his room, but she heard him walking up and down all night as he always did when any thing vexed him. In the morning she was summoned to his dressing room, where he showed her a little girl of about two years old, who was sleeping on a sofa. He told her the child must be taken great care of, as it was the orphan of a very particular friend. Mrs. Gage ventured to inquire the infant’s name, and was told, somewhat sharply, she was to be called Miss Emily. Further the deponent knew not, and some might have imagined the whole story to be a figment of Mre. Gage’s active imagina tion, had she not held in her arms the lovely little child who was the heroine of her tale.

Of course Miss Emily was an object of no small interest. Various were the conjectures as to her pa rentage — strict was the scrutiny which her dress and features underwent. But there was nothing in the clear blue eyes — the fair childish face, and the sim ple white frock, which gave the desired information. ” Pity she was not a little older,” said every body, for she might then have remembered something which could have furnished a clue to the mystery ; but, unfortunately, the only words she could speak intelligibly were ” Mamma,” and ” Dash,” or, as she she pronounced it, ” Dass,” which latter name being applied by her to every spaniel she saw, it was con jectured she had left a favourite dog in her former home. As any attempts to penetrate this second mystery of the Doctor’s were found to be useless, they were soon given up, and the curiosity the child’s arrival had at first excited, was replaced by the kinder feelings of affectionate interest awakened by herself. She throve wonderfully under Mrs. Gage’s care, and made herself friends wherever she appeared, not more by the extreme beauty of her person, than by her affectionate disposition, and winning ways. A hap pier little child never existed. She seemed to have that rare gift — a perpetual fountain of joy within herself. She had that sweet and sunny nature which, ever bright itself, sheds gladness on all around it. She was happy at home or abroad ; happy in the Doc tor’s quiet garden, where she trotted about, singing her childish hymns — happy in her walks, her visits, her plays, with or without companions, and, perhaps, happiest of all in the society of a large rough-haired dog, procured by her guardian from some distance, and joyfully recognised as ” Dash” from the moment of his arrival.

For some time Doctor Foster displayed but few tokens of especial regard for the child so mysterious ly consigned to his charge, beyond exceeding care of her health, and an anxiety to heap upon her every species of childish finery that he could devise. But the aspect of affairs changed when Emily was trans formed from an infant into a lovely little girl of seven. The Doctor seemed suddenly smitten with the conviction that she would not always remain a child, and that it was incumbent on him to educate her — so her education commenced accordingly. She

104 A VILLAGE ROMANCE.

was no longer left to the care of Mrs. Gage, she was no longer permitted to spend hours in the fields, with Dash for her sole protector and companion. — She was now the alternate plaything and pupil of the Doctor, and her education his constant hobby. Read ing she had already learnt, she scarcely knew how, and Doctor Foster was surprised and delighted to discorer what rich veins of thought, and feeling, and imagination, were already opening in her mind. The fairy tales she had read were scarcely more fanciful than the fairy scenes she imagined, and now that the Doctor condescended to take an interest in her pur suits, her mind expanded rapidly, and her little heart warmed and gladdened under that genial sympathy. A music master was procured at considerable ex pense from the country town, and, with this excep tion, her guardian generally superintended her stu dies himself. He was an excellent linguist — a man of deep and varied information, and now the stores which had for years lain buried in his solitary mind, were brought to light for the benefit of his lovely and beloved ward. ” She is not like her mother, thank Heaven !” was his muttered expression, while gazing on her animated face and listening to her gay voice — ” She is not like her mother, as I feared, at first, she would have been !”

I have called my story a Romance, and, therefore, I ought to keep my mystery till near the end of its narration ; but I deem it better to quit the beaten ground of tale tellers in general, and hasten to an explanation of so much as may render the Doctor’s mutterings intelligible.

The mother of Emily was a most beautiful and accomplished woman — one who had in her youth been the object of much admiration, and of one affection as sincere as ever glowed in a human breast. She had been early betrothed to him who loved her so truly, but had deserted him when a suitor richer, more fashionable, and of higher rank, sued for her hand. That forsaken lover was Doctor Foster. It was to this circumstance that Friarscroft was in debted for its remarkable man. As soon as the first agony of his disappointment had subsided, he deter mined to leave his native place at once and for ever. He had no near relations living, except a sister, who was happily married to a worthy country Baronet. Independent of his profession he had a considerable property, and with this he retired to Friarscroft, a nook where he might spend the remainder of his life — ” the world forgetting, by the world forgot.”

The fair cause of his self-banishment fluttered on, for some time, the giddy denizen of a circle as heart less as herself. During her years of prosperity she became the mother of two sons, who both died in their infancy. But a darker day — an hour of retri bution — was at hand. The extravagance of herself and her husband, had already reduced their fortune to a trifle. Discontent, uneasiness, and discord, stole gradually into their home. The temper of Mrs. Les lie was not proof against her various vexations, and her health proved as fragile. Her husband grew weary of her and sought a refuge from his comfort less home, and pining wife, amidst all kinds of dissi pation. In the midst of all this gloom, the little Emily made her appearance, and, strange to say, awakened in the sore and crushed heart of her mo ther an affection with which she had never welcomed the infants born in her happier days. Mr. Leslie died soon after the birth of this child, and his widow strug

gled awhile to keep up some appearance of her former grandeur, amongst the fast fading splendours of her mansion. But her health was declining — her re sources nearly exhausted — and she was deeply in debt. Her proud spirit spurned the idea of returning to her own relations ; and her husband’s connections, who had always been averse to his marriage with her, quietly dropped her acquaintance. In this emer gency she resolved to entreat the aid of her slighted lover. It was a strange contradiction in that proud nature ! She, who scorned to apply to her own rela. tives in her distress, felt almost a pleasure in the thought of being obliged to him she had injured. — Perhaps she felt that there was something like expia- thin in the humiliation — or, perhaps, she felt that her most solid ground of reliance was in the sterling truth and kindness of his nature. Her plan was soon laid. She gathered together the little remnants of her property and her really valuable jewels, resolving to fly to the Continent. She left town suddenly, ac. companied only by her little girl. With that child she felt she was about to part for ever. She had deter mined to take her to Dr. Foster’s house, and entreat him to shelter and cherish her. She felt her days were numbered, and the thought of dying abroad and leaving her unprotected babe amongst strangers, was insupportable. We have seen the event. She did reach the Doctor’s residence, and at a much later hour than she had intended, in consequence of an accident on the road. The Doctor was shocked, astonished, grieved, and, at first refused to accept the guardianship of the infant. But there was one argu ment which he felt to be irresistible. ” I am dying,” said the mother, and she drew back the veil from her faded face ; “lam dying, and how can I leave ray only child, a stranger in a strange land ? Yet so must she be left — a wretched, unprotected orphan, if you refuse to receive her.”

Her haggard cheek with its hectic flush, the fear ful brightness of her hollow eye, the altered tone of her voice were indeed sadly corroborative of her as sertion that her death was near at hand. The Doc tor’s heart melted within him.

” Lucy Leslie,” he said, as he took her wasted hand in his — “you have sinned, but you have suffered — from my heart I freely forgive you the falsehood which has cast a shadow over my whole existence. Fear not for your child — she shall be well cared for. But remember, if at any future day you should be anxious to reclaim her, you will not be permitted to do so. She must be mine — wholly and entirely mine ; and no change of circumstance must ever induce you to attempt even to see her. This you must promise — solemnly promise— or I cannot grant your request.”

” I promise,” said Mrs. Leslie, her voice hall choked by sobs — ” It will not be long ere I shall be beyond the temptation of breaking my vow.”

Her foreboding was fulfilled — she died at Florence, about six months after Dr. Foster accepted the guardianship of her daughter. How religiously he kept his promise of protection we have already seen.

I must now entreat my readers to imagine an in terval of ten year*, during which Emily Leslie has been gradually changing from a sweet child into a lovely girl, from a lovely girl to a graceful, budding woman. She is ” little Miss Emily” no longer, but a fair, tall, intelligent maiden of seventeen.

It was a bright summer evening, and Emily Leslie

i

A VILLAGE ROMANCE. 105

Se pleasant solitude of Doctor Foster’s garden, iole scene had something fanciful and pictu- in its features and its grouping. Here was se, half cottage, half mansion, with its small s, glittering and flashing in the last sunshine nongst the embowering leaves. There were

old trees, their spires already darkly drawn the cloudless sky, and their bolls yet bright tolden glow. There were flowers of every I of the rarest kinds. There were birds of lumage and lovely song filling a small aviary side the lawn, and, fairer than all, there was *slie herself, seated on the sloping turf, one md supporting her temples and partially over, d by the rich ringlets of her chestnut hair, r resting on the collar of a small white reyhound who was standing by her side, and no her face, with his large, loving, dark eyes, ler dogs were near her — the one a large uated spaniel— deaf, blind, cross, (but still he was the Dash who had been her playmate sod 😉 the other a aplendid black Newfound, here was a slight shadow on her brow — a

r rich blue eye — and yet she had no definite

sorrow. True, her life was a most secluded

Doctor Foster, year by year, had been thdrawing her from the little world of Friars, tl she was never seen by her neighbours, nurch, or in some country excursion, where I ian invariably accompanied her. But then ;o kind, so solicitous for her happiness at He had gathered round her all the refine, id luxuries of life — music, flowers, graceful very description— dress and ornaments, the :id rarest, and such books as he had read md approved as fit for her perusal. But v one class of works which he carefully ex. m her library — novels or love tales in verse vere never permitted to meet her eye. No’ rhich the happiness of love is depicted, no ulated to awaken a thirst in her heart for

waters of affection was ever placed within He seemed to dread that she should even ve ; and was nervously miserable whenever seed any curiosity about the contemplated

in the village, which she could not but lira ugh the medium of Mrs. Gage. Yet I implanted feelings in Emily’s heart which

in the power of education to crush, and, visions were pure as an angel’s thoughts, one and all of affection, deep, tried, immor- jf some bright? being, still unknown, whose nee should yet be blended with hers. Still Nay— on that summer evening there • inhered face smiling through her dreams, ed on her very soul, a memory that drew tears front their fountain. She had looked being, and, though she owned it not, even she loved. It was in the village church- she had beheld the face that so haunted ibrance. She was leaning on the Doc. and he had paused for a few minutes to lme recovered patient — the only person on vould have bestowed more than a passing nily was looking around her at the little h the childish interest of one who seldom nge nice, when suddenly her eyes encoun-

of a young and handsome man who was her in evident admiration. It was but an

instant ere she withdrew her eyes, and felt the burn ing blood rushing over her brow and cheek, but even that instant had sufficed to impress the stranger’s image on her heart Ever since had it been present with her — those thick dark lucks, those noble fea tures, those deep, gentle, expressive eyes! Since that eventful Sabbath, she had been much alone, for the Doctor was much occupied in consequence of the breaking out of an epidemic in the village, and oh, that dangerous loneliness ! How did the heart of that young innocent maiden, thus left to its own thoughts, ponder over the beautiful image so lately brought before her, until it became a portion of her very ex istence.

On the evening in question Doctor Foster had left home to pay a professional visit at some distance, and his return was not expected until a later hour than usual, so Emily had wandered to her favourite spot, and was wiling away the time in that tender, romantic dreaming, which may be very unprofitable, but is very beautiful notwithstanding !

And there she sat, until the sun had long set, her little captive birds had twittered themselves to sleep, and the dew was beginning to rise in the opposite meadows. Suddenly the dogs pricked their ears, and the Newfoundland essayed a low dissatisfied growl. Emily started — raised her head, and lo ! the being of her dreams stood before her.

Who was he? — whence had he come? These were questions she did not ask. — She trembled, she was speechless. The rich colour fled for a moment from her cheek, and then rushed back tumultuously to her very temples. She hid her face in her delicate hands, and murmured, ” Oh, why — why are you here!”

” Then you have not forgotten me, fair, beoutiful being !” said the stranger, and the sound of his voice was so melodious that it sank at once into her in most heart ! ” You will not upbraid me,” he conti nued, ” for you know, even as I feel, that we have only met to mingle our hearts for ever !” He took her hands in his, she did not withdraw them. — Do not blame her — she was ignorant — unworldly — a child ! She sank into the stranger’s arms and wept ! *********

” Oh, leave me, leave me, Ernest !” was Emily’s hurried exclamation, as she heard the tramp of her guardian’s steed echoing through the village street.

“Farewell then, dearest, brightest, best!” said the youth, in that taking-for-granted phraseology, which lovers are so apt to use, even though they are but slightly acquainted with the good qualities of their idols. He pressed her to his heart and was gone.

From that hour the whole current of Emily’s feel ings were changed. A breeze had blown over the calm stream of her life, and though its waters were still clear, nay, even brighter than before, they were no longer calm. A star had shone through the twilight quiet of her existence, and her soul turned instinctively towards it as to her solace and guide. How the lovers contrived to meet unseen I know not, but somehow or other they did manage an interview, almost every day, and what was still more extraor dinary, three weeks went by and nobody found it out. Yet Emily Leslie was by no means perfectly happy. She felt as if she were ungrateful and unkind, she was ashamed of the deception which she felt she was prac tising, and the whispered converse at her chamber window, and the delicious stolen meeting, sweet as

106 THE VILLAGE ROMANCE.

they were, left a sense of restlessness and uneasy self-upbraiding on her mind.

And now that my story is coming to a crisis, now that my Emily is thoroughly established in a maze of love and perplexity, it is time that I should show how veritable a heroine I have been fortunate enough to meet with, and how, like that other Emily in Mrs. Radeliffe’s matchless romance, the ” Mysteries of Udolpho,” she was instrumental in unveiling the secrets of a mysterious chamber — even of that closet in the Doctor’s abode, which had so well and worthily employed the tongues and imaginations of the inha bitants of Friarscroft. The master of the mansion was absent. Emily had lingered in her apartment till a later hour than usual, owing to some trifling indisposition, and in passing down stairs perceived that the door of this chamber was a little open. The key had evidently been turned and withdrawn in a hurry so as to prevent the lock catching, and to this accident Emily was indebted for the opportunity of solving a mystery, which had been always as care fully hidden from her as from the rest of the world. She hesitated for a moment; but curiosity is strong, and never since the days of Blue Beard was there a woman who could resist a mysterious closet ! So Emily pushed open the door and saw — no skeleton, no half dissected corse, no sight of horror, but a small neatly furnished chamber, almost surrounded by shelves, well stored with books. There was one object, however, which at once caught and rivetted her attention — the portrait of a lovely woman, which hung opposite the door.

Where had she seen that face ? She had no dis tinct idea of who it resembled, yet it seemed as fami liar to her as her own. Nay, she almost fancied that the small rose mouth, the delicately arched brows, the open smooth forehead, bore some likeness to the features of that fair face which greeted her every morning in her mirror. But the dark eyes, so deep, so piercing in their concentrated light, and the raven hair wound smoothly round the small graceful head — where had she seen these ?

Surely in her dreams, in the visions of her child hood ! That face had bent over her infant couch — had stooped to kiss her there — years, years ago ! — The tide of sudden remembrance flowed over her heart, and sinking on her knees before the portrait, she murmured “mother.”

A hand was laid heavily on her shoulder ; she screamed, started, and sank at the feet of Doctor Foster. It was some minutes ere she recovered from her terror, and then her first thought was that by her intrusion she had for ever offended the kind hearted but eccentric being, in whose arms she now lay sob bing like a child. But she had no cause for fear. He put back the ringlets from her brow, and impressed a paternal kiss on her fair forehead, and soothed her with words, so kind and gentle, that her confidence was quickly restored. And then the twain sat down and conversed, long, long. It seemed as if the hoarded feelings of a life, the history of his early love, the tale of his motives and hopes for years, were poured out at once, in one burning torrent of elo quence, from the lips of Doctor Foster. He told Emily how she had been given to his care — how he had striven not to love her — how, in spite of himself, she had won the first place in his heart, and grown unto him even as a daughter — how he had been seized with a jealous foreboding, that if she were

permitted to mingle in society some one would step between him and his one treasure, and that he should be left a lonely old man, with a desolate spirit and > silent hearth. But here Emily could bear no more in silence — could no longer conceal the secret that was burning in her heart, and amidst her tears, and sobs, and prayers for forgiveness, Doctor Foster be came the confidant of the story of her love.

That the worthy man was a little angry, and a good deal hurt, my readers will easily believe. Per- haps they will think he had a right to be so in a much more terrible degree. But he timely recollected that it was by his means Emily had been kept in almost total ignorance of the world and its ways, and that the loneliness of her life, acting on a susceptible heart and vivid imagination, had only produced a natural result. Very soon, his greatest anxiely was, that he who had gained Emily’s affections, might prove worthy to retain them. It was dreadful to imagine that his cherished Emily might possibly be the dupe of some designing adventurer, and that her pure love and faith should be wasted on one unde serving of the blessing.

That very evening Emily Leslie walked with her lover in the shrubbery, led him to her aviary, to in troduce him, (as she said,) to a new inhabitant, and presented him to no less a curiosity than Doctor Foster; who she had arranged should meet them there. To her extreme surprise, the youth was won derfully self possessed. He bowed to the Doctor with great politeness, and even offered hitn his hand, which under the circumstances, it is not remarkable the Doctor did not take. There were a few moments of awkward hesitation, when the young man suddenly spoke, a glow of animation lighting up his handsome face — ” It is time to put an end to this silly mystery, which seems to be making us all so very uncomfort able, and therefore, my dear, kind, odd uncle Foster, let me introduce myself to you, as your dutiful thongh somewhat romantic nephew, Ernest Eingwood, of Ringwood Coppice, and son of that worthy lady, Dame Margaret Ringwood, whose maiden name was Foster. As to Emily,” continued the speaker, taking her hand fondly, ” I had long heard of the lonely beauty, whom my uncle, after the manner of some tyrant magician of old, held in the thraldom of his enchanted castle, and as report said the fair captive was designed for his bride, I resolved, at all hazards, to obtain a sight of such a prize, and if she were such ns I pictured her to myself, to start a rival candidate for her hand. How fair, how gentle, how infinitely lovelier than my loveliest imagining I have found her to be, I need not tell you, but I trust my uncle will forgive his scapegrace nephew, and seal my pardon with the gift of this little hand, to me the richest boon on earth.”

My romance is ended, as a good romance should end, with the perfect contentment of all the parties therein concerned. Doctor Foster abandoned his design of training Emily for a state of single blessed ness, and gave her away at the altar of Friarscroft church, about three months after the date of the above explanation. He continued to practise the healing art a little longer in his secluded village, when, feeling more lonely than he had anticipated, h» yielded to the solicitations of the youthful pair, and took up his abode at Ringwood Coppice, a near

HE DOVE’S ERRAND. 107

mrof Sir Ernest and his lady. The house sips, and prescribes much after the manner of common

lentre of the village is still occupied by a me- mortals. He may be a skilful practitioner, and a

an, but he has a plump good-humoured wife, worthy man, but he cannot fully supply in Friarscroft

en sturdy children ; moreover, he visits, gos- the place of its remarkable man — its Doctor Foster !

Written for the Lady’s Book.

THE DOVE’S ERRAND.

sY PARK sENJAMIN.

Unnea cover of the night, Feathered darting, take your flight! i/n$t tome cruel archer fling Arrow at your tender wing, And your white, unspotted tide Be with crimaoo colour dyed: — For with men who know not love You and I are living, Dove.

Now I bind a perfumed letter Round your neck with silken fetter; Bear it aafely, bear it well. Over mountain, lake, and dell. While the darkness is profound Vuu may fly along the ground, Itut when Morning’s herald ainga, Mount ye on sublimer wings! High in Heaven pursne your way Tilt the fading light of day, From the palace of the west, Tints with fleck’ring gold your breast. Shielded from the gaze of men Yos may stoop to Earth again.

‘fay then, fe a Acred darling, stay, ‘aauss, and look along your way. Veil I know how fast you fly, Ind the keenness of your eye, .y the time the second eve Wnes, your journey you’ll achieve, uul above a gentle vale Vil\ on easy pinion rail. -i that vale with dwellings strown .ne is standing all alone, fhite it rises ‘mid the leaves, Woodbines clamber o’er its eaves, nd the honeysuckle falls, cndant, on its silent walla. Pip a cottage, smell and fair, s a cloud in summer air,

v a lattice, wreathed with flowers, ich as Jink the dancing hours, tting in the twilight shade, nvied dove, behold a maid ! ocki escaped from sunny bond, leeks reclined on snowy hand.

Looking sadly to the sky. She will meet your searching eye. Fear not, doubt not, timid Dove, Yon have found the home of love ! – She will fold you to her breast — Seraphs have not purer rest ; She your weary plumes will kiss — Seraphs have not sweeter bliss. Tremble not, my dove, nor start, Should you feel her throbbing heart; Joy has made her bright eye dim — Well she knows you came from kim. Him she loves. Oh, luckless star! He from her must dwell afar.

From your neck her fingers fine Will the silken string untwine; Reading then the words I trace, Blushes will suffuse her face; To her lips the lines she’ll press. And again my dove caress. Mine, yes mine — oh, would that I Could on rapid pinions fly — Then I should not send you, dove, On an errand to my love : For I’d brave the sharpest gale And along the tempest sail ; Caring not for danger near, Hurrj ing heedless, void of fear To hear but one tender word, Breathed for me, my happy bird!

At the early dawn of day, She will send you on your way. Twining with another fetter Round your neck another letter. Speed ye, then, oh, swiftly speed, Like a prisoner newly freed; O’er the mountain, o’er the vale Homeward, homeward, swiftly sail I Never, never pause a plume, Though beneath you Edens bloom; Never, never think of rest ‘Till Night’s shadow turns your breast From pure white to mottled gray, And the stars are round your way — Love’s bright beacons they will shine, Dove, to show your home and mine:

72 LEGENDS OF OLD HOUSES:

Written for the Lady’s Book.

LEGENDS OF OLD HOUSES.

No. L

BADGEBURY.

CHAPTER I.

” I tell you, Charles, you must marry a woman of fortune, and what objections can you make to Miss Whitehead ?” said Mrs. Badgebury to her young son, perhaps for the fiftieth time, “what objection to a woman who has five thousand a year in her own power — no one to control her ?”

” Why, only just these few objections, madam ! — She is old — she is ugly — she is ill-tempered, and she is intolerably ignorant as well as insolently proud.”

” Pride, indeed ! I like to hear your father’s son talk of pride. You, who because you are descended from John de Badgebury, think yourself equal to the nobles of the land.”

” There is a generous pride in the good name of one’s ancestors,” said Charles Badgebury, with par donable warmth, ” that is almost a virtue. But for a woman to be proud because her father scraped money together by means the most unworthy — if not dishonest — ”

” Well ! well ! we will set that aside ; people must not be too scrupulous when they are poor. Miss Whitehead is but five or six years older than you are, and as to beauty — I had not much beauty, nor was I very young, and yet your high-born father found it very convenient to marry me.” ” But was he happy, madam ?” This was perhaps a thoughtless question, arising from the irritation of the moment, but it was a home stroke that roused Mrs. Badgebury’s ire, and thrown off her guard by the intemperance of passion, she poured forth a narrative just calculated to wound the feelings of her high spirited son, while it plainly showed him the abyss that opened at his feet.

” Happy ! Yes, he might have been happy, if he had been wise ! But he chose to be angry that I held the strings of the purse that I brought him. People said that he pined after a former flame, that he had left in India, or that some one there — some one jealous of his leaving — had given him a slow poison before he came away, which was the cause of his death ; but I tell you chagrin was that poison ! and he died from vexation that I would not let him pursue his follies, and waste my money as he had done his own ; and that I would not even give up the disposal of my money at my death. Who would trust a man, who, when he came home from India with a well- filled purse, spent the whole of his fortune in building a house ? Why the very cellars cost him so much that he could not finish the rest, which is the reason why the west wing has never been completed. Ten thousand pounds, it is said, were spent before the walls of the foundation were level with the ground, and if you take a torch and go through the empty cellars, arched strong enough to bear a church, you will believe it ; and when all was done, what had he? A fine house and a few hundred barren acres. The

farmers will not hirethe land, and there it lies useless; I was not going to spend a fortune in manure. And now, young gentleman, let me warn you — my money is all in my own power, and if you will not obey me, I will give it every shilling to your sister. You will then be Charles Badgebury, Esquire, of Badgebury, and its unproductive lands. A noble ancestry — a noble house — and a noble estate ! — while your sister will be a match for a lord — with my money !” And the unmotherly woman burst into a loud bitter langh.

Charles Badgebury covered his face with his hands, and the image of his father, tall, dignified, beautiful and generous, passed before him, touched with all the softening hues of early recollection. He spoke not, and his mother thought he was convinced. She rang a silver bell that stood on a table beside her, and on the entrance of a small black boy, bade him tell a female servant to dress Miss Badgebury and bring her thither.

All this passed in Mrs. Badgebury’s dressing-room, the only one in the house in which the architect had sacrificed his taste to the orders of the proprietor; it looked into the garden and its windows were not above three feet from the floor; every other light in the building had its heavy sash frame at least life feet from thence, so that children and short persons were obliged to mount chairs if they wished to get a glimpse of what was passing in the world. An am ple dressing-table, covered with thin muslin drapery, its looking-glass decorated in the same manner with the addition of bows of ribands to confine the folds, displayed numerous toilet boxes of Chinese manufac ture, whose various shapes might have puzzled a ma thematician to define, and an economist to declare their several uses, as the sublimer mysteries of the day were disdained by Mrs. Badgebury, she disdaining the use of lotions, rouge, pearl powder, the numberless brushes now ofdaily necessity ; they were all empty, and like some classes of domestics, kept merely for show. This was, in fact, a room of state, where the lady received her morning visiters. When she did sacri fice to the graces, which was not often, after rising in the morning, a very small closet nearer to her bed room served for that purpose.

When Mr. Badgebury returned from India — at that time a fruitful soil for amassing wealth — he found his paternal mansion, a long low building, with a large opening near each end, supported by well- proportioned columns, forming an entrance descend ing by winding steps to the rooms appropriated to the domestics. The surrounding grounds were laid out in the Dutch style brought into fashion by the third William; long avenues bordered by trees, with canals of stagnant water covered over by the broad.leaved water lily. Mr. Badgebury thonght himself wealthy, and he was so for the year 1730, when money was of so much more value than at the

BADGBBURY. 73

present day. He determined to pull down the old Beverly is lately dead, and his fine-lady daughter must

house and build a new one, and a fashionable archi- do something or starve.” The silver bell was again

tect submitting to his inspection a beautiful elevation tinkled. ” Juba, bring me a glass of water.”

from one oflnigo Jones’s plans, he immediately gave As Juba entered with the water on a silver salver,

him discretionary power to commence, without con- a young lady in deep mourning followed him. Mrs.

sidering the convenient distribution of the interior or Badgebury’s lap-dog barked furiously, and a parrot in

once sitting down to calculate the cost, merely stipu- a gilded cage, screamed in concert. The stranger

lating that there should be large convenient cellars. stopped in the middle of the room, but without ex-

Thc mansion rose in all the grandeur of a lofty, hibiting the smallest sign of fright or timidity. Juba

three-storied structure, with two wings, the admiration turned up his glistening eye, and displayed his white

of the surrounding country. The garden front was teeth, as if he would have said, ” Missy ! do you come

equal in beauty to the principal one, an immense hall here for pinchy pinchy, or cuffy cuffy?”

ran directly through the house, with large folding Mrs. Badgebury affected great state, and did not

doors to each end, and a superb staircase nearest the move, but when the uproar was somewhat abated,

garden, stretched its ample length, ornamented by a she pointed to Johanna saying, ” There is your pupil,

Corinthian pillar of native oak, of one single piece, you may take her to the school-room.”

A very spacious lobby at the head of the staircase Charles Badgebury, with the politeness usual to

opened on three sides into the principal bedrooms, him, had started up and placed a chair. Miss

These two rooms, of little use in themselves, took up Beverly seated herself with a graceful inclination of

bo much of the interior as to spoil all the others, two her head, and said, in a mild but firm tone of voice,

mean parlours, and a few small chambers being all ” I have not yet been informed, madam, what you

that could be accomplished besides, and these parlours wish me to teach the young lady ?”

as well as the hall being wainscotted only half way ” Teach her — why every thing to be sure. Mrs.

up, looked more like the smoking cabin of a sub- Arden tells me you understand music, and painting,

stantial farmer than rooms of state in which Mr. and languages, and dancing, and philosophy — though

Badgebury was to receive his high-born friends. I do not know what a woman has to do with philo-

The family portraits were all hung in the lobby, sophy — but as you will be paid for it you must teach

with the exception of one large groupe, such as is ft. And she says you are very clever with your

described in the Vicar of Wakefield, which looked needle ; that will suit me very well. I shall expect

absolutely small when placed over the hall chimney. Johanna to be taught every thing?”

piece. In this hall did Mr. Badgebury spend his me- ” What has Miss Badgebury read, madam?”

lanchly hours, pacing its length, and execrating the ” I won’t read at all!” roared Johanna, in a voice

folly which had led him to sink his whole moneyed louder than either lap-dog or parrot, ” I hate reading

property in bricks and mortar. The gardens remain- bo I do.”

ed in their original state from want of means to alter ” Oh ! my dear, but this young person will teach

them, and, as may be gathered from Mrs. Badgebury ‘s you to like it ; and washing too, and dressing.”

short narrative, when he submitted to an ill-assorted ” She shall catch me, first,” said Johanna, and

union for the purpose of bettering his affairs, he found rushed to the door, but the prudent mamma was pre-

he had exchanged one evil for another. He lingered pared for this and the door was fast. Johanna thus

through seven years of hopeless dejection, burying foiled, stood sulkily with her head against the wain-

his sorrows in his own bosom, and just after the scot.

birth of his third daughter, he sunk into an untimely ” Of course, you will dress Miss Badgebury, and

tomb. Two of his children had died before him. take your meals in the school-room ?”

When Charles Badgebury roused himself from his Miss Beverly’s pale face flushed very deep, but she

melancholy fit of abstraction, he noticed that his mo- was spared an answer, for Charles turned an indig-

ther’s dress was more splendid than was necessary nant eye on his mother, saying, ” While there is a

for the morning, and that his sister, now nearly thir- female servant in the house, my sister shall be waited

teen years old, was seated as usual on the corner of a on without troubling Miss Beverly, and while there

chair, with one finger in her mouth and one foot is a table spread, the lady who condescends to take

stretched out as far as possible, highly indignant at charge of her mind shall have a seat qt it. I am

having been compelled to submit to an unusual ablu- afraid the office will be painful enough without add-

tion, and to the wearing a whole frock, two things ing to its burdens.”

she held in the greatest abhorrence. Mrs. Badgebury vented her anger by some very

Mrs. Badgebury was perhaps sorry she had said contemptuous glances, and then in honied tones said,

quite so much to her son within the last hour, for she “Come, my sweetest Johanna, my darling child —

knew his high temper was more than equalled by a won’t you go with this good humoured looking young

keenly susceptible heart. She began in a softer tone woman, and try to learn to read ?”

to speak of some arrangements she had been making. ” No !” said Johanna, stoutly.

” I have at length found a governess for Johanna,” ” And won’t you let her teach you to be a lady?”

said she, ” which is a matter of rejoicing to me, for ” No ! — Tom Dunk isn’t a lady, and I only want

I really cannot pretend to manage her any longer, to be like Tom Dunk ; to take birds’ nests, and set

What with obstinacy and rudeness she wears me out. the dogs a fighting, and saw wood.”

She climbs trees like a boy. I believe she has not a ” Why, my dear, you must not be like a boy. You

whole dress in her wardrobe ; and as to learning — I will have a large fortune, and you must learn to be

am ashamed to think of it — she absolutely detests it. like me.”

I wish there were colleges for girls as well as for ” Ah ! but the maids say you never was nor never

boys, I would send her off directly. I have never will he a lady, though you had a large fortune.”

yet found a governess that would undertake to teach Here a violent box on the ear of Johanna, put all such a hoyden, nor should I now, but poor parson things in uproar again, and the young lady would VOL. XXIII. — 7

74 LEGENDS OF OLD HOUSES :

have returned the blow with interest if her brother had not withheld her. Happily the announcement of dinner came most opportunely for the cessation of hostilities. Miss rushed, head and shoulders foremost, to the dining parlour, followed by her fond mother, and Charles gave his arm to Miss Beverley, delighted to conduct a woman of her elegance to the once hospitable board of his father, now scantily spread, ill served, and ill conducted by the rich Mrs. Badge- bury.

CHAPTER II.

Miss Beverley had been principally educated by her highly gifted father, and though not left so utterly des titute as Mrs. Badgebury had stated, but committed to the care of a female friend, he laid his dying injunctions on her to strive to increase her small income by the exertions of her talents that she might secure an honourable independence. This situation was the first that offered, and as the untameable Jo hanna had been carefully kept from the sight of Mrs. Allien, who conducted the negotiation, it was accepted without hesitation. She saw at a glance the extreme difficulty of teaching a child who had been indulged to excess until she became unbearable, and was then cuffed and coaxed by turns. Though Mrs. Badge- bury with impatience bore the slightest remonstrance from her son, she was entirely governed by her daugh ter, who in all combats, whether of the tongue or the hands, usually came off victorious. Coercion of any kind was unavailing. Miss Beverly, with tact sur prising for one so young, saw that her only chance of succeeding was to continue the system of indul gence and by contriving many ways of amusing her pupil, by very slow degrees she began to humanize her.

The injudicious interference of Mrs. Badgebury was yet more trying than the savage manners of the daughter, and her jealousy of another’s influence over her more perplexing than either. Johanna and the maids soon found out that Miss Beverly was really a lady, and this drove the vulgar rich woman into the most unwise plan she could have pursued — that of en deavouring to convince her son that this young woman had neither beauty, grace, talents, nor virtues, and by this means bringing her various perfections under his daily and hourly notice.

The progress of Johanna in civilization was a matter of astonishment to the whole house, and her growing affection for Miss Beverly enraged the ignorant and arrogant mother. She said it was very odd that a word or look from a stranger should do more than all her entreaties or promises; she forgot that the latter were very seldom kept and therefore never trusted. Her son, too, began to find Miss Beverly’s company so attractive, that he was delighted to assist in development of the unknown powers of his hitherto unbearable sister. This was not to be endured, and Mrs. Badgebury, asserting that it was impossible for any kind of learning to go on right out of the school room, issued orders for the two young ladies to con fine themselves to its precincts. Miss Beverly re monstrated, that as Johanna had hitherto been con tinually in the open air, such strict seclusion would have an injurious effect on her health, even now showing the ill symptoms that arise from unlimited indulgence. This was all in vain ; Mrs. Badgebury said a mother was the best judge of a child’s health, and of the means of preserving it. The governess

begged that, as walking was forbidden, her pupil might ride on horseback as some sort of substitute far climbing trees and sawing wood. No. Money could not be thrown away on horses and grooms. The school-room was large and airy, and if they wanted more room, they might walk in the great hall.

All that could be devised for a growing child, Miss Beverly contrived to put in execution for the now tractable and affectionate Johanna. She tried danc ing with the windows of the school-room open, but was shocked to find this regularly brought on a short cough and pain in the side. No part of her studies were made irksome, and many lessons wete given nra soce, while pacing the hall; and when an even ing visit took Mrs. Badgebury away, Charles always made one of the small party. He gradually found that a young woman of eighteen, educated at home, was infinitely his superior in many branches of useful learning, particularly natural philosophy, over which at college he had but superficially glanced. Classical learning was then, as now, thought to comprise the sum and substance of a high education, and Chatles Badgebury was struck with astonishment to find his Greek and Latin vanish into nothingness before Miss Beverly’s clear perceptions of whatever was good and beautiful in nature, or the practice of the social cha rities in life.

They were walking one evening when the rays of the declining sun shone full in the windows of the garden front, thus forming the single light favourable to the view of a picture. Miss Beverly asked some questions respecting the large groupe over the chim ney, observing that it was painted by a fine artist.

” It is my great grandfather and his family,” said Charles, ” his history is interesting, yet not without a parallel in our race. Do you believe in fatality, Miss Beverly ?”

” Not in the slightest degree. I believe that all things are wisely ordered and nothiug left to chance or fate.”

‘* But what if the same circumstances had occurred for several generations ; all equally disastrous as they were romantic, what would you ssy?”

” That there was an unfortunate combination of circumstances, but not a fatality.”

” My family seem to have a spell over them, which they are unable to break. I am placed iu the same unfortunate situation with this my noble ancestor;— his son followed his steps, and my own futher — beau tiful and brave — was not more happy. I am in the wake of these noble vessels, and I also am likely W be wrecked.”

” I cannot understand you. — I see here a very handsome man with his beautiful wife and children. What evil could come into such a groupe?”

” The mother of that gentleman was a titled wo man of haughty, imperious tenilier.” Charles blushed as he spoke, and when he went on, it was in a low, tremulous voice. ” She insisted on his marrying a rich relation of her own, while his heart was involuntarily fixed on her waiting-maid, a gentlewoman by birth, out so poor as to be obliged to serve a woman no way her superior but in an empty title. He neither re vealed his love nor resisted his mother’s commands, and thus dragged on a miserable existence till ha health was impaired, so that when his wife and mo ther died, and he was oble to give his hand w here his heart had ever been fixed, his few remaining yea™ were embittered by continual sickness. The portraits

BADGEBURY. 75

of the mother and his two wives hang in the lobby tbove, so that you may see the sacrifice he made when he obeyed his proud parent’s command.”

Miss Beverly was silent, nor did her countenance hetray what she thought or felt. Charles went on.

“One would have thought the humble waiting- maid would have learned a lesson from all this, but, strango to say, lovely as she looks, she was more haughty and supercilious than those who had gone hefore her. Fantastic, vain of her superior beauty, and determined on having no rival in that respect, she chose a wife for her son to serve as a foil to her charms, which it is said she retained, like the cele brated countess of Suffolk, to an extraordinary age. By her extravagance and folly she impaired the family estate, left by her doating husband too much in her power, so that my father, her grandson, was obliged to go to India to repair his fortune. And thither, I fear, I must go also.”

” If you do, I must give you a letter to an uncle of mine, resident at Bombay. I hope he is living, though we have not heard from him lately.”

” But tell me, Miss Beverly, does there not seem to be the same fatal spell over us all?”

“What you call a spell, seems to my apprehension a slight want of judgment, or at least, a deficiency in the article of firmness.”

” Tell me how?”

“In the first place, this gentleman before us, should not have allowed himself to love so unwisely.”

” Ah !” said Charles Badgebury with a sigh, ” how could he help it ?”

” Well, if he could not help it, he should not have married a woman so widely different.”

” Is that your real opinion, Miss Beverly?”

” Certainly it is. A man is unjust to himself and to the woman he marries, if he is sure that he can never love her.”

” You give me new life !” cried Charles, as if a sodden light had dawned on his mind. ” I will work, I will beg, I will starve — but I will not marry where I cannot love.”

” Oh, Miss Beverly !” exclaimed Johanna, with somewhat of her former childishness, ” I wish you would marry Charles. It would make ns all so happy.”

Charles, in the excitement of the moment, seized Miss Beverly’s hand ; but, gently disengaging it, she said gravely; ” My dear Johanna, you are too young to know how wrong that would be. Your brother must marry a woman of suitable fortune and equal rank in society.”

” Would you have me marry Miss Whitehead ?” said Charles, angrily.

” I never would advise persons to marry where they can neither love nor esteem. But like Johanna, 1 am too young to give counsel on such occasions — too young even to think of them.”

” Have you never thought of such subjects, Miss Beverly ?” said Charles, looking very anxiously in her face.

” Never — never. I have had too much real trou ble to find any time for creating imaginary ones.”

Charles was satisfied by the open expression of the most beautiful countenance he had ever seen ; a coun tenance much finer than the portrait before him, in the traits of mental superiority, and a sedate sweet ness, arising from a strict regulation of the affections. He could not withdraw his fascinated eyes till the

unwelcome sound of his mother’s chariot wheels compelled him to leave the hall.

Mrs. Badgebury ‘sown maid had always the charge of watching every one during her absence, and regu larly reported all she saw or heard. Had she done so correctly in the present instance, no evil would have arisen, but a garbled statement of whatever passed in the hall whenever her lady was away, and particularly the circumstances of the last evening was well calculated to alarm and irritate in the highest degree. The carriage was ordered early on the en suing morning, and Mrs. Badgebury drove without delay to the nearest magistrate, on whose heart, as he was a wealthy bachelor, she had long striven to make some impression, and who was her never failing friend in all domestic troubles.

Mr. Meredith was a man of singular humour and shrewdness, who always listened with great patience to the lady’s statements, and while he seemed most angry with the petty delinquent, generally found a loophole for escape. He had never been known to punish where there was no crime.

” Ah ! Mr. Meredith,” said the lady, wiping away a crocodile tear, ” here I am again with my troubles. You are the only true friend I have found since poor dear Mr. Badgebury’s death. It is a very hard thing for a lone woman to go through a world like this. I am now in worse perplexity than ever. I have got a witch in my house !”

” An old one, madam?”

” Oh ! no, sir. A young one — not eighteen.”

“A very dangerous age. I have known much mischief done by such witches. Indeed, I never saw an old one.”

” I assure you, sir, she has bewitched the whole

house, excepting my own maid A very prudent

person Jenkins is. — You know, Mr. Meredith, how many times she has saved my property when it has been in danger? How many rogueries she has de tected ?”

” I know she is a very prudent person in her own affairs, and that she has saved for herself a conside rable sum of money.”

” Ah ! now dear Mr. Meredith, there for once you are mistaken, for I give but small wages and she is quite poor.” Mr. Meredith never contradicted Mrs. Badgebury; he only nodded, and she went on. “This vile young woman has bewitched my son.”

” Very likely,” said he, ” I have known such things done before now.”

” And all the servants, except Jenkins.”

” What — men and maids, too ? That is most wonderful.”

s All— all, Mr. Meredith. They will fly at the lifting up of her finger. They watch her very looks.”

” A very dangerous person, truly.”

” But worse than all, she has completely changed my sweet Johanna in every respect ; aye, as much as if she had changed her in her cradle. No romping now — no monkey’s tricks. You would not know the dear child. I am sure she has given her something to bring all this about. I caught her once laying a white powder over her hands and face ; she stood me out that it was only sifted oatmeal to cure chapped skin, but I know better, and I fear she has given Charles some of this. You know there are such things as love powders, Mr. Meredith V

” Did you ever try them, Mrs. Badgebury ?” This was said with so searching a look, that it blanched

76 LEGENDS OF OLD HOUSES:

the lady’s cheek. She fauhered, and it was some time before she could go on. At length, with her hand kerchief to her eyes, she said : ” But what alarms me more than all, though I suspect some mischief from ao much pouring over books and pictures, is, that with a single look she makes Johanna mind me when I speak ; a thing she never did in all her life before.”

” This is marvellous indeed ! I must see this witch !”

” Yes, Mr. Meredith, I intend you shall see her, and to tell you the truth, I want you to assist me in getting her out of the house, without my paying the wages that are due, which would be only encouraging her in her wickedness. Jenkins has showed me a sure way, but I had rather avoid it, for Charles is so full of honour, and generosity, and I know not what, that I am afraid if I take Jenkins’s way, he would fire up and expose us all. And oh! Mr. Meredith, when you see him will you give him some fatherly advice about Miss Whitehead ? You know he more than ever refuses to think of her ?”

” I will give Charles the best advice in my power, for as I loved the father so I love the children. Oh ! Mrs. Badgebury! Had those children been mine!” —

” They may be yours, yet, Mr. Meredith,” said the lady, with one of her sweetest smiles ; but observing the comically sour expression of the good magistrate’s face, she artfully added, ” by adoption, you know — when I am dead and gone!” Mr. Meredith bowed, and prepared to accompany her to Badgebury, whither they proceeded as fust as the two starved coach- horses could carry them.

Chambers’s Journal (Google Books)

OUR LOST PET.

Tan besom cl’aimer is perhaps one of the least mean of human weaknesses. Many are the troubles it causes to all of us, and yet we would fain not quite get rid of it. and are, on the whole, rather more respectable people with it than without it. For the unfortunate man to whom even his wife is only

A little better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse ;

for the forlorn old maid who, dying without heirs, endows her twelve parrots with enough to make the fortune of more than one poor family, it is at least a degree better to be fond of something, be it only a brute beast, than nothing. And many a brute beast is capable of being raised, by education, attention, and kindness, to an affectionate rationality which makes it quite as pleasant company, alas! as a great many human beings,

This is not meant to be an essay in defence of pets—often most intolerable nuisances to everybody but the possessor—pet dogs (perhaps the most unbearable), pet birds, fowls, rabbits, monkeys—and the long line of domesticated quadrupeds and bipeds, down to the featherless biped, the child-pet, or the charity-pet, whose lot is the most cruel-kind of any. I am only going to tell a very plain and simple story about a. lost pet of ours, who cost us the usual amount of pain which all who are guilty of the afore-namcd human weakness must consent to endure.

\Ve—that is, myself and the sharcr in my loss— are not universally benevolent. We do not take to our bosoms every walking, hopping, and creeping thing. We are eclectic in our tastes, and though we hope we would treat civilly and kindly every creature alive, still, we have never had any particular interest in more than one sort of pets, and that is cats.

I hope the gentle reader will not here immediately lay down this paper in a mood of calm contempt; or if he has done so, may I respectfully request him to take it up again? I assure him that he shall meet with nothing insanely extravagant, or sentimentally maudlin; that his prejudices will be treated with deference, and himself regarded as a person who is simply mistaken—nothing more. He never could have had a pet eat.

We have had—many: the fact that a cat’s nine lives do not equal one human being’s, necessitating that plural. Otherwise, we would have kept faithful to this day unto our first favourite ‘Mufl”—fsllen in with at the age of three—or his successor, our veritable first-love, Rose; Rose, the flower of cats, who

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bloomed in our household for ten years. My heart softens as I recall her. Her memory is green still; and I may yet, for a newer generation, write a Biography of our Rose.

Since her day, we have both had several pets, en passant—confiding cats who followed us home through London streets, as they always have a trick of doing; eccentric cats who, changing their natures, would go shooting in the forests, ‘point’ the game, and bring it to the master with an unfailing faithfulness; sea-borne cats, cherished during half a voyage, and then missed—after which rumoured to have been seen floating away, helplessly mewing, for a quarter of a mile astern. Yet we never had but one pet who at all supplied the place of the never-forgotten Rose. Of him I am now about to tell.

He was the first-born of his mother, but in nowise like her—she being the ugliest, stupidest, and most untender of feline animals. Her very kittens she would carry into damp corners and under grates, and there forsake them, to be trodden to death or shovelled unwittingly on the back of the fire: nay, with some she is reported to have done as the New Zealand husband did with the wife whom he couldn’t keep and was too fond of to part with-she is reported to have eaten them. Peace to her manes! Nothing in her life ever became her like the leaving of it.

But her son was quite a different character. His beauty was his least merit. In kittenhood he had such winning ways that he was continually asked to tea in the parlour; cradled in apron-pockets, gowns, and shirt-fronts ; taught to walk on the table, and educated with a care and distinction which could not but make him the most gcntlemanly of cats. And such he grew. There was a conscious ‘fines young-fellowism’ in the very arch of his back, and curve of his handsome tail. His tail, we always said, was his weak point-a pardonable vanity. He seemed to take a conscious pride in it, as a fashionable Antinous might in his curls, hishands, or his whiskers. For his morals, they were as unexceptionable as his appearance. He was rarely heard to mew, even for his dinner; and as for theft, I remember the sublime indignation of his first friend and protector, the cook, when one day I suggested shutting the pantry-door: ‘H a steal! He never would think of such a thing!’

Have I sufficiently indicated his mental and moral perfections? Add to these a social and afl’ectionate disposition, remarkable even in parlour-educated cats, and a general suavity of manner which made him considerate to the dog, and patronisingly indifferent to the fowls—and what more need be said of him, except his name?

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This cannot be revealed; such publicity might wound his delicate sensitiveness. In this article he must only be known as ‘Lo.’ No bad name either: there was once a Saint Lo, of knightly memory; so ‘L0’ is well suited to designate the most chivalrous of cats.

He grew up to maturity in the house where he was born. For three years his familiar apple-tree, on which he tried his youthful claws, blossomed and bore; for three years, the sparrows in the thorn and willow provided him with a little useful recreation —no worse, certainly, than deer-stalking and barehunting; and then his destiny darkened. We were about to flit—a long flitting of some hundred miles and more; and of all’ the questions involved therein, one of the most difficult was, what was to be done with Lo? We could not leave him ; we did not like to give him away; and yet we feared that the cry, ‘A new home—who’ll follow?’ would never be responded to by him. The most frequent suggestion was to take his photograph, and then give him a little dose of the ‘fixing’ material, which would ‘fix’ both him and his likeness for ever in this world, and save all further trouble. But this idea was not likely to be carried out.

‘When there’s a will there ’s a way.’ my mind concerning him.

On the day of the flitting—when he was lying peacefully and unconsciously on his native kitchen hearth, which he was never more to behold—I carried him, purring and fondling, to an empty room upstairs, and locked him in, together with a hamper and dinner. He did not quite understand the proceeding, but accommodated himself to circumstances, and lay down to sleep in the sunshine. There, ignorant of the black future, he passed his day. At nightfall I packed him and sewed him up, still purring, in the hamper of his woes. To parody the old axiom: ‘ When a cat ’5 carried, his sorrow begins.’ From that hour there was no more peace for our unfortunate Lo. He, with myself, was taken in for a week by a benevolent family, who kept a bird. This necessitated Lo’s solitary confinement in a wash-house. Thither, almost exanimate from fright—I believe he even fainted in my arms—was he conveyed; and there, though visited, fed, and condoled with, he remained in a state of mind and body of indescribable wretchedness—sleeping in the copper, and at the least noise retiring for refuge up the chimney. His appearance, when being repacked for his second journey, was that of a disconsolate, half-idiotic sweep.

Through all the roar of London, on the top of cab or omnibus, was borne the luckiess eat. What could he have thought of the great Babel? he who, among suburban gardens and fields, had passed his peaceful days. He never uttered a sound; not even when, finding no boy at hand, I took up his hamper myself, and carried it the length of a square, conversing with him meantime, till the sight of a passer-by turning round, reminded me that this might possibly convey to the public in general the impression of my being slightly insane. One pause he had in his miseries—’ one happy evening by a charitable kitchen hearth, and then he was, hamper and all, consigned to the parcel-van of the northern mail.

‘ Please take care of it—it ‘s a cat.’

‘A what, ma’am?’ asked the magnificent-looking guard.

‘A cat—a live cat.’

I made up

He laughed. ‘ 0 yes, ma’am—all right.’ And so I bade poor Lo a temporary farewell. Letters communicated his wellbeing. He had

arrived at home—had recovered from his first paroxysms of terror—had even begun to wash himself and appear like a cat of civilised mien. There was

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hope that I should find him sitting happily on the hearth, which, we are weak enough to fancy, never looks quite comfortable and home-like without a cat. But hope deceived. My first question: ‘ How is he?’ was answered dolefully: ‘He has run away.’

Ay, just when his troubles were ended, when his mistress was coming home, when all the delights of milk and cream, sunshiny lawns to sleep on, green trees to climb, mice, and—dare I say it?—young birds to eat, were opening before him—he ran away! \Ve returned to a catless fireside.

Of course, every search was made: a reward offered, the village policeman applied to; but day after day passed, and no sight of L0. Sometimes flying rumours reached us of his being seen in gardens, or scampering across fields, or sheltering in some stable or barn. Once, the policeman paid us a special visit, stating formally his knowledge of his whereabouts, and that every measure should be taken for his recovery; but even the professional skill, worthy of being exercised on some distinguished criminal, failed with regard to our cat. We had almost given him up for lost.

Now, one ought never patiently to submit to any loss, till every possible means tried have proved it irremediable. One evening after he had been a week missing, and taking into account his exceedingly shy and timid disposition, the strange country in which he had lost himself, and his utter ignorance of illusage, we began to relinquish all hope of his return, I resolved to go in search of the cat myself. A scheme about as wild as starting to hunt up a brother in Australia, or a friend in the far west—a sort of ‘Evangeline’ expedition: yet most women reading Longfellow’s exquisite poem, must feel that such a preceeding as Evangeline’s would be perfectly natural, reasonable, and probable under similar circumstances.

So, after tea, I went out. It was a lovely evening, with hedges just budding, and thrushes just beginning to pipe out that peculiar rich note which always reminds one of the return of spring—an evening when one enjoys, and likes to think of all those belonging to one as enjoying, the renewal of nature, life, and hope. I did not like to think of even my cat—my poor cat, for whom was no after-life, no immortal and eternal spring—dying in a ditch, or starved, beaten, illused, till death was the kindest thing I could hope for him. I almost wished I had taken his friend’s advice, that we had photographed him, and ‘fixed’ him, safe from all mortal care.

At the nearest house, where he had once been seen, I had inquired the day before. Both the civil husband and pleasant-looking wife knew quite well ‘ the lady who had lost her cat:’ they sympathised; and I felt sure that if he appeared again he would be coaxed, caught, and brought safe home. I then continued my pilgrimage. ‘

Door after door did I attack with the stereotyped inquiry: ‘ Have you seen a strange cat? I have lost my pet cat, which I brought all the way from London; he is a great beauty, gray, with a particularly fine tail. I will give five shillings to anybody who brings him back; my name and address are so and so.’

This brief and simple formula was repeated, with slight ad Iibitum variations, from house to house within a mile. Once I ventured to address a milk-woman,

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‘Madam,’ said he, after hearing my tale, ‘if those animals are allowed to inhabit such a place, I devoutly wish all the cats in this world were in paradise. They are the ruin of us horticulturists. Do not regret yours. I can supply you out of my garden with any number, dead or alive.’

I explained that mine was an individual pet.

‘ Then, madam, could you not place your affections upon pets more worthy?’ and he stroked the little girl’s pretty flaxen hair. ‘I am sorry to wound your feelings; but there have been—and I should rather regret their leaving—some Birmingham people in this neighbourhood who make a trade of catching and skinning—cats)

I turned away, yet could hardly forbear a smile; the eccentric, but, I firmly believe, well-meaning old gentleman, received my adieus, and bowed me to the very gate.

Many another house I tried; my search having one result—namely, the discovery that I had a number of nice neighbours-old ladies, neat as a new pin; spruce parlour-maids; kindly mistresses, mostly with babies —such an abundance of civil tongues, and pleasant, good-natured, nay, handsome faces, as might well be satisfactory to a new-comer into this country place. I also gained one consolation, that it was the safest neighbourhood in which Lo could possibly have been lost, since all the good folk seemed personally acquainted, not only with one another, but with one another’s cats. Ours might yet turn up, or, if not, might find an asylum in the bosom of some unknown family, who would console him for the cruel mistress and uncomprehended miseries which doubtless had unsettled his reason, and driven him to despairing

flight.

So, having done all that could be done, I was fuin to turn homeward—

In the spring twilight, in the coloured twilight,

–never seen except in spring. It tinted the bare trees and brown hedges, throwing over the whole sky is tender light, and changing the shiny bit of far-away western sea into a lake of burning roses. Wonderful was the peace over all animate and inanimate nature, as it lay, waiting in faith the step-by-step advance of another unknown year.

Passing the lodge of the big house of the village —an open door, fire-light, and children’s prattle, inspired me with one last vague hope. I knocked.

‘ Have you seen,’ &c., &c., &c., as usual.

No. Yet the sight disclosed almost atoned for the disappointment. An interior, such as only an English cottage could furnish; a cottager‘s wife, such as Morland or Gainsborough would have delighted to immortalise. Her face, healthy, fair, and sweet—nay, downright beautiful, was reflected feature by feature in two other little faces—one staring out bravely from beside mother, the other half-hidden in her gown. This last charming little face, which no persuasion: could allure from its shelter, was itself worth the whole evening’s pilgrimage to look at; and the centre picture, half twilight, half fire-light, is a thing to be set down in memory, among passing glimpses of unutterably beautiful fragments, which remain daguerreotyped as such, for ever.

This episode, with the rest, amused us for some time, when, coming home, we talked over our chances of recovering our lost pet; conjecturing that for a month to come, we should have all the stray cats of the neighbourhood brought to as for recognition— except the right one. But to ‘ greet ower spilt milk’ is not our custom, lest life should become not only 11. via Iaclea, but a via Iacllrymosa. So, having done our best, we dismissed the subject.

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Next day, sitting at work, I heard a scuflle in the hall; the door was flung joyfully open—

‘ Ma’am, there ‘s your cat.’

It was indeed. Gaunt, scared, dirty; fierce with hunger, and half-wild with fright, the poor runaway was brought home to his mistress’s arms.

After the immemorial fashion, I drop a veil over the pathetic scene which followed. l i i i

He now lies fast asleep at my feet. He has made a clean breast of it—that is to say, he has resumed his usual costume of white shirt-front and white stockings, which contributes so largely to his gentlemanly appearance. He has also gradually lost his scared look, and is coming into his right mind. A few minutes since, he was walking over my desk, arching his poor thin back in the ancient fashion, and sweeping my face with his sadly diminished but still inimit~ able tail; putting his paws on my shoulders, and making frantic efforts at an affectionate salutation— had I not a trifling objection to that ceremony.

Surely, after all this bitter experience, he will recognise his truest friends—true even in their unkindness; will believe in his new quarters as home, and play the prodigal no more.

Poor Lo! I hope it is not applying profaner ‘the noblest sentiments of the human heart,’ if, as he lies there, snugly and safely, I involuntarily hum to myself a verse out of The Clerk’s Twa Sons of Owsenford .

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Tar: art of taming and training wild beasts was never practised on a grander scale than during the latter period of Roman antiquity. Very justly has Goethe represented ‘deligbt in the wonderful, the incredible, and the monstrous,’ as the most striking peculiarity of the later Romans. In fact, it may be said, that among these degenerate descendants of the world-conquerors, throughout a constant succession of the most powerful excitements, so efl‘eminate a relaxation had crept in, that only one thing could give them interest—namely, the accomplishment of the impossible. Theatres that turned round upon pivots with all the audience, buildings in the sea, dishes composed of rarities from all quarters of the globe, aré‘some of the fruits of this tendency, which ignored the limits of space and time, and regarded the laws of nature with scorn.

A philosophical, historical, and moral essay on old maids, by a …, Volume 1 (Google Books)

Dismfts h nothing but a rage to charm.

This is by no means the cafe with the fecond kind of affectation, which I have engaged to consider, as being frequently found in the sisterhood; I mean the affectation of censorial importance. The affected Old Maid of this character, instead of endeavouring to appear more airy and frolicsome than time allows her to be, assumes all the dignity of advanced life, and affects to survey, and to comment upon, the $ world
nofegay in her bofom, and drop a tear of tenderness in remarking the transient beauties of vegetation; or, if she finds not any occasion to weep, she can talk of the softness of her own heart, and bring forth her tears by only thinking of the facility with which she can produce them.

Nor does this affectation appear only in a superfluity of tears; it divides itself into many minute branches, and all the little airs and apprehensions of prudery may be referred to this source. I shall not, however, descend to a particular examination of these, but confine myself to a single view of this foible in one of its most whimsical shapes, I mean a preposterous fondness for the irrational parts of the creation. When the Old Maid has no real or imaginary lover, on whom she can display this affected tenderness, she is sometimes contented to take a lap-dog, a parrot, or a monkey, as the object of her caresses; or, if she does not think a single irrational companion a sufficient substitute for the noble creature of F 3 reason,

reason, she collects a group of animals, and lavishes upon them those delicate endearments, which she has no opportunity of bestowing upon man.

Orniphila is a lady who entertains her acquaintance with the most sumptuous display of this foible; for she is unluckily possessed of such opulence, as enables her to indulge her most extravagant caprice. Orniphila was ‘extremely handsome in her youth, and, as she inherited both fortune and beauty, she would probably have setded happily in marriage, had not the affectation of superlative sensibility rendered her more an object of ridicule than of desire. She had the misfortune to fancy, that true delicacy consists in an apparent debility of nerves, and she therefore, with the figure of an Amazon, affected the timidity of a fairy. No ghost could start with greater trepidation at the crowing of a cock. On the sudden beat of a drum, she would throw herself into a kind of convulsion; and she has frequently wished, that Heaven had

made

made her the inhabitant of some more tranquil globe, on which the air is never wounded by any found more powerful than the notes of a nightingale. This gentleness of disposition did not, as the lady might possibly wish, induce any sympathetic swain to amuse her with the soothing whispers of love. She became an Old Maid; and, as she approached the age of forty, perceiving that she wanted something to caress, she began to provide herself with a train of animals, which she has enlarged to such a degree, that her house is a kind of little ark, though I believe it tends rather to destroy, than to preserve, the life of the various creatures it admits. Whether she is offended by that neglect which she has experienced from mankind, or whether a passion for animals annihilates our regard towards our own species, may admit of dispute; but it is certain, that her attachment to birds, dogs, and monkies, which has grown, perhaps, from an affected tenderness into a real passion, appears to have rendered Orniphila F 4 utterly

utterly insensible to the merit of human nature. She professes to have an aversion to children, because she is distracted by their noise; yet, so inconsistent is affectation, she has chofen for her constant companion, and even for her bedfellow, a great surly Pomeranian dog, whofe incessant barking is more offensively loud than the most noisy infant that ever squalled in a cradle! She has many nephews and nieces, to whom little presents of money would be very acceptable; but Orniphila will not bestow even a crown to treat one of these children with a play; yet she will frequently throw away a guinea to purchase a little fruit from a hothouse, as a delicious indulgence to her old

talking parrot. Our foibles, like our

vices, are very fruitful sources of vexation and distress; and I happened to be an ocular witness of a very heavy punishment, which accident inflicted on the unamiable weakness of Orniphila. As she does me the honour to rank me among her distant relations, and as she thinks I have some

knowledge knowledge of natural history, she lately sent me a very pressing invitation to tea, that she might consult me on a new foreign bird just presented to her by one of her dependents. I was pleased to find two of her nieces, and their brother, admitted to her tea-table. The girls, who are almost women, were going from school to their parents in the country. The boy, a lively lad of thirteen, was just arrived from Eton, to escort his sisters, and appeared to divert himself not a little with the oddities of his aunt. She is always seen, like Circe, surrounded with animals. A few tame little birds, who fly unconfined about her chamber, are generally perched on her shoulder or her cap; the fat Pomeranian, when he is not growling, reposes at her feet; and a large squirrel occasionally peeps from her pocket, as he is indulged with a kind of banquetting-housc under her hoop: but of all the creatures who usually reside in her room, the most striking is a very large and magnificent, but ill-tempered mackaw.

The London Journal: and Weekly Record of Literature, Science …, Volumes 7-8 (Google Books)

OLD MAIDS.

IT has been so habitual with authors to attach something unamiable and contemptuous in its nature with the title “ old maids,” that if a devoted servant of theirs—such as I profess to be, from a long and accurate knowledge of their true character ~–—attempts to utter a word in their favour, he is run down by the sneers of folly and ignorance.

The exclusive love of cats, dogs, parrots, tea, dress, and scandal, has been attributed to them, by eucceeding generations of scofi‘ers, and great deficiency in the social affections, and in those charities 0flife, which are supposed to prevail in other classes of the bcau scare, are most gratuitously and unjustly laid to the debit of their account current with the world. The weakness, the folly, or the caprices of a few individuals of their tribe have served to stamp a general character upon them all, whereas those qualities assumed to be characteristic of them are but the esccptivo cases.

It pains me to see maiden ladies of “a certain age,” or indeed of any age, “ falsely, falsely, murdared.”

Let us examine the indictment against these obii’cts of ridicule and mailgnity.

The first is, that they have an inordinate atfection for certain animals enumerated therein, viz., cats, dogs, parrots. Well, so have children. All pure, unsophisticated, and benevolent human beings love those of the domestic animals which are capable of returning kindness by attachment; and when the human objects of love and endearmeut are denied to maiden ladies, which are enjoyed by the wife and the mother, it is quite natural that other objects should become in some degree the recipients of those overflowing afl‘rctions which in married life would probably have taken ahlghor and nohler, and a more natural direction. ‘

The dog and the cat do not sneer at and quiz the elderly maiden lady, and the parrot is harmless and amusing in her pretty Poliship. Even a monkey

.might be allowable to the isolated spinster. But

she sees so many human biped! deserving to be ranked in the varieties of that race—sees so many an tics, grimsees—so runny absurdities in look_ manner, gesture, attitude, and conduct—meets With so many human apes wherever she moves—apes, too, that dare to grin at her—that she does not include a quadrupsd and tailed moukay in her domestic circle.

But admitting that she has an entire ‘bappyfarnily’ of pets, loreshlc or unloveable train their natures, ll the ‘oid maid’slnguiar in such taste! There are many married ladies, the mothers of at numerous progeny, who have a strong aflection for dogs, cats, and parrots too. I know cases in point—and mothers who have them all—who, in their oapacions beam, appear to have a place for them without abstracfr ing one sin of love from their legitimate offspring. et no one laughs at, or finds fault with them, provided that the adopted favourites hold but their inferior and proper plnre in the household.

I well knew, by reputation, is married lady, who had several children; two of whom, from bodily imbeciiity, and some mental dehllity (which resulted from ill-treatment and continued neglect), became the objects of her aversion, and the other children had much less of her care and love than the cats, dogs, and arrols possessed! The house was filled With these animals, and they were far better, more abundantly fed than her OWn children, One iii-lpii-ss child, in particular, w’as usually confined in a sort of dun, unwashed, ill-fed, and totally negiicteii as to moral treatment; that child, it is said, grinniilr devoured the crumbs and ofi’als which fell from the feeding vessels of the brute pets, shared the rations of the dogs, and was greedy for the cold potatoes which the dogs rejected as unpalaicahlc. ‘ _

That woman was a mother—probably still lives, and still keeps her bruto pets—while her children have no place in her solicitudcs. That woman is not an ” old maid”—if siic Were,and treated nephews and nieces, or any human creatures, as that woman treated her own children, how the world would have proclaimed the monstrous character of the individual spinster, and what a load of reproach Would have been flung upon her whole sisterhood l

Then comes another charge—she is too tidy,sho is too prim and neat in her dress and the care of her person. True, the afl’ectlon for pets and the love of tidiness sometimes struggle for the mastery in the habits of the maiden lady, and a compromise takes

isco accordingly. A dear old maid—a French sly, by-the-bye—snrpriscd me once, by having on each of the calico chair covers oi her little salon a

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fur-:c bush. Of course I did not sit upon onc, nor did the lady wish that I should he on thorns in her company. She removed a barrier accordingly, and when I Was coated securely, told me very gravely, that she had defended her chairs in that way to prevent her eats from lying on them! Blessings on her siUlpiirity.

If neatness be a fault in “old maids,” then they are. generally, culpable; but this I deny altogether. “Cleanliness,” says a proverb, “is neat to godliness,” and neatness is akin to cleanliness; it is a degree higher or so in the scale of self-respect. Many a. married woman becomes a slattrrn in person, when the cares of a house and children Wilhdraw her attentions from herself; and in this she ofl‘ends the delicacy of her husband’s taste, and against all the proprieties of social life in its refined state. But the “old maid” retains hrr scrupulous attention to personal neatness, having no causes for negligence in that particular—aud this is made a subject of reproach against her.

If, indeed, in faded life, she decorates herself in bad taste, wears flsxen ringlcts—the growth of a younger head,—and flaunts in gaudy ribbons like a May-pole, she is a fool; but this sort of dressing, this over-toilet doing, is not neatness; and while the maiden lady “of a certain age” dresses with taste suited to her years, and even observes a critical nicety, if she will, in the proprictiss of neatnrss, iii-r abomination of dust and dirt in all their ramifications, whether of person or furniture, is quite excusable and useful in its way. As example :—If the “ old maid ” dislikes to have furniture out of its place, or unclean“ or the folds of her shawl ill-arranged, and pins stuck in Wrong places; “the be tldgetty, when her bad is inclined at a wrong angle, or still worse, not inclined at all, or disconcrrted if the sheen are turned too much or too little over the countbrpa’ne; shocked if a flea be discovered in the blankets, or a s idcr in the cornice; put out of her way if hours appropriated for certain occupations he interfered wir.h,-—therc_ is nothing blameableln these articulnrities. Men and women, of all ages an stittions, are allowed to have their distingiilshin Itablls; why is not the old maid to have hers—cog those so harmless to the world? Married ladies would he very much annoyed at linvin their domestic occupations deranged or meddle with. Married and unmarried ladies have their respeciivc peculiarities, their respective pleasures, and their respective whims.

There is my own wife, for instance: but why need I pnrticulariie cases?

I do not think that there are any real accusations in the general indictment. If too much precision and delicacy of language—if abhorrenre of the equiveque in which some of the married portion of ladies may ocssionally indulge in defiance of good taste. and good breeding, and good principles—if the “ maiden ” roeoilaus from some loathsome thing or abhorrod idea, at even a harmless allusion, her refinement is an error on the right side, and arises from the peculiarity of her position.

Dolioacy of sentiment and of language ought to be admired in W0mfli;—\\’h¢i‘6 those are wanted, the seals dishonourcd. In my boyhood I used to hear of the clever things in the double cntemirc style, which a well-known maiden lady, of privileged years, used to utter. She was a perfect Sydney Smith, for keen and exquisitely pointed wit. Bnt were her bon mote creditable to good taste? I dare not give illustrations of her racy and plduant humour. She was an exceprivc case of the grneral rule, that strict propriety of language rheracterises the old maid.

And what are the blessings of her station? She can do as she likes with her time and hermoncy, to a much greater degree than the married woman can—she may be quite independent in her actions. If the spinner lady have none of your high gratifications of wedded life, she is free from its disappointmcnts, sorrows, and solicitudes—no watchin for the return home at night ofn morosc or dissipate: husband—no achings of a wounded spirit—no wakefui hours by the cradle of the sick or dying child—no stricken heart at the unfaithfulness of a husband, the ingraiitude of a son, or the blighted prospects of a married daughter, whom she herself, perhaps, had mauteuvrcd to have wedded to the cause of that grief which now oppressns her with a sense of error and disappointment.

The married isdy does good service to the slate— regarding the statistics of population—but does the maiden iiady contribute nothing to the social weal ? She does in many ways. She is the guardian-the friend of brothers and sisters—perhaps the stay of

an aged parent; and if she be now and then a little cranky with her nephews and ulcers in their infancy and childhood, she may be a kind nurse and an able instructress also.

Some of the most amiable of women that I have known, have been or are “ old maids”—ai distinguisiicd for benevolence, and the charities of life, as any other of their sex -consldcrate, indulgent, Warm-hearted, and true—generous and self-denying —lirely and agreeable too—eloquent and witty.

How can such creatures be left in sin le blessedness? it may be asked How, indeed? or myself, I would willingly marry a score or two of them, and still wish to extend my circle. But poverty, or difficulty in btliig pleased, or a decided love for celibacy (not very common, however), or disappointment in early love, or God knows what other causes, may have left such admirable beings unappropriated by any of the male sex. II—n— Y.

Diary in France, Mainly on Topics Concerning Education and the Church (Google Books)

Friday, August 16.—At the Bibliotheque du Roi from ten to three, which are the hours for study there. Nothing can be more gratifying to a stranger, or more honourable to a great literary institution, than the courtesy with which every facility is here given for exploring the treasures of learning deposited in this magnificent establishment, which is probably without a rival, as far as MSS. are concerned, in any metropolis in the world.

In the afternoon, spent some time in a bookseller’s shop in the Palais Royal, looking at a volume just published, de I’ Ultramontanisme et des Jesuites, being Lectures by M. Quinet, delivered by him in his character of Professor of European Languages and Literature, at the College de France. (It may be here mentioned, that the Professors of the CoMge de France differ from those of the Sorbonne, in being a self-elected body, and not appointed directly by the Government.) M. Quinet belongs to the same class of writers as his colleague, M. Michelet, Professor of History and Morality, and, like him, contends very vigorously against the Jesuits and against the Church, because it takes a Romanist direction in opposition to a national one. Unhappily, though he brings a great deal of just reasoning, together with abundance of talent, against his opponents, he seems to have no sound principles to substitute in the place of what he destroys, and there are several passages in his work of a sceptical and anti-christian character which have strengthened the cause of his adversaries. I have since fallen in with a volume entitled Manuel du Droit Public EccMsiastique Frangais”, Paris, 1844, by the celebrated Lawyer and Depute, Dupin, which maintains the principle of a National Church with much learning; he follows the line of argument traced by the great writers of the Gallican Church, Bossuet, Fleury, and Dupin, and endeavours to recover their principles from the neglect and contempt into which they have now fallen from the scepticism and Erastianism of French statesmen and politicians on the one hand, and from the violent ultramontanism of the clergy on the other. Still one cannot help being struck with the incongruity of his system: he begins with professing profound reverence for the

• Voir le Mandement portant eondamnation de cet ouvrage par le Cardinal Archeveque de Lyons.—(See note to p. 88, at the end of this volume.)

Pope, as supreme and universal Governor of the Church, and then he proceeds to strip him one by one of all the powers and privileges which he claims in that capacity, making the Pope an Epicurean Deity, with nothing to do, and with no power to do anything; just as Lucretius begins his poem, Be Rerum Naturd, with an invocation to a goddess, and then shows that both gods and goddesses are all nonsense7.

Saturday, Aug. 17.—To-day again at the Bibliotheque. M. Hase, conservator of MSS., conversing very earnestly on a topic which now engrosses universal attention, viz. the sudden dismissal of the whole of the Polytechnic School, consisting of 300 students i I will not enter into the arguments pro and con concerning this summary act of ministerial authority, or rather of royal power, on the representation of the minister of war, Marshal Soult; but the event is one of the numerous unhappy symptoms of the fact, that the present dynasty, having exhausted its popular resources, and outlived the prestige of the republican enthusiasm which created it, is now placed in the critical posture of transition from a democratical character to one of military rule. But it is much to be feared, that having been raised on the popular principle, and having been impelled to encourage that principle in all the great institutions of the country, and especially in those of education, and

7 See extracts from the Semeur, in note to p. 25, at end.

to act in a republican spirit in its relations to the rising generation,—witness, for instance, the adulatory language which Louis Philippe employed to this same Ecole Polytech/nique (which he has now disbanded) in his ordonnance of 1830, on account of its services in defending Paris, that is, ejecting Charles X. and overturning the monarchy;—it is, I say, to be feared that the present Government will hardly have strength, with all its prudence and power, to stem the revolutionary torrent which it has let forth; and that it will feel the force of retributive justice from those powers which it has used for its own aggrandizement, if not in its own person, yet in that of its immediate successors.

The national education of the country appears to be administered upon principles quite as unfavourable to loyalty, as to religion and morality.

At the Bibliotteque, to return from this digression, one of the keepers of the MSS., who has been very obliging to me, described to me the present condition of classical learning in France. A great deal of stress being laid upon the ancient languages in the school education of this country (and there are very strong passages in the recent Rapport of M. Thiers and his commission to the Chamber of Deputies, on the necessity of maintaining and advancing these studies in what is called se^oj^dary education’), a considerable proficiency is made in them in the earlier stages of instruction; but in consequence of the variety of study which distracts the students in the higher classes, and especially from the miscellaneous character of the examination for the degree of Bachelor of Letters, and from the separation of the clergy, the learned or should-be-learned class of the community, from the University and the schools of France, the amount of solid classical learning is extremely small. My friend says that M. Hase and M. Boissonnade, are the only two existing savans who are qualified to write on critical subjects in Latin. He might have added himself, (he has presented me with two critical works which show his ability as a scholar,) and also M. Duebner, well known as the editor of several volumes of Didot’s Bibliotheca, who is deservedly esteemed for his sagacity and learning.

Much jealousy seems to subsist between the privileged aristocrats of learning, viz. the members of the Institut, the Redacteurs of the Journal des Savans, &c, and the laborious but less renowned students, who do not belong to the liveried and salaried literary corporations of the country. A gentleman mentioned to me that the faculties at the University had lately abandoned the habit of debating their theses, &c, in Latin*. On the other hand, however, there seems to be great hope for these studies, from the increased interest now felt in France concerning the writings of the Fathers of the Church, and the literary monuments of Christian antiquity. At the re’See note to p. 91, at end.

cent distribution of prizes at the celebrated College of Juilly, wbich I hope to visit, the Abbe” Goschler, one of the professors, made some excellent observations on the uses of classical studies in education M. Miller has been before mentioned as the conductor of a Literary Review. I may here insert, by the bye, the titles of two theological periodicals, which are said to exercise much influence on the opinions of the clergy, the one entitled ” Le Correspondant,” edited by M. Audley (formerly a professor of Juilly), assisted (as is asserted in the prospectus) by Count Montalembertand others, and publicly encouraged by the Archbishop of Paris; the other, called “Bibliographic Catholique,” published at Rue de Bac, Passage Ste. Marie, No. 3, which, on account of the short notices it gives of all the theological books that appear, and its great cheapness, it being only ten francs a-year, and appearing monthly, has a very wide circulation among the clergy of France.

Sunday, Aug. 18.—At the English Church. Both services well attended, especially the morning. Dined afterwards in the Rue des Vignes, No. 19.

Monday, Aug. 19.—I find the serious people here

1 M. Audley n’est pas assiste par le eomte de Montalembert (qui n’a jamais ecrit une seule ligiie dans le Correspondant), mais il est l’assistant, l’employe, ou le secretaire des redacteurs du Correspondant. M. Lenorraant est le principal redacteur de cette revue, qui donne des articles de M. le Comte Beugnot, de l’Abbe Maret, de M. de Carné et d’un ou deux autres membres de la Chambre des Deputes. [M. Audley has written an article in the Number for Dec. 25, 1845, On the Conversions in England.}

very much elated by conversions which have recently taken place from Protestantism to Romanism. Calling this morning upon M. Grondon, I found him very full of the news from Rome of the reconciliation, as it is called, to the Church, of M. Hurler, late President of the Protestant Consistory of SchafThausen, in Switzerland, and celebrated in Germany and France for his History of Pope Innocent III., and for his work on the papacy subsequent to Innocent’s time. The impression naturally is, that his historical researches have led him to abjure Protestantism, and to espouse the tenets of the Church of Rome. In the Tablet newspaper I saw this morning an advertisement of an English translation, by the Rev. Charles Seager, late of Oxford, of the Pdre de Ravignan’s Defence of the Jesuits, the same work as was given me the other day by the Provincial of the Order, whom I visited again this morning. He told me that there had been three translations made of that book, and then he passed rapidly to the question, “Eh Men, M. le Docteur, quand est-ce que I’Angleterre va retoumer a I’unite de I’Eglise V In reply to which I begged to inform him that she had never left it. I do not recount the greater part of our conversation, being a repetition of what has been before stated in other words; but I must observe that the main principle for which he contended, was the necessity of some one visible authority, to which, for the sake of peace and unity, all the members of the Church

should consent to defer; “otherwise,” said he, “the Church, which its Divine Founder intended to be the household of love, and which He could not leave, and has not left, to be distracted by dissent and distressed by doubt, must become the prey of interminable disputes, and be a house divided against itself, and therefore must fall.” He proceeded to point out the pernicious consequences to which men had been led by the unconstrained exercise of private judgment, in the Protestant societies of England, Scotland, Switzerland, and Germany. This was an easy matter, and the remarks he made on the necessary consequences of the uncontrolled use of private judgment, could not, I think, have failed to make a deep impression upon those who are disposed to maintain, in unqualified terms, this so-called Protestant axiom, which affords the greatest advantage to the champions of popery.

His subsequent observations were less successful; indeed these controversialists, who are more fortunate in refutation, seem to fall into the error which they justly condemn, when they set about constructing a system of their own. Thus, in defining the papal authority, they differ so much from one another and from themselves, and above all from the Pope, that they seem to allow themselves the free exercise of private judgment in this all-important matter’.

2 C’est l’Eglise elle-meme et les papes qui ont laiss£ aux fideles eette liberte ” d’opinion.

,

The Church, they say, is a monarchy; but what the nature and extent of the powers of the monarch is, neither he nor his subjects can tell! I have enquired not only of the Provincial of the Jesuits, but also of other ecclesiastics, what their opinion is concerning the temporal authority of the Pope, and I find they hold that the papal supremacy, in ternporalibus, “was a very good and necessary thing for the period in which it was exercised;” but, in direct contradiction to the Pope’s own assertions, it ” is not a matter of faith, but of opinion; and not applicable in practice to the present times.” Times, however, proverbially change; but Rome is unchangeable; and they deny not that the period, in which it may be expedient to be exercised, may recur. By asserting the necessity of the temporal supremacy of the Pope in the past, they concede the possibility of its exercise in the future.

Again, on the question of infallibility they are at variance with one another and with themselves. The Provincial of the Jesuits replied to my queries on this subject by stating that the Pope is the conservator of the faith of the Church, not its dictator; that he is its mouth and organ, and that when he has spoken ex cathedra, his effatum does not immediately take effect, but waits for the sanction, either tacit or expressed, of the whole episcopal body of Christendom. He specified the Bull, Auctorem Fidei, directed against Scipio Ricci, Bishop of Pistoia, and his Italian reforms, as having complete validity, because there had been no remonstrance against it. On the other hand, it ought to be remembered, that the popes themselves, in the more ancient and more famous, and frequently reiterated Bull, In Ccend Domini, excommunicate, ipso facto, all persons who venture to appeal from a Pope’s Bull to a General Council, i. e. who dare to ask for the general opinion of the Catholic Episcopate on any matter on which the Pope has spoken! Again, the Jesuit is at variance on this subject with his former self; he frankly owned to me that some time since he had subscribed the Gallican Articles3, in which the Pope’s independent infallibility is denied, or, as they express it, son jugement n’est pas irreformable; and he now avows to me his conviction that the Gallican Articles are not worth a straw, and he asserts, that at present they are not taught in any ecclesiastical seminary in France—though the Law (Art. Organ. § iii. 24) requires them to be subscribed by the Professors in all.

Even Bossuet himself, the great writer on the Variations, as he terms them, of Protestant Churches,— that most instructive of all books for Protestants— has varied from himself on this subject. Bossuet, as De Maistre shows in his work on the Gallican Church, affirmed, in his celebrated sermon on the-Unity of

* See note to p. 96, at end.

the Church, that no pope had ever fallen into heresy; and yet he afterwards made a catalogue of the heresies which popes had held!

I have observed that Romanist controversialists have a convenient way of getting rid of objections on this and similar matters concerning the papacy; Cite to them the cases of popes Liberius, Vigilius, and Honorius I., who have been generally believed by the world to this day to have lapsed into heresy, the first into Arianism, the second into Eutychianism, the third into the error of the Monothelites, and they reply either that some MS. has been recently discovered, or some learned treatise lately published, which sets these matters in a new light. Thus Cardinal Mai and his researches in the Vatican are very useful in case of a difficulty.

The distinction they make between matters of faith and opinion seems to open a wide door to much very pernicious teaching* on some of the most serious questions of practical religion. I detailed briefly to Pere Boulanger the substance of what I had heard in the sermons on the Assumption above noticed, and asked him whether he did not think that the results of unscriptural, and, as it appeared to me, anti-scriptural teaching on so solemn a subject as the true Mediatorship between God and man must

1 La porte n’est pas si large qu’on pourrait le croire ; car toutes ces matieres sont dSterminees par l’Eglise d’une maniei’e precise et rigoureuse.

F

be very baneful as far as regards the practice of the people, and highly offensive to Almighty God He did not enter into the question of the truth of the doctrine there propounded, but said that there were many things left open by the Church, which had not pronounced any authoritative judgment upon them. Here, then, is a broad arena expanded for private judgment to expatiate and disport itself upon in its wildest vagaries, from the removal of the limits fixed by the principle of Scripture sufficiency in matters of faith.

He made a similar reply when I enquired how the Bishops of France could allow the books and processions and fetes which are now so common, in honour of the robe of Argenteuil, in the very environs of the metropolis; how could they reconcile it with their duty to the people committed to their charge, to permit them to go astray, and indeed to encourage them to seek after a delusion propounded as an object of religious veneration? He said that this again was a point upon which the Church pronounced no judgment; she thought it best to leave it an open question, and without authorizing the supposed relic, she might well believe that it supplied a very useful occasion and inducement to pious exercises and good works. “Besides, sir, to show you that something may be said in favour of the robe, I had with me here a few days since a young English peer, now under education with our order at Fribourg, who assured me that having been long suffering from a bad leg, he received an instantaneous cure from an application of a piece of the robe to the disordered part; and he called on me the other day, as he was passing through Paris for the express purpose of going on a pilgrimage of thanksgiving to Argenteuil.” I replied that I was not concerned either to admit or deny the fact of the miracle; that the one great duty of man, which no circumstances could affect, was to do the will, and believe the word, of God; that not even an angel from heaven was to make us swerve from this duty; and that if we disobeyed the Divine will, or tampered with the Divine word, I thought it not unlikely that God would give us over to a reprobate mind, and “choose our delusions” as the best mode of punishing us for our sin: and that therefore, supposing the robe to be a lying wonder, I considered it to be not improbable that God might take the method of delivering its votaries to judicial blindness, and of punishing them for their credulity and for the injury done to his holy name, in paying honour to it which is due to Him alone, by allowing the robe to exercise miraculous agency, and that we had reason to expect from holy Scripture that the trial of our faith in these latter days would be precisely of this kind. We passed to other topics, and he concluded by saying in a kind tone, “You have, sir, my best wishes for your peace and happiness in unity with the Church of Christ, but at present you and your countrymen are but seekers (yous n’etes que des chercheurs).” And I, having expressed a hope that the Divine promise to those who seek in a right spirit might be fulfilled in our case, took leave. I then walked to the Rue Monsieur, hoping to find the Superior of the Benedictines ; he was from home, but I was presented to Pere Pitra, whom I had particularly wished to see, having heard from the Abbe Migne that he had taken the principal part in revising the new edition of the works of Tertullian. I was greatly pleased with my visit. There is a gravity and earnestness, a modesty and kindliness, in these Benedictines, which inspires great respect while it conciliates alfectionate regard. He expressed much regret that his superior Dom Gueranger, of whom and of whose works he spoke with great deference, was not at home, as he would have had much pleasure in receiving me. He referred to his own labours on Tertullian in a very modest manner, and expressed some apprehension that the editions of which it was one might not satisfy all the expecta^ tions of the literary world. He thought that of the Greek fathers a Latin translation alone would be published; another unhappy symptom of the degeneracy of France in that erudition for which it was once famous, and which it must strive to recover before it can rightly call upon other nations to receive from its mouth an interpretation of the language of -Christian antiquity, to which its ecclesiastics now appeal with so much confidences. I ashed the Pere Pitra whether there was any record in his congregation of the letters which Dr. Bentley wrote from Trinity College, Cambridge, to various members of the Benedictine fraternity in 1716. He said that there had been a great fire at their monastery of St. Germain des Pres at Paris, in the year 1793, which had consumed many of their books and papers, and that their abbey had been entirely demolished, with the exception of the church, at the great Revolution, and that their MSS. had been confiscated, and that such of them as survived were now to be found in the Bibliotheque du Roi, where I should perhaps hear some tidings of Bentley’s letters, if they were still in existence. (I may here mention that, on my next visit to the Royal Library, I did enquire of M. Miller, who very kindly went immediately in search of them; but his investigations were not attended with success, and his opinion is that they perished in the fire above mentioned.) Pere Pitra seems conversant with Latin theological works published in England: he spoke in terms of high respect of Dr. Routh’s Reliquiae Sacrse, with some reservations as to points of doctrine, in which it was not to be expected that the Benedictine brother of St. Maur would agree with the Anglican president of St. Magdalene.

5 See note to p. 101, at end.

He said that this work reminded him of the by-gone days of theology. He mentioned also an edition of Tertullian’s Apologeticus, lately published at Cambridge, which he said he understood contained good notes and a preface concerning patristic Latinity. “But I,” he added, “who do not read English, have not been able to profit by them.” The Superior also, Dom Gueranger, told me on my former visit that he himself did not read English; which I mention the rather because it thence appears, that the innovation of publishing theological and critical works with English notes instead of Latin, renders them inaccessible to two of the most learned men of the most learned order in France, and that, if to them, much more to the French clergy in general; a fact which, in addition to many other reasons of great moment, would seem to suggest the propriety of a return from the new practice to the old.

Calling to-day on a French ecclesiastic of great respectability and learning, I found him, like his secular and religious brethren before mentioned, quite out of humour with the Gallican Articles, and considering them as temporal invasions of the spiritual power of the Papal See. His apology for Bossuet in promulgating and defending them was, that a broad distinction was to be made between the Gallicanisme parlementaire of the lawyers, &c, and the OaUicanisme religieux of the clergy, and that Bossuet was the champion of the latter, and not of the former6. He expressed great hopes that the question now agitated between the University on one side, and the clergy on the other, concerning education, would, by dint of labour and by the quieting influences of time, assume a more pacific aspect, and lead to beneficial results. He thought the clergy had taken their position skilfully in not founding their claim on their spiritual character, but in resting it on the foundation afforded by the Charte of 1830, which guarantees, or rather promises to guarantee, liberty of instruction to all. The words of the Charte are, “II sera pourvu dans le plus court delai possible ci I’instruction publique et a. la liberie de I’enseignement.”

On this point a difference of opinion will probably exist. We did not pursue the subject further; but it has since occurred to me to enquire of my friend, the author of the Mouvement religieux, M. Gondon, who has kindly given me the principal pamphlets on this controversy, whether there can be such a thing as education without religion, and whether the clergy are at liberty to renounce the public exercise, and to suppress the assertion, of the Divine commission given by the Divine Head of the Church to every pastor, and especially to every Bishop of the Church, in the words—as universally understood by Christian

0 See note to p. 103, at end.

antiquity—” Pasce oves Meas,” and “Pasce agnos Meos,” “Euntes docete omnes génies ;”—whether, I say, they can do this and be guiltless, and whether, after all, the question for them is, not the liberty but the obligation of public instruction ; whether they are not justly chargeable with a serious dereliction of duty in speaking of the Liberté d’Enseignement, instead of the Droit and the Devoir d’Enseignement7.

Of this I feel satisfied, that the clergy, by taking the low ground which they have done, and by resting their cause upon the Charte instead of the Gospel, have given a very great advantage to their adversaries, who very justly afiirm that education is too momentous a thing to be left wholly free, abandoned, like an article of commerce or manufacture, to the uncontrolled traffic of every speculating adventurer;

7 Cette appréciation manque d’exactitude dans la situation où se trouve placé le Clergé de France. Il est impossible aux Evêques et au Clergé d’établir leur droit à l’enseignement sur l’autorité de l’Evangile, puisque le Gouvernement et les grands pouvoirs de l’Etat sont censés ignorer (aux termes de la constitution) l’Evanyile. Le Coran et le Talmoud ont constitutionellement la même autorité que l’Evangile aux yeux du Gouvernement. Comment le Clergé pourrait-il dans ces circonstances établir ses droits sur le Nouveau Testament? Evoquer la Charte, ce n’est pas rénoncer à l’Evangile ; mais c’est se placer sur un terrain commun avec les adversaires que l’on doit combattre ; c’est invoquer une autorité qu’ils ne peuvent décliner, c’est les battre avec leurs propres armes.

Il est difficile de comprendre le grand avantage que les adversaires du Clergé peuvent tirer de la position qu’on leur fait en les attaquant sur le terrain de la Charte, au lieu de les inviter à se placer sur celui de l’Evangile. Il en serait autrement en Angleterre.

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that some authority must be exercised over it by some power or other; and that, as the Church by her own confession does not claim this power, and has in fact abdicated it, it must therefore be exercised by the State. Thus the cause of the secular and irreligious University is strengthened by the weakness, calling itself prudence and policy, of the Church. Hence too the Church is placed in a position which it must feel to be a false one; for while the Pope B, the visible Head of the French Church, in his Encyclic Letter is condemning the liberty of the press as pregnant with evil, the Bishops and Clergy of France are all contending for unrestrained liberty of teaching as the source of all good! But to return to my ecclesiastical friend. He made some observations on Jansenism, which gave him an opportunity of complimenting Protestants as compared with Jansenists, whom he regarded as holding all the heretical principles of Protestantism without its sincerity.

This evening, dining in an English family, a French literary friend gave us an account of a demoiselle Anglaise who had called on him to-day on her way from Rome, where she had been converted to Romanism. She came to express to him the delight and peace of mind she felt in being what Romanists call reconciled to the Church. These conversions, so frequent as they now are, occupy the minds of sincere

• See note to p. 105, at end.

and serious Roman Catholics here as elsewhere, and render it extremely difficult for them to listen with patience to what can be said by Protestants against the errors and corruptions of Popery’.

It seems that there are certain classes of society which are peculiarly qualified by their circumstances to furnish converts to Roman Catholicism, and that it may be justly asserted that, inasmuch as their converts come from these particular classes, and from them almost exclusively, that these conversions so far from being an argument in favour of Popery, are rather an argument against it. First, there are the extremely profligate, who, especially if they are wealthy, find in Romanism an impunity and comfort which no other religion pretends to give; and which none ought to offer. Next, are those, who, like M. Hurter and some of our own converts in England, are brought up without any sound, clear notions of the true, scriptural, and apostolical constitution of the Christian Church, its faith, sacraments, and ministry, and therefore, finding on enquiry and examination, that their own mere negative ecclesiastical theories are without solid foundation, and having no root in themselves, are prone, on any impulse being given them, to fall away. It need not, I think, be a matter of surprise that any Protestant minister of Zurich, Geneva, Schaffhausen, (M. Hurter was President of the Consistory at Schaffhausen, and, I hear, Ro

9 See note to p. 106, at end.

manists now abound at Geneva,) should abjure the jejune, arid, negations of his own profession, not of faith, but of denial, and espouse the nobler and more satisfying principles of an apostolic Church, however corrupt it may have become. The same may be said with respect to the class in England, which fraternizes in discipline and doctrine with the school of Geneva There is a third class, especially of women, which serves to recruit the ranks of popery. I asked our friend how old this demoiseUe Anglaise was of whom he was speaking, and he replied, “About forty.” It seems to be regretted that the Church of England should not be able to provide religious occupation and employment, of a spiritual and devotional kind, for women of intellectual culture and of ardent feelings, who either do not marry or are left widows without children, or are otherwise isolated without domestic or social ties to engage their affections, and without specific duties to perform. The very same principle Avhich leads some of this class to squander their sympathies on parrots and lapdogs, seems to lead others (if they should be exposed to such a temptation) to fall victims to the arts of proselyting Romanists. Of course, too, at this age of which we are speaking, of greater maturity and seriousness, better motives may operate very powerfully; but it must be remembered that a sort of court is paid, especially at Rome, to ladies of this character, and the most flattering, and one may almost say, amatory attentions are lavished upon them, of which they have had little experience from a hard-hearted world, and which they find it very difficult to resist. I remember being present, about twelve years since, at Cardinal Fesch’s palace at Rome, when he baptized a Scotch Presbyterian lady of this class, who had been carried about the city in his splendid carriage with its magnificent equipage, scuA feted in saloons by cardinals and princes, till she was insensibly laid, as it were, in a mesmeric trance, from which she was, alas, soon to awake in the severe solitude of a convent, where all these brilliant sights of palaces, and pictures, and liveries, would seem to her waking senses only like a splendid dream! But to return to Paris and our dinner table. I heard there of another very remarkable, and, as it is here called, miraculous conversion, which indeed the Pope himself has pronounced it to be, that of the brother of the Abbe” Ratisbonne, who was an inveterate Jew till the moment that he entered into the church of S. Andrea dei Frati at Rome, and having suddenly been inspired to throw himself upon his knees there, had a vision of the Virgin, and immediately became a good Catholic to the surprise of all the world, and is shortly about to become a member of one of the religious orders.

As an unhappy contrast to whatever may be holy and devotional in these and other conversions of which we now hear so much, I am reminded by some details, also heard to-day, which it is not necessary to specify further, not only of the indifference and scepticism which prevails widely at Paris, but of the vast amount of dreadful and unutterable crimes to which the public voice and the public streets witness, in tones which cannot be mistaken; what I mean is, that authenticated records of flagrant iniquities meet the eye and ear in this place with a degree of frequency and publicity which is a melancholy proof of the inefficacy of the religious teaching and worship of the Roman Catholic Church as it exists in France’. In addition to this I must mention the senseless and rhapsodical fanaticism which infidelity has engendered, as proved by the numerous pretenders to Divine revelations and missions, who avenge the cause of religion which they and their followers have outraged, by showing that they, incredulous as they are, are the slaves and victims of the most abject superstition and sottish credulity. The various schools of unbelief, now existing at Paris, exhibit a melancholy spectacle of the consequences of a mere secular, material, and mechanical education, unsanctified by Christianity, and undignified by the glorious imaginations, and fervent affections, and lofty aspirations which animated, and ennobled, and beautified the teaching even of heathen antiquity. Tuesday, August 20.—This journal does not pre

1 La source du mal c’est l’enseignement impie des colleges et institutions universitaires. Comment le Clerge” moraliserait-il la jeunesse quand l’Universite’ s’iuterpose entr’elle et lui 1

tend to give any account of the public buildings and sights of Paris, some of which we visited to-day; but I cannot omit a passing notice of the church of St. Germain des Pres; not so much for any thing very remarkable in itself—though it is a very handsome church, with a very lofty belfry visible far and wide —but as being almost the only remnant of the vast and ancient abbey of the Benedictine congregation of St. Maur, which produced and cherished within its walls so many venerable, learned, and pious men, who were ornaments not only of their own order but of their country and of the church at large. In the church there is a monument to Casimir, the ex-King of Poland (who was Abbot of this monastery, where he died in 1672), but the editions of the works of the Christian Fathers, which owe their existence to this abbey, and to the labours of the illustrious brotherhood, Montfaucon, Delarue, Martianay, Sabatier, Thuillier, and others, are imperishable monuments, possessing a more powerful interest now that revolutionary fury has levelled all the cells and cloisters of the monastery of St. German to the ground.

We went from the church of St. Germain des Pres to that of N6tre Dame, at the east and south sides of which there is now a large open area on the Seine —the site formerly of the Archbishop’s palace, and a record of the popular frenzy of a more recent period. It is well known that the palace was pulled down by the mob and all the books and MSS. of its invaluable library thrown into the Seine in 1831, because the clergy were imprudent enough to celebrate a service in commemoration of the exiled dynasty, in the «hurch of St. Germain Auxerrois, an act which the people supposed to have been encouraged by the Archbishop.

To-day we found in the church of N6tre Dame an announcement of the Catechetical courses held in this church previous to the first communion and to confirmation. It may, I think, be affirmed that the Church of France is more faithful and zealous in catechizing than in the discharge of any other pubhe religious duty. Here, for instance, was a notice of as many as four different courses of catechizing to be held twice a week (each of them, I think), uninterruptedly for several months. I saw a similai notice of weekly catechizings at the church of St. Roch, to be held without intermission from the fifth of November to Easter. It may further be observed, that the French theological press has been of late very prolific in full and elaborate Catechisms; of which one may be specially mentioned, that of the Abbe” Gaume in eight volumes octavo, which has received the sanction of the Pope and of many of the French bishops. This of M. Gaume is a Catechism particularly intended for the instruction of les Persgvirans, as they are called; i. e. for that class of young persons who continue after their first communion (which generally takes place at or before the age of

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twelve years), to attend catechetical instruction. One of the courses just mentioned at Notre Dame was for this description of catechumens. In this church there was a sad event noticed in another public announcement, or Mandement, as it is called, of the Archbishop of Paris, which prescribed a solemn service of Fasting and Prayer, and other penitential exercises, previous to the re-opening of the church of St. Gervais, which had been closed in consequence of an act of suicide which had been committed within its walls, and in sight of its altar. This Pastoral Address of the Archbishop contained some very grave and solemn admonitions concerning the crime of selfdestruction, and some very forcible observations on the feeling of abhorrence with which it ought to be regarded by all Christians, and seemed to intimate that the act is of common occurrence here (as indeed is well known to be the case, as I was assured by an eminent physician who has been twenty years resident at Paris), and that it is contemplated with indifference or even with sentimental commiseration, if not with approval and admiration. This Mandement was written in a very devout and pious style, and with much dignity of expression.

To-day, in the great amphitheatre at the Jardin des Plantes, where I expected to find a lecture upon Botany or Chemistry, or Comparative Anatomy, there was a very large assembly of persons, filling the vast concave space from the floor up to the roof, ‘who were gathered together to witness the distribution of prizes to the children of the schools of the Freres Chretiens in this commune. The Maire occupied the chief place, and distributed the crowns to the victors, and gave the salutations to the young children (boys), who are of the lower classes, and receive gratuitous instruction at the hands of these Brethren, of whom more will be said hereafter. The company consisted of parents and friends of the boys, and it was a very delightful sight to behold so many of the labouring and trading classes, men and women, collected together in this spacious building to witness the success of their children. The crowns were of natural leaves, and there was no music, the use of which on such occasions is prohibited by the laws of the Brothers. The prizes were books. The Maire was supported on both sides by the Parochial Clergy, and by the Freres.

At the Jardin des Plantes, near the Amphitheatre, there is a mound planted with trees and shrubs, from the top of which is a good view of the city. The absence of all buildings of remote antiquity in this great capital is very striking, and tells the spectator of the havoc made by the Revolution.

Wednesday, August 21.—Went to breakfast with the Abbe” Jager (No. 66, Rue de Cherche Midi), Professor of Ecclesiastical History at the Sorbonne, i. e. the University, and author of many works of note, among which is his Protestantisme aux prises avec la Doctrine Catholique, ou Controverses avec plusieurs Ministres Anglicans, Membres de I’University d’Oxford, (Mr. Newman &c) The kindness and cordiality of these French literary Ecclesiastics is remarkably agreeable, mixed as it is with the appearance of seriousness of character and love of learning and of study. M. Jager’s Lectures, given at the University, are published in M. Bonnetty’s Universite Catholique, and it is much to be regretted that, on account of the differences between the University and the Clergy, the labours of such persons as himself and his colleagues should be deprived of any part of that professional encouragement which in times of peace and harmony they would not fail to enjoy.

His friendly controversy above mentioned, which appeared first in the Univers newspaper, and was then collected in a volume, is now (I understand from his publishers) out of print.

As far as I have seen, the private libraries of French Ecclesiastics are * not large; the poverty of the Parochial Clergy in France renders the acquisition of a professional library almost impossible. M. Jager has a fair array of volumes ; but he assured me that such collections were by no means common, although at the same time, to the honour of the clergy, he said that they were very desirous of having good collections of books, and would often make great sacrifices for the acquisition of them. I do not think that I mentioned, on the occasion of my visit to the Abbe” Migne and his grande Imprimerie, that one of the means which the clergy employ to subscribe to his patristic and other publications is, to engage to say so many masses, which he on his part offers to procure for them; for instance, a gentleman dies at Paris, leaving an order for 200 masses to be said for his soul, these masses being to be paid for at about a franc a-piece. The price of a High Mass (Messe simple chantee) is from five to seven francs; of a Low Mass (Messe basse) from one franc twenty-five centimes to two francs; for an Octave des Morts, or twelve Messes du Saint-Sacrement, the ordinary sum paid is from sixty to eighty francs. The Abbe” happens to know the executors, and he has a good cure” at hand who is very anxious to buy his books, and thus the masses are said, and the books are bought

A letter of the Abbd’s, containing an agreement for a bargain of this kind, has lately by some mishap fallen into the hands of a’Paris radical paper, and has gone the round of the liberal Press, who have been very glad to use it as an occasion for fresh outcries against the clergy; but they do not seem to take any shame to themselves that the political principles of their own party have been strong co

2 Le Clerge’ en general desapprouve formellement cette ressource de l’Abbe” Migne, et Mgr. l’Archeveque de Paris vient, a ceque je crois, de prendre des raesures, pour que ces echanges ne se renouvellent pas.

operating causes in driving the clergy to this kind of traffic; as from the state of indigence to which they have reduced them, especially in country parishes, they have left them without the means of honourable subsistence, and much more, without the power of adding learning to piety, and of realizing the prophetical precept, that ” the Priest’s lips should keep knowledge.” Even the Episcopal Order in France seems not to stand very high in public esteem for erudition.