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THE 


English Illustrated Magazine 


« 





THE WIERTZ MUSEUM 








HE Wiertz Museum of Brussels at once 
confirms and asserts its reputation for 
eccentricity by existing not in the Rue 
Wiertz as one might reasonably expect, 
but in another—the Rue Vautier. True, 
the Rue Vautier is but an offshoot from 
the former ; but this fact does not make it 
much less puzzling for a stranger to Brus- 
sels when he goes on a pilgrimage to this 
vatican of eccentricity. 

The museum was built in 1850 by and Tat 
the cost of the Belgian Government, by 
whom it was presented to the artist on the 
condition that fhe should thenceforth, 
the catalogue tells us, “give his works for 
ever to Belgium, to remain on the walls of 
the building where they are now, on free 
exhibition to ‘thegsend of time.” This 
catalogue—an English one by Ouida, 
Wirt Sikes, and many other hands—is 
interesting. There will be occas‘on’ to 
refer to it again. 

With the outside of the museum we 
have not now to do. It is an ivy-covered 
building of somewhat austere bu: peaceful 
aspect ; an incongruity in brick—designed 
by Wiertz in imitation of a ruined temple 
ot Paestum. It was one result of the 
furore aroused by. Wiertz’s painting of 
“The Triumph of Christ ”—decidedly one 
of his strongest and, for him, most beauti- 
ful pictures. He had been offered for this 
some twelve thousand pounds, but refused 
the offer that he might retain a lien on his 
No. 30. September, 1905. 





SEPTEMBER, 
THE ECCENTRIC IN ART 


By MARK 








1905 






AND ITS ORIGINATOR, 


PERUGINI 








work; for, as he: said with eccentric 
modesty: “I cannot sell my picture, 
because to-morrow I may find something 
tu correct in it.” In this remark we have 
a dign of the man’s humility towards the 
ideal he set before him, which is all the 
more bewildering by contrast with his 
arrogance of opinion in every other direc- 
tion. But then, in a manner, though he 
was humble before his ideal, that ideal 
itself was partly, if not entirely, afflicted 
with the disease of arrogance. 

Whichever way considered, Wiertz was a 
living paradox ; a curiougly well-balanced 
lend of opposites: yet a more unbalanced 
mind would be jard to find in the whole 
gallery of perversity. He was certainly 
“made up of mean and great, of foul and 
fair”; but this is not uncommon in the 
making of genius. Amid all his wild- 


“ness, however, in one thing he was con- 


sistently sane. It was the life-long creed 
of Wiertz that an artist cannot serve two 
masters: and he repudiated Mammon. 
For this is he most to be admired; not 
because he would not sell his work, but 
because he would not work solely for 
money: appropriately to which the cata- 
logue attributes to him a saying over which 
it gloats a little. The dominant tone of 
this catalogue, by the way, is unrestrained 
and indiscreet adoration; but in this in- 
stance it is comparatively temperate, and 
says of the artist: “Tempting offers were 


503 NN-2 







504 THE 
made to him to paint for money, but he 
would not. To one connoisseur, who 
offered him a large sum for one of his 
studies, Wiertz made a reply worthy to live 
among the celebrated speeches of genius. 


‘Keep your gold,’ he said, ‘ it is the mur- 


ANTOINE 


Painted by Hin s:tf. 


derer of art.” One hardly knows at which 


to marvel the more—the kindly rashness 
of the connoisseur in offering a large sum, 
or the queer taste Wiertz showed in mak- 
ing such a remark to one who sought to 
show his admiration in the kindest way, if 
not. indeed, the sole way possible for any 
wealthy person, artistic only in apprecia- 


ECCENTRIC 


IN ART 

tion. To reject honourable tribute with 
scorn is hardly the action expected fron 
one wo strives after any beautiful ideal ; 
courtesy is more usual. And to discour- 
age such practical admiration, too, is to 
have an ill effect upon the ardour of other 


WIERTZ. 


would-be patrons. Appreciation of such 
sort has ever been too rare in this world, 
and should rather be encouraged than 
denied. But denial was Wiertz’s own 
peculiar custom—denial either of himself 
in the cause of his art, or of the opinions 
of everyone else who offered him any op- 
position. He was not above the painting 





THE 


INTERIOR OF THE 
of occasional “ pot-boilers” for the bare 
necessities of life; but—he gloried in 
poverty. And though, undoubtedly, it was 
well within his power to have attained con- 
siderable fortune by his efforts he pre- 
ferred a proud, heroic independance, and 
refused to sell this pictures: a practice 
which might, with obvious advantages be 
encouraged among certain of our academi- 
cians. 
The actual birth-place of men of genius 
often enough a matter for dispute. 
The greater the genius, the greater the dis- 
cussion amongst covetous peoples of pos- 
terity. 

“Seven ancient cities strove for Homer's 
birth”: and Dante and Camoens in some 
degree have given rise to kindred faction. 
After all is said, it matters little from 
which of many lands or nations a genius 
has arisen. For a while he was manifest 
to men; and that is all we 
save his work. 

In the case of Antoine Wiertz, however, 
there is no question of dispute. He was 
born at Dinant on the Meuse, on February 
22nd, 1805. The only other dates which 


is 


reed study 


ECCENTRIC 


WIERTZ MUSEUM. 
are strongly lit and clear within the focus 
of biography are the following: In 1832 
—after good instruction and infinite 
hardship in Antwerp—he went to Rome, 
and while there began and finished his 
colossal work “ Patroclus.” In 1838 the 
“Patroclus,” having achieved success in 
3elgium, was ewibited in Paris and, large 
as it is, passed almost unnoticed. In 1840 
he competed for and won a prize offered 
by the City of Antwerp for the best 
eulogium of Reubens. He wrote as 
well as painted: and his writing was 
strong, assertive, vindictive, and denuncia- 
tory. In 1848, having suffered the griev- 
ous loss of his mother, to whom he was 
devotedly attached, he settled at Brussels, 
and in 1850, as aforesaid, was installed in 
his huge studio under Government patron- 
He died, with the record of fifty- 
nine energetic years, on June 18th, 1865— 
the fiftieth anniversary of the Battle of 
Waterloo. He never married, but 


ce 
age. 


com- 


mitted, perhaps, a worse folly in evolving. 


after laborious cheimical 
method of peinture mate. 


Antoine Wieriz was the son of a tailor 


research, his 





506 THE 


whose ambitious, but unrealised, dreams of © 


martial glory fired the artist with an over- 
whelming desire tv outshine all hitherto 
existing splendours of the firmament of art. 
It was not ambition which determined 
Antoine’s career, but it was almost entirely 
by force of ambition that he won a position 
ot any distinction in art. He was not a 
genius of the highes: type, and hardly 
rivalled, if he ever approached, the 
masters whom he sought to vanquish— 
Michael Angelo, Raphael, or even Rubens. 
Genius he had to some extent, but the 
arrogance of the man’s ambition defeated 
the perfect blossoming of his art, and for 
each triumphant effort he also fad to pay 
heavily in trivial failure. As a.man he 
was a being to marvel at for his force of 
character and heroic self-sacrifice ; but as 
an artist, his desire to astound simply 
ruined most of his art, and it is almost 


throughout tainted by aggressive self-as- 
sertion. 

In considering the paintings in the 
Wiertz Museum it strikes one forcibly that 
the main reason for the artist's existence— 
apart of course, from parental responsi- 
bility—was that he should stand as model 


of a paradox, to wit—the triviality of the 
colossal; for much of his work defeats 
itself by its very size. Nature always con- 
trives to find space for her largest effects 
and to show their glories to the best advan- 
tage. But there is a point, hard if not 
actually impossible to define, when human 
effort. in seeking to convey the idea of vast- 
ness by working over a large surface, fails 
not merely to convey that sense of vast- 
ness, but actually produces only an anti- 
climax, and either wearies or induces con- 
tempt and laughter. In painting, this is 
peculiarly so; one always in such cases sees 
the frame. [I'owever it may be with 
others. those pictures p'ease me most 
which make me forget the frame. And 
surely the artist’s purpose is to attune a 
human soul to the infinite. rather than to 
force it to recognise limits. But with the 
work of Wiertz, except in a few instances, 
the case is quite otherwise; and. for the 
most part his pictures are colossal, or 
eccentric, or merely trivial ; or yet a subtle 
compound of all three irritating qualities. 

As you enter the gallery the picture of 
“Patroclus” confronts you. The canvas 


ECCENTRIC 


‘IN ART 


measures some 30 by 20 feet. It shows the 
Greeks and Trojans fighting furiously for 
the pallid body of the fallen hero—fight- 
ing as they have- fought all onellgy ; ané@ 
if the painting were nothing else, it is in- 
teresting as a study of all tones of flesh, 
from the deep ones of ‘hot and lusty ljfe, 
to the purer, paler ones of flavc#, déath. 
The colour is over hot in plaégs, but the 
dramatic feeling is immense, and you seem 
to hear the clash of strife, and the hoar. 
cries, and the slipping limbs, andthe qui 
breathing of the group of men, all struggl-" 
ing, all living--save one. The contrast is 
not aggressive or too sudden. and it és 
effective. There is in this, as in the “ Re- 
volt of Hell” and the “Triumph of 
Christ,” something gigantically orchestral ; 
and one turns again and again from the 
many instances of maudlin pathetic, would- 
be humourous, sickly poetic, and down 
ght morbid—with all of which the walls 
abound—back to these three pictures as to 
things full of infectious fire and strength. 
Now there is but one way of considering 
a great artist—and Wiertz is reputed such 
—namely, as an artist. His life as a man 
matters not in the least. Simply by his 
efforts to be: so he announces to the world 
his intention of showing that he is, or 
intends to become—an artist; and so his 
achievements are to be judged. and ap- 
plauded or condemned, solely as art—not 
as biography. But Wiertz reeks of bio- 
graphy—just as Antwerp reeks of Rubens. 
Not, mark you, biography of exterior inci- 
den, but of what may be called intellec- 
tual incident, of the man’s own assertive 
opinions. Somewhere in his writings he 
says: “En dépit des passions haineuses, 
parlez; en dépit des nullités, des impuis- 
sants, parlez, parlez. Dites ce que vous 
ont appris vos études, ce que vous inspirent 
vos convictions.” And this he did. He 
spoke violently any and every conviction 
by which he was possessed ; and under the 
erroneous impression that mere force and 
extent of utterance would prove his great- 
ness as an artist, he spoke only too often 
“des nullités, des impuissants.” His con- 
victions were strong enough to have made 
him in some former time an exemplary re- 
ligious martyr. But in the very conviction 
that all inspiration was equally worthy, he 
foiled his aim of impressing and descended 











THE 


time after time to paltry expressions of 
trivial themes. 

The curious catalogue classifies his work 
into “ Antique Subjects,’ “Biblical Sub- 
jects,” “Modern Subjects: Dramatic and 
Satirical,” and “Genre Subjects.” Under 
the first head 


comes, of 
course, the 
“Patroclus” al- 
ready men- 
tioned. But 


“Un Grand de 
la Terre ”"— 
otherwise Poly- 
phemus—is 2 
work of merit 
very different 
from that of 
the “ Patro- 
clus.” It is 
painted in 
Wiertz’s own 
peculiar 
method of 
“peinture 
mate,” and 
ceen closely, 
has the appear- 
ance of coarse 


tapestry, inco- 
herent in de- 
sign. Seen 
from a little 


distance it does 
not look more 
beautiful; and 
one can only 


ECCENTRIC 











IN ART 





507 


paintings which, for giant conception and 
execution, should outdo all the greatest of 
his previous efforts, he would likely enough 
have ended his days in a madhouse, raging 
or sighing because he had not got the sky 
itself for a canvas. 


For his mania was 
in the direotion 
of expansion- 
megalomania. 
Of another 
am-ique subject, 
“The Forge of 
Vulcan,” the 
catalogue _re- 
marks: “We 
are struck 
with the su- 
perior beauty 
of this su- 
premely grace- 


ful _ picture,” 
and fimishes « 
short descrip- 
tion with, 


“ But words are 
useless _ here. 
Before such a 
pecture one can 
but look, and 
think, and en- 
joy it!” This 
is misleading. 
There is, per- 


haps, a little 
grace in the 
drawing, but 
the spirit of 


antiquity is cer- 


wonder why tainly not real 
was all this —it is  vul- 
canvas neces- garised, artifi- 
sary to convey cial, and in 
an artist’s idea some unac- 
of a giant. countable way 
Why paint a ONE SECOND AFTER DEATH. suggests the 
natural gro- i Early Victor- 
° After the Painting by Antoine Wiertz. : , 
tesque — life van Era, The 
size ? Blake was able w'thin small flesh lacks texture. and the colour 
limits to give such impression of is frequently false; but not quite 
huge strength and fierce emotion as so bad as in the horror which follows 
to hold one. enthralled and even it—*“ Baigneuses et Satyrs.” The chaste 
awed. Wiertz, however, only bores. Had _ bathers at the water’s brink are busily try- 
he lived long enough to realise his later ing, in a slovenly and hasty way, to wrap 


ambition and fill a studio three times the 
size of that ihe habitually worked in, with 


their clothes about them. One old satyr 
half out of water endeavours to draw some 








508 THE 
lawny drapery from some fair maid who 
seems coyly to say: “Go away, bad man.” 
But the flesh of the young lady is the 
colour of bright and that of the 
satyr is scarlet as a lobster. The tone of 
the thing is whole is 
a colour discord without hope of resolution 
into harmony. Of this the catalogue in- 
continently says, “This is a very poem of 
the flesh ; more need not be said.” If a 
feverish colour, never seen on any healthy 


salmon, 


vicious, and the 


flesh, be poetry, such it may ‘be; but more 
need not be said. 

Among the Biblical subjects the “ Revolt 
of Hell”—so by 30 feet—is really terrific. 
The fierce movement of the angels warring 
in mid-space, and the force with whch the 
rebels fall is almost exciting 
that they might fall for ever without strik- 
ing solid substance. But “ Happy Times,” 
oh, Happy Times! and the “ Education 
of the Virgin”—the feebleness of both is 
pitiable in one who painted the “ Patro- 


ne feels, too. 


ECCENTRIC IN 


ART 


clus.” They had no need of like strength, 
it is true, but they utterly lack poetry. 


“The Beacon of Golgotha,” in the detest- 
able “ peinture mate” is madness incoher- 
ently expressed. 


Orderly expression of 
madness is genius, or akin to it; but this 
is neither. “ The Entombment,” a tryptich, 
is amazingly like Blake. The left wing 
shows “the Angel of Darkness” ; the right 
—Eve. The curve of scorn upon the lips 
of the angel and the malevolence of the 
eyes are admirable; and curious, too, the 
expression of new born, timid sensuality on 
the face of Eve. This Eve might have 
been drawn from of Blake’s chief 
types. such as “Vala.” She is no sumptu- 
ous, full-b!ooded Rubens’ type, but is 
slim. graceful, suggestive. unearthly; a 
purely imaginative Eve ; as most paintings 
of the same subject must unfortunately be, 
since contemporary. records by realists are 
wondrous 

As high as the “ Patroclus” is above all 


one 


few. 


A CORNER OF KELL. 


From the Pu‘i:ting by Antoine Wiertz. 





THE 


his other efforts among antique subjects, so 
is the “ Triumph of Christ’ 
religious paintings both in conception and 
merit. One 
gets a sudden glimpse of the vast world of 
vision shown forth by 


above all the 

This is no colossal triviality. 
° 1 

with a 


the artist 


superb force, a loftiness and grandeur of 
design and execution that conquer the un- 


reality of vision and draw one 
majestic infinite as to 
reality and beauty we are assured. But of 
the “Modern Subjects—Dramatic and 
Satirical,” the Dramatic are for the most 


part revolting and vulgarised melodrama ; 


out to tne 


a thing of whose 


THE 
After the Painting by Antoine W-ertz. 
while the Satiric are either 
feeble parodies of satire. Satire demands 
0: implies the existence of a very fine sense 
of subtle humour; but of humour, in its 
true sense, Wiertz was absolutely deficient. 
He took himself too seriously. 
“The Burnt Child,” and “Hunger, 
Madness, Crime,” are classed as dramatic. 


The former is open to the general 
bs 


coarse or 


gaze. 
and shows the frenzy of mjingled grief and 
horror of a poor mother who returns to her 
home to find her child, which she had left 
in a cradle by the fireside, burnt to death. 
“She is seen just having snatched the little 
body from the flames, and examining with 
stupor its dreadful injuries.” One cannot 
well declare that the thing is impossible or 


ECCENTRIC IN 


509 


overwrought, never having in life witnessed 
such a situation; but it nevertheless con- 
It is horrible: 
it is what some might, unthinkingly, call 
but too evidently there is a vul- 
wanton the work that 
of effect; and you shrug your 
and smile rather than weep. 

picture, “Hunger, Madness, 

described “A mother 
driven to insanity by hunger has destroyed 
her child with a view to actual cannibalism. 
The artist has shrunk from no circumstance 
of terror.” This is not art. Mary, daugh- 


veys a feeling of falsity. 


realistic ; 


gar, horror about 
robs _ it 
shoulders, 

The latter 


Crime.” is thus : 


TRIUMPH OF CHRIST. 


ter of Eleazar, when Jerusalem was be- 
sieged, went mad in the same way. But 
here the case is different ; there is no evi- 
dence of dire need: and in any case such 
a subject is too repulsive, too ignoble for 
any artist to paint and not thereby degrade 
himself and his art. This, together with 
one or two others, is shut off from the rest 
of the gallery by wooden screens, “and can 
only be seen through a small aperture, a 
contrivance intended by the artist to give 
greater vividness to his productions, and 
which leaves the visitors at liberty to see 
them or leave them, as he thinks fit ”“—as 
the guide book says with reckless pleon- 
asm. The device is childish in the extreme, 
and gives no particular vividness to pro- 








510 THE ECCENTRIC IN ART 





ductions which the visitor usually wishes 
he had left rather than been at liberty to 
see, 


Another cheerful little work which 


hands, are seen protruding from an aper- 
ture forced in the miserable parish coffin, 
and around are all the sombre parapher- 
nalia of the charnel-house. 


| 
| 





HUMAN POWER HAS NO LIMIT. 


After Antoine Wiertz 


strives to heighten its “vividness” by this Wiertz preached against the horrors of 
strange device is “L’inhumation pre- “iiterature” in paint; against paintings 
cipité,” and depicts the joy of aman who that seek to tell a tale or point a 
discovers that h> ‘has been buried alive. In this, also, he was not always 
He is supposed t> have died from cholera. consistent, though it is so good a creed. 


The horror-struzk face, the attenuated “The Romance Reader” is 4 pictire of a 


moral. 








nude girl lying on a couch and reading 
spiced romances, while at her bedside 
stands, invisible, a horned satan “ whose 
influence has created these romances, and 
whom their influence has drawn near.” 
This, of course, is intended as a chaste 
warning against the wickedness of iminoral 
literature. The feebleness of style, the 
unpleasant sugyestiveness, and the absurd 
peep-hole device all offer a perfect foil to 
any moral intended, and are testimony as 
to the depths of banality to which this 
artist could descend. 

“Thoughts and Visions of a Severed 
Head,” a tryptich, is another charming 
little pleasantry representing a human 
being’s sensations for the first three 
minutes after decapitation. Wiertz was not 
drawing upon personal experiences when 
he painted this. It is simply meant for an 
attack upon the system of capital punish- 
ment, and is an ill-written pamphlet in 
paint. “The Suicide,” “The Orphans,” 
and a “Scene in Hell” are all equally 
cheerful. In the last, Napoleom, as the 
Genius of War, stands outwardly impas- 
sive amid writhing flame, while a grief- 
mad, raging mob presses on him, shrieking 
curses and brandishing limbs and various 
portions of the bodies of relatives slain 
on the field of battle. “Napoleon looks 
bored. 

The so-called “Genre Pictures” have 
for the most part nothing about them in 


THE ECCENTRIC IN ART 511 


character which could justify such a classi- 
fication. The greater number are senti- 
mental studies of children, and of unin- 
telligent looking girls in various stages of 
dress and undress ; feeble in execution and 
queer in colour. Of Sculpture the Musée 
contains practically. nothing that is 
finished. There are two groups in clay, 
“The Birth of the Passions” and 
“ Strife,” which Wiertz intended ultimately 
to work out in gigantic dimensions. But 
they are distinctly pleasing as they are, 
and have a freedom and grace which 
would probably have lost in effect if 
worked out on some grotesque scale. 

It were almost needless to observe that 
Wiertz has followers—even many follow- 
ers, perhaps. Copies of his works are 
made—am, it is to be imagined, sold—by 
fervent students. But much of his work 
has just that kind of vicious influence 
which infallibly attracts the soul of 
Mediocrity, so that Mediocrity becomes a 
reckless and whole-hearted devotee havirig 
no worship for the nobler works of far 
greater men. It has that specious power 
which inspires vain students with the un- 
hallowed doctrine of egotistic force, and 
arouses within them the demon of jealous 
pariisanship. To some this in itself would 
appear to be a proof of the genius of the 
artist ; but should it not rather be taken 
as one more proof of the occasional indis- 
cretion of fevered and uncritical disciples ? 














i 
4 





By A. O. VAUGHAN 








[Phil Trevcr, a Captain of Horse in the Royal Army during the Civil Wars, being ordered 
to capture a message from the Parliament to Lord Fairfax, relates his adventures 
therein. In the two preceding episodes he has told how two fair ladies played a trick 
upon him, and how, by a clever ruse, he got possession of the message.) 


IIT. 


“4 POINT OF HONOUR.” 


£6 AYOME, Phil, be not so long i’ the 


lighting o’ that pipe,” spoke Red 
Ned impatiently, as Crompton held the 
glowing slow-match to Trevor’s pipe till 
the face of the latter disappeared in the 
cloud of the first few vigorous pulls. “Or 
art thou hovering at having to tell the tale 
of some new jest played on thee by Mis- 
tress Isabel? Faith! she shall be my toast 
for the next nine days if thou art.” 

“Then thou'lt find some other toast or 
be without one, this time,” retorted Trevor, 
chucklingly. “It’s on no trick but on a 
point of honour that I’m hovering, if 
hovering I am indeed. But ye shall hear 
the tale on’t, and then, egad! we'll sit on’t 
in court-martial and try the point of honour 
out. I have not asked Prince Rupert what 
he thought on’t. He might ha’ said it was 
well done, or he might ha’ damned and 
doomed both it and me together. Safest 
Was to say naught, so naught I said. But 
hearkea ye. 

“Think o’ me yonder then, striding out 
over the threshold of that upper room, the 
captured message safe stowed in my cuff, 
the naked messenger very grateful to me 
in the room behind the door I was pulling 
to, and no more for me to do now but get 


512 


safely out of the town, and there would be 
another good service rendered to His 
Majesty. I make small doubt there was a 
shine in my eye as I thought what a rare 
servant the King had in me. 

“Then there must ha’ flashed a twinkle 
thro’ the shine, for it came to me all in 
the next stride that there was no need to 
wait till the lad should ride out and then 
to follow him. Why should I not just 
mount again, and in all quietness ride 
back the way I had come? The cor- 
poral on the chains, who let us in, 
would make no bones of letting me 
out. He would easily believe I was 
but starting on the return before the rest 
of the troop, so that I could let my tired 
horse go easy, and not have to spur him 
to the pace of the better horses. Faith! 
the thing was as good as done. 

“ But ever at the top of certainty comes 
the snare of accident, and, presto! a man’s 
nose is rubbed i’ the dirt. I was but half- 
way down that stair when, in through the 
doorway below, stepped what one half a 
glance saw for a young gentlewoman and 
the other half proclaimed for Mistress 
Isabel.—Woe me now if she should prove 
not truly gentle blood ! 

“For she saw me as quick as I saw her, 
and all in a gasp she knew me. Now was 
the moment for her to cry my name and 








PHIL. 


call the street upon me for a spy. But, 
na, instead she went half white with a 
catch of fear—for me, an’ it please ye, no 
less. ’Sdeath! I could see it in the quick 
glance of fright that went right and left 
and over her shoulder, dreading lest any- 
one should see me; for, good 
heart, she never thought but that 
everyone else must know me for a 
cavalier, even as she did. Gad! 
gentlemen, it troubled me to the 
marrow to see her put to such dis- 
tress. 

“T shook my head with a smile 
and I nodded it with a smile too; 
anything to ease her mind till I 
could get down near enough to 
whisper that all was well if she 
said nothing. And at my voice 
and my smile—yea, doubtless, too, 
at my ruffling strut—she got her 
blood back again, and. loo’ you! 
the demurest twinkle that ever lit 
a mischief’s eye stole into her's as 
she gave me a little grave cour- 
tesy ; all the merry roguery of last 
night’s jest stirring her veins, till 
at last she had a deal of ado to 
keep her smile from breaking into 
open laughter. Bones o me! it 
was all that I could do to keep from enter- 
ing siege to her then and there. 

“ For full a minute we stood so, I want- 
ing to say something with wit in it, she 
from top to toe all one sly enjoyment of 
remembrance, and then a door opened 
somewhere, or a foot sounded behind her, 
or something else there was that roused 
her again, and at that she lifted her head 
and swept on past me, up the stair to some 
room to call for some refreshment, doubt- 
less. Marry! I felt sore tempted to tarry 
and refresh myself likewise. It would ha’ 
been a rare refreshment to me to sit and 
chuckle with her on my blood-an’-wounds 
attack last night, and my great chase of her 
pretended sweetheart. 

“Then came a truer temptation, for 
half-way up the stair she flashed a swift 
glance back at me, and I saw, to my won- 
der, her face all strained with fear again. 
I’ faith ! I lifted a foot to follow and com- 
fort her, so sweet she looked and so piti- 
ful in that distress. It was all I could do 
to remember my duty. That's the worst 
o duty; it always comes up stiffest to b+ 


TREVOR’S RIDE 


513 


done just when the very wine o’ the vorld 
is at your hand had ye but time to taste it. 
Misery me! my work would not wait; I 
must begone. 

“ But this life is so short that Fortune 
must crowd her hazards one on top 


- 


, 


oe Pay 
deY 


a 


y) 
A 


>> 


x 


a 


“T stretched him flat with the savagest 


blow.” 

o the other, to get them all in on 
some of us that she can never leave 
alone. Faith! I did but turn from 
watching sweet Isabel go up the stair 
and, loo’ you! there into my face ran the 
goggling face of the knave serving-man 
that Wharton had scruffed up last night, to 
show us the messenger’s room. 

“He had his helmet in his hand, for 
he was hurrying in to overtake his mistress 
with some question about the horses, and 
ss) she did not know he was behind her. 
But he had been as far i’ the joke last night 
as she; he should ha’ been as ready now 
to grin and to pass on. But that is ever 
the fault of servants like him, they have no 
wit at a pinch. This one was as dunce as 
any. He knew me instanter; pat as a 
beadle on a parish brat; and all in a 
breath he burst out on me for a spy. ‘ This 
is him!  MHere’s the captain that rum- 
maged Landon iast night. A spy! A 
spy!’ roared his great frog’s raouth. 
’Sblood ! I could ha’ run him through wita 
a relish, for his sillinegs, had he not been 
her servant. 













Se 































































. 


514 a PHIL 

“T stretched him flat with the savagest 
biow I ever landed on the ear of any man, 
laying him out cold as a wedge for the 
minute. But all the common room had 
heard, and out it flocked, and all the 
kitchen, too. ‘A spy! Where? Where?’ 
they shouted. 

“© Down the street !’ shouted I, as if I, 
too, was alight with excitement. ‘After him, 
while I run and tell my master,’ and as they 
flew out o’ the door in front, I flew out 
o’ the one i’ the back, and into the yard 
behind. Swift was my one word and the 
message my one thought. A plan came to 
my head as I ran. By the stable was a 
shed full of horse gear of all sorts, and 
on the far wall, behind all else, hidden 
by a lumber of wains and carts, hung 
wrecks of outworn harness, stuff that would 
never be used again. Snatching out the 
paper I read it once, twice, and again, to 
make sure, and then, reaching up to a 
dusty old horse collar on a peg, slit a hole 
with my sword between the leather facing 
and the pad of it, and into the crack I 
stuffed the paper. It would be a queer 
cast of fortune that should ever bring that 
to light again. 

“ Next, to slip through the yard door 
and into a back street was enough. Though 
I were captured now I could not be con- 
nected with that message. Neither would 
that message ever be found. Parliament 
might sit twirling its thumbs, but there 
would be three full days spent before the 
loss of that message could be made good, 
and Fairfax would then be too late to 
stay the King from relieving Hereford of 
the besieging Scots. Even if I were 
caught that much was done at least ; even 
if I were shot as a spy that would not 
be undone. 

“Yet all that was but half the work I 
had to do, and naught was done while 
aught remained undone, thought I. An’ 
it were any way possible I must still get 
away and take the words I had read to 
Rupert, Rupert who sent me and who 
waited for the message. The town was too 
small and too openly built for me to cherish 
any great hope of hiding in it till night, 
and then escaping in the dark, but I might 
still try the trick on the corporal at the 
chains if I were swift before the din 
broadened. Alack! I was no sooner 
come to my horse than—Zwounds! there 





TREVOR'S 






RIDE 


he stood, shining with lazy happiness ; 
done for all present use. Two young 
imps, that wished themselves big enough 
for soldiers, had seen one horse standing 
with the saddle on him still, whereas the 
horses of the strange troop had been un- 
saddled now some little while. To do a 
good turn to the absent soldier they had 
unsaddled his horse—mine—and com- 
pleted the kindness by watering him. 
Beelzebub ! the old joskin was just lifting 
a dripping muzzle from the trough, out of 
which he had filled himself full as a tick. 
To gallop him now would founder him in 
a dozen strides, even if I could ha’ sad- 
dled him in time. 

“For even while I stood looking at my 
useless horse, men were spurmng every 
way to warn the guards on every post, all 
round the town, to be vigilant and let none 
pass till the spy was found. Yet had I 
but had a horse I might ha’ ridden wildly 
to warn the sentries, too, and in my ex- 
citement ha’ somehow got outside them and 
chased a spy in every bush till I were clean 
escaped. But, na, I was afoot, and naught 
remained but to join the crowd and hunt 
for the spy with them, keeping an eye 
open to be out o’ sight of the pestilent 
rascal that had betrayed me, till the hub- 
bub was done, or till I could come across 
some good hiding-place. 

“But the dice seemed loaded against 
me now, for all the roaring street came 
dashing this way, and who in the lead of 
all but this very villain I thought I had 
quietus’d for a while. And—no hope—he 
marked me a street away, belling on me 
like a bloodhound. I looked about. I 
must make some sort of play for it. There 
was a narrow back street at my elbow, 
and into that I flew as if headlong. Yet, 
na; at the third stride I stopped and 
turned, blade out and up; and here, as I 
expected, all but tumbling over me in his 
eagerness, headlong came the serving 
knave, still well ahead o’ the rest. 

“He had snatched his headpiece on and 
that saved him, for in my haste I used the 
edge instead o’ the point, bringing it down 
in so mighty a stroke that it drove that 
pot down over his head till it all but tore 
his ears off and made him another Prynne. 
He came down on his knees and groaned ; 
he came down on his nose and made no 
sound. He was ended for a while; a 





PHIL 


thing that comforted the old Adam in me 
mightily. 

“Then the rest fellon me. Bones o’ me! 
but we had the handplay there. Luckily 
no man had a pike with him, but only 
swords, and so I set my back to the wall, 
and for a minute or two was doing 
ding-dong, like a bull broke loose at 
a baiting, till, may, comrades I might 
ha’ come at some escape yet had I 
but had the luck to ha’ chosen a 
different wall to back me at first. For 
this one, an’ it please ye, proved to be 
that of a cow-yard, and while I made 
such mighty swashings and such furious 
ado in front, loo’ you! a grinning lout 
inside climbed up on the midden heap 
to see what all the fluster was, and there, 
seeing me, down he reached with his vile 
midden rake, and first he caught the neck- 
eaves of my helmet behind and jerked it 
forward over my face, and next, with his 
unhandsome tool, he caught me under the 
chin and jerked me back, flat to the wall, 
like an owl nailed spread on a barn-end. 
Pest ! that’s the thing that Fortune owed 


TREVOR’S RIDE 


515 


me amends for—to be mocked by a midden 
rake, just when I was out-championing all 
the seven champions of Christendom rolled 
into one. 

“Gad! but they rubbed my nose i’ the 
dirt for me rarely, before they set me o' my 
legs again and haled me off to the 
Governor for judgment, though they them- 
selves judged and sentenced me afresh at 
each fresh stride. ‘Thou shalt be shot, 
malignant! Thou shalt be hanged, spy!” 
clamoured they as they thronged about my 
going, and only them that had been stiffest 
before me with the sword now kept the 
curs o’ the pack off, or it might ha’ gone 
ill with me, as I smiled round at the 
blather. 

“When we came before the Governor I 
judged him for the very one that would 
send a kindly, comely youth like young 
Hardacre, the messenger, away to the inn, 
or anywhere out of his house, to dine. 
Codfish-eyed and fiddle-faced, he droned 
and snuffled over me as if I were a text 
for a four-hour sermon, for he was none 
o the good, grim, fighting Roundhead, 













































































































































































































































































but one o’ them that come to note by rea- 
son of a long face, and a whine i’ the nose 
that would put the devil himself to his 
wings to get away from them. 

“But whine as he would I would ha’ 
none of his sermoning, and less than none 
of his first and biggest word, to wit, that I 
wasa spy. J/mprimis, | retorted upon him 
that I was wearing the common dress of 
His Majesty's soldiers in this buff coat, 
and that if knaves who rebelled against 
him wore it too, then it was they who were 
at fault, not I. /ztem, too, I had ridden 
into this Barlington in bold daylight and 
broad noon, offering no password nor using 
any false tale. And as to why, it was a 
something that he would hardly under- 
stand, since it was the failing of a gentle- 
man had moved me to it, for a certain 
gentlewoman had left me ro choice but to 
ride in and out of Barlington in broad 
day, before I could stand in her sight as 
I would choose to stand. So I had e’en 
tried and now failed, and, being a prisoner, 
would be glad of a quiet corner on the 
straw, to give me a chance to sort my limbs 
and bones into shape again, after the maul- 
ing they had just come through. 

“"Od’s Body! There was a deal of 
cracking about hanging or shooting me, but 
i’ the end they had to hearken to sense, for 
I reminded them how Rupert had made 
their officers, his prisoners, throw dice upon 
a drum, which of them should be shot, in 
justice for the royalist officers they had 
tied up and shot at the taking of Bartlemy 
Church in Cheshire. That quieted these 
talkers, and i’ the end it was agreed to 
leave my case to the decision of Parlia- 
ment itself in London, and meanwhile to 
clap me up i’ the roundhouse here to wait 
the word. Ten minutes after that and I 
was safe inside the clink, stretched on 
clean straw, sor? and damaged, but still 
half-way content, for, as I was marched 
out from the Governor’s to the jail, I had 
seen, down the street, the messenger and 
his fresh troop merrily pricking away for 
the west. That meant that the loss of the 
paper would not b2 discovered ‘ill night, 
at Briarslow. I was not here in vain, loo’ 
you ! 

‘All being done that could be done, 
and regret being but mere waste of time 
and heart, I fell to thinking of what 
pleasant things my mind could conjure up. 








516 PHIL TREVOR’S RIDE 





And first and readiest of all, belike since 
‘twas the newest, up came the picture of 
Mistress Isabel, there on the stair, all in a 
fright for me. Faith! I found my fingers 
putting fresh shape on my moustache, 
and I was all but beginning to plume my- 
self on the memory, when like a flash my 
mind went still further back and left me 
stranded like a landed fish. Was that 
fright for me, or f rthe messenger? For 
that messenger was her lover, was he not? 

“Ay, that part of my trumpeter’s tale 
must ha’ been true then, as the words 
of the Lady Margaret also made surer, for 
why else had Isabel ridden into the town 
and gone straight to the inn, save to steal a 
meeting with her lover in passing? And 
coming to the inn, and being within a step 
of his arms, suddenly to meet me coming 
down the stair; me of all meni’ the wide 
world; might well stop her heart for a 
gasp or two, and wash all colour from her 
face. For though her lover was there 7 
the midst of all the security of a strong 
garrison and broad daylight, yet there i 
the midst of that garrison and daylight was 
I too, with my mission against his errand ; 
and to a woman the least danger at all 
about her lover is enough; her heart 
will not be still till it be stamped out. 

* Well, there i’ the straw as I lay I was 
sorry for her, that such a downfall should 
befall her lover, as that he should lose his 
charge and come to such grievous disgrace. 
And it would be the worse for her when 
she came to know all, since, but for that 
jest in which she had done her part last 
night, her lover would never have been 
despoiled of his trust, save in open fight, 
wherein the bravest and the trustiest may 
come to Joss without dishonour. Yea, I 
was right grieved for poor Mistress Isabel 
as I thought on it all there in quiet. 

“ But, that Fortune might waste no time 
on this, her busy day, I had scarce made 
myself comfortable, and got my thoughts 
to» flowing quietly when, loo’ you! open 
swung the prison door and in to me en- 
tered—? Nay, yell never guess; for it 
was Mistress Isabel, none other i’ this rare 
world of God. And I was trying to gather 
my aching bones and get upon my feet to 
make obeisance i’ my best manner, when— 
na, na—she flung herself to her knees be- 
side me in the straw and stayed me rising, 
her hand upon my hand to hold me still, 


PHIL 


and I holding still for the sweetness of 
having her hold me. Gad! gentlemen, 
prison might ha’ been worse, thought 
I. 

“But then over her head I was aware 
that she had not come alone. Nay, she 
had come accompanied by that villain 
serving knave, no less; the rascal I had 
once stricken under the ear, and once smit- 
ten downrightly through the sconce, save 
for his headpiece, a murrain on it! His 
coming took the edge off my welcome for 
his mistress for a breath, by my thinking 
he was here to leer in triumph at me, till 
in a second glance I saw that, though I 
had failed to disable his thick head, do 
what I would, yet he had since fallen 
foul of one that had managed it—John 
}arleycorn, good man. ‘There he stood, 
drunk as a lord and grinning like a clown 
at a fair to think again of what great 
things he had done in capturing me. But 
there as he stood, too, I saw that in another 
minute or two he would be sound asleep 
as a log, and even while I yet looked he 
began to stretch himself i’ the other cor- 
ner. 

“She saw me lcoking at him, and her 
face pleaded with me to excuse her of 
that company. ‘ Nay, indeed,’ she whis- 
pered, ‘he is very needful for the plan I 
am here upon, and it is still more needful 
he should be in that state.’ 

“Plan, hark ye! I smelt escape i’ the 
very mention of the word. Yet never a 


word I said, but only smiled openly upon 
her, so that she went on. ‘It 
the knave in that condition in the inn-yard 


was seeing 


that put the plan in my head. I had him 
roused, gave him another cup, and brought 
him here. In five minutes he will be so 
dead-fast asleep that vou will be able to 
change clothes with him without disturbing 
him one snore. I shall be out 
meanwhile, to a mercer’s near by, and as 
soon as I have bought me a thing or two 
of which I have no need, then I will come 
to the door and call him—* Giles ! Giles!” 
Then out you will lurch, as if you were 
he, and I will rate you and bid you 
follow me to the inn. There we will get 
to horse, I pretending that I have to get 
home at once. 

“* But once outside you must promise me 
that you will make no more attempt on 
Captain Hardacre, for I shall have set you 

No. 30. 


gone 


September, 1905. 


TREVOR'S 


RIDE 517 
free, and I, too, am of the Parliament side, 
even as he is.’ 

“Sirs! her face took on a grave, sweet 
look as she said those last words, so that, 
though I thought Captain Hardacre a 
goodly lad, yet I thought him lucky, too, to 
be able to cause that look. 

“TI looked my thanks to her, but I spoke 
another thing. ‘ Will you tell me why you 
do this thing, and take this risk to save 
me from what is but the consequence 
to be reckoned on by a soldier in his duty ?’ 

“* Because I have been sitting in such 
horror of hearing you shot for a spy, 
when I know well that, but for our foolish 
jest last night, you would never have 
ventured into this town as you did, but 
would have beset the road openly and tried 
the shock of war. Believe me, when I 
agreed to that jest I believed you were 
only some coxcomb, as my cousin truly 
thought you. But when I met you at the 
foot of that stair in the inn, oh, my 
heart bounded dread of what I 
had done. I knew that Captain Hardacre 
was in the inn somewhere with the real 
message, and there were you, making such 
utter mock of all security to him, and of all 
danger to yourself ; yea, my heart shook 
for a minute in dread of such a man , 

“T broke in upon her werds by standing 
to my But she 
stood up too, and finished in spite of me. 
‘So now that Captain Hardacre is safely 
gone on his way, I have had time to think, 
and it went to my heart to see what we 
had been plaving with last night, when we 
made sport of you in so grim a business 
as this. Nay, I had it shown to me in all 
its ugliness as this rascal serving knave of 
mine got worse and worse in the inn door 
in his glory, telling his great exploit, and 
drinking from every stretched cup of them 
that wanted to hear his tale of last night 
and to-day.’ 

“Nay, madam,’ 
take it to heart so. 
nothing after all. If it were not one play 
of Fortune it would be another. These 
things are never done like clockwork, plan 
we never so well; nor by the wave of a 
wand, like a conjuror’s trick. I am alive, 
Captain Hardacre is alive; the world is 
wide and time is long—make no sorrow 
then, but smile upon-it all. It is the only 
way, I swear you.’ 


with 


feet to do her obeisance. 


urged I, ‘never 
Trust me it was 


oo 





518 PHIL 








































“*Ah, you do but make me grieve the 
more. You are so brave, so forgiving, 
so—— 

“* Noble’ she would have said, but I 
stopped her there with the bald truth. 
Captains, I told her the plain truth, just 


as we know it. ‘Nay, madam, that 
is just the place where all women 
for ever make a_ mistake on us 


fighting men. It is not bravery in us, but 


out again. Neither is it forgivingness 
that makes us bid you say no more of mis- 
takes, but only that we see so much of 
such strange turns of life and fortune that 
we reckon only the intent of them that 
hurt us and not the effect.’ 

“ But she was like all true, sweet women. 
Out of their nobleness they picture us as 
something nearer to gods than such poor, 
sinful earth can ever come, and a man shall 
no more than do what manliness demands, 
than, lo! they cry in their hearts that he 
hath proved their dream to be no dream, 
but daily user, and straight they set him 
on a pedestal, proving, an’ they tested it, 
that they hold him no common mortal but 
a god, or else, if they be thorough, that 
they hold this world for a temple where 
all men should be gods to be enshrined. 
All that I could say was as naught. ‘ You 
do but show yourself the nobler, in what 
you say,’ she answered me with earnest- 
ness.’ 

“Then I'll say no more, madam, for 
I am a deal less than noble, as you will 
find or e’er this play be played,’ said I, 
thinking on the message I had hidden, and 
knowing that she could not have brought 
herself to help me had she known of that. 
‘We will leave talking, then, till I am 
clear of the town. Once I am there, rid- 
ing free beside you, I will soon prove to 
you how little of nobleness doth ever 
trouble men.’ 

“She smiled a sweet, stubborn little 
smile, and so departed, telling the jailer, 
who was but an old town watchman, 
that her serving knave might better lie 
there till she was finished her buying, than 
to be following her in that state. She 
would come again for him when she should 
be ready to go. And the jailer nodded and 
agreed. Truly I blessed the fact that 
there was no great prison in Barlington, 
but only this simple clink, as pat to the 


TREVOR'S 


only habit, that takes us into danger and 
+ 


RIDE 





plot of Mistress Isabel as if it had been 
made for it. 

“ A-well, in short time I had changed 
what was needed with the piggish knave 
i’ the corner. Jack-boots there was no 
need to touch, and his barred helmet I 
must take without exchange, for mine had 
gone over the wall on the scurvy midden- 
rake. But buff-coats, yes, for mine had 
been slashed most grievously i’ the fight ; 
and sashes too, since his was plain red 
woollen and mine o’.the golden silk. The 
last thing I changed with him was places, 
laying him face down on my straw, his 
hands under his forehead as a tired man 
does sleep, and then I was ready for the 
opening door. Egad! the thing was fine! 

“The rusty hinges screeched. I never 
stirred. The voice of Mistress Isabel 
called on me to come. ‘Giles! Giles!’ 
I did but In came the jailer to 
rouse me with his boot, but I lay so, face 
down and head to wall, that when his kick 
stirred me I rose up drunkenly with my 
face to the wall, and thus stepped out, he, 
being behind, having to follow me out and 
shut the door, by which means he missed 
seeing my face. And if he looked me 
over from behind, why, my lurch was as 
like the lurch of the drunken knave he 
thought me as any jury could expect. 

“ Beho'd the two of us then, Mistress 
Isabel and I, returning through the street, 
I keeping as close behind her as I could, 
and hanging my head 7’ the foolish drunken 
fashion that also served to hide my face. 
Straight we kept for the inn, and straight 
I went through to the horses in the yard 
behind, she coming too, as if to see that 
I saddled the right horses—which in truth 
was what she did come for. Then, while 
she for a moment returned to the inn, be- 
like to settle the bill, I seized the chance 
to dart into the shed and get the message 
again from the horse collar. 

“Never a lighter heart rode out of Bar- 
iington than mine, as I followed my sweet 
deliverer, she with her dainty nose half- 
wrinkled in disgust of such a bestial knave 
as I, and I with a silly leer and a bend o’ 
the back that well justified her nose. The 
corporal on the chains at the west end o’ 
the town let us out, with a civil salute to 
my mistress and-a sly grin at me, and away 
we went at a quiet gallop for the first half- 
mile, till we turned into the side road that 


snore. 








led to Landon House. 
Then she checked to 
let me come beside her, 
and there she spoke at 


last. ‘Sir, that horse 
is one of my father’s 
own, for my father 


hath been away in Lon- 
don this week past, sit- 
ting in his place as a 
member of Parliament 
—or e'se we dared not 
have used the house for 
our folly last night— 
and so I bade Giles 
ride it to-day for exer- 
ose. You will let my 
cousin, then, send it 
bacx to me from Slain- 
ingham before my 
father returns,’ 

“*T will,’ said I sim- 
rly, just that, for a 
breath. Then in the 
next breath I began to 
take order to save her 
from the consequences 


of her party. ‘What shall you say when 
it is discovered in Barlington that your 
servant it is in the jail and the Malignant 


it was that followed you out as your 
servant ?” 
“* What can they ask of me? It was 


their own jailer who went in and drove 
you out. And if I say—which is the 
truth—that I never looked on you, but 
kept my back on you all the way to the inn, 
and that you never spoke or faced me till 
we were well clear of the town, why, what 
can they answer then? Besides, it is only 
a prisoner lost, for they do not know that 
you were there to capture that message. 
My father himself will understand and 
will approve. Since it was my folly that 
brought you into prison it was my duty to 
set you free again. He will be content, 
since no harm has been done, you having 
failed to get the message.’ 

“ Believe me, comrades, at that moment 
T felt the prick of her words. This was 


the time when I should have justified the 
words I had spoken to her in the round- 
house, and proved to her that nobleness 





TREVOR'S 


“ She checked to let me come 


of what she had 
done in freeing me 
—to save her, in fact, from the blame 






RIDE 





beside her.” 

a man’s mind little. But it 
stuck i’ my throat; the words would not 
come. Then I fell on another thought, 
and spoke again. ‘What pity ‘tis you 
are not on our side. Are you not, in your 
secret heart, a King’s woman, but for your 
father? ’ asked I, for if she were, then I 
thought I could work on that. 

“But na; she spoke out with her for- 
mer sweet gravity. ‘Sir, I am on the 
side of Parliament, to save England from 
the harm the King would do it, as wholly 
and as truly as you are on the side of the 
King to save England from the harm that 
Parliament would do it.’ -[faith! she 
left me no room for hope of convincing 
her, since she stated my chief argument 
i’ the same breath and the same words as 
her own. 

“ And now, ye two bold captains,” broke 
off Trevor, “there is the case. I had let 
her set me free under false colours, for 
it was my duty as a soldier to get free 
at all costs, that I might bring the news I 
had captured to Rupert that sent me. Yet 
I stood under the honour of a gentleman 
to this gentlewoman who had risked so 
00-2 


troubleth 





520 PHIL 





much for me, maugre the easy way she 
spoke of what must follow. Above all, it 
was her sweetheart I had brought to dis- 
grace. What then was the thing for me to 
do? Was I to ride away and leave her to 
find out for herself what harm she had 
done to her own side, and to her lover, in 
releasing me? Or was I to tell her, and 
try to excuse myself before I rode away— 
Or what was I to do?” 

The two listeners looked across at each 
other in slow doubt. “I fear me I know 
what the King would say,” spoke Cromp- 
ton. “Since the Roundheads printed his 
letters that they captured at Naseby there 
is smal] room to doubt.” 

“Hold awhile,” broke out Red Ned. 
“Thou hast not told us all. Thou hadst 
read the message and knew what weight 
hung upon it. Tell us, if it be no secret 
now, and then we shall be better fit to 
judge.” 

“The message was this. Parliament 
had got word that the King intended 
marching out of Wales to drive the be- 
sieging Scots from Hereford, and so it 
ordered Fairfax, its General in the West, 
to leave all else and march at once on 
Bristol. Thus either the King must march 
to protect Bristol instead, and so leave 
Hereford to fall to the Scots, or, if he still 
marched on Hereford, he must leave Bris- 
tol a cheap and easy prize to Fairfax. 
Either way, Parliament would win one 
town.” 

“Faith!” answered Pugh roundly, “ I’m 
fin it was Phil Trevor, and not Red Ned 


TREVOR'S 


To be continued. 





RIDE 





Pugh, had that point to settle. For there 
was Only one thing to do—to ride away 
and let her set thee down for ever as a 
villain.” 

Trevor turned his gaze on Crompton. 
Crompton smiled and shook his head. 
“There was no other way, I fear.” 

Trevor nodded. “So I have thought 
myself ever since. But, then, looking at 
her, listening to her, watching the sweetness 
of her lips; nay, it was not so easy. For 
a full five minutes I sat considering, and 
then——” 

“Then what?” demanded Crompton 
eagerly, as the tale broke off again. 

“Then took out the message and handed 
it across to her,” said Trevor deliberately. 

Down on the board came Red Ned's fist 
with a bang. “ Stout heart! Bold man! 
Since thou hast done it, and I have not to 
judge. Zwounds! my thanks to thee, 
Phil.” 7 

Crompton spoke slower. 
didst thou justify that, Phil? 
didst thou dare return?” 

“That’s another tale,” retorted Trevor, 
his easy smile coming again. “ Another 
tale ; the tale of the Knave of Spades.” 

“The Knave of Spades,” broke out 
Pugh in fresh astonishment. “Gad! we'll 
have that taie as quick as tongue can tell 
it. On with it, now. For the thing thou 
hadst done is a thing that by all law and 
right thou shouldst have been shot for. A 
graver breach of duty a soldier could not 
well make.” 

Trevor nodded. 


“But how 
Or how 


“ So think I—zozw.” 






OLD | 


NGLISH SHOPS 


By J. HUTCHINGS 


0 UR idea of the old shop is inseparably 
associated with small panes of 
glass, and windows jutting out over the 
pavement, or gracefully curving forward 
on each side of the door. We think in- 
stinctively of Birches and the scarcely less 
celebrated Chelsea bun- shop. The theme 
awakens visions of erratic building lines, 
narrow tortuous streets paved with cob- 
bles, houses almost meeting overhead, and 
between them slung signs, bearing quaint 
legends and devices, supported upon iron- 
work of fantastic design. 

Such reminiscences at least afford some 
relaxation from the depressing monotony 
of modern trade emporiums, those endless 
vistas of gigantic panels of plate glass, 
framed by slender ribs of wood of alarm- 
ingly attenuated proportions, divided by 
iron stanchions concealed within a veneer 
of masonry, 
faience, or 
woodwork, the 
false covering 
obviously __in- 
capable of bear- 
ing the super- 
structure. 

Far be it 
from us to 
deny the utility 
or inevitability 
of the plate- 
glass front ; 
still, the ques- 
tion may rea- 
sonably be 
asked whether 
the best results 
are obtained 
with the mate- 
rials in vogue 
and the object 
in view, and 
whether the an- 
tiquated notions 
of our fore- 
fathers may 
not con- 
tain some 


IN 


a ) Saas are 


BUTCHER ROW, 
TUDOR 


lessons which may assist us in realising a 
higher type of civic architecture. Revo- 
lutionary methods are apt to produce gro- 
tesque and uncouth shapes, to beget re- 
action and decadence ; the gradual organic 
growth is the true path; the progress step 
by step, from past to present, present to 
future, a gradual unfolding, expanding 
and developing is the only sure and certain 
course to the higher levels of aesthetic 
attainment. 

We must confess, therefore, to a hanker- 
ing after the past, and a desire at times to 
ruminate amongst those survivals of ancient 
art which have escaped the iconoclastic 
tendencies of the day, conjuring up ghostly 
visions of antiquity ; the while, not earning 
the reproach due to a modern student cf 
the Canterbury Tales, of whom it is said, 
that when asked some question relating to 
everyday con- 

erns, he would 
reply: “I-dont 
know what the 
present opinion 
is, but in the 
days of Chau- 
cer, people 
would have 
done __so-and- 
>”; but rather 
gieaning from 
the past those 
lessons which 
testify to ever- 
changing forms 
in art as well as 
in nature, the 
result of the 
effort to meet 
new circum- 
stances and new 
developments in 
a direct and 
ap propriate 
manner. 

In the days 
of the Norman 
Conquest, and 
still later, in 

521 


Ree Tj 


UU UAL Lact on 7 


C'd dhop 


ss 


SHREWSBURY, 
PERIOD. 











522 

the provinces, the trades were  prac- 
tically limited to the crafts, the small 
town and village settlements being 


self-governing communities, almost exclu- 
sively agricultural and having little deal- 
ings with their neighbours. The local 


smith, and the shoemaker, the bell-man,. 
the hayward, and other functionaries of 
archaic society often shared in the common 
lands belonging to the inhabitants, in ex- 
change for their services, a condition of 
affairs indicated by survivals in nomencla- 
ture existing at the present time. 





WHITCHURCH, 1670. 





OLD ENGLISH SHOPS 








The wool from the backs of the flocks 
Was spun and woven into yarn and broad- 
cloth, which thrifty wives and daughters 
manufactured into garments; the brewing 
and baking took place on the homestead, 
the beast was slaughtered by its owner, 
and bartered in kind, or salted and pre- 
served for future use. ‘The merchant, the 
trader, other than an occasional pedlar or 
huckster, were unknown in this primitive 
society-—and their ultimate appearance 
provoked an outburst of ill-feeling and 
opposition on the part of the ignorant, 
non-progressive peasant 
community. The trader 
appeared to them as a 
panderer to the rich 
landed proprietor; one 
who introduced luxuries 
which could only he 
gratified at the expense 
of the tillers of the soil. 
Yet. this very trader in- 
augurated a period which 
has culminated in the 
vast commercial  enter- 
prise of to-day ; he made 
possible the infinitely 
more precious blessings 
of freedom, education, 
and civilisation, that, fol- 
lowing in the wake of 
commerce, are now the 
heritage of the masses of 
the people. The agri- 
culturist had proceeded 
in the social scale, as far 
as he could unaided by 
some outside influence or 
incentive. He provided 
the bare necessaries of 
existence by constant ap- 
plication, but being at 
the mercy of the ele- 
ments, if his crop failed, 
starvation stared him in 
the face. Without re- 
source, he was probably 
at feud with the neigh- 
bouring villagers, and 
had never penetrated be- 
yond the hills and forests 
that surrounded his home 
and isolated him from 
the outer world. The 


OLD ENGLISH SHOPS 


presence of a builder must, from 
very early stages, have been needed 
in places of any importance, although the 
rough frames of wattle and dab could not 
have called for any high degree of talent. 
Such technical skill as sufficed for the hut 


a ' 


ye 

Wy 
Matis 
WA 

ae 


| 


a 


523 


tary strongholds and the stately churches 
springing up on every hand. 

The growth of commerce, however, 
introduced into this simple state of com- 
munism complex conditions, having the 
most far-reaching effects. The division of 


Sore el aie 
ah r 

Ree 

bg se 


pd 
] — 
} iF — 


IN MUCH WENLOCK, 1682. 


of the peasant, and the collection of magni- 
fied huts constituting the farm and manor, 
cannot account for the splendid work we 
see in the remains of fortress and church ; 
these must have been fashioned by a far 
superior class of itinerant mason and 
joiner, men who would find constant em- 
ployment on the large monastic establish- 
ments, as well as upon the numerous mili- 


a portion of the population into trades and 
crafts created a distinct and rapidly in- 
creasing class, divorced from the soil and 
dependent upon the agriculturalist for sup- 
port. The middleman now made his ap- 
pearance and the retail shop became a 
necessity, alike for the sale of imported 
goods and articles of home manufacture, 
as well as for the supply of food to the 





peneenenena nae 





524 


townspeople, no longer living in scattered 
groups of cottages, divided by arable and 
pasture lands, but crowded closely together 
in streets and alleys. 

The “mercers” are regarded as one of 
the oldest associations of tradesmen in this 





EARLY EXAMPLE OF THE USE OF GLAZING 


country. Mr. Norman in “ London Signs 
and Inscriptions,” referring to this subject, 
says: “It is probable that those who were 
called mercers dealt at first in most com- 
modities, except food and the precious 
metals. Herbert, however, .considers that 
im ancient times ‘mercer’ was the name 
of a man who dealt in small wares; and 
that ‘merceries’ then comprehended all 
things sold by retail by the little balance, 
in contradistinction to things sold by the 
beam or in the gross, and included not only 
toys, together with haberdashery and vari- 
ous other articles connected with dress, but 
also spices and drugs; in short, what at 


OLD ENGLISH SHOPS 


present constitutes the stock of a general 
country shopkeeper.” 

With the increase and establishment of 
custom, it became convenient and less com- 
plicated to 
articles. 


restrict the multiplicity of 
Owing to this specialising pro- 
cess, we obtained from 
the parent mercer the 
silk mercer, the linen 
and woollen drapers, and 
many others. The 
Haberdashers and Mer- 
chant Adventurers are 
off-shoots firom the Lon. 
don Mercers’ Company. 
It is curious to refer 
to Harrison’s perfunc- 
tory and brief descrip- 
tion of national trade in 
the reign of Elizabeth. 
€learly he did not fore- 
see the time when Eng- 
land should be known 
by her foreign rivals as 
“a nation of shopkeep- 
ers,” or how that very 
commerce which he con- 
demns as luxury should 
be the means of raising 
this country — already 
embarked upon her im- 
perial quest — to the 
forefront among the pro- 
gressive nations of the 
world. Trade to him 
is synonymous with dis- 
honesty, is another name 
for all that is mercen- 
BARS, LUDLOW. ary and_ self-seeking ; 
to quote his own 

words: “It is a world also to see how 
most places of the realm are pestered with 
purveyors, who take up eggs, butter, 
cheese, pigs, capons, hens, chickens, hogs, 
bacon, etc., in one market and under pre- 
tence of their commissions, and suffer their 
wives to sell the same to another, or to 
poulterers of London.” He stigmatises 
the whole system as a scheme for raising 
prices and impoverishing the artificer, the 
labourer, and the poor. His notion— 
perhaps derived from Sir Thomas More’s 
“ Utopia ”—perhaps founded upon ancient 
custom, appears to have been that al] pro- 
duce of the land should be retailed to the 











SHOP FRONT IN HIGH STREET, OXFORD, END OF SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, 


OLDER. 


SUPERS TRUCTURE 











consumer in open market, or a direct ex- 
change between farmer and consumer. 

By Addison’s day thought had made 
considerable strides; trade was then 
reckone! an important source of revenue, as 
well as one of the principal causes of pros- 
perity. This enlightened writer quaintly 
depicts a phase of the old feud (not 


1 
=> 
| 


jt 
co 


= 
| 





AN EIGHTEENTH CENTURY SHOP FRONT, NEWCASTLE, 


STAFFS. 


yet extinct), in an altercation between Sir 
Roger de Coverley, the Country Squire of 
the old Tory School, and the enterprising 
merchant, Sir Andrew Freeport, in which 
the latter triumphantly and conclusively 
vindicates the dignity and usefulness of 
commerce. 

Th: pioneer would commence business 
in an ordinary dwelling and display his 
wares in the principal window of the 
ground floor, until experience taught him 


526 OLD ENGLISH SHOPS 


how to 
plan. 
Referring to the Butchers Row shop at 
Shrewsbury, a late Tudor example, we are 
forced to infer that the development in 
the direction of light and space was ex- 
tremely slow, for this structure varies but 
little from a purely domestic building of 
the same era. Whit- 
church, in the same 
county, preserves al) 
old shop of the most 
curious and antiquated 
description, of the kind 
that prevailed later. 
Note the awkward 
flight of steps forming 
the approach to the 
door. and the. stall- 
boards projecting over 
the footway. Shrews- 
bury contributes a spec- 
‘imen of about the same 
age, and Much-Wen- 
lock yet another, dated 
1682, and from a com- 
parison of these, it is 
evident that a consider- 
able amount of individ- 
uality existed. The 
Much-Wenlock shop is 
below the footway, and 
is reached through a 
little side door under a 
balcony, but customers 
usually stand, whilst 
being served, on the 
narrow pavement, and 


improve upon this — primitive 


ied their purchases are 
= handed to them 
through the open win- 

dow. 


The limited dimen- 

sions of the old shop 

contrast strikingly with the spaciousness 
and elevation of their modern representa- 
tives. But the former flourished in an 
age anterior to that of colossal combines 
and cut-throat competition. Small profits 
and quick returns was a phrase undreamt 
of in the jog-trot days of our forefathers. 
Their stock was small if varied, their pro- 
fits obviously ample measured by the 
present standard, and there was no need 
for the pushing, aggressive tactics adopted 








OLD ENGLISH SHOPS 


by our American kinsmen and 
permanently adopted by 
mercial custom. 

It was in such restricted premises as 
these, the shop proper forming but one 
small section of the building, of which the 
remainder was devoted to domestic 
uses, the surplus 
goods housed in the 
loft or basement, 
where the apprentice 
of old worked at the 
counter, plied his 
master’s craft, 
learned the rudiments 
of his business, how 
to make himself 
agreeable to custom- 
ers. to pass the time 
o’ day, and indulge in 
all the little civilities, 
chit-chat, and gossip 
that supplied the’ ab- 
sence of newspapers 
and rendered his 
place of business. a 
popular resort. It 
was in similar apart- 
ments to these that 


already 
English com- 


the London appren- 
tice served his time, 
garbed in the spright- 


ly dress of the 
period, a youth su- 
premely jealous of 
the privileges of his 
guild, and ready at a 
moment’s call to 
spring through the 
unglazed window in- 
to the street, ever 
ready ‘to draw his 
sword in any quarrel 
that offered excite- 
ment, or that involved 
any member of his 
order. 

The introduction of glass into general 
domestic use and the improvements 
wrought in its manufacture led to con- 
spicuous modifications in the treatment 
of shop fronts. For trade purposes 
leaded lights in tiny squares would 
be readily discarded for the obvious 
advantages of larger panes. To ac- 


SHOP FRONTS 


commodate these, lead lacked the re- 
quired rigidity and, being therefore un- 
suitable, was replaced by glazing bars of 
wood. 

These bars at their introduction early in 
the seventeenth century (see Mill Street, 
Ludlow, page 524), heavy and close to- 


AT WELLINGTON, 
CENTURY. 


SALOP, EIGHTEENTH 


gether, were gradually whittled down to the 
slender proportions that are familiar to us 
in eighteenth century work, and the inter- 
stices were gradually enlarged, as bigger 
sheets were procurable. With experience 
and knowledge, greater freedom of ex- 
pression was indulged in, and from strict 
angularity the designers launched forth 





—s 





5-8 


into curved forms of beautiful and grace- 
ful contour. 

The Tudor period inaugurated a new 
era in more senses than one. Not only 
was the old tyranny of the Church broken 
and the new light of learning allowed to 
permeate the land, but the prevalence of 
peace, combined with these and other 
causes, led to a rapid development of 
intercourse with other nations, resulting in 
a phenomenal 
increase of 
trade. 

The demand 
for more space 
and increased 
height, syn- 
chronising with 
the cheapening 
and popularis- 
ing of glass, 
placed the Re- 
maissance Ar- 
chitect face to 
face with a 
new problem, 
for the shops 
erected by his 
fathers were 
judged insuffi- 
cient and un- 
worthy of his 
successors. We 
can see for 
ourselves by 


wy 


' 


many delight- 
ful specimens 
that survive, 


Bridgnerl 
that in bracing . 
himself to tac- 

kle thechanged 

re quirements 

in a broad spirit, untrammelled and un- 
biassed by past traditions, how, giving 
reins to his fancy, he indulged in pleasing 
conceits of curving windows and jutting 
bays. Windows, no longer narrow open- 
ings in the wall, further obstructed by 
numerous posts to support the superstruc- 
ture. became a bold breaking away from 
established custom, until the shop. now the 
raison d’étre, practically monopolises the 
lower portion of the front, and in place 
of the heavy supporting posts, a strong 
lintel bridges the entire opening. reaching 


ifie|_ ox 


TWO-STOREY SHOP AT BRIDGNORTH. 


OLD ENGLISH SHOPS 


from pier to pier. And all this is accom. 
plished with such masterful completeness, 
such wonderful dexterity, that the result 
looks the most natural in the world, almost 
as though it were the only thing to be done 
under the circumstances. 

Plate glass is quite a modern invention, 
and the perfection of this material in- 
augurated the most violent innovations, 
which in the eyes of some porterd the 

total degrada- 
tion of the 
" shop front. 

Already be- 
tween the bow- 
windowed 
shops of the 
eighteenth cen- 
tury and the 
plat e-giass 
erections of to- 
day there is a 
vast gulf. One 
of the greatest 
a rc hitectural 
problems of 
the presen: 
time. and one 
generally __re- 
cognised and 
admitted, is 
how to design 
a___ shop-front 
providing the 
maximum of 
plate-glass for 
the display of 
wares, and at 
the same time 
to so dispose 
the supporting 
piers and the 
superstructure that the result shall be 
satisfactory structurally and aesthet'cally. 
Usually it is admitted the problem is not 
adequately solved, and the result is that 
four or five stories of brick or stone work 
appear to rest upon atienuated frames 
and enormous sheets of plate-glass, a most 
unstructural, painful, and inartistic re- 
sult. 

But reverting to the eighteenth century 
examples, nothing seems easier than to 
have designed a fitting and elegant shop 
front in those days; yet it was, when we 







EVES ove's Coars 








OLD 


gre! 


AT NORTHAMPION, EIGHTEENTH 
CENTURY. 


reflect, a far cry from the small windows 
and the low narrow openings of the late 
Gothic era. 

The very fact that the 
difference between the 
types is so totally dis- 
tinct, is conclusive testi- 
mony to the ingenuity 
and wit that accom- 
plished the change so 
completely and so suc- 
cessfully. Those old 
shops look simple, na- 
tural. unaffected, for 
precisely the same rea- 
son that everything in 
nature occupying its pro- 
per place looks in abso- 
lute harmony with its 
surroundings; for pre- 
cisely the same reason 
that a masterpiece of 
decoration appears ex- 
actly what is required 
in the particular condi- 
tiors, maintaining so 
absolutely and in ail es- 


ENGLISH SHOPS 


529 


sentials what is required, that the alteration 
of apparently unimportant details would 
scem to detract from the perfection of the 
work as it stands. All ostentation, the 
effort to produce an exaggerated effect, to 
magnify the humble shop into a state 
emporium—all this js absent, and the result 
i3 correspondingly natural and pleasing. 

Here we have another instance of the 
success of the Renaissance movement in 
the development of objects of everyday 
art, whilst it failed in more pretentious and 
ambitious schemes. 

The vigour and variety that distin- 
guished design up to the middle of the 
eighteenth century, waned towards its 
close, and at the advent of the nineteenth 
century, though still elegant and well-pro- 
portioned, a more fixed and tamer standard 
of treatment prevailed. The bow window 
so tastefully applied formerly is now re- 
placed by curved and reeded end-pilasters, 
which though inoffensive enough in a few 
instances, become wearisome when repeated 
with ever recurring sameness. The square 
and cant bays were also gradually aban- 
doned and some form of large flat window 


held the field almost alone. 


OLD SHOP IN SHREWSBURY. 








530 OLD 


Soon local bye-laws stepped in to pre- 
vent encroachments over the pavement, a 
change as inevitable as it was desirable, 
yet one cannot regard without a sigh the 
irregular building line, so characteristic in 
the past, and a feature that certainly 
added quaintness and charm to our streets, 
being gradually straightened into uni- 
versal unifor- 
mity by the 
operations of 
these acts. 

All that was 
now necessary 
was to reduce 
the supporting 
piers, to en- 
large the 
panels of 
glass, and the 
modern. win- 
dow was 
achieved in all 
its poverty of 
invention and 
gauntness of 
proportion. 

And_ what 
of the race 
who inhab‘ted 
these old trad- 
ing establish- 
ments, and 
gradually en- 
larged and 
built up our 
com mercial 
system? The 
beginnings 
were small, as 
indicated al- 


ENGLISH SHOPS 








defenceless. As time progressed they 
grew into important and powerful corpora- 
tions and wielded a political influence as 
great as, if different from, that exercised 
by the vast labour unions so familiar to 
ourselves, and which may be looked upon 
as their modern counterparts. 
While society was in a comparatively 
archaic _ state, 
t and life and 
. property were 
at the mercy 
of lawless 
bands of rob- 
bers, or of the 
u n scrupulous 
lord of the 
manor and his 
retainers, the 
trader laid 
the foundation 
of fair deal- 
ing and local 
self - govern- 
ment. Quietly 
and unostenta- 


tiously he 
fought his 
way, formng 


larger combi- 
nations, even- 
tually obtain- 
ing state re- 
cognition in 
the shape of 
royal charters 
whrch insured 
a certain legal 
status. Too 
prudent to 
rest contented 


ready. and as with these 
is eter the OLD SHOPS AT WOLVERHAMPTON. paper rights, 
case w:th (The frames on the right are modern, ) the new cor- 
great and porations pro- 
lasting enterprises. For the sake of ceeded to entrench the'r position with 
mutual protection and advantage in solid stone walls, further strengthened by 
an age of insecurity and perpetual bastions, and pierced by strongly guarded 
unrest, they formed themselves into gateways. 

associations or guilds. These guilds The trade guilds formed of necessity 


formulated rules for the conduct of busi- 
ness, for the safe-guarding of trade privi- 
leges, for resistance to encroachments on 
the part of the feudal powers, and for the 
maintenance of the aged, the weak, and 


the heart and soul of municipal life. From 
their ranks the town guard was recruited, 
they erected halls for the sale of their 
wares, and in these they also schooled 
themselves in debate, levied taxes for the 








OLD 


construction and maintenance of bridges, 
roads, and other aids to commerce ; and at 
the same time exercised judicial functions. 
It was this substantial and sturdy class, 
together with the yeoman and artisan, who 
bore the main stress of battle which cul- 
minated in victory for religious liberty at 
the Reformation. And when the 
question arose 
whether a 
headstrong 
sovereign 
should be al- 
lowed to im- 
pose upon the 
country his 
own tyrannous 
methods in 
place of gov- 
ernment by 
Parliament, 
and force his 
unpopu- 
lar religion up- 
on the com- 
munity. the 
same _ party 


own 


again espoused 


the cause of hy {TaN Te 
progress, and we ni 
once for all : ie "i vi 
established the : . 
principle that 
even the divine 
right of kings 
must be exer- 
cised with jus- 
tice and moder- 
ation and in ac- 
cordance with 
the laws of the 
C o nstitution. 
This _reputa- 
tion for inde- 
pendence and 
good sense has 
been again 
and again vindicated at succeeding criti- 
cal epochs, till we have come to regard it 
as no insult to be calied “a nation of 
shopkeepers.” 

And as with the class, so is it with the 
units constituting the class. 

The thriving centres of modern munici- 
pal activity are not rich in records of the 


AT BURSLEM, 


ENGLISH SHOPS 


BEGINNING OF 
CENTURY. 


531 


past ; progress or change has there been 
sweep.ng and complete. It is in the by- 
ways and slums where antiquity lingers, 
but perhaps the richest legacy of the past 
is to be found in our sleepy old country 
market towns, which have remained com- 
paratively stationary and but little influ- 
enced by the restless bustle prevailing else- 
where. Ancient 
Sh re wsbury, 
for _ instance, 
the sometime 
metropolis of 
the west, and 
still a great 
trading centre, 
abounds in re- 
lics dating 
back to Tudor 
times. 
Happily, 
there are 
stil] many 
trades that 
have no need 
of large and 
uno bstructed 
window space. 
The chemist 
frequently ex- 
poses his drugs 
in the quaintest 
of windows, 
and his row of 
coloured bot- 
tles look far 
more effective 
seen through 
small panes of 
dinted _—_ glass 
than they ap- 
pear behind a 
screen of per- 
fectly —_trans- 
parent and 
flawless plate. 
In the coun- 
try town a trade is frequently he- 
reditary, the son succeeding to the 
father’s business and place of business 
generation after generation. Another 
calling that frequently prides itself upon 
the antiquity of its establishment is that 
of the bookseller. Members of this order 
are often seen in the most curious premises, 


THE NINETEENTH 
























SS 



















harbouring all sorts of dark corners and 
unsuspected nooks and crannies in their 
inmost recesses. The windows, whether 
bulging out over the street, recognising the 
line ot frontage, or modestly retiring into 
the Lackground, are small and reminiscent 
et age. Such a_hole-and-corner shop 
would have befitted Kingsley’s Sandy 
Mackayee “He read at least twelve 
hours every day of his life and that ex- 
clusively old history and politics, though 
his favourite books were Thomas Carlyle’s 
works.” His quaint, homely. description 
of the old bookseller and his den suggests 
that extraordinary conglomeration of wood 
and plaster known as Book-seller’s Row ; 
in short, the now extinct Holywell Street, 
and the varied stock as portrayed in the 
description might have been almost as 
aptiy applied to them. ‘The seeming con- 
fus:on was to the propr-etors no obstacle, 
they appearing to know the where- 
abouts as they were familiar with the con- 
tents of every volume of their heterogene- 
ous collection. 

The barber, one of the few tradesmen 
who retains the sign of h’s craft, accom- 
modates him:elf to premises of the most 
erratic shape and diminutive size. In- 
deed, in the provinces he attaches himself 
for preference to the most antiquated and 
crazy building in the locality, and should 
on this account be esteemed as a pattern 
and example by all true antiquarians, 
Perhaps his sympathy with the past may 
be accounted for by the fact that his order 
formerly occupied a position of more im- 
portance than he now enjoys, the barber- 
surgeon being regarded as a quasi-phy- 
sician, quite indispensable in the days 
when blood-letting was considered the 
panacea for most human ailments. 

The pawnbroker and curio-dealer rise 
superior to considerations of hygiene and 
convention, and as they thrive best on the 
borders of the slums, their varied stock of 
old clothes, brass candlesticks, antique 
furniture and miscellaneous jewellery are 
more often than not displayed in a window 
as quaint and interesting as themselves. 


532 OLD ENGLISH SHOPS 






These establishments are still distinguished 
by the sign of the three golden balls. 

In treating of the old shop, it must 
always be remembered that the proprietor 
lived upon the premises, and though far 
from commodious, viewed in the light of 
modern standards, those of the better kind 
compare very favourably with the houses 
of the professional classes and smaller 
gentry of the same era. Sometimes they 
were finished and decorated with great 
elaboration, and through the half-open 
door leading into the parlour, one may 
catch a glimpse of dark oak panelling and 
a massive fireplace, and beyond, perchance, 
a heavily moulded hand-rail and _ richly 
ornamented balustrade that evidently 
belong to a handsome staircase ; enough at 
least to show that the original owner was a 
man of substance, and also a lover of 
elegance and refinement. 

A feature frequently recurring in the 
older business premises, and one which we 
should now consider an insuperable ob- 
jection, is a straight flight of steps, lead- 
ing from the street to the door. Awkward, 
unnecessary, and out of place as these ap- 
pendages undeniably are, we should regret 
t> see them swept away. Wellington fur- 
nishes a characteristic example of these 
sprawling flights of steps, and the 
Bridgenorth specimen illustrates a two- 
storey shop, one a little below and one con- 
siderably above the pavement level. 

Some of the charm of old shops is due 
to alterations that have taken place from 
time to time in hap-hazard fashion. It 
is only on this theory that the existence of 
the remarkable specimen from Northamp- 
ton can be accounted for. The Wolver- 
hampton contribution illustrates the same 
characteristic. but the result in this case 
has been to mar the original. 

Examples might be multiplied a hun- 
dredfold to prove that variety and interest 
invest the old trade premises, but enough 
has been shown and said to vindicate the 
author in his attempt to interest the public 
in the old shops that compose so largely 
the street architecture of our ancient towns. 





By DOROTHEA DEAKIN 


66 WNWVERYTHING,” she said with 


disgust, “is hot and hateful and 
horrid.” 

The Quai de Mont Blanc. and even the 
pleasant, sha?v Boulevards were de- 
serted., 

All the pretty ladies, in ccol organ- 
dies and silks, with bright parasols, had 
disappeared. Ida felt sure that they were 
sleeping away the hot hours in cool, 
luxurious bedrooms with the blinds down. 

t was only silly little school girls like 
herself who came out on such a day as 
this without a sunshade. 

She leant her elbows on the stone para- 
pet of the Pont du Mont Blanc and stared 
at the blue waters and the swaying, in- 
viting boats beneath her. 

It certainly was cool to look at just 
down there in the shadow of the bridge, 
before the water caught the glaring sun, 
and it was the first time she had been able 
to open her eyes since she had left her 
tram at Place Neuve. 

“My head aches with all this blue and 
white ; it is whizzing round like wheels— 
blue sky, white houses! Blue water, 
white pavement! AH blue and white 
and glaring !” 

She sighed and moved her elbows She 
would be late for her appointment. She 
would be late home for tea—she would— 
She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Oh, what’s the odds if I am,” she 
cried recklessly, “and why should I be 
home for horrid tea ?” 

“Come out in a boat for half an hour— 
I can see you are dying to.” : 

Ida stood up in amazement, too con- 
fused for the moment to turn away with 
the silent contempt proper to the occa- 
sion, and I am afraid she noticed how 
attractively clean and cool he !ooked in his 

No. 30. September, 1905. 


light grey flannels, before she remembered 
that this was an insult she must resent at 
once. 

“Come out with me,” he went on with 
a charming smile. “You are a stranger 
here; so am I. Why shouldn't we im- 
prove the shining hours together ?” 

By the time he had finished, she was 
ready with a suitable answer. 

“T think you are making a mistake,” she 
answered icily, walking away with her head 
in the air. “But, oh,” she thought as she 
hurried along, forgetting how hot she was, 
“What a pity! What a pity! He is nice, 
and I know he didn’t mean to be horrid. 
I suppose I oughtn’t to dawdle about when 
I’m alone. I wish I could have gone. I 
wish I knew him.” 

“T ought to have known that she’d only 
be angry,” said the man in grey flannels 
with a sgh. “She's English. and much 
too well brought up to be civil to 
strangers.” 


Then “ Oh,” cried Ida, when her lesson 
was over. “ what a silly I was! He was 
an American, and Americans are always so 
very nice to girls. He only meant to be 
kind. I know he did. And I should like 
to go on the lake. Perhaps e 

She gave English lessons to a French 
girl over at Grand Pré. The French girl 
repaid them in kind, and it was for this 
that Ida crossed the noisy, busy town twice 
a week in the mid-day heat. The next 
lesson was on Friday. She put on a fresh 
muslin, which was quite unnecessary, and 
when she reached the Pont du Mont Blanc 
she stopped to rest, and once more gazed 
wistfully down at the tempting little boats. 
She stayed there, indeed. nearly half an 
hour, and it was not a cool place to choose. 
There was no shelter at a‘l, and the sun 


533 PP 





534 


beating on her back through her thin dress 
made her feel sick and headachy. 

She went on to her lesson in a bad 
temper. 

“It was very nice of him,” she told her- 
self, “to understand at once that I wasn’t 
thai sort of girl. But he might have come 
again——” 

On Tuesday she did not stop to look 
at the boats, but she walked very, very 
slowly across the bridge. 

“Will you allow me to make you an 
apology ?” 

Ida felt a sudden throb of pleasure ; 
but she didn’t speak. She was only eigh- 
teen, you see, and didn’t know what 
to say. He looked quickly and ap- 
prehensively at the blushing face under 
tthe shady hat. 

“ Please don’t be angry with me,” he 
went on earnestly. “I know you must 
think me horribly rude, but what was I to 
do ?” 

“T don’t understand,” said Ida in a voice 
which she hoped conveved icy indifference. 
I don’t think it did. Neither, I imag:ne, 
did the young man. 


“T have seen you regularly every Tues- 
day and Friday for three weeks,” he said. 
“and every time I saw you I wanted to 
know you more and more.” 

Ida’s heart beat faster and faster. It 
was very nice of him, she thought, to want 
to know her so much, but she couldn't 


think why he did. She had been brought 
up with half-a-dozen sisters, you see! At 
the age of eighteen. and under such cir- 
cumstances, it was natural, perhaps, that 
she should under-value her power to inter- 
est and charm. 

“TI went to the English Church.” he 
said, “on purpose to get an introduction to 
you through the parson. And then I 
found he didn’t even know you by sight.” 

“T don’t go to church.” Ida said quick- 
ly. forgetting to be chilly. “We are 
chapel people at home.” 

The stranger laughed. 

“Will you accept my apology ?” he said. 

“Ves, of course.” Ida liked him bet- 
ter than ever when she saw him laugh. 

“Will you consider me as introduced to 
you by a clergyman of the English 
Church ?” 


“Yes”—with some hesitation. “ If— 


IDA’S DIVERSIONS 


if you like—I—” with a rush—‘“I really © 
don’t see why I shouldn't.” 

“Neither do I,” said the stranger plea- 
santly. “I really am quite respectable, 
you know. I am sure I carry honesty and 
truth written on my brow.” Ida gave a 
quick glance at his thin, sunburnt face; 
and smiled in spite of herself. 

“You see,” he went on in his slow, dry 
vo.ce, “as I was saying to you when you 
froze me up last week, I am a stranger 
here—from Massachusetts. You are a 
stranger—from England. Why not be 
friendly? I guess we should agree all 
right.” 

Ida was silent. It was all very, very 
wrong, she felt sure, but how was it, she 
wondered, that wrong things were so plea- 
sant ? 

“TI should like to be friends,” she said, 
dropping her Anglo-French dictionary in 
the confusion of the moment. 

The man from Massachuse:ts picked it 
up. 

“Good,” he said. 
school ?” 

Ida found her tongue then, and told 
him about Renée Coquillon and the ex- 
change lesson. She went on from that to 
talk about the little village of Carouge, 
where she lived—Carouge which had once 
be!onged to Corsica or Sardinia—she didn’t 
quite remember which, and which was still 
full of strange names and alien descend- 
ants, and the stranger listened to her 
childish chatter, and to the odds and ends 
of more or less inaccurate information 
brought out entirely for his benefit, with 
much apparent interest. He walked with 
her to Grand Pré; to the door of Madame 
Coquillon’s house, and when he held out 
his hand to her to say good-bye, he studied 
her flace with some return of his old appre- 
hension. 

“When will you come out on the lake?” 
he said. 

She looked down. Could she—dare 
she? Oh, if she only might—and yet— 
if Miss Linaker found out. 

“Courage,” said he. “ Why shouldn't 
you? What are you afraid of ?” 

“T’m not afraid of anyone,” cried Ida 
childishly, and I will come if you 
like.” 

“TI do like,” said he, smiling; “ very 


“ Are you going to 





IDA’S 


much indeed. But when can you come? 
‘To-morrow ?” 
Ida shuddered at her own audacity, 
“Ves!” she said, “I will come to-mor- 
row.” 
“At three o'clock? It will be hot, but 
there is always a breeze on the lake.” 
“At three o'clock,” said naughty Ida. 


“ And thank you very much.” 


That was the beginning of the deceit. 

Ida pretended—she d‘dn’t exactly say 
so, I believe, but, still, she led Miss Lina- 
ker to believe that she spent the next after- 
noon with Mdlle, Coquillon. Instead of 
which she let the stranger, whose name was 
Clay, take her on the water for two hours, 
and their friendship increased in leaps 
and bounds! Ida told herself that he was 
the nicest person she had ever known, and 
no doubt she was right, for her ex- 
perience of nice young men had been 
small. 

On Friday he walked up the Grand Pré 
with her again, and waited till she came 
out, to take her back to the Rond Point 
and the Carouge tram; and she told her- 
self that she walked to the Rond 
Point to save expense, not at all for 
the pleasure of his society. She 
had explained to Renée with all the 
French she could muster, that in 
any questions regarding her English 
friend’s movements she must be discreet 
and admit nothing—deny nothing. Renée 
(who was older than Ida, and quite as 
pretty), understood perfecily. in spite of 
the broken French, and promised discre- 
tion. If the lake was so p‘easant on 
Wednesday, why not try it again on Satur- 
day—and Monday—-and Wednesday 
again? Ida’s conscience was lulled to rest 
quite successfully for the moment. and she 
was having a good time. It was on Wed- 
nesday that they had tea together at a little 
crémerie in Place Neuve. and Ida ex- 
plained to the stranger. who was 
herdly a stranger by that time, that 
the pale green pistachio cream cakes, 
crescent shaped, and only five centimes 
each, were in every way superior to the 
round pink ones, or the small hot browny 
things soaked with rum which cost ten. and 
which he affected. 

“Look here,” Clay said presently, ab- 


DIVERSIONS 


535 


sently dropping the flat squares of sugar 
into his already sweetened cup. “ Don’t 
you think I might get to know your people 
somehow?  Couldn’t you introduce me? 
Say [-was a friend, you know. You 
needn’t say how long our friendship had 
existed.” 

Ida opened her eyes wide at him ; and a 
Frenchman at another table stared at her 
with insolent admiration. 

“Quels beaux yeux,” he cried to his 
companion, 

Clay heard and scowled for a minute. 
Then looked at Ida again, and his face 
cleared. 

“That’s so,” he drawled. “Eyes like 
the darkest kind of purple pansy—almuost 
black.” 

Ida dropped her lids and_ blushed. 
“Les yeux noirs au purgatorie,” she said, 
smiling. “But what do you mean, Mr. 
Clay? Of course, I can’t introduce you 
to Miss Linaker. She would be dread- 
fully angry, and I should never be allowed 
out again,” 

Clay’s eyes grew thoughtful. 

“It doesn’t seem quite square,” he said. 

“What doesn’t seem quite square?” 

He hesitated. 

“Why this—this sort of thing. You're 
so young, you see—only a kiddie, after 
all, and I’m beginning to feel ashamed of 
my self.” 

Ida was silent. She was so young that 
didn’t altogether understand him. 
There was no harm in it that she could 
see. 

“Of course,” he went on, leaning his 
elbows on the little marble table, and 
tracing a spilt tea pattern with his fore- 
finger, “I know that 7 am straight, and 
Z know that I respect you as much as if 
you were my own sister. and like you a 
good deal more, but Here he 
stopped, and Ida looked frightened. 

“Other folks don’t know all this, and 
I’m afraid it will be nasty for you when 
Miss Linaker learns that you've been go- 
ing about with me. I guess she'll find it 
all out sooner or later.” 

Ida rose from her seat. “Miss Linaker 
must never know,” she whispered. looking 
round the room with frightened eyes. 
“Why should she? She stays in all the 
afternoon when I am away, because it is 


she 


rr-2 





IDA’S DIVERSIONS 


too hot to go out, and she has no friend in 
Geneva who could tell tales to her.” 

“Well,” said he, with a sigh, “if I 
can’t be friends with you in a straight, con- 
ventional, decorous kind of way, I must 
take what I can get. I can’t give you 
up.” 

“Why?” asked Ida, with apparent in- 
nocence. 

Clay laughed. 

“T guess you know why,” he said. 
won't tell you to-day, anyhow.” 

After that Ida met him every day. Some- 
times she cycled with h'm; sometimes he 
rowed her on the lake, and once he took 
the train to Annemasse on the Voiron and 
from there walked up the hill to the tiny 
old Savoyard Chateau d’Etambrieres with 
its two towers, and its little gray church 
to match. From every point of view the 
excursion was a success. Clay grew reck- 
less. 

“Look here,” he said slowly. as they 
climbed down the hill agajn. “ This has 
been a glorious afternoon, but it has been 
too short. Could you get away for the 


~~ 


whole day, do you think ?” 
Ida drew a deep breath at this daring 


suggestion. 

“T’'ll try,” she said; “only e 

“Only what?” 

“T’ll have to tell a lie if I do.” 

Clay’s eyes grew grave suddenly. She 
was beginning to look for that sudden 
clouding over when she alluded to the ways 
and means she used to escape M‘s3 Lina- 
ker’s vigilance. and she smiled cheerfully 
and reassuringly. 

“Don’t look so solemn,” she said. “It 
won't be the first time, you know. I learnt 
how to fib long before I ever knew you. I 
can easily pretend that I’m going to spend 
the day with Renée Coquillon. She won't 
mind backing me up a bit, if I take her 
some pralines next time I go.” 

“Can’t you get away by any other 
means?” Clay asked hastily. “Without 
lying about it, I mean.” 

Ida looked at him in surprise. “ You 
are funny,” she said slowly. “How is it 
you have grown so particular all at once? 
And, anyhow, it must be just as bad to act 
a lie as to speak one, don’t you think ?” 

Clay didn’t answer. All the way home 
in the tram he sat and looked at Ida’s 


childish profile; at the heavy fall of soft 
black hair over her little ears, shadowing 
her delicate, colourless cheeks. He looked 
at the ful!, red lips and slender, long neck, 
the thin, girlish figure and brown hands ; 
and his eyes were filled with something 
that was half pity, half sorrow. Ida felt 
that she had a right to feel aggrieved by 
his behaviour. 

“Tt’s all very well for him to be de- 
pressed,” she said to herself. “If we are 
found out, it’s me that will be blamed. I 
shall get into a regular royal row, and he 
will escape scot free. Who is there to row 
him, i should like to know ?” 

Presently, however, he shook off his 
gloom. and spoke to her with a smile. 

“We'll have a real good time on Thurs- 
day,” he said. “ A steamer leaves the Quai 
de Mon: Blanc every morning for a dear 
little place called He-mance, where nobody 
ever goes. We'll go there and picmv by 
the stream. I shall have you to myvelf a 
whole long day. I guess we shall both re- 
member that day.” 

Ida laughed. 

“TI shall rer-ember all these days,” she 
said softly. 

So they went to Hermance on Thursday. 
They took the little steamer, and were on 
the water so early that all the wonderful 
mountain pictures round them, the purple 
Juras. and the Voiron and Grand Saléve, 
with the dim shadow of the Alps behind, 
were veiled at first by delicate opal haze, 
then glor‘ously-reflected in the blue 
waters of the lake. Ida was in ecstasies. 
Miss Linaker had never taken her on the 
water; Miss Linaker had never shown her 
anything half so beautiful as this. And 
then when they landed on the wooded 
shore; Hermance itself ! 

Clay took her to the sunny hillside mea- 
dow where the vineyards are. and they sat 
down in the shade of the little wood where 
the stream lives; that stream whose won- 
derful waters of iron and magnesia are 
some day to turn the paradise into an in- 
ferno of a spa and a health resort. 

Ida had brought her poetry books. She 
thought she was foad of Browning and 
Matthew Arnold; she also thought that 
she understood them, I believe. Since 
then she has learned her own limitations, 
and knows, I think, that she never will. 





IDA’S DIVERSIONS 


Clay lay at her feet and listened to her 
pretty voice as she read to him, and 
watched her pretty face and moving lips. 
If he knew the verses she read to him 
off by heart already, and if his brain was 
busied with other thoughts as he lay there, 
who was the wiser? Ida thought she was 
edifying and impressing him; perhaps 
even improving his mind. Why shouldn't 
she think so? 

At one o'clock they lunched, and Clay 
found that he had left the fruit behind. 
Ida jumped up with a laugh, and ran away 
with the empty basket. Presently she 
came back to him laden with big plums 
and peaches. 

“T saw a man in an orchard,” she said 
gaily. “But I find now that it is only 
the angel of the Paradise. He gave me 
all these, and wouldn’t let me pay a sou 
for them. Look!” 

“T don’t wonder,” the young man said 
gravely. “How could he take payment 
from you ?” 

How could he? 


Her pale cheeks 


glowed a faint p'nk with excitement and 
pleasure; she wore a white cotton frock 
with a pink flower on it, and had taken 


off the big hat which hid her pretty hair. 
The magic of her wonderful dark eyes 
bewitched him. 

“Why shouldn’t he take the money from 
me?” she said laughing. “I am not too 
poo: to pay for a few plums” 

She didn’t want him to think her poor, 
little goose that she was. Anything rather 
than that he should think her poor—and 
common. 

“Ida,” he said presently, looking up into 
her eyes with earnest enquiry, “ You've 
never told me anything about your 
people at home in England. We 
know very little about each other. I 
guess we'd better confess like good chil- 
dren. Suppose you begin.” 

Her pink cheeks deepened to scarlet, 
but she did not answer at first. How 
could she tell him? Oh, how could she? 
How he would despise her! No; any- 
thing. anything but that now. Perhaps 
afterwards when—when he had spoken to 
her properly—when everthing was settled 
between them; when she went home and 
had told her people about her engage- 
ment, he would be so fond of her by 


537 


that time that he would forgive any- 
thing. But not now—not yet. She 
couldn’t spoil this beautiful, beautiful 
day. He would go away without telling 
her that he loved her, and she couldn't 
bear that. She must be worthy of him 
to-day ; she must. 

“What are your people?” he asked 
curiously, “ Manchester’s all cotton, 
isn’t it? Are your people in cotton ?” 

“No,” said Ida emphatically. This, at 
least, was true. Then she hesitated. Poor, 
silly little girl! She had put her con- 
science to sleep lately, you see, and there 
was nothing else to tell her that, at this 
moment, truth was not only right, but ex- 
pedient. 

“My people live in Lancashire,” she 
said quickly. “We are the Delameres, of 
Delamere Hall, you know. My father 
doesn’t have anything to do with the 
cotton, of course.” 

Clay sighed. 

“Tt sounds very grand,” he said. 
the ancestral mansion very old ?” 

It was easy now for Ida to draw upon 
her imagination. 

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Hundreds and 
hundreds of years old. My—my great 
grandfather fought at Waterloo,” she went 
on madly, “and one of the Delameres 
fought the Spanish Armada and another 
at Agincourt.” 

Clay was silent. 

“ The house is an old Manor house.” Ida 
went on shamelessly. “A _ long, iow 
black and white Manor house with lots of 
gables and dormers and mullions and lat- 
tices and things.” 

“With such a home as that,” Clay said 
gravely, “I don’t know how you could bear 
to come away. Why did you?” 

Again- the giz] hesitated. The oppor- 
tunity for romance was irresistible, and 
why should she tell him that she 
had merely come to Geneva to study 
French ? 

“They wanted me to marry someone,” 
she said, hanging her head. “He was 
very rich, and—and titled, and I couldn’t 
bear him. So they sent me away from 
home in disgrace—to make me see reason.” 

Clay rose. Ida was sitting on a fallen 
tree, and he sat down beside her. 

“Tda,” he said, in a low voice, “Did 


"Ts 








538 IDA'S 


you care for anyone else—-over there in 
England ?” 

“No,” said Ida, glad that she was able 
to reply truthfully. It was more difficult 
somehow to make up things. while he 
watched her face so keenly. 

“Do you care for anybody now ?” 

She was silen‘. Her cheeks burned and 
her heart was thumping away so loudly 
that she was afraid he would hear it. Of 
course, she did—oh, of course she did. 
He knew she did. Why cidn’t he tell her 
what she was longing to hear—now. now— 
the time was slipping. 

But he didn’t say anything, and when 
she turned to look at him, surprised at his 
silence, she saw that he looked anxious 
and troubled. She couldn’t think why he 
looked like that. Surely, he understood. 


He did understand, and still he was 
silent. 
“Why do you ask?” said Ida. No an- 


swer. She felt chilled. The sun was still 
shining on the pretty hillside pasture be- 
fore them, but she felt somehow exactly as 
if it had gone in. What did he mean? 
Perhaps he didn’t care, after all. Perhaps 
—oh, how unkind he was—how very, very 
unkind ! 

When Clay looked round at last. she 
was crying; big tears were welling out of 
her dark eyes and falling on to her frock. 
and she was struggling in her sleeve to 
find an inadequate handkerchief. What 
could he do? He had gone so far, he 
told himself recklessly, and to-day,, at 
least. he must play the game he had 
begun. 

He took her into his arms and kissed 
her without a wrd, and Ida Jaid her head 
on his shoulder and finished her cry there. 
And still he was silent. 

“T—I thought you didn’t care.” she said 
at last. 

“TI wish to God I had let you go on 
thinking so,” said Clay. 

Ida drew herself away from him in sur- 
prise. 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

Clay kissed her again. “Mean,” he 
said ; “I don’t know yet what I mean. I 
only know that I love you. And I guess 
I’m behaving like 2 mean hound in telling 
you so.” 

Ida laughed, 


DIVERSIONS 


“Nonsense,” she said. “Why shouldn’t 
we be happy while we can? Why do you 
Worry so about stupid people who don't 
matter a bit? What does anything matter 
if only—we—if we—,” 

Clay smiled rather miserably. 

“Tf we what ?” said he 

“If we love each other,” said Ida. He 
was silent again, and presently he took his 
arm away and got up to pack the things 
into the picnic basket. Ida didn’t under- 
stand why he was behaving so strangely, 
but he certainly loved her, and that was 
all she cared about. 

He hardly spoke to her at all in the 
hour on the steamer going home, and 
when he said good-bye to her in Place 
Neuve he held her hand a long time; then 
recklessly kissed her in face of all 
Geneva. 

“ Good-bye, little girl.” he said. 

“Good-bye.” said Ida, “till to-mor- 
row.” 

There was a letter next morning for Ida, 
directed in a fine business hand. 

“What is it?” Miss Linaker was pro- 
perly inquisitive. But Ida put it in her 
pocket. 

“From the dentist,” she said hurriedly. 
“Tt’s only the hateful dentist’s hateful 
bill.” 

After breakfast she ran upstairs. It 
didn’t take a second to tear open the en- 
velope. Why had he written when he was 
to see her that very day ? 

No address headed the letter. 


“Dear little girl._— 

When I fell in love with you I hadn’t 
reckoned on the fighting ancestors and the 
ancient Manor house, and it seems to me 
that for a square man I’ve been playing it 
pretty low down on your aristocratic 
parenis. 

I guess those ancestral halls are a cut 
above the junior partner in a hardware 
store, and before you get my letter I shall 
have started for home again. I should 
advise you to forget all this as soon as 
possible, and think twice before you re- 
ject that titled aristocrat for the second 
time. 

Believe me, 
Always your respectful friend, 
Israet P. Cray.” 











Ida was stunned for a moment. She 
did not realise all at once what the stupid 
letter meant. Then quite suddenly 
everything came to her in a flash, bring- 
ing with it a horrible, aching pain at her 
heart, and a blinding storm of tears. She 
saw at last, too, very clearly how wrong she 
had been. What a wreck she had made 
of her life with her silly, romantic lies; 
her stupid deceit. 

Down on the pillow went the poor little 
head in utter despair. to soak it with tears 
from the eyes he had ca!led purple pan- 
sies. 

It was too late now—too late for any- 
thing. He was gone, and she should never 
see him again as long as she lived. 

But was it too late—was it? She 
looked at her watch. If—if he went by 
the nine o'clock train to Paris there was 
still time to catch him; only just time. If 
he went last night— 

“Tf he went last night,’ she cried, as 
she hastily pinned on her sailor hat, “I 
shall drown myself in the lake.” 

Luck favoured her so far that she 
slipped out of the house without attract- 
ing notice—that her tyres were plump and 
the bicycle house unlocked. 

Once on her machine, she was safe. 
Down the hill to Carouge and on to 
Geneva as she had never ridden in her 
life before. What a long way it was to 
the station. The roads had_ beer 
watered—her bicycle skidded once, and 
she fell, covering herself with mud; but 
she did not even wait to wipe it off her 
hands. If she could reach the station 
in time nothing else in the whole world 
mattered. 

Clay was having his luggage weighed 
when he saw her, and his grave face grew 
graver still as he went to meet her. 

He saw at once that she had been cry- 
ing—that there were still tears in her eyes, 





IDA’S DIVERSTONS 539 


and he wished that she had not come to 
make things harder for him at the last 
moment, 

He took her little muddy hands in his, 
and gazed wistfully into her face. 

“Tt is good of you,” he said slowly, “to 
come and see me off—to say good-bye.” 

But Ida had found her breath at last. 
“Oh,” she cried, “ you musn’t go! You 
shan’t go! I have come to—to tell you 
what a hateful, hateful girl I am—I came 
because I couldn’t, couldn’t let you go—I 
came to tell you that it is all lies!” 

Clay stared at her in amazement. 

“My father,” cried Ida _ recklessly, 
“keeps an ironmonger’s shop, and always 
has. There are no ancestors—no black 
and white Manor house—no anything. I 
am the wickedest girl in the world.” 

Clay caught her hands in his. 

“Ts it true?” he asked, “true?” 

“Yes,” said Ida in a low voice. “I am 
speaking the truth for once. It was all 
made up, every bit of it.” 

“And the titled aristocrat who wanted to 
marry you?” Clay asked eagerly. “Was 
he a myth, too?” 

Ida’s poor little face grew crimson. 

“No one ever wanted to marry me but 
you,” she said. “ And I don’t suppose you 
do now—now you know what I really 
am.” 

Clay laughed out loud. “It’s a good 
thing,” he said, “that I have not taken 
my ticket yet.” 

Ida’s eyes fell before his. “Then,” 
she whispered, “ you—you are not going ?” 

Clay laughed again. “Well, I guess 
I’m not going to Paris. I am going to 
take you straight home and have things 
out with your precious Miss Linaker, 
whether you like it or not.” 

Ida’s tone was very humble now. “I 
don’t care what happens,” she said, “if 
only you don’t go away.” 





Iilus'‘rations Jrom the Rischgitz Collection 


LFRED Guillaume Gabriel, Count 
D’Orsay, was born in Paris on the 
4th of September, 1801. His father was 
Alberte, Count D’Orsay, a noble of the 
ancien régime who was familiarly known 
as Le Beau D’Orsay, being one of the 
handsomest men in the Court of the first 
Napoleon, who had been heard to remark 
“that he would make an admirable model 
for Jupiter.” He had early entered the 
grand army of the Empire, and he had 
served with great distinction under 
Napoleon: who was wont to say of him, 
that he was “aussi brave que beau.” His 
mother, a beautiful woman, was a 
daughter of the King of Wurtemberg by 
a marriage that was good in religion but 
not in law, and which was after- 
wards set aside by the King’s union with a 
royal personage ; she was no less remark- 
able for her wit and noble disposition 
than for her beauty. The eldest son 
having died in infancy, their family 
consisted of Alfred, and a daughter Ida, 
subsequently Duchesse de Grammont. 
By the transmission of intellectual power 
on the maternal line, and of striking traits 
of physical conformation from the sire, 
the force of heredity was exemplified in 
the children of the brilFant Countess and 
Beau D’Orsay. 

From his earliest childhood, Alfred was 
remarkable not only for comeliness, but 
for quickness of apprehension; as a boy 
his superior strength and agility in exer- 
cise and bright spirits, combined with 
frankness of nature and_ chivalrous 
generosity of disposition, made him the 
favourite of his companions. 

While yet in the nursery he was set 
apart to be a page to the Emperor, and at 
a very early age he entered the army, and 
somewhat later and reluctantly, the garde 
du corps of the restored Bourbon sove- 
reign. He retained imperialist sympathies 


during the whole of his life, as well as an 

ardent enthusiasm for Napoleon, whose 

page he was to have been. He was greatly 

beloved by the soldiers, whose comfort 

and welfare he carefully 
540 


looked after, 


COUNT D’ORSAY 


By CHARLES WILKINS 





and their worship was deepened by the 
feats of strength he performed, as well as 
by the leadership he took in all manly 
exercises. 

Some of the traits of his garrison life 
are too characteristic to be left unnoticed. 
His various attractions had made him an 
object of admiration at the provincial 
balls; at the dance it was his custom to 
single out the plainest girls present for his 
partners, and to pay attention to those who 
seemed most neglected and unnoticed. The 
officers jeered at him for this, yet there 
was no affectation in it, for it was done 
simply from natural kindliness of heart. 

Count Alfred D’Orsay’s first visit to 
England was in 1821, on the occasion of 
the coronation of George IV. He came in 
company with his sister and her husband, 
the Duc de Guiche, son of the Duc de 
Grammont, then Ambassador at the Court 
of St. James’s. The Duc de Guiches had 
been reared and educated in England, 
and he had served in an English regiment 
of Dragoons; his sister had married 
Viscount Ossulton, afterwards Earl of 
Tankerville ; consequently he held a posi- 
tion calculated to ensure the best recep- 
tion for his brother-in-law in the first 
circles of English society, which advantage 
was strengthened by the favourable impres- 
sion the young Count created by his 
graceful bearing ard charm of manner at 
the entertainment given by the Duc de 
Grammont at Almack’s to the King and 
Royal Family, on the 27th of July, 1821, 
and he was at once placed amongst the 
leaders of fashion. 

It was during this first visit to London 
that D’Orsay was introduced to Lord and 
Lady Blessington, and not in the garrison 
in France, as has been stated. It is 
equally incorrect that to accompany them 
to Italy he abandoned his intention of 
joining the expedition to Spain, 

Lady Blessington was now twenty-eight. 
She had contrived to set one-half of 
London raving about her beauty, and the 
other half frantic about the magnificence 
of her establishment. Margaret Power, 








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9 
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542 


the daughter of “Shiver the Frills,’ a 
ruined Tipperary buck, had suddenly be- 
come a queen of English society. Royal 
dukes, Cabinet Ministers, wits, painters, 
authors, poets, and actors thronged to pay 
homage to her gorgeous charms. Count 
Alfred D’Orsay was amongst the foreign 
noblemen who sought her acquaintance, 
and nowhere did he create’so deep and 
lasting an impression as in the breast of 
Lady Blessington; and he was_ the 
favoured guest of this charming hostess at 
the magnificent conversaziones, soirees, 
dinners, balls, breakfasts, and suppers, 
which followed each other with such 
rapidity in her brilliant mansion in St. 
James Square. 

The young Count then formed that 
hasty judgment of English Society which 
he entered in the Journal eulogised by 
Byron after he had perused it carefully. 
This praise would be very pleasing to the 
writer, who formed other opinions subse- 
quently nevertheless. 

Count D’Orsay’s first visit was brief, 
and he returned to Paris with his relatives. 
A very short time elapsed and Lord and 
Lady Blessington found themselves at the 
French Metropolis under circumstances 
that greatly added to the enjoyment of the 
latter. Her sway over her extravagant 
lord being absolute, she prevailed on him 
to commence a lengthened tour in Italy, 
in company with the handsome young 
Frenchman, and it was immediately so 
arranged. Count D’Orsay joined the 
Blessingtons at. Avignon—they having 
started from Paris for Italy via Marseilles, 
having with them. her ladyship’s__ sister, 
Mary Anne Power, a younger daughter of 
“Buck” Power. 

Charles Matthews, the comédian, was 
another member of that party, a host in 
himself in contributing to their amuse- 
ment, until this was spoilt by a quarrel 
between himself and D’Orsay. A duel 
would have been the result, had not judi- 
cious friends interfered and made peace 
between them. 

The extravagance of the Blessington 
mode of living abroad exceeded their ex- 
travagance at home. They travelied with 
a retinue of cooks headed by a maitre de 
cuisine, who had been chef to an Emperor. 

They arrived at Genoa in March, 1823. 
Here they met Lord Byron, who then sat 


COUNT D’ORSAY 


to D’Orsay for his last portrait. Byron 
announces their arrival thus, in a letter to 
Moore, dated April 2nd, 1823 :— 


‘Your other allies, whom I have found 
very agreeable personages, are Milor Bles- 
sington and épouse, travelling with a very 
handsome companion in the shape of a 
young French Count, who has all the air of a 
Cupidon dechainé, and is one of the few 
specimens I have seen of our ideal of a 

renchman before the Revolution. Miladi 
seems highly literary. Mountjoy seems very 
good-natured, but is much tamed since [ 
recollect him in all the glories of gems and 
snuff boxes, and uniforms and theatricals, 
and speeches in the House—I mean the 
peers (I must refer you to Pope), and sitting 
to Stroelling, the painter, to be depicted as 
one of the heroes of Agincourt.” 


Three days later, in a letter to Lord 
Blessington, he returns to him the Count’s 
Journal, and writes :— 


“The Count’s Journal, which is a very 
extraordinary production, and of a most 
melancholy truth in all that regards high life 
in England ; I know, or knew personally, 
most of the personages and societies which he 
describes, and after reading his remarks 
have the sensation fresh upon me as if I had 
seen them yesterday. The most extraordinary 
thing is how he should have penetrated not 
the fact, but the mystery, of the English 
ennui at two and twenty. I was about the 
same age when I made the same discovery, 
in almost precisely the same circles, but I 
never onan have described it so well. 
Il faut étre Francais to effect this. Altogether 
your friend’s Journal is a very remarkable 
production. Alas! our dearly beloved 
countrymen have only discovered that they 
are tired and not that they are tiresome. 
I have read the whole with great attention 
and instruction. I am too good a patriot 
to say pleasure, at least, I won’t say so, 
whatever I may think. I beg that you will 
thank the young philosopher, and make my 
compliments to aly Blessington and her 
sister.” 


In subsequent letters Byron repeatedly 
returns tovthe subject of the Count’s 
English Journal :— 


‘*I beg my compliments to Lady Blessing- 
ton, Miss Power, and your Alfred. I think 
since his Majesty of the same name there 
has not been such a learned surveyor of the 
Saxon Society.” 


To D’Orsay himself Byron gives his 
approbation, as follows :— 


April 22, 1823. 
‘* My dear Count D’Orsay. 

(If you will permit me to address you so 
familiarly) you should be content with 
writing in your own language, like Gram- 
mont, and succeeding in London as nobody 
has since the days of Charles II and the 
records of Antonio Hamilton, without devia- 





aE 











PEERS NCC BOE eee RE 





ting into our barbarous language—which 
you understand and write, however, much 
hetter than it deserves. ‘My approbation,’ 
as you are pleased to term it, was very 
sincere, but perhaps not very impartial ; for 
tho’ I love my country, I do not love my 
countrymen—at least such as they are now. 
And besides the seduction of talent and wit 
in your work, I fear that to me there was 
the attraction of vengeance ; I have seen and 
felt much of what you describe so well; I 
have known the persons and réunions 
described—(many of them that is to say), 
and the portraits are so like, that I cannot 
but admire the painter no less than his 
verformance. But I am very sorry for you ; 
for if you are so well acquainted with life at 
your age, what will become of you when the 
illusion is still more dissipated ? 


Believe me, 
Your very obliged and faithful, 
Byron.” 


The world will be interested to learn 
whether this satirical view of English high 
life two generations ago still ex’sts, which 
was pronounced by. such competent 
authority to be equal to anything the 
Comte de Gyammont has left, and even to 
surpass his Memoirs in genuine wit and 
humour. Byron may have praised it 
unduly for the very reason that he has 
stated “that I do not love my countrymen 
—at least such as they are now, though I 
love my country.” After D’Orsay’s de- 
cease the Duchesse de Grammont took 
possession of his papers, but the Journal 
had been destroyed by himself years pre- 
viously, after he had formed different ideas 
from those of his first visit, “lest at any 
time the ideas there expressed should be 
put forth as my matured opinion.” During 
the latter years of Count D’Orsay’s resi- 
dence in England, when his debts were 
pressing hard upon him, he might again 
and again have coined money on the pages 
of a MS. (reputed on no less authority 
than Byron’s) to be so piquant, but he had 
been heard repeatedly to declare that he 
never would “sell the people at whose 
houses he had dined”; and he burnt the 
Journal to render all temptation im- 
possible. 

When Byron went to Greece to die there, 
he made a parting present to Alfred of a 
ring, which he desired him to keep: “ It is 
too large to wear, but it is formed of lava, 
and so far adapted to the fire of his years 
and character.” 

In his “ Pencillings by the Way” N. P. 
Willis says that the Count was the most 


COUNT D ORSAY 543 


splendid specimen of a man, and of a well 
dressed man, as he had ever seen. The 
portraits confirm that opinion. He was 
six feet in height, broad chested, with 
small hands and feet, hazel eyes, and 
chestnut hair. Sidney, in his “ Book of 
the Horse,” mentions him as the first of a 
triad of dandies, the two others being the 
Earl of Sefton and the Earl of Chester- 
field. A characteristic engraving taken 
from an oil sketch by Sir Francis Grant, 
in the collection of Sir Richard Wallace, 
shows D’Orsay on his park hack in Rotten 
Row. 

D’Orsay so endeared himself to his Eng- 
lish friends, that a union was at length 
proposed by Lord Blessington between him 
and the younger of his two daughters by 
his first wife, Mrs. Browne. This pro- 
position meeting the approval of the 
Count’s family, it was decided that Lady 
Harriette should become his wife; she 
was accordingly sent for, and the marriage 
was celebrated at Rome. That this un- 
happy marriage was forced on Count 
D’Orsay there can be no doubt ; yet he had 
then reached the age of twenty-seven, 
when he married a beautiful woman whom 
he could not love, while loving a beautiful 
woman whom he could not marry, which 
resulted in his separation from his wife 
almost at the church door. The grievous 
wrong done to one almost a child in years. 
experience, and understanding, may rather 
be laid to the charge of those who promoted 
the marriage. 

After a lengthened tour and a sojourn 
of some years in Italy, Lord and Lady 
Blessington, with the Count and Countess 
D’Orsay came to reside in Paris, where 
their joint careers received a check by the 
death of Lord Blessington from apoplexy 
in 1829. 

It was very remarkable to observe the 
affection which D’Orsay inspired in chil- 
dren, whom he seemed to attract by 
an influence which the most reserved 
and shy could no more resist than 
the most confiding. Children who usually 
held aloof from strangers would steal to 
his side, take his hand, and be quite happy 
and at ease. 

In society no one was too humble, too 
little au fait in the mode of living, to be 
beneath his notice or beyond his power of 
finding out any peculiar talent the person 








544 


might possess, on which he could converse 
with him. Men of all classes, opinions, 
and positions found themselves at home 
with him on some particular question or 
other, from his natural facility of adapting 
himself to those around him. His active 
mind declared itself in conversational 
exercise. He often said that “he had never 
known the meaning of the word ennui.” 
To the last he retained this happy frame 
of mind when he had lost his fortune and 
nearly all he loved best on earth. 

He was severe on arrogance and affecta- 
tion, and satirical on the purse-proud ; on 
these he let play his keen wit and powers 
of raillery. He had made a study of the 
wit of Talleyrand, and he had become a 
proficient in that species of refined con- 
ventional esprit, combining terseness of lan- 
guage, neatness of expression, and certi- 
tudé of aim with the polish and sharpness 
of an intellectual weapon of rare excel- 
lence :— 


‘* His social wit, which, never kindling strife, 
Blazed in the small, sweet courtesies of life, 
Those little sapphires round the diamond shone, 
Lending soft radiance to the richer stone.” 


It became evident on Lord Blessington’s 
death that the splendours of the Hotel 
Ney must be abandoned, Early in 1831 
D’Orsay and Lady Blessington had drifted 
back to London. Thenceforth, for nearly 
twenty years they. wielded a sort of 
supremacy over a considerable circle of the 
artistic and fashionable world of London. 
They gathered around them in their draw- 
ing-rooms for five years in Mayfair, for 
nearly fifteen at Kensington, all the social 
and literary celebrities of their time. They 
lived scrupulously apart for the greater 
part of the time, though within easy dis- 
tance. While the Countess had her home 
at Gore House, the Count occupied a villa 
next door. During his career in London 
D’Orsay was recognised universally as the 
“arbiter elegantiarum” and beau par ex- 
cellence of his age, and was very much 
more deserving of that distinction than any 
other of the oracles of dress and deport- 
ment who had given the law to a particular 
set. D’Orsay was anything but a mere fop 
and adventurer; he was a gallant gentle- 
man of refined taste and of aristocratic 
birth. His pure classical features, his 
accomplishments, and irreproachable get- 


COUNT D’ORSAY 


up made him everywhere the centre of 
attraction. 

He possessed great strength and daunt- 
less courage. He was one of the best 
shots, the best fencers and the best boxers 
of his day. He rode well to hounds, but 
the hunting men at Melton thought his 
style rather that of the riding school than 
of the hunting field. In dress he was deci- 
dedly to the front, his name being attached 
by the tailors to any kind of raiment, till 
Vestris made him a subject of ridicule by 
an application to his tailor for a coat made 
after the Count’s pattern; the tailor re- 
ceived the Count’s permission, who, no 
doubt thought it was some admirer’s way 
of testifying his admiration ; but on going 
to the Olympic Theatre to see a new piece, 
he had the pleasure of seeing his coat on 


the back of Liston as a burlesque of him- 
self. 


The New Monthly Magazine for 
August, 1845, remarks on D’Orsay as 
follows :— 


“Whatever Count D’Orsay under- 
takes seems invariably to be well 
done. As the ‘arbiter elegantiarum 
he has réigned supreme in dress and 
fashion. To emulate him was once 
the ambition of the youth of England, 
who then discovered in this model no 
higher attributes. But if time, ‘who 
steals away our years, steals also our 
pleasures, he replaces them with others 
or substitutes a better thing ; and thus 
it has befallen Count D’Orsay.” 

D’Orsay was both a sculptor and a 
painter. Most of his works of art are 
well known. His portrait of Wellington, 
who had so great a regard for him that it 
was sufficient to mention D’Orsay’s name 
to ensure his attention and interest even 
when otherwise occupied, was, we be- 
believe, the last the Duke ever sat for. At 
its completion his Grace warmly shook 
hands with the noble artist, exclaiming “At 
last I have been painted like a gentleman ! 
I’ll never sit to anyone else.” 

Count D’Orsay’s statuettes of Napoleon 
and of the Duke of Wellington, and of his 
portraits of Dwarkanauth Tagore and of 
Lord Lyndhurst, exhibited capabilities of 
the first order. Additional proof of his 
powers has been given by the publication 
of the engraving of his portrait of Lord 
Byron, wherein that noble bard is repre- 














pane 


7 — 
—_—— 








COUNT D’ORSAY 545 


o 


GORE HOUSE, RESIDENCE OF COUNTESS BLESSINGTON. 


sented where he most loved to be, on the 
deck of his own vessel. 
Haydon in his Diary, 31st of June, 1838, 
makes this mention of D’Orsay : 
“About seven, D’Orsay called, 
whom I had not seen for long. He 
was much improved, and looked the 
glass of fashion and the mould of 
form; really a complete Adonis not 
made up at all. He made some 
capital remarks, all cf which must be 
attended to. They were sound impres- 
sions and grand. He bounded into 
his cab and drove off like a young 
Apollo with a fiery Pegasus. I looked 
after him, I like to see such speci- 
mens.” 
Again in his Diary, roth July, 1839, 
Haydon observes : 
“D’Orsay called, and pointed out 
several things to correct in the horse 
(the Duke’s Waterloo charger), verify- 
ing Lord Fitzroy’s criticism of Sun- 
day last. I cid them, and he took 
my brush in his dandy gloves, which 
made my heart ache, and lowered the 
hindquarters by ringing over a bit of 
sky. Such a dress—white great coat, 
blue satin cravat, hair oiled an 1 curl- 








ing, hat of the primest curve and 
purest water, gloves scented with ear 
de Cologne or eau de jasmine, prim- 
rose in tint, skin in tightness, In this 
prime of dandyism he took up a nasty, 
oily, dirty hogtool, and immortalised 
Copenhagen (the charger), by touch- 
ing the sky.” 
The Globe newspaper truly observed 
after his death :-— 

“ Unquestionably one of the celebri- 
ties of our day, the deceased man of 
fashion, claims more than the usual 
curt obituary:—It were unjust to 
class him with the mere Brummells, 
Mildmays, Alvanleys, or Pierrepoints 
of the Regency, with whom in his 
early life he associated, much less the 
modern men about town who have suc- 
ceeded them. Equally idle were the 
attempt to rank him with a Prince de 
Ligne, an admirable Crichton, or an 
Alcibiades ; yet was he a singularly 
gifted and accomplished personage.” 

In Dickens’s Household Words occurs 
this passage : — 

“At Number 5 lived Count 
D’Orsay, whose name is synonymous 
with elegant and graceful accomplish- 











546 COUNT D’ORSAY 


ments ; and who, by those who knew 
him well, is affectionately remembered 
and regretted as a man whose great 
abilities might have raised him to any 
distinction, and whose gentlé heart - 
even a world of fashion left unspoilt. 

And MrsSergeant Ballantine says in ‘his 
Experiences :— ; 

“Count D’Orsay was courteous to 
everyone, and_ kindly. He put the 
companions of ‘his own sex perfectly 
at their ease, and delighted them with 
his varied conversation, and I hever 
saw anyone whose manner to ladies 
was more pleasing and deferential ; 
and I am not ashamed to record the 
fact that wheny.as occurred occa- 
sionally, he stopped and spoke to me 
in the park or elsewhere, I used to 
hope hat some of my ordinary com- 
panions_might witness me in converse 
with this ‘glorious creature.’ ” 

It is very_eyident that this man “was 
something more than a mere fop and man 
of fashion;*or “a compound even of Her- 
cules and Adonis,” who could enumerate 
amongst his friends the Duke of Welling- 
ton, Lords Brougham,  Ellenborough. 
Lyndhurst, and Byron; as well as suc's 
men as Landor, Campbell, Forster, the 
D’Israelis, and the Bulwers. 

Count D’Orsay’s mother was _ strongly 
attached to Lady Blessington, and fre- 
quently before her death she spoke to her 
with great earnestness of her anxieties for 
her son, chiefly on account of his tendency 
to extravagance, and she entreated Lady 
Blessington to watch over him and to use 
all her influence to check these propensi- 
ties. Lady Blessington often alluded to 
the promise she had given to the dying 
Countess D’Orsay ; as also the Count did 
after Lady Blessington’s death. 

We have already said Lady Blessington 
and Count D’Orsay returned to London in 
1830, and about the end of the following 
year, she had fitted up a residence in Sea- 
more Place, Mayfair. Here she gathered 
around her as many distinguished people 
as she could entertain, and queened it 
amongst them with a magnificence only a 
little less regal than she had shown in 
Italian and French palaces. 

In the year 1836 Gore House became the 
headquarters of the demi-monde, with the 
Countess of Blessington as their queen. 


D'Orsay was almost invariably present at 
these receptions. Latterly hg became domi- 
ciled at Gore House, to avoid the danger 
of being arrested for debt. He there 
carried on his profile sketches of people of 
fashion“of that day, which numbered one 


hundred — and twenty- five . ime. all, and 
‘were. published by Mitchell,’ ‘of Bond 
Street. o? 


Among$t thé visitors welcomed até 
House were Walter Savage Landor, who’ 
praised the héstéss‘in verse and prose; the” 
elder D’Israeli, who, even in his erghtieth 
year, sought the same inspiration; the 
younger D’Israeli, who sketched, D’Orsay 
to life under the name of Count Mirabel, 
in his love +alé of Henrietta Temple ; 


Thomas Campbell, the poet, who was the ; 


only man she came-in contact with who 
remained insensible to her fascinations, 
which she tried on him in vain—the canny 
Scot shied from her hand like a Highland 
sheltie ; Bulwer Lytton, who inscribed to 
P Orsay his politic ‘al romance of “ Godol- 
phin,” referring to him “as the most accom- 
plished gentleman of our time” ; two great 
Lord Chancellors, Lyndhurst and Ellen- 
horough, with the accomplished Marquis 
Wellesley, and Lord Brougham were 
pleased to relax in that pleasant circle. 
lord Normanby, a novelist, as well as 
an ambassador, Lord Durham, and Lord 
Chesterfield assisted in giving a tone of 
fashion as well as of gaiety to the agreeable 
conversaziones. 

Prince Louis Napoleon occupies a distinct 
place apart from the general crowd of the 
habitués of Gore House. He was then 
looked upon as a harmless refugee without 
influence or resources, and as a dreamer of 
the vainest dreams. At that time he had 
published “Les Idées Napoleoniennes” ; 
and in the course of a few years the same 
quiet and observant author had written 
another book, which was sold by hundreds 
of thousands throughout the world. The 
relations which had existed between Count 
D Orsay and the prescribed Prince Louis 
Napoleon, the twice defeated conspirator 
and still conspiring emigré were of the 
most confiding and intimate nature. To 
the Prince, D’Orsay was something more 
than a mere oracle of fashion—for he 
possessed the intimate friendship of states- 
men of all parties, foreign Ministers at the 
Court of St. James, secretaries of several 





Cx 





gL 


Legations, and his powerful influence with 
the editors of newspapers was wide- 
ly exerted in the cause of the exile of 
Ham. 

To these influences the prescribed con- 
spirator was indebted for his position in 
society, for opportunities of acquiring influ- 
ence, and of early and timely knowledge of 
passing events in foreign Courts. He said 
with truth when the news of Count 
D’Orsay’s death reached him that he had 
“Jost his best friend.” 

During his residence at Gore House 
D’Orsay was a most generous benefactor 
to his countrymen in need of assistance. 
From Louis Napoleon down to the poorest 
exile, he afforded relief with a considerate 
delicacy and sympathy which increased the 
value of his bounty. He founded the 
Société de Bienfaissance, still existing in 
London, for the benefit of his distressed 
countrymen. 

When D’Orsay fell into pecuniary em- 
barassments, his debts had reached the 
enormous total of £120,000, and he was 
obliged to remain in close concealment, to 
avoid the bailiffs, within the walls of Gore 
House, where he amused himself by paint- 
ing, sculpture, and by “ stalking sparrows,” 
as he called it, shooting them with a pea 
rifle in the garden. He relinquished all 
interest in the Blessington estates in con- 
sideration of certain annuities being re- 
deemed and of a stipulated sum being 
handed over to himself. The result of this 
arrangement was that with the annuities 
the aggregate sum paid to his creditors 
by 1851 amounted to upwards’. of 
£103,500. During the period of his 
twenty years’ residence in London he him- 
self had an allowance from the Court of 
Chancery in Ireland of £550 a 
year. Lady Blessington’s liabilities had 
long been desperate, even with the 
assistance of her literary productions. 
The final crash came in the April 
of 1849, when D’Orsay started for Paris, 
taking with him his valet and a single port- 
manteau. Lady Blessington followed him 
soon afterwards, accompanied by her 
nieces, the Misses Power. Their old friend, 
Louis Napoleon, was then President of the 
Republic. On the 4th of June of that year, 
Lady Blessington was carried off by a 
sudden fit of apoplexy, as her lord had 
been twenty years before. Her death pro- 


COUNT D’ORSAY 547 


foundly affected D’Orsay, who busied him- 
self in designing and erecting a fitting 
monument to her memory, in which he took 
a deep and mournful interest. 

In the following year he hired an im- 
mense studio attached to the house of M. 
Gerdin, the celebrated marine painter, to 
which he removed all his belongings, in- 
cluding his own works and implements of 
art. His talents were now developed in 
the extraordinary taste shown in the 
arrangement and transformation of a large 
was:e room, with raked lofts, into one of the 
most elegantly fitted up and admirably dis- 
posed studios in Paris, and a habitable 
salon of great beauty, combining requisites 
for a museum en miniature. In this salon 
he lived, here he daily received the visits 
of some of the greatest celebrities of 
Europe; statesmen, politicians, diploma- 
tists, men of letters and artists were his 
constant visitors and frequent guests. 

The ex-roi Jerome, one of his most 
faithful and attached friends, desired to 
see him elevated to a post worthy of his 
acceptance, but this hope was destined to 
be defeated. Meanwhile he executed a 
bust of Lamartine, of Emile de Gerardin, 
and of Napoleon, the son of Jerome; 
shortly before his death, he had completed 
the small model of a full-sized statue of 
the ex-roi Jerome, ordered by the 
Government for the Salle des Marechaux de 
France. The three works of art on which 
D’Orsay most prided himself were the 
statuettes of the Emperor of Russia, 
Napoleon, and the Duke of Wellington. 

Charles Greville states in his Journal of 
the Reign of Queen Victoria that Louis 
Napoleon wished to give D’Orsay a diplo- 
matic mission, and he certainly was very 
near being made Minister at Hanover, but 
that the French Ministry would not consent 
to it. The poor Count pined away, expect- 
ing in vain. The President of the Republic 
had nothing in common with the exile of 
Ham. D Orsay was struck to the heart by 
the ingratitude of Louis Napoleon, Though 
his generous nature was incapable of bitter- 
ness, he suffered deeply and long in silence. 
He had separated himself from general 
society since Lady Blessington’s death, but 
he still received in his studio-salon morning 
visits from his family and a small circle of 
intimate friends. The Duchess de Gram- 
mont with the Misses Power were his de- 





548 


voted attendants in sickness and sorrow. 
The ex-roi Jerome and his son, Emile de 
Gerardin, and the well-known M. Ouvrard 
were amongst the last in whose constant 
society he found repose and _ happiness, 
when that of others had lost its charm. 

On the oth of April, 1849, the Duke of 
Wellington had written a letter to Count 
D’Orsay, in which the following passage 
occurs :— 

‘‘Je me rejouis de la prosperité de la 
France et du succés de M. le President de la 
Republique. Tout tend vers la permanence 
de la paix de l’Europe qui est necessaire 
pour le bonheur de chacun. 

Votre ami tres devoué, 
WELLINGTON.” 


This singular letter of one of the most 
clear-sighted, far-seeing men of modern 
times was written after the election of 
Louis Napoleon to the Presidency of the 
Republic, not after the coup d'état of 
December, 1851, which, effected, as it was, 
at the loss of personal honour and the cost 
of perjury and blood, put an end to the 
friendship between D’Orsay and Louis 


Napoleon. The former, with his chivalrous 
notions as to solemn promises and sacred 


oaths, believed the President of the 
Republic had violated these obligations, 
and unwisely expressed his opinion thereof 
in these words: “ It is the greatest political 
swindle that has ever been practised in the 
world.” Such sentiments were very unwel- 
come to the new régime. Lady Blessington 
had been equally unwise. “ Are you going 
to stay long in France?” inquired the head 
of the Republic, as their carriage stopped 
a few minutes side by side in a crowded 
thoroughfare. “I don’t know,” answered 
the fugitive lady, saucily; “are you?” 
Indiscreet remarks of this nature would 
naturally tend to block the road to fortune. 

It must be rémembered that just then 
D’Orsay was wholly dependent on the 
favour of the Prince for his future fortunes 
in his native land ; and that he had returned 
to France reckoning on the gratitude of his 
former friend, now head of the French 
Republic, to whose establishment he had 
so largely helped. He was at first well 
received, but aficr the coup d@ état the amity 
of the Prince and Count cooled down from 
blood heat to the freezing point. The man 
with the heavy evelids, pressed down by 
the leaden hand of care and calculation, 


COUNT D’ORSAY 


having imposed upon himself the weight of 
Empire, could not see his former friends 
without looking down on them; and 
D'Orsay would not be looked down on 
even by an Emperor. 

At last, however, when a representation 
was made to the Prince-President (for he 
was not elevated to the Imperial rank till 
the following December) of D’Orsay’s 
urgent necessity, he deigned to recognise 
his claim, and he appointed his old friend 
Director of Fine Arts, of which appoint- 
ment it cannot be truly said, “ better late 
than never.” The Prince thought by this 
tardy favour, which came too late, to screen 
himself from just reproach. 

Directly afterwards, in the spring of 
1852, the spinal affection, which ultimately 
proved fatal, declared itself unmistakeably, 
to which was added disease of the lungs, 
causing intense suffering, and which, ac- 
cording to his devoted attendants, was 
borne with great fortitude. At Dieppe he 
was visited by Dr. Madden, who witnessed 
a pathetic scene. D’Orsay was so overcome 
with emotion, that for a long time he could 
not speak. Gradually he became more 
composed, and talked of Lady Blessing- 
ton’s death, while all the time the tears 
poured down his wan, death-stricken face. 
He said with marked stress: “Zn losing 
her 1 lost everything in the world—she was 
to me a mother, a dear, dear mother! a true 
loving mother to me!” While he uttered 
these words he sobbed and cried like a 
child. Again he said, “You understand 
me.” Dr. Madden received his words as 
those of a dying man speaking from the 
heart, expressing nothing to encourage the 
belief that he sought to deceive his hearer 
or himself. 

In the dying man’s chamber was a 
crucifix, placed over the head of his bed ; 
to divert his mind to that source of consola- 
tion which alone could bring peace at the 
last, the same friend remarked on its pres- 
ence, finally observing that “ men living so 
much in the world as he had done were 
likely to forget the calls of religion.” 
D’Orsay seemed hurt by this remark, he 
arose and stood upright at a great effort, 
and said, “ Do you see those two swords ?” 
(pointing to two small swords hung over the 
crucifix crosswise) “do you see that sword 
to the right ? With it I fought for my rell- 
gion with an officer at the mess-table, for 





COUNT 


using impious language in speaking of the 
Blessed Virgin ; 
in his face ; we fought that evening on the 
ramparts of the town, and I have kept the 
sword ever since.” 

During his illness he had more than once 
been visited by the excellent Archbishop 
of Paris, who, though comparatively a late 
acquaintance, entertained for him a warm 
regard. Two days before his decease the 
Archbishop had a long conversation with 
him, and at parting embraced him, assuring 
him of his friendship and affectionate 
regard. “ J’ai pour vous plus que |’amitié, 
jai de l’affection,” were the Archbishop's 
words. The following day, the last of his 
existence, he réceived the consolations of 
religion from the curé of Chambourcy. He 
had done much to adorn the church of this 
good priest, and had painted and given the 
original picture of the Mater Dolorosa ex- 
pressly for the church, the lithograph of 
which is well known, and is sold under the 
title of the Magdalen; though why thus 
styled it would be difficult to say. 

Count D’Orsay died on the 4th of 
August, 1852, in the house of his sister, the 
Duchesse de Grantthont. He had pre- 
pared his last reéstifig-place by the side of 


I threw a dish of spinach 


D’ORSAY 519 
Marguerite, Countess of Blessington, whom 
he had survived three years and two 
months. On a green eminence in the 
village of Chambourcy, near St. Germains- 
on-Laye, where the rustic churchyard joins 
the estates of the Grammont family, rises 
a marble pyramid. In the sepulchral 
chamber there is a stone sarcophagus on 
e'ther side, each surmounted by a white 
marble tablet ; that to the left encloses the 
remains of Lady Blessington; that to the 
right now received the body of Count 
D’Orsay. The funeral took place on the 
7th of August. The Duc de Grammont 
being confined to his bed, two nephews 
acted as chief mourners, Count Alfred de 
Grammont and the Duc de Lesparre, and 
the sadness of the scene was deepened by 
the presence of the Duchesse de Grammont, 
his teloved sister, who, with the Misses 
Power had cheered his last illness by their 
tender solicitude. Amongst the crowd of 
notabilities, the Prince-President was con- 
spicuous. No funeral oration was pro- 
nounced over the body. 

Thus terminated at the age of fifty-one 
years the existence of this highly-gifted 
man, when hardly beyond the prime of 
life. 


<* 
tee 


ea. 
ag* 


* DAWN 


By WILFRID L. RANDELL 


~*~ ~~ 
rag ™ 


= 


«- 


HE world drew near adventurous to dare 
My soul, and set its harmonies astray, 

So that my feet, treading earth’s wind:ag war, 
Might falter, and my songs be hushed with care. 
Life’s noblest visions passed me unaware; 

And when Night lowered the banners of the fray 

My wistful eyes implored the loitering day, 
Yet found with dawn no blessing anywhere. 


But when, a fugitive, I came to thee, 
Lo, Love stole smiling by to reach my side, 
And Hope made sanctuary for my fears ; 
So, with thy winsome grace my armoury 
I dauntless stood, and al! the world defied, 
Secure, elate to face the coming years. 


No 30. September, 1905. 





Walter-Barnett. 
LORD BROOKE. 


Author of * An Eye- Witness in Manchuria.” 


(Published th's Su:nmer.] 













a a Recaps ae 




























































































































































































O the ordinary “man in the street,” the 
T Lord Chamberlain is one of those 
personages whose name he often reads 
in the papers, but of whom he in reality 
knows very little. Nor is his knowledge 
much increased by being informed that the 
present Lord Chamberlain of England is 
the Right Hon. the Earl of Clarendon, for 
to the average man the personality of this 
nobleman is hardly better known than the 
work of his office. It is because so many er- 
rors have appeared in various papers as to 
the Lord Chamberlain’s duties and office 
that I sought, for the Enciisu ILLus- 
TRATED MAGAZINE. some particulars at 
first-hand, and was kindly allowed by his 
lordship to visit his apartments at St. 
James Palace, and was furnished offici- 


THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN AND HIS 
WORK 


By GEORGE A. WADE 









more direct guidance, such as the Ass’st- 
ant-Comp*roller and others. 

Whilst the various rooms are all very 
well and comfortably furnished—with 
carpets, chairs, tables, and pictures that 
would do no discredit to a fine old man- 
sion—yet ‘here is about the place the 
easily-recognised air of work. This 
seems to pervade all the rooms, yet it is not 
manifest by hurry and scurry, by a display 
of excessive energy, as in some offices ; it is 
rather borne in upon the casual visitor by 
the continual interruptions to which 
his visit is subject owing to the con- 
stant coming of this person or that 
in search of necessary information about 
something or somebody connected with the 
wide region wherein the Lord Chamberlain 


ally with much of the information hereg.rules. 


given. 

Let us begin with some account of the 
office itself. It is situated im that part of 
the Palace known as Stable Yard, and 
consists of several very well-furnished 
rooms for the use of the Lord Chamber- 
lain and his subordinates. His lordship’s 
own work-room has a table so filled 
with papers and books of reference as to 
prove that the work done at it is anything 
but light and some of the most ticklish 
problems in the Kingdom may be sa‘d to 
be often settled at this table; for what 
occasions more bickerings and jealousy in 
the hearts of the aristocracy than the 
thorny question of precedence and place? 
Then Sir Arthur Ellis, who acts as Comp- 
troller of the Royal Household, has a 
finely-furnished work-room, with a pretty 
ante-room for those waiting to see him on 
business ; and he finds quite enough to do 
there each day, what with this person and 
that who “want to know, don’t you 
know !” 

There is a large apartment, with three 
or four large tables, on the ground floor, 
devoted to the use of the various clerks, 
whilst other rooms are set apart for gentle- 
men working under the Lord Chamberlain’; 


Hat 





What is this region; and what has the 
Lord Chamberlain to do? Let it be made 
quite clear at the start that the Lord 
Chamberlain is an altogether distinct per- 
son, and his office qu'te separate, from the 
Lord Great Chamberlain of England. The 
two are often confounded, and indeed this 
is scarcely to be wondered at. The Lord 
Great Chamberlain is an officer of State, 
whose office is hereditary and runs in the 
families of the Cholmondleys and Ancas- 
ters ; the Lord Chamberlain is an officer of 
the Royal Household. and is dependent 


‘upon Parliament for h's position, as he is 


appointed anew by each successive Govern- 
ment. ; 
The Lord Chamberlain, then, has con- 
trol over a vast number of appointments 
in the Royal Palaces, from those of the 
King’s physicians down to that of the char- 
woman who sweeps out the servants’ rooms 
there. He it is who gives to various 
tradesmen the right of calling themselves 
“purveyors” to the King and Queen for 
various kinds of articles supplied, if he is 
satisfied with the qualities of the goods and 
deems it wise to appoint such a person as 
a purvevor to Royalty. He also nominates 
many of the close atterdants upon the 


Qq-2 


552 THE 
person of the King—of cours*, subject to 
his Majesty’s private wishes and inclina- 
tions, which are always consulted nowa- 
days in these matters. And certain posts 
of State-officialdom about the monarch are 
also at the disposal of the Lord Cham- 
berlain, such as those of the Gentlemen- 
Ushers, the Pages-of-State, the Serjeants- 
at-Arms, the Yeomen of the Guard, etc. 
But perhaps 
even more im- 
portant than 
the foregoing 
are the duties 
of the Lord 
Ch a mberlain 
as regards the 
holding of 
Courts and 
levees. The 
names of lad- 
ies and gentle- 
men wishing 
to be pre- 
sented have 
to be sub- 
mitted to his 
lordship, and 
by him to the 
King; __ their 
various rights 
and privileges, 
as well as 
their preced- 
ence, deter- 
mined upon; 
they have to 
be notified of 
this and that; 
the actual cere- 
monies have to 
be organised 
and _ rehearsed 
under the Lord Chamberlain’s personal 
directions, and there is such a vast amount 
of minute detail to watch, that the wonder 
is it is ever all kept straight and work- 
able, let alone made the success that all 
such occasions are admitted to be. 
Formerly the Lord Chamberlain used 
to have to undertake all the work and over- 
sight connected with such important events 
as the Coronation. Royal marriages and 
funerals, openings of Parliament, and 
other affairs of similar nature. Of what 


LORD CHAMBERLAIN AND 


THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF 
CLARENDON, LORD CHAMBERLAIN. 


Hi> WORK 
this means, only those can form any ilea 
who have once seen it gone through in 
the office. Put nowadays the Earl Marshal 
has somewhat lightened the Lord Cham- 
berlain’s work in these matters, for the 
coronation and funeral of the Sovereign 
are under his responsible direction. The 
Lord Chamberlain still keeps control of 
the arrangements for Royal marriages. It 
: is a curious 
division of 
work, certainly 
—and the man 
in the street 
may well be 
forgiven for 
not clearly 
c o m prehend- 
ing why the 
official who 
has charge of 
wedding ar- 
ran gements 
cannot also 
take charge 
of funeral 
matters, when 
such are un- 
f o rtunately 
necessary, and 
so save the 
trouble, ex- 
pense. and ex- 
tra officialdom ! 
But our Eng- 
lish State af- 
fairs are often 
beyond the 
c om prehen- 
sion of  intel- 
lects far 
greater than 
that of the 
average ma. in the street, and if such 
men as Burke, Fox, Peel, and Gladstone 
failed to grasp the why and the wherefore 
of this or that in our Constitution, the 
ordinary subject can hardly be expected 
to understan1 it. 

Another function of the Lord Chamber- 
lain that the ordinary person often hears 
about is that of a “theatre-licenser,” and 
of a “censor of plays.” There are certain 
theatres over which his lordship, by virtue 
of his office, has a full and direct control. 


Photo by Ev'iott and Fry. 





THE LORD CHAMBERI 


He can order them to shut up or open, 
almost as he pleases, so complete are his 
powers ; he can take away their license or 
renew it, independently of magistrates or 
others, if he so desires. The theatres in 
the old Metropolitan area come under his 
control, also those in some remoter towns, 
such as Windsor and Margate. There are 
various reasons why he has control of 
these ; for in- 
stance, Wind- 
sor is a Royal 
borough, and 
special acts 
of Parliament 
of years ago 
made the 
Lord Cham- 
berlain the 
controller of 
the theatres 
at Bath, Mar- 
gate, and 
other places. 
Then 
again, al) 
plays, before 
they can be 
licensed for 
p e rformance 
at any Brit- 
ish theatre. 
must be read 
and passed by 
his lordship, 
or by some 
gent leman 
specially ap- 
pointed by 
him for that 
duty. The 
latter func- 
tionary — for 
the Lord Chamberlain himself never poses 
as the actual judge of intended theatrical 
performances—is now Mr. George A. Red- 
ford. This gentleman has to read all 
plays submitted to the Lord Chamberlain 
for his approval, and to give his verdict 
upon them as to whether they are fit or 
not for public representation. Upon that 
dictum the Lord Chamberlain acts, and 
acts fearlessly. It is, in my judgment, an 
excellent way, despite what little objec- 
tions now and then occur, or what criticism 


AIN AND HIS 


THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN’S OFFICE, ST. JAMES’S 
PALACE. 


WORK 553 
may be offered by annoyed authors and 
managers, when the Lord Chamberlain and 
the censor do not quite regard some ques- 
tion of morality or Biblical representation 
in the same light as do the interested 
parties. 

The Lord Chamberlain, too, is always 
a member of the Privy Council, and, 
being usually in close touch with his Ma- 
jesty the 
King, he has 
generally to 
take a more 
active part in 
its meetings 
than many 
members take. 
So that his 
actual duties 
are much in- 
creased there- 
by, as he ‘s 
tightly con- 
sidered an 


a ut h ority 
from whom 
it is danger- 


cus to differ 
when certain 
questions of 
Court eti- 
quette, cus- 
tom, or pre- 
cedence crop 
up during 
the debates. 
Having, 
then, dealt 
with the 
mani f old 
duties of this 
important offi- 
cial, let usturn 
our attention for a little while to the his. 
tory of the office itself. The first Lord 
Chamberlain of whom we have any record 
was Sir William Stanley, Knight, who was 
app2inted to this office by his Royal master, 
King Henry VII., for his services at Bos- 
worth field. Stanley was beheaded in 
1485, and so did not long adorn the new 
office, and his successor was another 
Knight who was subsequently made Earl 
of Worcester. From that date, all the 
Lord Chamberlains of England have been 


Photo by Sparrcre. 








554 THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN AND HIS WORK 


noblemen of high ranx. To-day, the office 
is always looked upon as a most important 
and desirable one ; it is much sought after 
by noble supporters of the party that 
comes into power after a General Elec 
tion. The Pr.me Minister nominates the 
nobleman whom he wishes to be Lord 
Chamberlain, but, of course. he makes sure 
beforehand that his nominee sha!l be a 
gentleman ac- 
ceptable to 
the Sovereign, 
as were any 
lord not per- 
sonally liked 
and respected 
by the mon- 
arch to be ap- 
pointed to 
such a post as 
this, there is 
no telling 
what  awk- 
ward results 
might ensue. 

There have 
been some 
notable hold- 
ers of the 
office ; yet, on 
the whole, it 
is far more 
important 
that the Lord 
C h amberlain 
should be a 
person well 
known social- 
ly, and thor- 


oughly in 
touch with 
the Court cir- SI2 


cle and fre- 
que.ters, than 
that he shou'd be a_ strong party- 
man or important debater in the 
Upper House or anything of that 
kind. Whilst nominally a supporter 
of the Ministry, and known to many mem- 
bers of the Houses of Parliament. the 
Lord Chamberlain’s office and personality 
are more important on the social side of 
our Constitution, and hence the hold- 
er of the office is often a noble- 
man who has never posed before the 





SPENCER PONSONBY-FANE, THE DOYEN OF 
GENTLEMEN-USHERS OF THE COURT. 


electors as a public speaker or a keen 
party-man. 

This explains why the present Lord 
Chamberlain, the Right Hon. the Earl of 
Clarendon, is a nobleman of whom, per- 
sonally, the “man in the street” has heard 
so little as compared with what he knows 
about certain peers of the realm. Edward 
Hyde Villiers is the fifth earl of Claren- 
don, ‘and has 
held the office 
oc Lord 
C h amberlain 
since 1900. 
He is an 
A.D.C. to the 
King, and a 
lor d-in- 
Waiting to the 
Queen, and 
is now fifty- 
nine years 
old, having 
been born in 
London on 
February 
11th, 1846. 
He succeeded 
his father in 
the earldom 
in 1870, and 
is a Liberal- 
Unionist in 
politics. He 
was educated 
at Harrow 
School, and 
went to Trin- 
ity College. 
C a m bridge. 
He joined 
the House of 
Commons as 
M.P. for Bre- 
con, and continued to represent that con- 
stituency until he succeeded to the peer- 
age. He is a fairly large land-owner in 
the counties of Warwickshire and Hert- 
fordshire, and to him belongs the celebrated 
Kenilworth Castle, now in ruins. His 
usual residence out of London is at The 
Grove, Watford, where he thoroughly en- 
joys such periods of rest and relief as 
he can snatch from the busy days of Court 
life during the trying London season, 








THE TORD CHAMBERLAIN AND HIS WORK 


or during the periods of 
official excitement when 
some great State cere- 
monies are proceeding 
for: which he is respon- 
sible. 

His recreations are 
those of the average 
country gentleman. Ile 
is very fond of hunting 
and of shooting, whilst 
his chief indoor relaxa- 
tion is a game of bil- 
liards. As a landlord, 
he is well-liked, and as 
a “chief” at the de- 
partment in Stable 
Yard everybody speaks 
of him with the highest 
respect and loyalty. He 
commands the confi- 
dence and trust of all 
those working under 


him, and is ever courte- 
ous, ready to help or 
advise, and desirous of 
doing all 


he can in 
every way to make the 
great wheels of State 
work smoothly under 
the intricate and often 
delicately - balanced 
weight of Court cere- 
mony and red-tape that 
nave centuries of precedence and custom 
behind them. 

One duty is imposed on the Lord 
Chamberlain that was not mentioned above, 
and is little known. He has to take 
charge of the various insignia of most of 
the Orders of Knighthood; and this in 
itself is no cuean task, either in respect of 
the responsibility or with regard to the 
great value of the articles thus committed 
to his charge. 

Yet, with all this, the Lord Chamber- 
lain, though, probably, his duties are the 
most important of any pertaining to officers 
of the Royal Household, does not rank as 
the premier officer of the Household. That 
distinction belongs to the Lord Steward, 
of whose work and office most people know 
even less than they do about the Lord 
Chamberlain. The latter ranks as the 
second person of the King’s Household, 


Photo by Ball, 


THE KING'S BARGEMEN ARE APPOINTED BY THE LORD 


CHAMBERLAIN. 


whilst the Master of the Horse comes 
third. 

Buckingham Palace and Windsor 
Castle in England (and to some extent 
Holyrood Palace in Scotland) are under 
the regime of the Lord Chamberlain’s de- 
partment. He has to look after the 
Poet Laureate, and he has to appoint the 
King’s Bargemaster! He has to super- 
intend the duties of the Corps of Gentle- 
men-at-Arms, and he has to see that the 
Royal swans on the Thames are preserved 
and attended to! The Lord Chamberlain 
gives an eye to the King’s music, as pro- 
vided by the Royal band under Sir Walter 
Parratt ; and he also has under his pur- 
view the gamekeepers in Windsor Forest ! 

Such a variety of duties, such a multi- 
tude of work; such a range from the 
pinnacles of State to some very humble re- 
sponsibilities, are not to be found com- 





556 THE 
prised in any other Government ap- 
pointment in this country. It re- 
quires a master-mind of its kind to be 
a successful Lord Chamberlain, and curi- 
ously enough, it is when the holder is most 
successful that one hears least about him 
and his work! For when all goes 
smoothly, when there is no friction in 
these mixed and wide departments under 


HEAR the song of the river 
Trickling from ancient glaciers ; 
Ice-cold and milky, 
Child of the dancing sunbeam 
And the brooding Ice-Maiden : 
Nursling of cold and silence, 
Ever embosomed 
In time-furrowed mountains, 
Whose whiteness for ages 
Has flushed in the morning, 
Whilst far from the lowlands 
Man, ever changing 
Like mist-wraiths and passing. 
Has seen them immovable, 
Heaven-set, majestic. 


I hear the falling of waters, 
The murmur, the song of the river 
Sweeping through desolate valleys 
With verdureless icy faces ; 
Lonely, untenanted 
Save by hollow-voiced monsters, 


LORD CHAMBERLAIN AND HIS WORK 


his sway the Lord Chamberlain has 
achieved his great success. But that 
very fact keeps his personality from loom- 
ing largely in the public eye, in Parlia- 
ment or in the Press. And, judged by 
that standard, the rule of the present Lord 
Chamberlain can so far be safely pro- 
nounced an undoubted and even brilliant 
ach‘evement. 


Le a 
2K EAHA 
5) 


INE 


= ee eS )) 
4H DEE 
LEV ij {) =_ We AN 
Po 


JOHANNES C. ANDERSEN 


The children of Tane 
And Hine, Maid of the Mountains. 


I hear the world-wearing torrent 
Griding the rocks down-fallen 
From cloud-mantled summtts ;— 
I hear the mountain tempests 
Rousing to battle, 

Shrieking through cloven cliff 
And sheer ravine, 

Whilst the brawl of the torrent 
Ruder rages, 

And clouds invade 

The desolate valley, 
Huddling confusedly 

In deathly mirk.— 

The clouds disperse, 

And sharp from the gorges 
The scream of the kea 
Sounds like a soul in torment ; 
Whilst meek in the desolation 
Edelweiss tenderly nestles. 





SONG OF THE CANTERBURY RIVERS 


I hear, I hear the voices 
Of foaming torrents 
Leaping the mountain bastion: 
Broken and seething, 
Down, down they hurtle ; 
Torn by the wind and the crags 
The fall spray-veiled 
Thunders tumultuously 
Into the tree-lipped chasm. 


I hear the cry of the robin, 
The call of the tui, 
From close-leafed verdure 
Of fuchsia and maire: 
I hear, I hear the screaming 
Of kakas tearing the rata 
For tree-borne honey :— 
And under them all, insistently, 
The murmur of waters, 
Fern-loved and darkling, 
Now white in cascades, 
Now dark as night 
In shadowy pools. 


I hear the sighing of winds, 
The rustling of foliaged oceans ; 
And deep mid the ferns 
In doubtful day 
The winds quest, love-lorn 
In secret recesses 
For Paoro, 

Whose voice calls weirdly 
Along the valley ; 

Calls for Arohi 

Dancing in sunshine ; 
Calls to Mariko, 

The woman, her daughter. 


I hear the rustling ti-tree, 
Shaking its lances, 
As in mimic great preparation 


For fairy warfare 

Of the multitudes, 

The hosts of the Hakuturi, 
Spirits and children of Tane 
Hid in the leafage. 


I hear the sigh of the valleys, 
F lax-flowered, sun-kissed, 
Where Tane by purling stream 
Found Haere sleeping,— 
Begat the plumed toi-ioi, 
Ard covered a barren hill-side 
With manuka white-starred. 


I hear the sigh of the tussock 
Blent with the croon of the wasers, 
Rippling on shingly beds ; 

The weka cries, and the plover, 
Breaking the changeless silence ; 
Or the Nor’-v-ester swoops 
From the crags and the gorges, 
Leashing the river, that madly 
Follows with turbid foaming, 
Mile wide spreading ; 

And a hawk hovers lonely 
Over the plains unbounded, 
Like a wandering soul 

Lost in its sorrowful flight 
From laughing Earth to Reinga. 


I hear, I hear a moaning 
Answer the murmur, 
The croon of the gliding waters ; 
A world-old sound 
Of world-old moaning ; 
The thousand-voiced, calling sea, 
Hoar-waved, impetuous as youth, 
God-bearing, goddess-giving, 
Sun-kissed, moon-loved, 
Radiantly bitter,— 
Thalatta, Thalatta! 


Tane.—God of the forests. Paoro.—Echo, who, . uniting with Arohi, 
Kea.—The mountain - parrot: originally a “‘ Quivering _ sunlight, produced the first 
vegetable feeder, it now attacks and kills sheep Woman, Mariko. 


for their kidney fat. ; Hakuturi.—The wood-fairies. 
Tui.—One of the sweetest song-birds of New Weba.—The New Zealand rail. 


Zealand. 
Reinga.—The Maori Underworld. 


‘aka.—The brown parrot. 















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PORE E EE YEAR Ae Le 


TA. SOG2CECe: 











Pee 





A TALE OF THE NORTH ROAD 
By CHAS. K. MOORE 


HE Edinburgh coach has been stopped 
on the Great North Road near York, 
you say? And the highwaymen are 
caught? Ah, then there will be the short 
cord and the long drop for them—g-u-r-r! 
No, nothing is wrong with me; only— 
only I like to pace up and down the floor 
after I have been tied to a chair for an 
hour. Only—gur-r-r !—only, I never hear 
of the Great North Road without a 
throbbing under my waistcoat and a creep- 
ing up my back. You know something of 
my past life, my friend, and no doubt 
you guess more, but you cannot imagine 
how narrow an escape I once had from that 
short cord and that long drop Should 
you like to hear the story? Try a little 
of this French brandy; it is none the 
worse for being smuggled, and it will cor- 
rect the coldness of the ale. 

I had to leave Oxford, as you are aware, 
because of politics. That was the large 
name they called it by, though my offence 
was no more than the indiscretion of a 
toast about a white rose and a squeezed 
orange. The expuls‘on was a small mat- 
ter. and little harm would have come from 
it in the end, but a day or two afterwards, 
and before I had left the town of Oxford, 
there came an express from London 
ordering my arrest. Why the Governme:t 
should have honoured a sizar at a small 
college with an accusation of high treason 
I could never make out. There was no 
plot on foot at the time; I was no con- 
spirator ; and my crime was only a boyish 


5938 


display of Jacobite sentiment. All I know 
is, that the Ministers were seized with a fi: 
of loyalty, and that I was their con- 
venient victim. Of course, I took to my 
heels; and equally, of course, my flight 
was taken as a proof of my guilt. The 
worst of it was that I dared not take re- 
fuge in my native Devonshire, where I had 
many friends; and had to strike north- 
wards towards Yorkshire, where I was a 
total stranger. 

It would have been ten times better for 
me if I had actually been concerned in a 
plot. In that case, I had known where 
to go for shelter. As it was, I had not 
the name of a single soul from whom I 
could claim assistance. I had little money 
to start with, also, and no way of com‘ng 
by more, and it was not long before I was 
in sore straits. 

I do not tell you this as an excuse for 
what I afterwards did; I simply state 
the bare facts to let you know how I stood. 
If I were to try to claim your sympathy, 
I would ask you to remember that I was 
little more than a boy, that there was a 
price set on my head, that my heart was 
burning hotly against the world for its in- 
justice, and that a starving man, if he has 
any courage in him at all, is proverbially 
a dangerous man. 

I was passing through a little town 
near Towton when the crisis came to my 
affairs. For a week I had eaten nothing 
but coarse bread, washed down with 
draughts of water; and even that plain 








SIMON SURTREES, 


fare now failed me, and hunger gripped 
me hard and demanded to be satisfied. 
My few spare clothes had been sod for 
what they would fetch, and my whole re- 
maining possessions were a pair of pistols. 
I had kept these to the last, from a foolish 
idea that they might prove useful if an 
attempt was made to apprehend me; but 
now there was nothing for it, they must 
also be exchanged for food. I think I 
offered them to every man in the place, 
from the lawyer to the blacksmith, and 
from the clergyman to the tavern-keeper, 
but no one would look at them. The 
lawyer drew down his lip and the clergy- 
man threatened a constable; the black- 
smith sneered in my face, and the tavern- 
keeper laid his finger against the side of 
his nose. 

I walxed out of that town with the feel- 
ing in the small of my back that several 
pairs of eyes were following me. Was I 
to let myself starve in the midst of 
plenty, I asked myself, as I strode away 
in anger; I who was young and strong, 
and had a higher spirit than these country 
bumpkins? No, I answered ; not while I 
had two hands and good weapons. And 


with that I took the pistols out of my 
pocket and loaded them, and saw to the 
flints and the priminz. Then. as the dusk 
fell, I took toll on the road from the first 
likely man that passed me. 

When a man begins that trade, there is 


no laying it down again. If he defies the 
law. he must remain outside the law till 
he has paid the penalty. That was the 
lesson I had to learn and bitterly digest, 
and for many a day thereafter my life, 
as well as my food and shelter, de- 
pended on a bo!d front and a well-oiled 
trigger. 

It is fifteen years ago—say nearly six- 
teen—since all this happened, but it 
seems to me no further gone than yester- 
day, and stands out clear and sharp in 
my mind. It was achequered experience. 
with more black than white in it; and it 
was while I stood on one of the black 
squares that the adventure came which 
nearly brought me to my undoing. My 
headquarters happened to be in Ycrk at 
that time, at the White Lion, a lowly 
hostelry but convenient, where a gentle- 
man could take his pleasure fully but 


FOOTPAD 559 
quietly, and no questions asked. I liked 
the City; it was a pleasant centre, and 
were I to go to the dogs again, which 
Heaven forbid, I think 1 should choose 
York as the place I should run to when 
I had slipped the collar, , 

One night I laid my plans to meet a 
well-to-do grazier. I fixed on a good spot 
for our interview, a bit of moorland 
no: too far from the White Lion and yet 
not too near York, and I went there in 
good time, and lay in wait. When eight 
o'clock came, however, I knew that For- 
tune, the jade, was to be unkind. I wis 
not to see my grazier. He was a man of 
big body but of little soul, and made a 
rule never to travel late at n-ght. There 
was only one thing to console me in my 
disappointment: I should have taken 
little credit out of the affair; a loud voice 
and a cocked pistol would have brought 
him shivering to his knees. Now, I con- 
fess I liked to have a risk in my enter- 
prises ; perhaps because it salved my con- 
science in some way when I touched the 
money ; I could never forget, you see, 
even in my worst days, that I had once 
been a gentleman. 

It was with some discomfort of mind 
that I made my way back to York. There 
was a long score standing against me at 
the White L‘on; the landlady had scowled 
blackly that afternoon; the maid had 
served my dinner with a clatter, and 
had not stopped for gossip; and I knew 
that if I returned with nothing but excuses 
I should have a northerly welcome. 


Il. 


The night was young, however; a 
hearty wind hurried the clouds across the 
sky ; a full moon showed bright and then 
again was hidden; and the struggle with 
the boisterousness of the half storm soon 
put me in better spirits. I had been 
baulked by a beef-fed and beer-soaked 
gtazier, but chance might throw some 
better quarry in my way. 

There was a clump of trees in the middle 
of the moor and I stepped into it, meaning 
to get out of the rush of the air for a 
little. I had scarcely settled my back 
against a great fir, whose bark was warm 
after the bite of the blast, when, to my 





560 


surprise, I discovered that I was not 
alone. I did not hear the man; his feet 
moved noiselessly on the carpet of fir 
needles; he was no more than a dark 
figure among the shadows. And he had 
not heard me, either, for he kept look- 
ing away down the road. What was 
to be my luck, I wondered? Was he of 
subs‘ance, and did he carry a purse ; or was 
he a countryman with a _harness-buckle 
and a couple of tossing buttons in his 
pouch? I waited till the moan shone 
clear from the rack of clouds, and then 
made out that he was young and fashion- 
ably attired. So far, this was good, and 
I hoped he had a substantial part of his 
fortune upon his person. 

I did not hesitate: quick into a venture 
and quick out of it was my motto. I crept 
forward at once. therefore, and made my 
challenge. What followed passed, as you 
might say, between pulse beats. From 
my experience, he should have been 
startled when he turned and found him- 
self looking into the barre] of my pistol ; 
what I did not know was that he was as 
high strung as myself, and as ready for 
instant action; that, in fact, he expected 


to be called in question for his presence in 


that place. The moment I spoke he 
swung round and sprang at me, and the 
next of it was that my head went crash 
against a tree. It was not he, but I, who 
was taken unawares. 

A minute passed before I gathered my 
cluttered wits together, and then I found 
his knee on my ohest and his hand on my 
throat. We were about the same height 
and weight, as well as I could guess, but 
he had me on my back, and his fingers 
played on my windpipe, and I was wholly 
at his mercy. 

“Keep quiet,” he whispered, “or—” and 
he gave me a squeeze that almost sent me 
back to unconsciousness. 

I had scarcely time to be surprised at 
this order when there came a sound of 
voices from the road. My gentleman, it 
was plain, had no desire to let it be known 
that he was under the firs—and, in the 
circumstances, neither had I. There were 
seven or eight of the company, to judge by 
the noise they made ; they were in a merry 
mood, and when they passed within half 
a dozen paces of where we lay under the 


SIMON SURTREES, FOOTPAD 


deep shadow of the trees a woman broke 
out into this song :— 


“Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 
Prithee, why so pale? 

Will, when looking pale can’t move her, 
Leoking ill prevail? 
Prithee, why so pale?” 


The verse was Suckling’s, of course, and 
was given with good expression ; but what 
made me prick up my ears was that it was 
not sung to the proper tune. It was fitted 
to the old ballad measure of “The Run- 
away Bride,” and the effect was strange, 
for the words of one line had to be 
slightly lengthened, and the words of 
another had to be crushed together in order 
to fit the notes. My gentleman, too, was 
greatly flurried with the strain, and his 
fingers slipped from my neck. All this 
set me thinking, and thinking quickly, 
and before the last notes had died out on 
the air I had built a pretty story of the 
incident, of a man, a song, a maid, and a 
message. I shook with silent laughter at 
the absurdity of the thing; I had been 
wiser to restrain my amusement, for the 
long slim hand came quickly back to the 
right place, and this time I thought I 
should have been choked beyond recovery. 

The party of walkers were well out of 
the way before the grip was relaxed, and 
then it was little before my ribs got to their 
old curve and my neck settled again com- 
fortably within my coat collar. When I 
had shaken myself, and found that nothing 
was broken, only that something was 
bruised, I immediately regained my old 
self-confidence. After what I had heard 
I had no fear that I should be brought 
to the shackles, a barred door, and a grated 
window for the night’s work; besides. I 
was on my feet, and I should have tried 
another fall on fairer terms before it had 
come to that pass. It was in a tone of 
banter, therefore, that I said— 

“ And where. may it please your worship, 
is the nearest lock-up? It were well to be 
jogging, for the night grows chilly.” 

My gentleman laughed: the song and 
the message, as one might guess, had been 
to his liking. 

“The joke is all against me,” I went on; 
“To go in search of a purse and to inter- 
cept a billet-doux set to music !” 





SIMON SURTREES. 


“1’d have you remember———” he began 
angrily. 

“ Tut, tut,” I interrupted, “ why so much 
heat? I am discreet, and I spoil no 
man’s sport.” 

He turned away from me with im- 
patience, and looked down the road to 
where his sweetheart had disappeared. 
Doubtless, to him the mangled verse was 
the sweetest ever written by poet—but 
then the poor boy was in love! 

I was forced to remind him of my pre- 
sence, however. 

“IT ask your pardon, sir; you turn your 
back on me, and I have another pistol.” 

This brought him swiftly out of his 
dreams, with the crack of a whip, and for 
a moment I thought he would have sprung 
at me. But I stood quiet and without 
motion, and he only demanded— 

“Why do you not use it, then?” 

“Because,” I replied with grievance, 
“vou have been so careless as to knock 
out the flint.” 

The young gentleman had humour, and 
he laughed at my quip. I laughed back 
at him And the end of it was that we 
carried each other onwards in laughter 
till each had to lean against a tree. 

“Whitheraway, my friend?” he asked, 
when the thing had run its course. 

“To York.” 

“It is a good step.” 

“Tt is a long step.” I admitted ; “ and a 
bruised and weary traveller.” 

“IT used you roughly,” he said with 
apology. 

“Believe me, sir, it was absolutely 
necessary that you should be rough.” 

“There is an Inn close at hand,” he 
answered with a smile ; “ and, if I am not 
mistaken, a supper. I owe you some 
amends for my usage. What say you— 
shall we walk to the Inn and the 
supper ?” 

The invitation was not one that could 
be refused, it was given with so much cour- 
tesy, and with so clear a desire to make 
up for bygones. Besides, I had had a 
long fast and the brisk air had whetted 
my appetite. 

“T think this is yours,” he added when 
I had accepted his offer ; and he lifted my 
first pistol from the ground and handed it 
to me. 


FOOTPAD 561 
“This one has a flint,” I said with sug- 
gestion. 
And at that we laughed till the wood 
rang. 


IIl. 


A quick step of a mile or so brought us 
to a little inn on the edge of the moor- 
land, and a girl waited for us at the side 
door and ushered us into a comfortable 
parlour. 

“Why, Jessie, this is your own room !” 
cried my gentleman. 

“Yes, my lord, we thought it better that 
you should be private.” 

I whistled to myself. A lord! Was 
ever mortal cursed with such preposterous 
luck! Here was the purse’ I ‘came in 
search of ; time and again I could have 
taken it within the last quarter of an hour} 
and I had refrained simply because I hag 
been treated with civility. Surely, al- 
though I was a footpad I was a very in- 
complete blackguard. But I have often 
discovered to my loss that it is a weakness 
to me to remember that I was once a gentle- 
man. 

Jessie waited upon us, more as a humbie 
friend of my lord, I could see, than as a 
servant and it could be guessed, from little 
hints that passed between them, that, she 
was a confidant in all the sweethearting. 
My eyes followed her as she went about 
the service; she was a tall girl, handsome 
of the brown kind, with a wealth of wavy 
hair. I tried to attract her attention, but 
to no purpose, and her indifference ruffled 
me. Out of bravado (it was foolish of 
me, but I could not help it), I began to 
talk openly of my calling, of its risks. 
and gains and failures, and above all of 
its romance ; and this made her open her 
eyes and filled them with Simon Surtrees. 
She looked at me, however, in a way that 
I did not care to meet. There was no fear 
in it: that would have pleased me, for a 
show of fear in a woman is often flattery 
to a man; rather she exhib ted dislike, and. 
what was harder to bear, disdain. 

His lordship, however, treated me as an 
equal, and made it plain that he liked my 
companionship, even though I was only a 
footpad. He was a man, however. and 
had seen the world. 

“TI am astonished,” he said, after I had 








562 SIMON 
told him some of my adventures, “ that 
you do not have a horse.” 

“But you must consider,” I replied, 
“that, if I had a horse, it would be neces- 
sary that I should consort with ostlers, 
and pos:boys, and all the mixed crew that 
smell of stables.” 

His lordship nodded a grave assent. 

“T think you will admit.” T added, “that 
that kind of cattle is offensive to a person 
of breeding. no matter how he may have 
been mishandled by fortune; and as long 
as I do my business on foot I can do it 
alone, and between times choose my own 
company.” 

Now, this was true in a measure. I 
had a dislike to rubbing shoulders with 
men of low tastes and who were common ; 
but it was absurd to make the boast at that 
time. My punishment came swiftly on the 
back of my words! Jessie gave a mock- 
ing laugh and flounced out of the room. I 
grew hot and then cold; the contempt of 
the girl wounded me deeply ; my heart felt 
as if it were dropp‘ng b!ood. When I 
lifted my eyes, I caught my lord looking 
keenly at me between the candles. He 
said nothing of what he must have seen in 
my face, however. but harked back with 
ready tact to something that had been said 
in our previous talk. 

After that we sat together for it might 
be an hour, ta'king of this and that and 
the other, until the landlord came in, a 
stern, heavy-browed fellow, with the news 
that the chaise wait2d for his lordship. 

“A ducat to a beggarly denier!” I 
cried roguishly. “It is an elopement !” 

“And what then?” my lord asked. 
flushing at the temples. 

“Why this: I love an adventure; shall 
I see you through with it?” 

The land!ord scowled; Jessie, stand- 
ing in the doorway, gave an exclamation 
of alarm; but my lord, in honest boyish 
faith, held out his hand across the table. 
I grasped it with a lump rising in my 
throat: it was pleasant to be once more 
treated as a gentleman. 


IV. 


My lord and I went out to the yard 
behind the Inn, and went over the chaise 
carefully, making certain of the wheels 


SURTREES, 


FOOTPAD 





and the springs, and trying every buckle 
and strap of tie harness of the horses: 
fn the flight a great deal might depend 
on a very little matter. The lamps were 
then blown out, and the chaise was led 
on to the road th.t crossed the moorland. 

“ Jesse!” cried my lord in surprise and 
reproof as a cloaked and hooded figere 
joined us. 

“T go with you,” she said. 

“But . 

“T shall not be easy till I see you well 
started.” 

My lord made no further protest. He 
knew, as I did, why Jessie was deter- 
mined to come with us. The girl doubted 
me. 





As we walked forward behind the 
chaise, my lord took advantage of a 
moment when he and I were alone to 


whisper in my ear— 

“She is a good girl, Simon Surtrees.” 

“T know what is in your thoughts,” I 
answered, “and she shall take no harm 
from me. I have been trying to hate her 
for her distrust, but, on my honour, I 
can only find admiration for her cour- 
age.” 

“The gentleman dies hard in you, my 
friend,” he said, and gripped my arm 
w-th comradeship. And again the lump 
ros in my throat. 

When we were close to the firwood 
where we had had our first meeting. the 
chaise was left behind in a conven‘ent dip 
of the road and the three of us struck 
across the moor, a rough bit of country. 
We stopped when we came to a straggling 
shrubbery, through wh‘ch there shone the 
lighted windows of a large house. This, 
no doubt, was the Hall of which Jessie 
spoke to my lord while we were at sup- 
per. and the home of my lord’s ladylove. 

The clouds rolled across the sky, moon- 
light and shadow chased each other 
across the moor. and the wind blew 
strongly from the west: it was the same 
kind of weather that had braced me up 
earlier in the evening, but now it only 
made me cold and miserable. A blank 
future lay before me; I had not enough 
in my pockets to buy me a bed; in all 
likelihood the door of the White Lion 
would be shut on me, and I should again 
be a houseless wanderer Yet I was 


SIMON SURTREES. FOOTPAD 


honest enough to know that none of these 
was the real reason for my depression. It 
was that a girl stood behind me, and a 
little apart, and watched my every move- 
ment with suspicion. 

At last, and it seemed in my then mood 
that we had been standing there the whole 
night, and that it must now be greying for 
the dawn, my lord gave a joyful exclama- 
tion. A lady ran up to him from a side 
walk through the shrubbery. I could 
make out little of her, except that she was 
young and slender, for her head and 
shoulders were wrapped up in a white 
shawl. There was a quick exchange of 
question and answer; I did not hear all 
that passed, but I gathered that she was 
afraid that she had been observed to 
leave the house. Upon that news we at 
once began to run towards the place 
where the chaise was standing. And 
there was good cause for haste, as we soon 
discovered. We had no: gone half way 
when the wind carried down the sound of 
an alarm. There was a cry or two, and 
then a loud ringing of bells, and shouting 
of orders. The lady had shown a good 
spirit so far, but now she was seized with 
a trembling, and my lord on one side of 
her and Jessie on the other could scarce 
keep her on her feet. All might yet have 
gone well, however, had not one of the 
men from the Hall caught sight of the 
white shawl, which shone brightly in the 
moonlight, and given a ioud halloo. and 
brought all the scattered pursuit in our 
direction. I think my lord swore; I am 
certain I did; and everything had been 
lost but for a thought that happily came 
into my head. I snatched the shawl from 
the lady and threw it around Jess‘e, and 
cried— 

“Carry off your sweetheart, my lord! 
Come, Jessie, my lass, we will lead this 
foxhunting crowd off on a false scent!” 

A wisp of cloud did us good service; 
it covered the moon for half a minute or 
so; and before the sky lightened my lord 
and the lady were safely under the fir- 
wood of our earlier adventure, and Jessie 
and I were speeding towards another and 
a higher part of the moor. Of course, the 
chase was all after the white shawl, and 
as long as Jessie’s strength held out we led 
the pursuers a pretty dance. She was 


563 


cumbered with wraps. however; the men 
gradually gained on us; and the end came 
when we both tripped over a bush of 
heather. I was quickly on my feet, but 
not in time to prevent the first fellow who 
came up from making a clutch at the 
white shawl. His rudenezs gave me an 
excuse to knocx him down, and then I 
drew my pistols on the half-dozen who 
were close at his heels, to keep them 
at a distance. Unfortunately, Jessie’s 
face was exposed, and the game was up. 
There were angry words. and oaths, and 
threats, and we should have fared badly, 
notwithstanding my p*stols, had not some 
one in authority ordered the men to give 
over, and go back to the stables, and get 
out the horses. 

“ And the devil go back with you and a 
sixpence !” I cried after them in the words 
of the old saying as they ran back to the 
Hall. 

Jessie had risen by th's time, and 
stood breathless and shivering. She had 
not thought of me while we stumbled on- 
wards at the top of our speed, but now it 
came to her that she was alone with a foot- 
pad in the middle of the moorland. I 
took a malicious pleasure out of her dis- 
comfiture, it is feared, but again I remem- 
bered that I had once been a gentleman, 
and I controlled my face and my voice. 

“Well. we have done all that is pos- 
sible,” I said in an ord’nary tone, “and we 
may as well be gett:ng back. Which way 
does the Inn hie?” 

“ Over there.” she said with a gasp. 

“Ts it far?” 

“Two miles, I think.” 

“Good ; there is no use stay‘ng here.” 

I caught the glint of her eye—of sur- 
prise, of thanks, of relief, it little matters 
of what—and then we set our faces to- 
wards the Inn. We had gone up 
this rise in the moorland hand in hand, 
now we walked down it with a yard of 
cold air between us. I spoke” once or 
twice, of the weather, and so on; to give 
her confidence, but she only returned me a 
“yes” or “no,” and I had to let her walk 
on in silence. 

When we came within sight of the Inn, 
and she could have no fear for her 
safety, I was tempted to put her on her 
mettle. 








































































































































































































































































564 SIMON SURTREES, FOOTPAD 


“She is an heiress,” I said with con- 
viction. 

“ And he is a lord,” [I continued. 

“And he will fill his empty title with 
her wealth,” I added. 

She said nothing to my first two 
charges, but to the third one there was a 
retort. 

“You do him wrong.” she said. “He 
has a title, it is true, but he has wealth 
and enough of his own.” 

“Then why all this pother?” I natur- 
ally asked. “A rich lord is not usually 
kept at his staff's end.” 

“She is under a guardian, and he has 
a rough lout of a son.” 

“H’m,” I replied; “Rough and lout, 
is he? Perhaps you are prejudiced.” 

“Perhaps, but at any rate you thought 
him rough enough and lout enough to 
knock him down but a minute ago.” 

“Oho! and chat was he? Well, in that 
case, my lord and my lady, and some one 
else I shall not name, owe me a day in 
harvest.” 

With that I stopped ; we were within a 
score of yards of the Inn door; there did 
not seem to be anything else to say, and 
yet we did not bid each other good-bye. 
Then I recollected that I had the white 
shawl over my arm, and I held it out to 
Jessie. She did not take it from me, how- 
ever. 

“The night is cold,” she said. “Keep 
it, it will do for a wrap.” 

I weighed it in my hands; it was thin 
and light. 

“Well,” I said, “I shall take it in 
memory of to-night, and it will be more 
kindly round my neck than the hempen 
cravat I look forward to.” 

“TI hope it will never come to that !” 
she cried. 

She held out her hand as if to ward 
off the evil; I seized it in mine; she was 
only an innkeeper’s daughter, but I raised 
it to my lips. 

“Tt is the sweetest thing I have stolen 
on the Great North Road.” I said with 
gallanti;. 


V. 


I was not far on my way back to York 
before I heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs 
and the whirring of rap'd wheels: the 





lady’s guardian, no doubt, and perhaps 
that rough lout, his son, were already in 
hot pursuit. I stepped to the side of the 
road to be out of the way, and as I 
climbed up the bank my hand fell upon 
a loose hedge stake. What followed I 
did out of impulse, and as much out of 
ill-temper as anything else: certainly, no 
two thoughts passed through my mind as 
to what I meant or wanted. As the chaise 
galloped past I flung the stake; it caught 
in one of the wheels and locked it; there 
was a crash and a trampling of horses ; 
a heavy body struck me, and I was 
thrown to the ground. 

I spent the rest of that night in a stable 
at the Hall, with a couple of stout men- 
servants guarding me. There was little 
need for their vigilance. One of the 
horses had lashed out at me as it passed, 
my leg was broken in two places, and 
there was a big wound on my head. 

On my way to York jail the next awrn- 
ing I had one short moment of pleasure, 
the memory of which was to help me 
greatly during the long months of suffer- 
ing. The cart in which I lay stopped at 
the Inn in the middle of the moor, and 
while the constables drank mugs of ale 
and gossiped with the landlord about the 
events of the night, Je:sie came out and 
bathed my temples with vinegar and gave 
me a long cooling draught. She dared 
not say a word, for the cart was sur- 
rounded with gaping servants, but her eyes 
spoke pity, and a tear dropped on my 
cheek as she put a bundle of straw under 
my head for a pillow. 


VI. 


I was tried at York Assizes on some 
charge as to wrecking the chaise. I was 
too sick to know exactly how I had been 
brought within the reach of the law; all I 
know is that I was sentenced to a twelve- 
months’. imprisonment. Afterwards I was 
told that I had had a narrow escape from 
hanging ; how that could be I leave others 
to say ; but the gallows would have been 
my lot had any one known that I was the 
footpad who had infested the roads round 
York that winter. 

If I escaped death in one way, however, 
I very nearly met it in another. My leg 





SIMON SURTREES, FOOTPAD 


was a long time healing. and when I was 
strong enough to hobb!e about the cell and 
creep down into the prison yard with the 
help of a crutch, it was only to be seized 
upon by what was then called the black 
fever. A terrible time followed, and I 
had never left the jail but for the charities 
of the girl Jessie; she managed-to smug- 
gle in guinea after guinea, and I was thus 
able to buy a little nursing and a few 
medicines Once or twice a letter came 
with the guineas, and told me that my 
lord and his lady were travelling abroad— 
they had been married, it seemed—and 
that in their absence Jessie fe!t bound to 
give me all the help that lay in her 
power. 

I cannot speak of what I endured in 
that loathsome place ; I cannot even think 
of it after these years without shuddering. 
But the worst day of all my life, I think— 
worse even than my most neglected day in 
my cell—was the one on which I crawled 
out from under the shadow of the heavy 
gateway into the sunshine of the streets, 
and saw myself mirrored in the glass of 
the windows as I passed. I was horror- 
struck at the change that had come over 
me. I was not a man, I looked like a 
fam'shed wolf. Jessie had writsen that 
on my release I was to make my way to 
the Inn, and that she would have food 
and clothes, and a littke money for me; 
but I had some of my old pride left, and 
I would not present myself before her in 
such a pl ght. 

I wandered away into the country, I do 
not know where; I travelled for weeks, I 
cannot remember for how long. I was too 
weak to do the lightest work had anyone 
taken p'ty on my wretchedness ; I was too 
spir'tiess to rob, even had I met any one 
feebler than myself; I could only beg—I 
who had once been a gentleman—and I 
was thankful for the meanest crust from 
the hands of the poorest cotter. 

A day came when I was so broken 
w.th want that I thought I must surely 
be near the end of my life’s journey. The 
heat was fierce; it was in the dog days 
of summer ; and I stumbled along a white 
glaring road. But at the same time I was 
not miserable, as might have been ex- 
pected ; indeed, I was in the highest of 
spirits. Perhaps the sun had touched me ; 

No. 30. September, 1905. 


beside 


565 


certainly I was light-headed; and as I 
went I sang scraps of old airs that had 
been familiar to me in the days of my boy- 
hood. At last one set of words came in:o 
my head ; I could not get rid of it; and I 
chanted it over and over again. 


“Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 
Prithee, why so pale?” 


That was what I sang. And I did not 
give it the right tune, but tried to fit it 
to the ballad measure of “The Runaway 
Bride,” and screamed with laughter when 
I could no: force the verse into the notes. 
1f I were not mad on that afternoon, I 
must have been desperately close to 
another fever. 

In the midst of a wild outburst of mer- 
riment, a light touch fel] upon my arm. 1 
glanced down, and saw a dainty gloved 
hand ; I looked up and met the gaze of a 
sweet and gracious lady. 

“Why do you sing that?” she asked. 

“ Because—well, because I cannot help 
it,” I stammered. 

“But why do you sing the words to 
that strange tune ?” 

“Come away, sweetheart,” interposed a 
strong man’s vo:ce. “Give him money, if 
you will, but do not touch him.” 

“But did you not hear what he sang ?” 
she said. “It was Suckling’s words to 


. the music of the ‘ Runaway Bride !’” 


Some one came in front of me, but my 
eyes were still for the lady’s face. 

“Simon Surtrees !” 

At that I looked at the man, and gasped 
in amazement. 

“My friend!’ he cried again. 

“ No, my lord, only Simon Surtrees, your 
footpad !” y 

The next of it was that I was on a heap 
of stones by the roadside. My lady was 
me, mourning and comforting 
by turns. She had heard of Simon Sur- 
trees, and cared little that he was a foot- 
pad; and my lord’s own arms were now 
round me. 

A chariet came up, a dusty travel-stained 
chariot, and my lord brought wine from 
it and food. But I could not eat. and he 
took the wine and poured it down my 
throat, 

“My lord,” I protested. as the liquor 
caught my breath; “it seems that IT am 

RR 








never to see you but you try to strangle 
me.” : 

*Come,” he said, “that is more like the 
old Simon !” 

Then he demanded this, and that, and 
the other thing, and principally why I 
had not gone to the mooriand Inn on 
my release. 

“I could not go there,” I cried, throw- 
ing out my hands. “ How could I go to 
Jessie like this ?” 

My lord looked hard at me and then at 
my lady. 

“Well, well,” he said, “I can under- 
stand; but it was unfortunate. We did 
not know of your troubles till a year was 
nearly past, and now we must try and 
make you amends for them.” 

“Yes,” assented my lady. “We will 
never forget what you did for us, and we 
will try and make our good fortune yours. 
Would you like to be our steward? 


566 SIMON SURTREES, FOOTPAD 


Our old steward has just died, and 
my lord has_ been © searching for 
another.” 

My lord made a queer face, and [ 
giggled; I could not help it: the strong 
wine had run to my head. Then my lord 
became grave, and this tickled me the 
more, and I laid myself back on the stones 
anc. burst into laughter. My lord could 
not resist me; he caught up the laughter, 
and carried it on till we had to hold our 
sides. 

“TI know,” said my lady smiling. “ that 
is how you laughed in the firwood !” 

“Well, Simon,” said my lord, “my lady 
shall have her way, and if vou make free 
with a half-fear’s rents E 

“Tt will go to pay for the hedge-s:ake,” 
completed my lady. 





But there is my wife fretting lest the sup- 
per be spoiled. Coming, Jessie! Coming ! 





THE QUEEN 


By ALICE ASKEW 


HEY spoke of the King as they sat at their sp mning, 
Of his riches, his power, his crown— 
The Queen was sitting amongst her maidens, 


Proud in her cramousie gown ; 
Weary to death of watching the spinning. 
Weary of sceptre and crown, 


Proud in her cramousie gown. 


They spoke of the Kn‘ght as they sat ct their sp-na‘ng. 
Of his falcon, his hound, h‘s curls— 
The Queen was sitting amongst her maidens, 


Blushing before her girls, 
Lost to sight and sound of their spinning, 
Dreaming of nut-brown curls 

Blushing before her girls. 


They spoke of their dreams as they sat at their spinning, 
Of lovers and loved and fate— 

The Queen was wiser than all her maidens, 
Pale in her robes of State, 

Bowing her head to the whir of the spinning, 

Towing her soul to fate, 

| Pale in her robes of State. 








THE MAIN FALLS. 


THE VICTORIA FALLS OF THE ZAMBESI 


By EMIL LOCH 


ta vistt of the British Association for 
the Advancement of Science, during 
this month, to the Victoria Falls of the 
Zambesi will impart a special interest to 
this article and the accompanying illus- 
trations. 

The first question always asked on ‘re- 
turning from a trip to the Zambesi is: 
How does this compare with Niagara? 

To my mind, there can be no comparison 
possible so long as the Victoria Falls re- 
main in their present primitive beauty. 
At Niagara the graadeur of the Falls is 
cheapened and vulgarised by the tawdry 
“ Earl’s Court” style of the surroundings. 
The town is quite close, and signs of 
civilisation (?) obtrude themselves at every 
turn. You can hire a waterproof to pro- 
tect you from the spray, or buy souvenirs 
of the Falls, portraits of Captain Webb. 


567 


etc., while in case you shou!d need refresh- 
ment on the way large posters proclaim 
the superiority of ’s whisky over all 
rivals. 

But at the Victoria Falls all is (as yet) 
solitude and grandeur—wild, open coun- 
try—and, in spite of the works for the 
bridge, with but little trace of man to mar 
its beauty. 

From the hotel you look across a stretch 
of barren veldt of sand where the river 
has worn its way deep among the rocks, 
and a good view can be obtained of the 
cloud of spray which hangs over the Falls 
day and night. This is especially beauti- 
ful at sunrise and sunset, when, owing to 
the position of the sun, it is coloured like 
a rainbow. 

The thunder of the Falls can always be 
heard, and forms an unceasing obligato to 

RR-2 








568 


life in the vicinity. Later in the season, 

when the volume of water is much in- 
creased, this grows more not:ceable, as does 
also the spray, which rises high above the 
land from the depth of the fall 400 feet 
below. 

The native name for the Falls is “ the 
smoke that sounds,” and well describes the 
wonderful cloud that coils and twists, 
driven this way and that by the sl ghtest 
breeze. At one time standing in front of 
tne “Main Falls,” nothing can be seen 
save an impenetrable curtain of mist—then 
in a moment it is blown as:de and the full 
glory of this great wonder of nature 
bursts into view. But only for an instant. 
The next, the “ smoke,” swirling up, blots 
everything from sight, and agan you are 
standing in a heavy rain of spray that ob- 
scures the sun. 

Below the actual Falls themselves, the 
river has cut its way in a series of deep, 
V-shaped gorges for no less a distance 
than thirty miles, and there are clear indi- 
cations that changes have taken place in 
its course; and some gorges, once filled 
with its smoking torrent, are now com- 
pletely dry and empty. 

The upper reaches of the r-ver are not 
entirely covered w'th water, especially in 
July, when the Zambesi is rapidly decreas- 
ing. But after the end of the wet season, 
i.e., from about the end of May, its volume 
is so greatly increased that, with the 
single exception of Livingstone Island, the 
whole mile and a quarter is one huge fall, 
and the island cannot be approached 
owing to the current. 

It is < great advantage, throughout a 
visit to this neighbourhood, to be able to 
stand on the brink of a deep ravine and, 
looking down into its depths, watch the 
wild wilderness of waters far below. In 

_this re peo. “Danger Point” is an ex- 
ample of what is lost by not hav:ng a 
“good head.” The rock which here lies 
scattered over the ground is always wet 
and slippery, but once having gained the 
Point, which requir little skil'—on'y 
care and no haste—you obtain a better 
view of the great chasm than from any 
other spot. 

Directly opposite, the Zambesi makes 
its great leap, *nd to do justice to the 
eunirast Letween its quiet waters seen 


THE VICRORIA FALLS OF THE ZAMBESI 












above the ridge, flowing between huge 
rocks, and the grandeur of the falling 
torrent, would require a Turner to paint 
and a Dante to devcribe. 

The Fall here consists of hundreds of 
small falls, and in the morning the sun 
shines full on your face, making the 
water to glitter and flash, and rendering 
any attempt at photography imposs.ble. 
“Danger Point” is itself in a cloud of 
spray, and only at intervals do you see 
the effect of the sun, when the curtain 
drifts aside, moved by the wind made by 
the mass of falling water. To right and 
left stretches the great chasm, and the sun 
shining through the spray produces hun- 
dreds of rainbows of wonderful colour- 
ing. Wherever you turn new ones ap- 
pear, and in many cases bridge the dis- 
tance between you and the falling water. 
The sense of power displayed is wonder- 
ful, and grows ‘with a better knowledge 
of the river. 

The water never seems to hurry, and 
after watching it through powerful 
glasses this impression is heightened ; 
each stream appearing to fall almost 
lazily, forming a striking contrast to the 
roar which rises from the abyss below. 

Walking on the left, you enter the 
“Rain Forest,” so-called because, the 
everlasting spray, falling. like ~ rain 
throughout its length, keeps the trees in 
leaf and nourishes the palms even in such 
a time as the month of August, when 
within a hundred yards of this favoured 
site the land is parched and dead for 
lack of moisture. The forest is tropical 
in nature, and rejoices in large ferns 
many feet in height. huge palms, and 
every kind of undergrowth ; while the air 
is hot and very moist, making the neces- 
sary waterproof a great burden. The 
ground is satura‘ed urder foot, and you 
often sink deep into the soft earth. but 
all trouble and fatigue is forgotten 
when, having passed through half its 
length, you co: e out opposite to what is 
known as the Main Fall. 

This Fall is really much more of one 
mass of water than the other, being 
hemmed in by Livingstone Island, and, 
therefore, covering comparatively little 
ground. 

To describe its beauty is imposs ble. 


THE VICTORIA FALLS OF THE 7AMBES! 569 


It was here, perhaps, more than any- sight is impzeszive, but much more specta- 
where else that the advantage of seeing cular than any other part of the Falls. 
the Falls when the rivor was low was A fine view is to be obtained from the 
most clearly shown. Later, the spray is Native Comm’‘ssioner’s Camp, though the 
so” heavy that walk is a long 
only at rare Sees a ee eee oe one. and the 
intervals can the [i SEE , ©4 road sandy and 
whole be seen. ER te Pa very heavy. 
Wien we were Ragin The Camo 
ther2 this was baa 5 2 stands on a 
not the «case, 1 wie , . high conical 
so for some §& SN onde ge hill, and from 
minutes together [§ ee. ; } it you can look 
I had an unin. & ss ' over a vast ex- 
terrupted view ; tent of country. 
of the whole : Away on the 
length, and a & ’ left is seen 
huge rainbow the Zambesi at 
that spanned #& its best. The 
the chasm § two streams 


eat Oe tl 5 oe 


heightened the [i that nearer the 
effec. . Falls are divid. 

“The Devil's ed by a group 
Cataract.” which ' : of iong. narrow 
is situated at  —— islands here 
the extreme end unite into one 
of the “Rain great river, 
Forest,” is short [i which flows 
and steep, and i >§ quietly on at an 
rushes down to [iS >i enormous 
the chasm in é' "4 breadth. The 
a succession of - . eee | - drift at Liv- 
two leaps and —ie =i ingstone six 
a long fall. Ee )] miles above the 
Foaming over its [mus ae oa Falls can 
rocky bed, the [ie : eet ay Cte clearly 














seen, and the whole valley lies spread out 
at your feet. 

Turning to the other side, the course 
of the river is hidden from view, but 
can easily be traced by the belt of luxu- 
riant vegetation on either side. Away in 
the distance hangs the “smoke cloud,” 
and a faint, a very faint, murmur comes 
across the five miles that separate the 
hill from the Falls. 

The respect in which the Native Com- 
missioner is held by the natives was illus- 
trated in a striking way by our guide. 
Climb'ng the steep ascent to the Camp, 
and while quite a hundred yards away, 
and before we knew whether the Com- 
missioner was there or not, this raw 
“boy” carefully took off his hat in 
respect to the majesty of the law, and 
remained bareheaded until we had de- 
scended the hill scme_ half-hour later, 
although no white man was then present. 

In passing, it would be ungracious not 
to remark with pride on the way in which 
the great work of Empire goes on in 
the lonely outlying posts far away from 
any cezttral authority, and whee no cor- 


THE ;ICTORIA FALLS OF THE ZAMBEST 


VIEW FROM THE HOTEL: THE RIVER BELOW THE FALLS. 






‘ 


respondent will notice. good work done 
and report it in headlines in thé morn- 
ing papers. Quietly here, and through- 
out the great territory of Rhodesia, the 
“white man’s burden” is being cheer- 
fully borne by young Englishmen, who 
devote some of their best years to work 
hundred of miles removed from what to 
most of us makes life worth living, and 
are content that good work, well and 
honestly done, shall be, in too many 
cases, their only reward. All honour to 
them, and I am glad I, also, have lived 
ia what still remains practically a frontier 
country. 

The engineers in charge of the Bridge 
Works have now thrown a cable across 
the gorge. and visitors are allowed to 
cross on this once a day in the'r trolly. 
A magnificent view of the Falls is ob- 
tained from this great height when in 
mid-air, and being ab!e to cross at this 
point instead of Laving to go to Livingstone 
and return s.x miles, makes an excursion 
to the Palm Grove on the North Bank 
an easy matter. In an old gorge of the 
river, now dry, grow the finest col'ection 


THE VICTORIA FALLS 
of palms to be seen anywhere in the 
neighbourhood. The descent is steep 
and rocky, and requires considerable 
exertion. A narrow path branches from 
the high land, and below, under your feet, 
as it were, are the tops of the palm trees ; 
and beyond the river, at the point where, 
having emerged from the “ Boiling Pot,’ 
it makes a turn under the spot where the 
Bridge will span the first gorge. Scramb- 
ling down this rocky way, the trees on 
either side soon shut out all sunlight, and 
the air strikes chill after the brightness 
above. 

The palms grow to a very great height 
and are extremely fine, being covered in 
many cases with thick ropes of tangled 
creepers. Winding in and out among 
them the path rap dly descends to the 
level ,of} the present river, but about a 
hundred yards before the water is reached 
the trees end, and you come upon great 
masses of lichened rocks piled high upon 
one another. 

After négotiating this somewhat d fficult 
pass, ‘you stand at last on a level with the 


VIEW FROM 


THE 


OF THE ZAMBESI 571 
Zambesi. Above you towers the gorge, 
nearly 500 feet h'gh; the trolly, passing 
on its wire rope from one side to another, 
looks like a small dot, and at last the 
magnitude of the undertaking which the 
Bridge represents can be fully realised. 

Walking round the edge of this ravine, 
the “ Boiling Pot” can be reached, and 
you stand at the foot of the Falls. 

It is well worth the considerable physi- 
cal effort needed to descend and re-mount 
this gorge, for from no other spot can an 
adequate idea of the height of the Falls 
be obtained, and the pa!m grove alone is 
well worth a visit. 

The last day of our stay was one of 
the pleasantest. The acting-Administra- 
tor had kindly arranged for a boat to be 
placed at our disposal to take us up the 
river, and thus we had the great advan- 
tage of a Government canoe and Govern- 
mers: “ boys” to paddie, as they are picked 
as the best on the river, and everything 
has to give way to them. 

Much has been said about the Falls— 
the river is too often forgotten. But its 


RAIN FOREST. 








572 THE VICTORIA 


beauty was wonderful. Gliding without 
noise, and darting among rocks and rapids 
without any apparent effort, the canoe 
made good way round the island in the 
centre of the stream, heading for the 
Camp on the North Bank. Some of the 
islands are beautiful, but others are mere 
sandbanks with trees. 

The beauty of the river increased as 
the scenery grew wilder, and when we 
reached the point where the two streams 
joined the grandeur of the vast expanse of 


FALLS OF 


THE ZAMBESI 

in seeing it under such d ffezent circum- 
stances. Once we s.ghted a “hippo.” 
blowing, and put on top speed to out-pace 
this troublesome neighbour. Later, when 
the boys were becoming anx ous, we found 
that he had dived, and we had the whole 
river to ourselves once more. 

Natives dislike and fear these animals 
far more than they do the “ crocs.,” and 
not without reason. Hippo rarely attacks 
unless wounded, but if a canoe comes by 
chance among a “school” they are liable 





THE DEVIL’S CATARACT, 


water on which weseemed a mere floating 
speck was seen fully for the first time. 
After landing at Livingstone for lunch 
and to give the boys a rest, we proceeded 
to the Rapide, some four miles higher up. 
passing through lovely scenery. Some of 
the paddling was beautifully done, especi- 
ally the last mile among the shoals and 
rapids. Turning, we anticipated an easy 
down-stream journey, but the wind had 
changed, and blowing against the stream 
caused rough and broken water. But this 
new aspect of the river was very impres- 
sive, and we felt we had been fortunate 


to throw the boat out of the water, and 
then there is small chance for the unfortu- 
nate people in her. During the day, how- 
ever, they very seldom appear. 

Long shall I remember that day on the 
Zambesi. No one who has not seen a 
river a mile wide—as this is near Liv- 
ingstone—can form any idea how grand a 
sight such a volume of water presents. 
The Falls are indeed wonderful, and 
worthy of a long journey. but were they 
to vanish to-morrow I would gladly travel 
as far to spend a few days on the Zam- 
besi alone, 





USCAR WILDE: A MEMOIR 


By J. M. STUART-YOUNG 


HE art of leaving the stage of life at 
the apropos moment has yet to be 
taught. Tc those who krew him intimate!y 
the climax in the career of Oscar Wilde 
seemed a fitting one. It is one of my 
fondest recollections that I appreciated the 
work and the personality of Wilde in his 
hey-day. “Nerves” is a malady with 
which we are all familiar to-day. The 
horny-handed navvy seems to be no more 
immune than the dainty lady in her bou- 
doir ; and Oscar Wilde was the acquiescent 
slave of morbidity. He was diseased in 
the will: he lacked the desire to be strong 
and healthy-minded. Human nature is 
builded upon two potential instincts—the 
predilection for the preservation of the 
ego, and the predilection for the propa- 
gation of the race. In Oscar Wilde these 
instincts were perverted, and the will 
diseased. So that the culminating point in 
the career of this genius was the inevitable 
one. 
It has been suggested that health ought 
more fittingly to be “catching” than 
disease. In the world of letters health 
and saneness are catching; just as much 
as disease and moral leprosy can be dis- 
seminated by a suggestive book. Charac- 
ter is contagious, and pleasurab!e emotion 
is prevalent. And it is just because the 
books of Oscar Wilde are so terribly real 
in their delineation of his attributes that 
we value them so highly. The creed of 
Wilde is summed up in his own words 
from the witness-box at the Central 
Criminal Court of London, on Thursday, 
April 4th, 1895 :-— 

“In writing, I do not consider in any 
degree the effect of creating or exciting 
either morality or immorality; I aim 
neither at good nor evil. I simply endea- 
vour to make a thing with some quality of 
beauty. There cannot be morality or im- 
morality in art. Either a thing is done 
well or it is done ill To reach the 
reality of self is the principal aim in life, 
and to arrive at this state of consciousness 
through pleasure is finer than through 
pain. An individual: truth ceases to be 


truth when it is followed by a crowd. 
What is truth, you ask? It is something 
30 personal as to be only a reality to the 
person who holds it. A man can never be 
judged by an accepted code of ethics. 
Each soul has its own laws, I never 
gave adoration to anyone except myse!f.” 

It is a tremendous day in the history of 
a man when he realises the truth of the 
saying, “To the pure, all things are 
pure.” Sin is individual, and morality a 
condition of the mind. 


* I know not whether Laws be right. 
Or whether Laws be wrong ; 
All that we know who lie in gaol 
Is that the wall is strong ; 
And that each day is like a year, 
A year whose days are long. 


But this I know, that every Law 

That Men have made for Man, 

Since first Man took his brother’s life, 
And the sad world began, 

But straws the wheat and saves the chaft 
With a most evil fan. 


This too I know—and wise it were 

If each could know the same— 

That every prison that men built 

Is built with bricks of shame, 

And bound with bars lest Christ should see 
How men their brothers maim, 


With bars they blur the gracious moon, 
And blind the ly sun: 

And they do well to hide their Hell, 
For in it things are done 

That Son of God nor son of Man 

Ever should look upon.” 


What a cry from the depths! I saw him 
first in 1894. He was then acknowledged 
to be one of our most promising play- 
wrights, and “Lady Windermere’s Fan” 
had captivated the critics. I was budding 
fifteen. and worshipped him as I wor- 
shipped many of his contemporaries— 
poets of the younger generation: Richard 
Le Gallienne, Stephen Phillipy William 
Butler Yeats, Laurence Binyon and Arthur 
Symons—but with this difference: there 
was something aroused within me, by the 
rhymes of Oscar Wilde, which savoured 
more of astheny than robustness, I was 
curious to meet h'm; but will not give 

573 








574 


the boyish letter sent to him, in reply to 
the one in which he thanked me for my 
admiration. Unfortunately, I have only 
retained two of his epistles. 

In June, 1894, I visited him in London, 
and had the privilege of listening to his 
conversation over dinner at the Savoy. 
There was present, besides myself 
Wilde, a young man of about twenty, whom 
he introduced as “Freddy” Atkins. He 
seemed to be somewhat embarrassed by our 
conversation, for with my serous precoci- 
ousnes3 I insisted upon discussing art and 
literature. Wild? must have found me 
vastly amusing, and I was in the seventh 
heaven of delight. I remember the re- 
mark, “I am feeling quite refreshed by 
you, Jackie. If I only had a boy of your 
calibre near me oftener, I might be a 
better man,” quite well. 

In March, 1895—little did I dream how 
imminent was the end of Wilde’s meteoric 
career—I saw him again, and we visited 
Little College Street in company. No 
breath of immorality had touched me 
through the friendship of Wilde; and I 
recall the zsthetic pleasure and luxury of 
the cosy room, hung with heavy green 
draperies, with something of the old thrill. 
I forget the names of those present, but 
Taylor and Scarfe are two out of the num- 
ber. 

The case is too well-known to be re-told. 

Oscar Wilde was born on October 16th, 
1856, and was the son of Sir William 
Wilde. the eminent surgeon and archeolog- 
istof Dublin. He was educated at Trinity 
College, Dublin, and then sent to Oxford, 
Magdalen College, obtaining the Newdi- 
gate prize for English poetry, and taking 
his degree in 1878. He married in 1884 a 
daughter of Horace Lloyd, Q.C., and his 
first volume of poems was published in 
1882, when a young man of 26. He had 
two sons, who still survive. His wife died 
five years ago. 

Oscar Wilde expired in Panis, under the 
name of Sebastian Melmoth, on November 
30th, 1900. 

I am still able to think of our friendship 
with vigour.and regret. He was a poet of 
the first water, exuberant, fantastic, tune- 
ful. I was top young in 1895 to gauge the 
weighty import of the trial, nor do I wish 
to condemn him now. There was in him, 


OSCAR WILDE: 


and’ 


A MEMOIR 





as in his work, a suggestion of the unusual, 
the strange.- I cannot help but think that 
those two years of sordid imprisonment 
prematurely killed him, and England has 
lost one of her most gifted singers. The 
crowd is not capable of judging a man’s 
temperament, and he should have had a 
jury of literary confreres. Our poets are 
losing the true ideal—the Beautiful. Wil- 
liam Watson sings sweetly, but there isa 
clamourous note of political discontent in 
his songs, and his neat sense of epigram 
and his sudden satire are obscured by his 
unbelief. Kipling is hidden in the Imper- 
ialistic war-cloud, and will soon need to 
publish a glossary of his slang. . Arthur 
Symons becomes sickly sensuous. Yeats is 
shadowy and intangible. Swinbourne is our 
greatest living poet, but his music is often 
thin. Edmund Gosse has ceased to soar. 
And Richard Le Gallienne’s passion is as 
unreal asiit is assumed : he merely makes a 
pose. England is becoming the home of 
the middle-class. 

The morbid life of Oscar Wilde appears 
to me as the result of our social Philistin. 
ism. We did not understand his aims, and 
misconceived his Art. In most dramatists 
we have the grossness without the vice—the 
vulgarity without tthe passion. Any lewdness 
may be suggested so long as open avowal is 
withheld. Many amusic-hallsong is impreg- 
nated with a sinister indecency which is re- 
volting—and yet we sniff at “The Picture 
of Dorian Grey,” or rather, should we say, 
that their suggestiveness is builded upon 
and panders to the public’s love of the ob- 
scene? For who can deny that prurience 
comes from within? Evil can be found in 
the most innocent of words, if the listener 
be but of immoral calibre. Art does not 
conceal—it reveals. One is inclined to 
think that modern wit (as demonstrated in 
our music-halls) has nothing to reveal, so 
simply makes a vulgar show of covering 
something which does not exist. The 
references to things sensual, in our modern 
plays and poems, are generally as 
stupid as the thoughts are gross. How we 
long for the refreshing avowal of a Wilde, 
instead of the inane evasion of an intricate 
situation. English ladies, who would look 
askance at a Palais Roya! farce, will shake 
their undraped shoulders in high glee at the 
suggestiveness of a problem play. The re- 





OSCAR WILDE: A MEMOIR 


spectable middle-classes would not be seen 
with a volume of Oscar Wilde’s keen epi- 
gram in their hands, and yet laugh hearti- 
ly at the tawdry and indecent anecdotage of 
our weekly journals: generally of a pink 
colour, but decidedly blue in their tenden- 
cies. And if a writer's sense of morality 
takes an erratic turn, or is coalesced in any 
audacious disregard of social rule, he is 
condemned as a filthy fellow. The sensu- 
ous pursuit of any pet theory of morals is 
the sin unabsolvable. The only present- 
day plea for daintiness is to pretend to be 
coarse. 

I have never gone about the world with 
the eyes of the critic, and when I hunted 
up the poet, whose wild fancies had fil’ed 
my years of adolescence wi:h dreams, at 
his rooms in the Rue des B:aux Arts, a 
year after his release, I found him still 
the gentlemanly man of letters he had 
always been. I had prepared myself not 
to see anything lurid or dreadful: sin is 
individually relative, and Oscar Wilde’s 
erotical nature was mot so revolting as 
some superficial thinkers imagine. I 
thought only of the hideous confinement 
endured during the Autumn of 1895, all 
1896, and the Spring of 1897. and of the 
gross round of duties he had been com- 
pelled to perform in his prison cell: 


‘* We toro the tarry rope to shreds 
With blunt and bleeding nails ; 
We rubbed the deors. and scrubbed the floors, 
And cleaned the shining rails ; 
And rank by rank, we soaped the plank, 
And clattered with the pails. 


We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, 
We turned the dusty drill ; 

We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, 
And sweated on the mill : 

But in the heart of every m7n 
Terror was lying still.” 


—the living and sleeping in one smal! 
room, with white-washed walls, blank, 
hideous ; the denial of God's blessed sun- 
shine, the utensils that had to be polished 
daily, the solitariness of confinement, the 
enforced attention at service, the insolent 
arrogance of warders, with “souls beneath 
the ken of things divine,” and the tears 
gathered thickly on my lashes as I as- 
cended the stairs to his room. 

That he was poor I knew, and that he 
would have difficulty in continuing his 


575 


literary career I guessed. At first I hesi- 
tated to knock. Then I heard him stir- 
ring within, and tapped gently. He 
opened the door himself, and at sight of 
his face—so piteous in its suffering, so 
anguished in its settled despair—I re- 
coiled. The same stalwart figure, tall and 
commanding, but slightly bent, the hair 
tinging into grey, and the forehead 
wrinkled with premature age. But I held 
out my hand instantly. and said as 
steadily as I could, “May I shake your 
hand again, Mr. Wilde, as a token of my 
esteem and unchanged devotion?” He 
drew me within without a word, and looked 
at me keenly. There was a tigerish gleam 
in his eyes, and I felt vaguely frightened 
and abashed. I shave wondered since 
whether he had suffered thoughts of mad 
anger and revenge to thrill him whilst in 
Reading Gaol, and when look‘ng backward 
at his trial! But he had not forgotten 
me, and his welcome was as sincere as it 
was touching. So we sat beside the fire 
and talked. 

His face grew more animated as we 
conversed, and throughout it was lit up by 
a pleasant smile. His old lightness had 
not forsaken him, and he quoted 
from his essays with all the enthu- 
siasm of eariier years. The manu- 
script of “The Ballad of Read- 
ing Gaol” lay upon his tatle, and I read 
several stanzas with growing appreciation. 
I asked him how he had fared, and he re- 
counted the indignit’es to which he had 
been subjected. I spoke of the restful- 
ness of his attaining the third stage, when 
lighter tasks would be apportioned to him, 
and he would become privileged to receive 
books. He stretched out a hand depre- 
catingly, and reminded me that his sentence 
had been one of “continuous” hard 
labour. “But the books,” I protested. 
His voice was harsh when he replied: 

“Do not, I pray you,” he cried. “Of 
what use to me was the namby-pamby stuff 
ot Reading Gaol? During those first few 
weeks I lived in a Hell of thought. I 
have suffered almost all that a man can 
suffer—except that” (he poined to the 
“Ballad” lines ‘The man had killed the 
thing he loved and sohe had to die’) “and 
I am inclined to the belief that we find our 
surest sense of life in poignant pain. The 































































































‘ 































































































































































































76 





only real passions, whether they be pleasur- 
abie or tormenting, are frenzies of the 
brain. Feeling vanishes once it is realised. 
There are moments in the lives of all when 
we become conscious of being but idle dolls 
in the hands of some strange incomprehen- 
sble Force, and my imprisonment has been 
one long chain of such terrible moments of 
consciousness.” 

I doubt whether I should be right in giv- 
ing expression to all his sentiments that 
night. When I left him he was croonirg 
softly over the fire, a cigarette between his 
lips. We had been talking as of old, and 
I had quoted several of my favorite pieces 
of imagery. I looked back at him, noting 
again his clear-cut profile, the sunken 
forehead, the mobile mouth. 

He glanced round, and said musingly : 
“ Good-bye, Jackie. Luck to you! Don't 
let my thoughts run away with you. Each 
soul is the centre of the universe, remem- 
ber. High or low, rich or poor, each soul 
see faults in its contemporaries. And the 
hunchback, deformed, hideous, is right ‘n 
declaring his lack of esteem when he views 
the plaster-cast of Apollo. Don’t al- 
together forget me in England.” 

I did not see him again, nor do I know 
how he passed his last few days. Let us 
realise how much of infinite pain, how 
much soul-distraction, how much self-con- 
demnation went to make up his books, and 
apprecicte and sympathise—not avoid and 
reprove. 

Even in declaring himself a decadent, 
Oscar Wilde was a man to be loved. As 
“Heart’s Brother” he was known to the 
favoured few who were admitted into the 
inner circle of his life. The most precious 
poet is not he who btrirgs the laugh‘er 
bubbling to our lips; nor is it he who 
moves us to tears by his pathos. It is he 
who makes his sorrow, his pain, his pas- 
sionate longings most beautiful and most 
mus cal to our ears. It is he into whose 
rhymes has crept that incommunicable 
something called “self”: that element of 
esthetic delight in one’s own attributes 
which would render a dunghill full of sweet 
odours. What Keats calls the “sensuous 
life of verse” must rule the fancy of every 
writer of poetry. Edgar Allan Poe was 
occasionally drunk. Oscar Wilde was oc- 
casionally a moral debauchee; but what 





OSCAR WILDE: 






A MEMOIR 





years of sober and restrained labour went 
to make “Tales of Romance and Fantasy,” 
on the one hand, and the keen epigram of 
“ Iatentions ” on the other! Which is the 
true Oscar Wilde—the moral leper, the 
gibe of the man in the street—or the 
strenuous artist, the man who cried :— 

“‘ Methinks no flower would ever bud in Spring, 
But for the lover’s lips that kiss, the poec’s lips 

that sing?” 

The morals of the poet are always mis- 
represented, misunderstood. The most 
ascetic of our singers lay themselves open 
to condemnation if we read their lives too 
critically. The light that beats around 
every action of the man of note, the frank 
confession beaming from the thoughts of 
the poet, reveal the soul itself. I can 
vouch that the average morality of Oscar 
Wilde was superior to that of many of his 
contemporaries. For the poet’s imagina- 
tion must be fervid, and the esthetic value 
of Oscar Wilde’s work depends less upon 
the character of the man than upon the 
genius of the artist. Oscar Wilde is en- 
titled to a niche in the world of letters, and 
I hope sincerely that the obloquy which 
has so long obscured his memory will ere 
long be lifted. In claiming his right to 
immortality I do not hesitate. The man 
who could write this Requiescat was not 
wholly bad :— 

** Tread lightly, she is near, 
Under the snow ; 


Speak gently, she can hear 
The daisies grow. 


All her bright golden hair 
Tarnished with rust ; 

She that was young and fair 
Fallen to dust. 


Lily-like, white as snow, 
she hardly knew 

She was a woman, so 
Sweetly she grew. 


Coffin-board, heavy stone 
Lie on her breast ; 

I vex my heart alone, 
She is at rest. 


Peace, peace, she cannot hear 
Lyre or sonnet ; 

All my life’s buried here, — 
Heap earth upon it.” 


That God may rest his soul in peace, 
and give him that true love which he so 
madly sought, atid so wrongly mis-con- 
ceived in this world, is my heart-felt 
prayer. 


66) WORDIENNE !” The oath slipped 

from between Mdme. de Monse- 
span’s red lips with an ease begot of fre- 
quent repetiton; “ Mordenne! ‘Tis in- 
tamous. To think his Majesty should be 
So overcome by the ardour of hunting a 
paltry stag that he should forget my very 
existence, and allow me to lose myzelf in 
this hateful forest,” and hot tears of anger 
forced themselves into the black eyes. 
whose witching brilliance had already cost 
Louis the Magnificent more than he would 
have cared to admit. 

Madame was thoroughly angry ; not only 
had the King neglected her, but in her 
pique she had galloped her hgh-mettled 
chestnut—Madame desp‘sed any creature 
whose sp‘rit was not as active as her own—- 
along so many grassy glades and woodland 
paths that now she had emerged from the 
cool greenery of the forest to the glar.ng 
whiteness of the hghway, she was as ut- 
terly uncertain of her whereabouts as if 
she had suddenly found herself in the 
moon. 

The chestnut was as angry as his fair 
rider; s9 many liberties had been taken 
with his mouth and his legs during the 
past two hours that when Madame, after 
gazing vainly up and down the dusty road 
for someone to assist her, suddenly made 
an angry clutch at the rein, his pat‘ence 
gave way. Toss ng his head, he seized the 
bit between his teeth, and. with a bound 
which almost unseated his rider, galloped 
headlong down the-road. 

Madame screamed ; her agitated nerves 
at last gave way, and scream after scream 
rent the still air. Her breath had almost 
left her. another minute and she would 
have fallen from the saddle, when from 


round a bend in the road came a deus ¢x 
machina in the form of a young man on. 
horseba-k, wich a couple of bg, rough 
dogs trotting by his s‘de. 

With a single glance the young man 
took in the situation; slipp'ng from his 
horse, he threw himself in the path of the 
runaway and seized the bridle. With an up- 
ward thrust of his strong arm, the chest- 
nut’s head ‘was jerked in the air, and he 
was brought to a sudden standstill and 
hurled back almost on his haunches. With- 
out re‘easing his grip the young man 
stepped forward, and throwing his left arm 
round Madame’s wais: drew her gently 
from the saddle, and she dropped fainting 
on his breast. 

“So ho! thou brute ; quizt, quiet, I say,” 
thundered the young man; and, unencum- 
bered by h‘s burden, he pushed the chest- 
nut backwards until the s'de of the road 
was reached, and he was able to hook the 
re'ns over a broken branch. Then he 
placed the lady gently on the ground, and, 
as if the restoration of beautiful fa‘nting 
women were a daily babit. drew from one 
of the pockets of his leather jerkin a 
capacious flasx, and dropped on the white 
forehead and parted vermilion lips a little 
of the contents. 

“Mon Dieu! how teautiful she is,” he 
wh spered, as he watched the colour come 
back to the pale cheeks, and. as if in 
answer to the involuntary compliment 
Madame’s lids were raised, and her eves 
swept wonder.ngly across his admiring 
face. Then with a pretty sgh and a 
shudder Madame de Montespan came out 
of her faint, and, drawing herelf from 
the young man’s arm, sat upright on the 
mossy turf. 

577 








A MAN’S 


“ Mademo.se]'e is better?” queried the 
young man timidly, rising to his feet and 
removing his cap with a courteous, old- 
fashioned bow. : ‘ 

“Monsieur, you have saved my life. I 
thank you,” and she smiled as che did at 
Louis when a favour was to be asked, 
causing the young man’s heart to thump 
violently and his brown face to become a 
dull crimson with embarrassment. 

“Mademoi‘selle’s horse ran away; I 
stopped it. It is nothing,” he stam- 
mered awkwardly. 

The lady smiled again, somewhat scorn- 
fully. He had saved her life, and 
nothing, not even her ascendancy over the 
King, was more dear to her. 

“Monsieur is an hero,” she said softly, 
and the hero’s confusion was terrible to 
see. 

Had a magician offered to procure 
Madame the desire of her heart at that 
moment she had asked for a mirror, but as 
that was impossible she contented herself 
with replacing, at random, a curi or two” 
that had strayed from under her broad hat, 
and arranging the lace ruffle at her 
throat. 

“Will Monsieur not sit down and tell 
me whom I have to thank for this brave 
deed ?” she asked, when she had arranged 
the curls and the ruffle as well as circum- 
stances permitted. 

The young man sat down at a respect- 
ful distance. “My name. mademoiselle? 
I am called Pierre de Me-évy.” 

“You live here ?” 

“ All my life, Mademoiselle.’ 

“ And dost know who is your debtor ?” 

The youth shook his head ; so beautiful 
was she, he told himself, that were she 
the Queen of France he would not be sur- 
prised. 

“Hast never heard of Madame de 
Moniespan ?” 

“Madame de Montespan? Nay, Made- 
moiselle, I know not the name.” 

Half vexed, half amused, by such rustic 
ignorance, the King’s favourite smiled. 
“Art young. monsieur, but not so young 
ye might have heard the name.” A sudden 
thought came to her: she would amuse 
herself at this rustic gallant’s expense. 
“Now I,” she continued, “I am waiting 
maid to Madame de Montespan, her fav- 








MISTAKE 


ouri.e maid, and she would have sorrowed 
greatly if Lhad been killed.” 

The young man gave a fleeting glance 
at the smiling face. Was it possible one 
su beautiful could be but a waiting maid? 
True, his own mother, the Baronne, kept a 
maid, but not such an one as this. Still, 
there was less timidity in his voice as he 
asked, “ Then ye are of the court, Made- 
mo'selle ?” 

Madame smiled again. “Ay, I have 
seen somewhat of the Court.” 

“ And Mademo‘selle knows Paris, too?” 


Again that bewitching smile. “Yes 
monsieur, ’tis in Paris I live.” 
“Ah, I have re’er seen Paris, “Tis the 


dream of my life, yet Father Geffrey, our 
chap'ain, says that Paris is a wcked 
city.” 

“And all therein are wicked, I sup- 
pose,” she mocked? “Truly, monsieur 
knows how to pay a compliment.” 

Pierre de Merévy’s face was ludicrous in 
its expression of dismay and confusion. 
“Nay, I meant not that; and if all there 
be like you,” he Continued boldly, “then 
it must be Paradise.” 

Madame laughed. 
Monsieur knew 
ment ?” 

As his admiration increased de Merévy’s 
timidity grew less; and when, as the s:n 
sank lower. Madame, who was getting 
hungry and wearied of this téte-a-téte, 
desired to be directed to the road to Ver- 
sailles—she forbade the young man to do 
more than point out the road—he lifted 
her boldly into the saddle, and seizing her 
hand pressed it to his lips. 

“ Adieu, monsieur, and remember I am 
your debtor for life,” cried Madame de 
Montespan gaily, as she touched the now 
quiet chestnut with her heel. “ Adieu.” 
But it was “au revoir,” the young man 
whispered to himself as he waved his hand 
in reply ; and, when she was out of sig:. 
he drew from his breast a dainty riding 
glove of soft perfumed leather of which 
he had possessed himself, and pressed it 
passionately to his lips. 

A week later a young man mounted on a 
magnificent sorrel horse rode into Paris and 
took up his quarters at the famous cabaret 
of the Fox, in the Tuileries Gardens. It 


“Did I not say 
how to pay a compli- 


was Pierre de Merévy, and the object of 


A MAN’S MISTAKE 


his coming to the forbidden city was, of 
course, to find the owner of the perfumed 
glove which rested inside his jerkin. For 
a week he had dreamed of h:s fair ac- 
quaintance, and then, unable .and unwill- 
ing to fight against the novel and delicious 
sensations which filled his breast, he deter- 
mined to seek her in Paris, and, when 
found, to declare his love. In his s mplic- 
ity, he imagined that the find ng would no: 
be difficult, nor, as a matter of fact was it. 

He w2s sitting at one of the tables dis- 
cussing a measure of wine, which the heat 
of the day and his dusty ride of the morn- 
ing demanded, when there entered two 
gentlemen, Musketeers of the King’s 
Guard, though of that de Merévy was un- 
aware. Having ordered their liqour, they 
sat down within three feet of the interested 
young man, and commenced to discuss per- 
sons and matters connected with the Court 
with a freedom and levity of speech that 
astonished their listener. 

“ Another vacancy gone, friend Gaston,” 
said one, setting down his measure after a 
mighty draught. “The Montespan hath 


wheedled the King into giving the lieuten- 


ancy to some beggarly relation or cast off 
lover of hers, and thou and I wil! have to 
wait again.” 

The Musketeer’s companion swore with 
remarkable fluency when he heard this 
piece of news. “Mort de ma vie! It has 
ever been thus since that beautiful devil 
had a finger in the Court-p'e,.” he said, 
when his feelings were somewhat relieved. 
“Here is thou and I, Raoul, put aside be- 
cause Madame had someone to recompense 
or conciliate.” 

“Or that has money to spare,” suggested 
the other significantly. “ Believe me, Gas- 
ton, de Montespan ne'er does aught for 
naught, and those who receive gifts through 
her pay dearly for them.” 

The Musketeers grumbled in concert, de 
Merévy listening with some indignation to 
this impeachment of the honesty of 
his inamorata’s mistress; and so ab- 
sorbed was he in the thoughts the 
conversation brought into his mind, 
that he lost the commencement of 
the Musketeers’ further talk. He was 
awakened from his brown study by a loud 
burst of laughter from the younger and 
more devil-may-care of the pair. 


579 


“Ha! ha! ha! and what said his Majesty 
to that pretty tale, eh ?” 

“Nay, I know not; ‘twas Marie, de 
Mon:espan’s maid told me the story; but 
it finshed there, for Marie heard a noise, 
and fearing to be seen, stayed no longer, 
and so I lost the rest.” 

“Lost, ha! ha! ha!” laughed the Muske- 
teers again: “ lost, Parbleu! I shall die 
with laughing. Why, when Madame loses 
herself she does so with a purpose. Eh, 
Raoul, I’d give a month’s pay—if I had 
it—to know who was the companion she 
was lost with.” 

De Merévy’s ears tingled with horror. 
Madame de Montespan, whoe’er she might 
be, was, he understood, a great lady, and 
yet these soldiers were speaking of her as 
if she were no better than a fish-wife. His 
face crimsoned with indignation, and it 
was all he could do to prevent himself 
from taking the Musketeer by the throat 
and casting the lie in his teeth. Not for 
what he had said concerning Mdme. de 
Montespan ; that might or might not be 
true. It was nothing to him, but this 
sneering ruffian had actually accused 
madame’s maid of listening outside the 
door. That is to say, he had accused the 
lady whom he, Pierre, had befriended, 
and to whom he had lost his heart, of a 
disgraceful action. It must be she, for 
was not the perfumed glove next his heart 
marked with a M, and had not the rascal 
said his informant’s name was Marie ? 

“Mordieu!” gasped: the young man, 
“let me get away from here ere I commit 
murder,” and hot with rage he stumb!ed 
from the cabaret and into the street. 

By the aid of many enquiries, and at the 
expense of many sly winks and derisive 
smiles, de Merévy at last found himself 
outside the magnificent hotel where Louis 
the Fourteenth had installed his beautiful 
favourite. Taking his courage in both 
hands he boldly passed through the great 
gates, and found himself in a large room, 
through which a constant stream of serving 
men, waiting maids, lackeys, and trades- 
people were continually passing. For a 
time he stood with h’s back agafnst the 
wall, not knowing to whom to address him- 
self, while no one de'gned to take any 
noticeof him, beyond eyeing with some curi- 
osity his plain and somewhat rustic attire. 





A MAN’S MISTAKE 


A: last a lackey came to him and de- 
manded, somewhat contemptuously, his 
bus‘ness ; but on being told that the gentle- 
man desi.ed to see \.dme. de Montsspan, 
the feliow stared rudely, laughed, went 
away, and forgo: all about him. For half 
an hour Pierre waited, and then a pretty- 
looking girl—she was the source of the 
story wh’ch had so excited de Merévy’s in- 
dignation—who, each time she had passed 
through the room, had eyed the young 
man’s stalwart form and brown face with 
open approval, approached, and smilingly 
begged to know for whom he was wafting. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said Pierre colouring. 
“T am anxious to see Mdme. de Monte~ 
span, if it be poss:ble.” 

The girl looxed doubtful. “ Madame 
rece.ves so few,” she said, “unless the 
business be important. Can you not tell 
me what it is?” 

Pierre hes tated ; he did not like taking 
anyone into his confidence, but he could 
see no other way of getting what he de- 
sired. “I am anxious,” he said slowly, 
“to secure Madame’s influence with the 


lady who owns this glove,” and he drew. 


the object in question from his breast. 

The smile faded from the girl’s lips. 
She stared at the glove, with its well-known 
M embroidered in azure silk at the inner 
corner, and then at the young man’s face. 
Snatching the glove from h‘s hand, she 
said hurriedly, “I will take it to Madame 
at once,” and darted away before Pierre 
could make an attempt to recover h's pro- 
perty. Before he had recovered from 
his surprise she was back again. “ Follow 
me, monsieur,” she said more respectfully ; 
“madame will see you.” 

“Monsteur de Merévy,” announced the 
maid, and shutting the door of the boudoir 
retired, and Pierre, with nervous feet, ad- 
vanced towards the woman whose reputa- 
tion he had heard discussed so freely two 
hours before. 

Anastasie de Montespan was seated be- 
fore her dressing table, on wh'ch lay the 
dainty passport which had secured Pierre 
the audience he des'red. Apparently, his 
appearance had interrupted the pzogress 
of her to*‘let. for madame was dressed in 
a voluminous white silk wrapper smothered 
with lace, and lavishly trimmed with knots 
of azure ribbon, while her ‘black hair 


’ 


straggled in bewitching curls over should- 
ers of a whiteness like to ivory. No one 
else was in the room, but then madame 
was nothing if not daring. 

“Thou hast found Paris, then, my 
rescuer of maidens in distress,’ she ex- 
claimed, turning her head as de Merévy 
advanced. 

Pierre stood stock still ; he was petrified 
with astonishment, and his eyes remained 
fixed on Anastas:e’s face as if unable to 
credt their own vision. To returfi the 
laughing greeting was a sheer impossibility, 
for his tongue absolutely refused its 
cffice, even if his bewildered brain had 
been able to dictate the words. 

“Come, monsieur,” exclaimed madame 
in a tone of anger and rep:oach to which 
her laughing eyes gave the lie, “am I so 
hideous that thou art changed to stone gs 
if I were another Medusa? Have I altered 
so in the past few days?” 

Power came back to his limbs if not to 
his tongie, and diopping on one knee 
Pierre pressed his lips to the beautiful 
hand extended to him. 

“Thou art astonished. mons‘eur,” said 
the beauty smiling. “Thou hast looked 
to find the maid and discovered that. she 
is the mistress. Art thou disappointed ?” 

“Aye, madame, that I am,” Pierre 
answered sorrowfully, at last finding his 
speech. “Pierre de Merévy had thought 
himself good enough for the maid, but 
alas! he knows he may not dare raise his 
eyes to the mistress.” _ 

“And has monsieur so little knowledge 
Or experience he does not know that 
love knows no distinction between the 
plince and the peasant?” and madame’s 
fine eyes rested tenderly on the young 
man, causing his heart to throb and his 
nerves to thrill with a pass onate violence 
that exceeded any sensation he had yet 
experienced. He did not notice the mock- 
ery behind the glance or in the melodious 
voice, and hope and exultation filled his 
breast. 

“Love may come, madame,” he said 
timidly, “but dare one always let him 
remain ?” 

“And why not, monsieur, unless, of 
course, one be faint-hearted ?” and her eyes 
told him she could not count him as a 
coward. 





A MAN’S MISTAKE 


581 


“Then am I not to’cast out love, now*sto the Fox he returned, and after a hearty 


that it has come to me?” 

“Monsieur, what a question to ask me. 
How can I advise thee? Yet, I had 
thought thee a brave man.” 

“Then I will not,” he cried joyously. 
“T will feed, and not starve my love; I 
wll not suppress it and try to cast it out. 
but encourage it ; and it shall increase, al- 
though e’en now it is great enough to over- 
whelm me, and ere long it shall be so 
strong it will sweep all before it, and 
claim its prize, the cause of its being,” 
and in the flashing of his eyes and the 
ringing tones of his voice, Madame de 
Montespan could read the honesty and ar- 
dour of his passion. 

Truly, Pierre was different from ali the 
other men with whom the mistress of the 
King had come in contact, and she was 
forced to realise that her estimate of his 
character was scarcely a correct one. Such 
fire and resolution she had never expected 
in this simple country squire, and a slight 
feeling of nervousness was coming to her. 
What she had began in mockery, this young 
man had accepted as earnest. and this was 
likely to prove dangerous. While Pierre. 


no longer nervous or ill at ease, poured 


forth the tale of his love and devotion, 
she was seeking for some means to control 
the spirit she had aroused, when there 
came a hurried knock at the door, and the 
maid entered and whispered a few words 
in her mistress’s ear. 

Madame’s_ self-control was _ superb. 
“Monsieur,” she said regretfully to Pierre, 
who had not risen from his knee, “ Mon- 
sieur, the time has passed so quickly in 
yout company that I had forgotten the 
hour of an appointment with my physician 
has come I must bid thee farewell.” 

Pressing his lips passionately to her 
hand, Pierre, guided by the maid, left the 
room by another door than that by which 
he had entered. As he left the hotel a 
huge carriage, lavishly decorated and gilded, 
was drawing slowly away from the great 
gates, and on the panels his eyes noticed 
the Royal lilies of France. His mind, 
however, took no heed of the circumstance. 

De Merévy’s exultation at the thought 
that he was a favoured suitor of the lady 
he so passionately loved did not prevent 
him from feeling uncommonly hungry, so 

No. 30. September, 1905. 


meal again sat himself down to try the 
quality of the host’s famous Beaune. A 
dozen or more men occupying one of the 
larger tables, who had commenced the 
business of drinking some time before 
Merévy’s entry, had now reached that 
stage of convivality which demands a song. 
and one of them, a big, swarthy-com- 
plexioned fellow with a rich deep voice, 
trolled out a song which would have pro- 
cured him a life-long habitation in the 
Bastille had it come to the ears of the 
lady whom it celebrated. But as there 
was no one in the room beyond his boon 
companions and the rustic-looking fellow 
de Merévy, the singer chanted boldly :— 


“ Qu’est ce qu’est aimé par le roi? 
Malgré qu'elle n’est pas en la loi, 

Qu’est aimé par tout avec l’argent, Ma foi! 
C’est Madame de Montespan.’ 


Qu’est ce qu’est”—the singer had gone no 
further into the second verse when the rustic 
looking fellow was out of his chair, a single 
bound brought him to the long table, and 
the song was brought to an abrupt con- 
clusion, for his clenched fist smote the 
singer full on the lips and hurled him 
backwards over his chair. De Merévy, 
his hand on the hilt of his sword, drew 
back, and faced the astonished ro‘sterers 
with flashing eyes and burning cheek. 

For a moment the entire company sat 
speechless with amazement; then, as the 
singer scrambled to his feet, they rose as 
one man. In a moment their swords were 
unsheathed, and they crowded around the 
champion of the King’s mistress, amid a 
babel of oaths and threats and angry 
shouts. 

“The song is a foul slander, a lie, as £ 
will prove by my sword,” shouted Pierre 
“ Gentlemen, I will fight you all, one after 
the other, and God will protect him who 
upholds the right.” 

They stared at him in wonder. “Lis 
ten to him, he is mad or drunk,” said one. 
“Mad or drunk,” shouted a voice thickly, 
“T will slay him for that blow,” and with 
the blood dripping from his wounded 
mouth the swarthy-faced singer pushed 
himself through the ring. “En garda 
monsieur.” 

83 














De Merévy’s blade flashed from iis 
scabbard ; the others fell hurriedly back- 
wards, and in the clear space between the 
long table and the wall the two swords- 
men set to work. 

The soldier attacked immediately, his 
crushed lips mumbling curses as he 
thrust and lunged with furious strength ; 
fury had robbed his hand of its 
skill, but had added to its power. Another 
man had given way before his fierce at- 
tack. Not so Pierre. His arm was as 
firm and rigid as a bar of iron, and, 
fierce as was the onslaught it was met by 
a defence so sure a: 7? so strong that his 
opponent’s sword arm was almost numbed 
by the force of the parries. Nor was he 
backward with his ripostes. The lust of 
killing, which lies in the heart of every 
‘ man, had been aroused by the gross in- 
sult given the woman he loved, and he 
was determined to slay the insulters, 
fighting with a cold ferocity more danger- 
ous than the other's passionate anger. In 
less than a moment a vigorous parry sent 
his opponent’s rapier flying towards the 
ceiling, he lunged fiercely, and the on- 
lookers heard the horrible drawing sound 
of steel passing through flesh, and the dull 
thud of his sword guard as it struck on 
his opponent’s breast bone. The soldier 
threw up his arms and fell to the floor, 
with three feet of encrimsoned steel pro- 
truding from between his shoulder blades. 

Withdrawing his rapier, de Merévy 
stood upright and steadily faced the dead 
man’s comrades. “The next gentleman,” 
he said calmly ; but none came forward. 
They were all men of courage, and he 
had killed their friend, but they feared 
to face this young giant, in whose eyes 
gleamed murder so plainly. 

For a minute de Merévy waited; then 
thrusting his sword into its scabbard, he 
walked steadily past them and out of the 
room. The conversation he had over- 
heard in the morning, the smiles and 
winks which had met his requests for 
direction to Madame de Montespan’s 
house, came back to his mind, and were 
jumbled in hopeless confusion with the 
words of the song sung by the dead man. 
Across his mental vision came pictures of 
Madame as he had seen her, so innocett, 
so guileless, and so beautiful ; and follow- 





A MAN’S MISTAKE 





ing these across the panoramic sheet of his 
mind came the gilded coach with its de- 
corated panels. 


Straight to the magnificent hotel he 
went. He found no need this t:me to en- 
qu're the way, and passirg through the 
gates, and then the long ante-10 m heed- 
less of those who gathered therein, and 
who stared at him in alarm, he reached the 
stairs. Here a lackey strove to bar the 
way, but Pierre put hm aside with one 
hand and ascended. Before he had gone 
halfi way the astonished servant had 
mounted behind h'm, seized him by the 
jerkin, and tried to drag him backward. 
A single blow freed him, and the unfor- 
tunate man fell to the foot of the stairs 
and lay there without movement, while 
Pierre reached the corridor and searched 
for the door with its panels decorated with 
pink roses, by wh'ch he had entered the 
boudoir a few hours before. Then he 
came in confusion, with beating heart and _ 
nervous limbs, but now his heart scarce 
seemed to beat and his foot was firm and 
steady. He turned the handle and en- 
tered. 

Reclining on a low ottoman was the 
woman he had come to see, and whose 
smile of welcome died from _ her 
rouged face as she recognised her v'si- 
tor. It was someone else she was ex- 
pecting. As he ‘advanced, Mdme. de 
Montespan sprang to her feet, and there 
was more of anger than alarm in her voice 
as she cried, “ Monsieur, what mears this 
intrusion? Who has allowed thee to come 
hither ?” 

“T came, madame, to ask a question, 
which I pray thee to answer. Art thou 
loved by the King ?” 

Madame stared, but she did not reply ; 
she made a movement towards a tab!e on 
which stood a small silver bell, but de 
Merévy interposed and caught her bare 
beautiful arm in his rigbt hand. He did 
not mean to hurt her, but, neverthe- 
less, she winced beneath his grip. 

“Will ye answer my question, madame ? 
I have heard rumours and stories: I have 
but now sla'n a man who dared asperse 
thee. and I demand an answer. Are ye 
the King’s mistress ?” 

“Release my arm, monsieur: begone ; I 
will cry for help. Begone, I say.” No 


/ 


A MAN’S MISTAKE 


one had @’er yet accused Mdme. de Monte- 
span of4lack of courage, but the devil in 
de Merévy’s eyes was bringing fear into 
her heart. 

Pierre’s grip tightened. “Madame, I 
beg for your answer. Is it true? I loved 
you: God only knows how much, and I 
demand to know, or I will strang'e you in 
this room.” : 

The eyes of the man and woman met. 
For a moment Madame’s were recolute 
beneath his stern, pitiless gaze; then they 
wavered, and, bending her head, she 
faintly whispered, “Yes.” She had met a 
spirit stronger and more unconquerable 
than her own. 

For a moment de Merévy looked down 
on the bowed head; he shuddered and 
hes'tated as if érresolute, them he cast 
her from him roughly, and she fell sob- 
bing on the ottoman. 

“And I loved her,” he muttered. and 
left the room without a glance behind 
him. As he pasg-d from the hotel a 
carriage approached and stopped outside 
the gates. « gentleman dressed in white 
satin stepped out and entered the hotel, 


by 4 
l's 
0 7, EA 


583 


With the manner of one who goes into his 
own house. 

De Merévy watched his entry, and to a 
passer-by he said, “Is it the King, mon- 
seiur?” and the man replied, as one who 
answers some ridiculous question, “The 
King? Why, of course, m’sieur ; who else 
should it be?” 

At the Fox all was in a state of con- 
fusion when de Merévy returned, and his 
host stared at his re-appearance. “If 
m’sieur is wise he will leave Paris at 
once,” he said. “The deid man has been 
carried to yonder room, where h’s friends 
are; they are awa'ting the bier. They 
have vowed vengeance, and they are many.” 

S:raightly Pierre strode into the room 
through the angry, wondering Musketeers, 
and, reaching the table where lay the 
corpse, he laid his hand on the dead man’s 
breast. “God pardon me, comrade,” he 
said sorrowfully, “for killing thee, for thou 
wert right, and ‘twas I who lied. Now, 
gentlemen ”—and, straightening himself, 
he walked towards the slain man’s com- 
rades—“ ye may do with me as ye will; I 
admit that I was wrong.” 


a iain 


D.AND THE CIT 
Y BARC 
INDIAN E/] 


OF THe INNS 
VER AT STR 


QUEEN, 
WHICH LIEON THE. 4 
AND-ON-THE-CREEN 








- — , asc ee ee 
ST ener — 


Y ree a 
\erd Te mee 















Sive me thy hand ? 


Nay, tis @ Sorry part’! 
Love will not be content without the beart! 


Sive me thy smile? 


For I to thee.confess ‘J 
That life without it is a wilderness ! 


Sive me ‘thy lips? 
Ah! me,'twere bliss 













To lay upon their sweetness 
Justone kiss! 


Sive me thysel*? 
I ask no more 

Than brave men asked of ladies fair, SH 
in days of yore! 














a = Ss ae iz 


cSt 





NX 


“ > . 
ts ” N 


SOME TYPES OF RUSSIAN ALIENS. 


Drawn from the life in the Hust End of London 


By JOSEPH O'BRIEN, 





ee tl : 
Pi " 
; i ae a, agains 


KERRY COTTAGES, KILLORGLIN. 


WESTERN KERRY 


By HENRY A. FRANCIS 


FAINT, sweet smell of the peat fires 
of early morn, borne off land by the 
soft summer breeze, a bold brown shore 
fringed by a lace of white foam, a white, 
sturdy, sentinel lighthouse watching over 
a black reef of hungry rocks, tells us that 
our passage, luckily smooth, from Bristol 
port, is ended, and Cork city is nigh. 
Sweeping round at a right angle and 
passing under the frowning forts guarding 
the harbour’s entrance, Queenstown Bay 
throws wide its spacious expanse, studded 
with merchant shipp‘ng intermingled with 
Britain’s ironclads, who look down with 
stern rigidity and contempt pon the fus- 
sily-panting pleasure s‘eamers rushing from 
one portlet to another. Sweeping past 
Queenstown, fairer afar off than near, but 
crowned by a noble Cathedral, we glide 
under the shadow of the guardship, which 
condescends to drop its ensign to our 
salute. Passing up the beautiful River 
Lee, the towers of a stately Church rise in 
the distance, and soon Cork’s fair city is 
reached. A yelling mob of car drivers, 
frantically trying how near thev can back 
586 


their cars to the quay edge, yet miss such 
utter destruction, claims our practical at- 
tention, and having made one happy we 
drive off, scattering pigs, poultry, and 
Paddies with equal impartiality. Racing 
up the quay side over St. Patrick’s Bridge, 
paternally watched over by the statue of 
the Temperance Apostle, Father Matthew, 
who ever contemplates the element he 
loved so well, we charge up Patrick Street, 
stop for a few hurried minutes to purchase 
fishing tackle and flies, and then return to 
the steamer, get our luggage, and catch the 
train for Western Kerry. Booked for Kil- 
lorglin, we proceed at a fair speed to Mal- 
low Junction, where we change into the 
branch train, and then travel very leisurely 
to our destination. 

Killarney lies on our route, but, having 
visited it before, we do not alight, and can 
enjoy from our carriage the familiar spec- 
tacle of the perplexed tourist clamor- 
ously urged to choose his hotel, a nuisance 
which the Railway Company has now put 
a stop to. 


The slow railroad journey gives us 





WESTERN 





plenty of time to talk over plans of ex- 
ploring the lovely Caragh Lake, climbing 
Mount Carrantuel, and visiting the little- 
known, but wonderfully interesting Dingle 
district, famed both for its grand coast line 
and its archeological relics. Farranfore, 
another junction, is megociated, and our 
little branch train crawls circumspectly 
aleng until our first abiding place, Killor- 
glin, is attained. 





KERRY 587 
dow embellished with a plaster of Paris 
egg-cup and egg, garnished with pre- 
Adamite dust, bore across its lintel the 
legend : 

T. FOLEY, 

Ecc AND BuTTER MERCHANT, 
WHOLESALE, RETAIL, AND FOR EXxporTA- 
TION. 

Turning from these haunts of commerce, 
we leave the town and stroll along the 


ee 
oF i 


RAPIDS IN THE UPPER CARAGH RIVER, 


Fairly comfortable quarcers await us and 
in the evening we explore the town. Situated 
on a hillside, one principal street runs up 
it, crossed at the top, like the letter T, by 
another. Rough cobbles pave the road- 


way, and one tiny thatched cabin with 
mud-carpeted parlour opening on the side- 
wa'k, aod a microscopic four paned win- 


banks of the broad, shallow River Laune, 
watching with interest the sight of fourteen 
fine salmon being hauled for the London 
markets. The fishermen tell us that some 
little while ago an old dog seal came with 
two of his harem, and diving below and 
into the net deliberately tossed every fish 
it contained to his wives. The Arms Act 





WESTERN KERRY 


LOWER CARAGH LAKE. 


prohibiting rifles, the net men were power- 
less to arrest the thief, and the seal, when 
satisfied, simply rushed the net and swam 
away. The story is confirmed by another 
countryman, who adds that “the talk of 
them salmon boys was mighty strong.” 

The Laune fisheries, having netting 
rights over several other rivers, send dur- 
ing the season large quantities of salmon 
daily to England. The persistent hauling 
of Irish rivers and waters, however, spoils 
greatly the sport of the rod-fisher. Judg- 
ing from former experience, I know how 
comparatively scarce the salmon are get- 
ting. In one pool on this same stream 
mine salmon were taken by the fly in one 
day, now it would be an event to take one 
salmon there in nine days. 

A night’s rest and a good breakfast the 
next morning prepare for a reasonably 
early start for the climb of Carrantuel, and 
although urgently pressed by the head 
waiter of the establishment to remain one 
night more, “as it is Fair-day, and there 
will be great sport to-night in the smoking- 
room,” yet we resist, and engage a car with 
a driver who, probably spurred on by the 
hope of sharing in the sport, does his duty 
gallantly, and lands us at Mrs. Breen’s 
Hotel, Glencar, in ample time to climb the 
mountain and return before sunset. One 


ascent is much of a kin to another. It is 
only a song of degrees; no hairbreadth 
escapes happen, and the usual mist lies on 
the very summit, but through gaps of it, 
sufficient is seen to disclose a splendid 
land and seascape. Easterly spreads out 
the range of the McGillicuddy’s Reeks, 
embosoming Killarney’s lakes. South- 
wards the bay of Kenmare’ shines 
through a far-away haze. Apparently, 
at our very feet lies fair Caragh’s lake; 
beyond the Bays of Castlemaine and 
Dingle ; yet further, Mount Brandon and, 
in the dim distance, rolls the Atlantic. To 
the north, the valley and plains of the 
Laune and Maine rivers run out to the 
Tralee hills, whilst in the very mountain’s 
heart nestle green lakelets feeding moun- 
tain torrents glistening in sunshine. Three 
hours we take to gain the summit, 3,414 
feet above the sea, two and a half to return 
to the hotel, where a good dinner satisfies 
well-earned appetites. 

Two days are devoted to exploring the 
beauties of Glencar, and in vainly trying 
to lure a salmon from the Caragh river. 
One solitary rise of a doubtful nature is the 
sole reward, but if we cannot get a bite, 
yet the more blessed office of giving is ours, 
as swarms of midges claim their toll of 
Saxon blood. One morning is spent in 








WESTERN 


a fruitless search for a specimen of the Kil- 
larney fern, legended to have been found 
here, hunting for which we climb the 
charmingly fair but damp course of an in- 
fantile waterfall. 

The filmy ferns, both A ymenophylum, 
Tunbridgense and Wilsoni we find in 
plenty, and the tall Osmunda covers“every 
crevice and tiny glen with imposing fronds, 
but Zrichomanes Redicans, if ever there, 
had withdrawn herself from covetous eyes. 
Trees, ferns, and grassy glades with lovely 
Fritillery butterflies darting to and fro, 
bold rock and scarp with sunbeams silver- 
ing the dainty streamlets falling over them 
make, however, a picture that atones for 
our disappointment. 

The upper Caragh river, to my thinking, 
is one of the most beautiful in Ireland, 
running between wooded banks, hemmed 
in with heather covered hills, and broken 
into chains of foaming falls and rapids, it 
finally rushes under Blackstones Bridge, and 
after a mile, more or less, of smooth cur- 
rent opens into the no less beautiful Lough 
Caragh, through which we take boat to 
catch the train at Caragh station, en route 





KERRY 589 


for Dingle, vid Tralee. Caragh Lake is 
about six miles in length, narrow in its 
upper half, and almost cut in two midway 
by two bold spits of land reaching out to 
each other. Avoiding these obstructions, 
it swells out into a broader basin, but, like 
many a successful humanity, loses romance 
by prosperity. 
~ The waters of the upper Caragh all buy 
wash the towering steeps rushing sheer 
from the narrow beach. Brightly coloured 
rocks relieved by green fern and tree, wher- 
ever tree can anchor root, depict a scene 
unsurpassed by even famed Killarney. 
Bold, rugged headlands, jutting out, 
lend relief to the frowning cliffs, and on 
one mighty precipice, till lately, a solitary 
pair of eagles built their eyrie, and tyran- 
nised over the wild fowl haunting the 
waters. The craggy shores are outflanked 
by massy boulders carved by the ice plough 
of bygone zons into fantastic shapes. One 
monolith, halfway in the lake’s course, 
from shape and blackness. has earned the 
title of “the coffin of the O'Donoghue.” 
Caragh, however, has another claim for 
notice. Trout are plentiful, and salmon not 


BLACKSTONES BRIDGE, GLENCAR. 





590 





scarce, and the many fishers who frequent 
its waters find their wants well cared for in 
the Castle Hotel. 

A couple of hours leisurely spent by our 
oarsmen take us to the landing stage for 
the roadside station, and a slightly monoto- 
nous ride ends at the metropolis of .Kerry, 
Tralee. Thence the light line rail running 
for the most part alongside the public road 
conveys us to the most westerly town in 
Ireland, Dingle, little known to the ordi- 
mary tourist, but well worthy his visit, 
being. perhaps, 
the centre of 
the most inter- 
esting district 
im Europe. Pity 
it is that more 
Englishmen do 
not search out 
the resources of 
their own 
lands, benefit- 
ting their own 
kinsfolk, and 
helping to link 
our Islands in 
closer _ bonds, 
rather than 
spend their 
money n 
foreign hotels, 
enriching those 
to whom they 
are simply so 
many strangers 
to be fleeced. 

Dingle has, 
perhaps. the 
most magnifi- 
cent coast 
scenery in the 
world, and its 


antiquarian re- ROADWAY, 
mains have 

earned for it the title of “the 
Baalbec of Ireland.” From the hour 


Tralee station is left until the day of 
return, scenery and relic rival each other: 
even the rail journey—well ! whoso has not 
travelled by light line rail to Dingle has 
missed a good thing. Climbing up one 


mountain side with glorious views over 
Tralee Bay, pausing for a few minutes on 
the summit ere descending an equally pre- 
cipitous steep overlooking mountain, moor, 


CARAGH LAKE. 





WESTERN - KERRY 


and sea, plenty of time is given to drink in 
the magnificent landscape, and, moreover, 
to appreciate the remarks made by sarcastic 
car drivers, who, overtaking and passing 
us on the road, suggest the delivery of sun- 
dry messages to the good folk of our desti- 
nation or generously tender a tow to the 
engine. The guard and driver are also 
most accommodating, and would, probably, 
raise no serious objection to the stoppage 
of the train, so that passengers might 
gather mushrooms, and certainly do not 
hesitate to de- 
lay a little ex- 
tra for a con- 
versation with 
their numerous 
friends and re- 
latives. In one 
instance so pro- 
longed a halt is 
made that an 
irate third-class 
remarks out of 
his window that 


“maybe that 
when the gen- 
tleman who 
drives the ma- 
chine has 
finished cook- 


ing his dinner 
he'll drive on.” 
All things end 
sooner or later, 
and in about 
four hours we 
cover the thirty 
odd. miles, de- 
_Spite an errant 
~ cow, ‘which, in 
‘true _ national 
r@obstr uc tive 

spirit, selected 

the railway 
sleepers whereon to take’ her siesta, 
and on being disturbed appealed ico 
her owner, a_ lady »@f* varied but 


scanty clothing. empBatic in voice 
and gesture, who i fluent hybrid 
of Gaelic and English pleads her quad- 


ruped’s rights, callimg upon the aid of 


all the ancient ..saints in her | calen- 
dar, but finding them. alas! power- 
less against the modern fire - eater, 


with vague threats to carry her wrongs 














t> the law, whacks off her cow and clears 
the line. 

All Ireland is studded with ancient 
monuments, but the climax is attained in 
the Dingle district ; to quote the roll-call 
of one section—the Barony of Corkaguiny 
—about the size of a medium English 
parish, will suffice. Eleven stone cahers, 
three carns, forty calluraghs, or ancient 
burying grounds (now only used for the in- 
terment of unbaptised children), ten 
castles, eighteen artificial caves, twenty-one 
Churches in ruins, and nine Church sites, 


WESTERN KERRY 


no evil-smelling or dank crypts have w be 
sought out by flickering candle light; 
all lie open to the sunlight, unhaunted by 
special microbe troublers, unhaunted by 
that worse enemy, the officious guide, for, 
wherever you journey in Ireland, saving 
those spots where the usual ruck of tourists 
have forced the breed into existence, the 
peasant is uniformly courteous, ready to 
give information when asked, but 
never intrusive. I know Ireland well, 
and I have yet, « her comparatively 
unknown parts, to experience a rudenass 





ERANDON CREEK, DINGLE. 


two hundred and eighteen cloghauns, or 
bee-hive shaped stone houses, sixteen crom- 
lechs, twelve .large stone crosses, three 
hundred and seventy-six earthen raths or 
forts, one hundred and thirteen gallauns 
or immense rude stand'ng stones, forty- 
four monumental pillars (mostly bearing 
Ogham or lin: writing inscriptions), 
fifteen oratories, nine penitential sta- 
t'on;, sixty-six wells, many dedicated to 
some saint, and twenty-nine miscellaneous 
remains. 

Legends hover round these as the doves 
flutter round the stones of S:. Mark’s of 
Venice. All, moreover, can be explored 
while drinking in the pure Atlantic breezes ; 


by word or deed from an Irish country- 
man. 

Dingle until the.last few years was, ex- 
cept by sea and car, cut off from the rest 
ofthe world. The nearest railway station, 
Tralee, being thirty-three miles away, the 
car road ran through a bleak and moun- 
tainous country, and no halt, save to 
change horses, broke the long drive. The 
probability of rain daunted the pleasure- 
seeker, although to the hardy native rain 
and storm enough to have driven the aver- 
age mort:l to a dog kennel for shelter 
seemed but an episode to be commented on 
but not avoided. I can recall one day 
while travelling on the car, the rain, im- 








592 WESTERN 
pelled by a sudden change in 
the strong wind, varied its 
monotonous perpendicular fall 
to a horizontal rush. I, in 
desperation, took temporary 
refuge with car and horse in an 
old shed. Therein stood a 
Kerry man, a driver of a mob 
of ponies, who had taken off his 
clothes to “dhry himself,” 
Carefully he wrung: the excess 
of water out of each garment, 
and, replacing his attire, in- 
formed me that “it was a fine 
soft day, but the weight of 
water in his clothes made thefn 
heavy to walk in,” and, light- 
ing his pipe, he unconceruedly 
faced again the wrath of the 
elements. 

The township of Dingle is 
fairly large, moderately clean, 
and possesses two good hotels. 
It has a good harbour, and is in 
weekly communication with 
Cork by steamship, which, 
carrying back fish, the staple trade 
of the- town, returns with “notions” 
to supply the inhabitants and trawling sea- 
men. A handsome Roman Catholic 
Church is situated in the centre of the 
town, and a most interesting Protestant 





GALLERUS ORATORY, DINGLE. 


Most ancient Christian Church in Ireland. 


KERRY 


ANCIENT HOUSE, BEE-HIVE SHAPE, AT PERFEET. 


Supposed to have been built by Phenecian Metal 


Workers. 


Church is well worth the investigations of 
the antiquary. Crime is rare in the dis- 
trict, the principle business of the magis- 
trates being to fine publicans, who are 
many, for being open during unlawful 
hours, and also to settle the personal 
family _ dis- 
putes of the 
townsfolk. We 
were invited 
to inspect the 
Hospital and 
the  Work- 
house, a very 
fine one, by 
the way, but, 
preferring 
stone ruins to 
human ones, 
the day after 
our arrival at 
Dingle we be- 
gan by in- 
specting the 


Oratory of 
Gallerus, sup- 
posed to be the 


most ancient 
Christian 
Church in Ire- 











I 


eee 


er 





WESTERN 


land. It is in perfect preservation built of 
enormous roughly hewn stones placed to- 
gether without cement. The doorway, about 
five feet four inches high, is of the Cyclo- 
pean type of architecture, and at the east 
end of the building is a small window, 
sufficient to admit light and air. It isa 
strange sensation to stand inside the 
ancient building, antecedent, according to 
Dr. Keane, to the advent of St. Patrick, 
and remember how many races and changes 
that plain building has survived. The 
land it stands upon is classic ground. Not 
far off; and clearly in view, is St. Bran- 
don’s mountain, with its holy wells at its 
summit, to which, legend tells us, the saint 


KERRY 593 


Ireland, and were, by order of Lord Czey 
and Sir Walter Raleigh, after surrender, 
slain toa man. Charles Kingsley, in the 
stirring pages of “Westward Ho!” tells 
well the tale. 

About a mile from Gallerus stands the 
ruined Church of Kilmelkedar, or St. Mel- 
kedar, an old building, erected about the 
twelfth century, on the site of an ancient 
heathen temple, the shrine of the Golden 
Moloch, the Phcenecian god, whose wor- 
shippers are credited with the erection of 
many of the buildings in this locality. 
This Church is remarkable for being the 
earliest known Christian Church in Ire- 
land that had a cross on the roof. The 





RUINS OF KILMELKEDAR CHURCH—ABOUT THE TWELFTH CENTURY. 


every morning made his pilgrimage. From 
the bay below the hill, St. Brandon, with 
a faithful few, sailed on his momentous 
voyage, and, tradition states, discovered 
America. His wondrous adventures are 
recorded by the monkish chronicles of the 
middle ages. Amongst other strange 
sights, the weirdest, may be, was his en- 
counter with Judas Iscariot, who, for one 
day in the year, is released from torment 
because he once shared half his coat with 
a naked beggar. 

Immediately facing Gallerus, about a 
league off, is the famous Fort del’Or, where 
the Spaniards made their last stand in 


cross is still to be seen over the chancel ; 
another large cross in the churchyard is an 
object of great veneration to the country, 
folk. To the extreme left of the photo- 
graph is a remarkable Ogham. Stone, 
pierced near the top with a hole; this 
is a stone of blood-guiltiness, a pillar of 
refuge, in fact. As of old, the Jews had 
their cities of refuge, so, also, had the 
ancient inhabitants of Ireland.  Once:a 
man, guilty of shedding —his:‘fellow’s 
blood, could reach thestone and place his 
hand or finger into the hole, he was safe 
from the slain man’s kindred. Other 
stones of this character exist in Kerry; a 











————~— 


very fine one, I believe, near Sneem. An 
Irish oath to the present day is, “I swear 
by the hole in the stone.” The Church 
is still used for burials, and the tourist is 
advised to take heed to his steps lest he 
tread upon some poor relics of mortality as 
bones and skulls are too much in evidence, 
the shallow graves the Irish dig, in the 
course of a few years, wearing away and 
uncovering their contents. My friend 

red into one of the vaults ; he made no 
remark, but looked white for a few 
minutes. 

Close to the Church is an old monastery, 
erected, probably, about the fourteenth 
century, containing a window, which, from 
its construction, was probably used as an 
open-air pulpit. On our. return to Dingle 
we pass a group of the old bee-hive houses, 
but these, although curious, were not in as 
good preservation as others we afterwards 
inspected. A curious trait in the Irish 
character was experienced at Kilmelkedar, 
A country man walked up to the church- 
yard gate, his friends attending him; 
hardly had he crossed the bounds, when, 
rushing to a newly-made grave, he flung 
himself on his face, keening, moaning, and 
tearing up the earth with his hands. His 
friends tried to drag him away, but as 
often as they partially succeeded he burst 
from them and renewed his attempts. At 
length, by main force, he was borne back. 
Once outside the sacred confines his grief 
departed, and, lighting his pipe, he de- 
parted also. 

Inside Kilmelkedar Church, and leaning 
against one of the pillars, is a curiously- 
engraved stone, the inscription being partly 
written in ancient Irish characters and 
partly in Roman. 

Near Dingle, leading westerly over the 
mountains, and ending in Brandon Bay, 
is a very ancient roadway, called the 
Fahan road or the Thief's Highway. It 
has its course marked out by upright 
stones placed at certain distances apart, 
and it was, undoubtedly, used in old times 
as the roadway of the freebootera, At 
different points in its track are remains of 
the ancient bee hive houses, some =o 
preservation ; one near the summit the 
Serag Mountain in perfect condition. This 
house, in commen with many others, is 
built of roughly hewn stones placed in a 
circle about gf feet in circumference af 





594 WESTERN KERRY 


outside base; the wall about four feet 
thick, and rounding to the top, about seven 
feet high in the centre. Access to the in- 
terior is gained by a doorway measuring 
two feet six inches square. Alongside 
many of these houses are little chambers, 
probably for the shelter of their watch- 
dogs. Some of the dwellings are quite 
isolated, but many are in groups. The 
solitary ones seem to have been used as 
sentry-boxes, as they are placed in the best 
position for observation. In nearly, if 
not all, of these buildings at regular inter- 
vals stones are left, with their ends jutting 
out from the sides of the structure, pro- 
bably to allow the occupier or, perhaps, 
sentinel to rapidly ascend to the crown of 
the roof; or, it may be, the houses were 
thatched, and the projecting stones so left 
in order that the thatch ropes might be 
attached to them.. The architects of these 
domiciles are unknown ; rumour attributes 
them to the Danes, but a more probable 
surmise is that the Pheenician metal 
workers were their builders. They are 
much the shape of African kraals. It is 
known that a large traffic in wrought metal 
was carried on with the North of Africa ; 
probably then the now bare hills were well 
wooded, supplying fuel in abundance. A 
smelting forge was discovered near Mount 
Brandon with the remains of long-spent 
charcoal fires. 

The most remarkable find in recent years 
was discovered in an old chamber not far 
from Slea Head in the Fahan Highway 
before alluded to. The archeologists, on 
removing the flat paving stones, found the 
existence of a lower‘chamber about nine 
feet square, and in it, leaning against the 
wall, a small oblong stons with the head 
of a sphinx or Pharoah rudely engraved on 
it. Evidently, from its position, it was 
valued by its ancient owners, and is a 
striking link with the Pheenician past. 
The stone is now preserved ‘n the Dublin 
Museum. 

I have mentioned but a very few of the 
wonderful records of antiquity scattered 
about this marvellously-interesting dis- 
trict ; the county is full of them. Scarcely 
a field but contains some relic of old. Many 
hundreds of old dwellings have been de- 
stroyed and the materials used in fences, 
but now the Royal Irish Academy has 
intervened in their behalf, and le having 





WESTERN KERRY 


the country properly surveyed with a view 
to their protection. Many days are plea- 
santly passed in tracing out these monu- 
ments of a nearly-forgotten race, and also 
in endeavouring to lure a few trout from 
the streams. 

But Dingle fishing is not to be compared 
with that of many other spots in the West. 
Streams are small, and trout agree both in 
size and quantity. 

Leaving stones and streams, we arrange 
for a farewell excursion round Slea Head 
before we depart homewards. Selecting 
a fine day, a long tramp past Burnham 
House, the home of Lord Ventry, through 
Ventry village, and along its magnificent 
golden strand, brings us to the headland, 
and before us stretches the mighty Atlan- 
tic Ocean, studded with the sixty islands 
and rocks of the Blasket group. About 
two miles away, the Great Blasket Island 
frowns down upon its smaller brethren, 
and 500 feet below us the sea, restless even 
oa that windless day, frets and foams over 
purple beds of wrack and golden sand. 
Far below us scream and hover thousands 
of sea fowl chasing their finny prey, 


which harassed by pirates below, 
spring into the sunlit air, flashing 
like bars of silver as they vainly 


seek for safety, denied them in their 
own elemerit. One solitary porpoise 
rolls and tumbles beneath us, the whole 
forming a picture alone worth the journey 
to Ireland to view. 


Siri 


Se 


He BO Beptember 1008 


595 


We visit the Creek of Brandon, a curious 
crack in the sea cliffs, where once a large 
barque was hurled by the gale, and so 
wedged in by its narrow walls that it re- 
mained almost unbroken and upright for 
some time, while the fortunate crew crept 
along its bowsprit to dry land. Lucky it 
was for them it struck where it did, as there 
is no other opening in the rocks for miles 
on either side. We are sorely tempted to 
climb St. Brandon’s Mountain, but can find 
no guide, and have not the experience of 
the saint who daily ascended it to say his 
prayers, so have to abandon the attempt, 
although we wish greatly to verify the 
statement that on its very summit two wells 
of water exist. We cioss by a ricketty 
wooden bridge the Brandon River where the 
saint obtained his salmon, and, returning 
to Dingle, take for the present our last rest 
in Ireland, leaving by the morning’s train 
for Cork in time to catch the steamer for 
Bristol. For those resident in other parts 
than the West of England, the Bristol 
route, may be, is not a convenient one, but 
given a fair ability to resist the prostrating 
effects of twenty-four hours’ ocean rocking, 
the direct passage from Bristol to Cork is 
inexpensive and the least troublesome. 
The boats are clean and fair-sized, the 
catering plain but satisfying. Other routes 
are via Milford Haven with a ten hours’ 
passage, or, of course, the time-honoured 
but tedious railway journey via Holyhead 
and Dublin. 








KERRY COTTAGES, KILLORGLIN. 


WESTERN KERRY 


By HENRY A. FRANCIS 


FAINT, sweet smell of the peat fires 
of early morn, borne off land by the 
soft summer breeze, a bold brown shore 
fringed by a lace of white foam, a white, 
sturdy, sentinel lighthouse watching over 
a black reef of hungry rocks, tells us that 
our passage, luckily smooth, from Bristol 
port, is ended, and Cork city is nigh. 
Sweeping round at a right angle and 
passing under the frowning forts guarding 
the harbours entrance, Queenstown Bay 
throws wide its spacious expanse, studded 
with merchant shipp'ng intenmingled with 
Britain’s ironclads, who look down with 
stern rigidity and contempt upon the fus- 
sily-panting pleasure s‘eamers rushing from 
one portlet to another. Sweeping past 
Queenstown, fairer afar off than near, but 
crowned by a noble Cathedral, we glide 
under the shadow of the guardship, which 
condescends to drop its ensign to our 
salute. Passing up the beautiful River 
Lee, the towers of a stately Church rise in 
the distance, and soon Cork’s fair city is 
reached. A yelling mob of car drivers, 
frantically trying how near thev can back 
586 


their cars to the quay edge, yet miss such 
utter destruction, claims our practical at- 
tention, and having made one happy we 
drive off, scatvering pigs, poultry, and 
Paddies with equal impartiality. Racing 
up the quay side over St. Patrick’s Bridge, 
paternally watched over by the statue of 
the Temperance Apostle, Father Matthew, 
who ever contemplates the element he 
loved so well, we charge up Patrick Street, 
stop for a few hurried minutes to purchase 
fishing tackle and flies, and then return to 
the steamer, get our luggage, and catch the 
train for Western Kerry. Booked for Kil- 
lorglin, we proceed at a fair speed to Mal- 
low Junction, where we change into the 
branch train, and then travel very leisurely 
to our destination. 

Killarney lies on our route, but, having 
visited it before, we do not alight, and can 
enjoy from our carriage the familiar spec- 
tacle of the perplexed tourist clamor- 
ously urged to choose his hotel, a nuisance 
which the Railway Company has now put 
a stop to. 

The slow railroad journey gives us 








“ee 


eKipPidigan. 


WESTERN 


plenty of time to talk over plans of ex 
ploring the lovely Caragh Lake, climbing 
Mount Carrantuel, and visiting the little 
known, but wonderfully interesting Dingle 
district, famed both for its grand coast line 
and its archwological relics. Farranfore, 
another junction, is negociated, and our 
little branch train crawls cireumspectly 
along until our first abiding place, Killor- 
glin, is attained. 





KERRY 587 


dow embellished with a plaster of Paris 
‘ge -cup and egg, garnished with pre- 
Adamite dust, bore across its lintel the 
legend 

rT. FOLEY, 

Eoeo ann Burrer Mercuant, 
Wwuoresate, Reta, anp ror Exporta- 
TION, 

Turning from these haunts of commerce, 
we leave the town and stroll along the 





RAPIDS IN THE UPPER CARAGH RIVER. 


Fairly comfortable quar‘ers await us and 
in the evening we explore the town. Situated 
on a hillside, one principal street runs up 
it, crossed at the top, like the letter T, by 
another. Rough cobbles pave the road- 
way, and one tiny thatched cabin with 
mud-carpeted parlour opening on the side- 
wa!x, and a microscopic four paned win- 


banks of the broad, shallow River Laune, 
watching with interest the sight of fourteen 
fine salmon being hauled for the London 
markets. The fishermen tell us that some 
little while ago an old dog seal came with 
two of his harem, and diving below and 
into the net deliberately tossed every fish 
it contained to his wives. The Arms Act 








WESTERN KERRY 





LOWER CARAGH LAKE. 


prohibiting rifles, the net men were power- 
less to arrest the thief, and the seal, when 
satisfied, simply rushed the net and swam 
away. The story is confirmed by another 
countryman, who adds that “the talk of 
them salmon boys was mighty strong.” 

The Laune fisheries, having netting 
rights over several other rivers, send dur- 
ing the season large quantities of salmon 
daily to England. The persistent hauling 
of Irish rivers and waters, however, spoils 
greatly the sport of the rod-fisher. Judg- 
ing from former experience, I know how 
comparatively scarce the salmon are get- 
ting In one pool on this same stream 
nine salmon were taken by the fly in one 
day, now it would be an event to take one 
salmon there in nine days. 

A night’s rest and a good breakfast the 
next morning prepare for a reasonably 
early start for the climb of Carrantuel, and 
although urgently pressed by the head 
waiter of the establishment to remain one 
night more, “as it is Fair-day, and there 
will be great sport to-night in the smoking- 
room,” yet we resist, and engage a car with 
a driver who, probably spurred on by the 
hope of sharing in the sport, does his duty 
gallantly, and lands us at Mrs. Breen’s 
Hotel, Glencar, in ample time to climb the 
mountain and return before sunset. One 


ascent is much of a kin to another. It is 
only a song of degrees; no hairbreadth 
escapes happen, and the usual mist lies on 
the very summit, but through gaps of it, 
sufficient is seen to disclose a splendid 
land and seascape. Easterly spreads out 
the range of the McGillicuddy’s Reeks, 
embosoming Killarney’s lakes. South- 
wards the bay of Kenmare’ shines 
through a far-away haze. Apparently, 
at our very feet lies fair Caragh’s lake ; 
beyond the Bays of Castlemaine and 
Dingle; yet further, Mount Brandon and, 
in the dim distance, rolls the Atlantic. To 
the north, the valley and plains of the 
Laune and Maine rivers run out to the 
Tralee hills, whilst in the very mountain’s 
heart nestle green lakelets feeding moun- 
tain torrents glistening in sunshine. Three 
hours we take to gain the summit, 3,414 
feet above the sea, two and a half to return 
to the hotel, where a good dinner satisfies 
well-earned appetites. 

Two days are devoted to exploring the 
beauties of Glencar, and in vainly trying 
to lure a salmon from the Caragh river. 
One solitary rise of a doubtful nature is the 
sole reward, but if we cannot get a bite, 
yet the more blessed office of giving is ours, 
as swarms of midges claim their toll of 
Saxon blood. One morning is spent in 












2 ee ae 





WESTERN KERRY 589 


a fruitless search for a specimen of the Kil- 
larney fern, legended to have been found 
here, hunting for which we climb the 
charmingly fair but damp course of an in- 
fantile waterfall. 

The filmy ferns, both Hymenophylum, 
Tunbridgense and Wilsoni we find in 
plenty, and the tall Osmunda covers ‘every 
crevice and tiny glen with imposing fronds, 
but Zrichomanes Redicans, if ever there, 
had withdrawn herself from covetous eyes. 
Trees, ferns, and grassy glades with lovely 
Fritillery butterflies darting to and fro, 
bold rock and scarp with sunbeams silver- 
ing the dainty streamlets falling over them 
make, however, a picture that atones for 
our disappointment. 

The upper Caragh river, to my thinking, 
is one of the most beautiful in Ireland, 
running between wooded banks, hemmed 
in with heather covered hills, and broken 
into chains of foaming falls and rapids, it 
finally rushes under Blackstones Bridge, and 
after a mile, more or less, of smooth cur- 
rent opens into the no less beautiful Lough 
Caragh, through which we take boat to 
catch the train at Caragh station, en route 








for Dingle, vid Tralee, Caragh Lake is 
about six miles in length, narrow in its 
upper half, and almost cut in two midway 
by two bold spits of land reaching out to 
each other. Avoiding these obstructions, 
it swells out into a broader basin, but, like 
many a successful humanity, loses romance 
by prosperity. 
~ The waters of the upper Caragh all bu 
wash the towering steeps rushing sheer 
from the narrow beach. Brightly coloured 
rocks relieved by green fern and tree, wher- 
ever tree can anchor root, depict a scene 
unsurpassed by even famed Killarney. 
Bold, rugged headlands, jutting out, 
lend relief to the frowning cliffs, and on 
one mighty precipice, till lately, a solitary 
pair of eagles built their eyrie, and tyran- 
nised over the wild fowl haunting the 
waters. The craggy shores are outflanked 
by massy boulders carved by the ice plough 
of bygone eons into fantastic shapes. One 
monolith, halfway in the lake’s course, 
from shape and blackness. has earned the 
title of “the coffin of the O'Donoghue.” 
Caragh, however, has another claim for 
notice. Trout are plentiful, and salmon not 


BLACKSTONES BRIDGE, GLENCAR. 











590 


scarce, and the many fishers who frequent 
its waters find their wants well cared for in 
the Castle Hotel. 

A couple of hours leisurely spent by our 
oarsmen take us to the landing stage for 
the roadside station, and a slightly monoto- 
nous ride ends at the metropolis of .Kerry, 
Tralee. Thence the light line rail running 
for the most part alongside the public road 
conveys us to the most westerly town in 
Ireland, Dingle, little known to the ordi- 
nary tourist, but well worthy his visit, 
being. perhaps, 
the centre of 
the most inter- 
esting district 
in Europe. Pity 
it is that more 
Englishmen do 
not search out 
the resources of 
their own 
lands, bemefit- 
ting their own 
kinsfolk, and 
helping to link 
our Islands in 
closer bonds, 


rather than 
spend their 
money n 


foreign hotels, 
enriching those 
to whom they 
are simply so 
many strangers 


to be fleeced. 
Dingle has, 
perhaps, the 


most magnifi- 
cent coast 
scenery im the 
world, and its 
antiquarian re- 
mains have 
earned for it the title of “the 
Baalbec of Ireland.” From the hour 
Tralee station is left until the day of 
return, scenery and relic rival each other: 
even the rail journey—well ! whoso has not 
travelled by light line rail to Dingle has 
missed a good thing. Climbing up one 
mountain side with glorious views over 
Tralee Bay, pausing for a few minutes on 
the summit ere descending an equally pre- 
cipitous steep overlooking mountain, moor, 


WESTERN . KERRY 





ROADWAY, CARAGH LAKE. 


and sea, plenty of time is given to drink in 
the magnificent landscape, and, moreover, 
to appreciate the remarks made by sarcastic 
car drivers, who, overtaking and passing 
us on the road, suggest the delivery of sun- 
dry messages to the good folk of our desti- 
nation or generously tender a tow to the 
engine. The guard and driver are also 
most accommodating, and would, probably, 
raise no serious objection to the stoppage 
of the train, so that passengers might 
gather mushrooms, and certainly do not 
hesitate to de- 
lay a little ex- 
tra for a con- 
versation with 
their numerous 
friends and re- 
latives. In one 
instance so pro- 
longed a halt is 
made that an 
irate third-class 
remarks out of 
his window that 
“maybe _ that 
when the gen- 
tleman who 
drives the ma- 
chine has 
finished cook- 
ing his dinner 
he'll drive on.” 
All things end 
sooner or later, 
and in abou: 
four hours we 
cover the thirty 
odd miles, de- 
_Spite -an- errant 
~ eow, “which, in 
true national 
p@obstruc tive 

spirit, selected 

the railway 
sleepers whereon to” take’ her siesta, 
and on being disturbed appealed ito 
her owner, a_ lady «@f* varied but 
scanty clothing. emphatic in voice 
and gesture, who ing®a fluent hybrid 
of Gaelic and English pleads her quad- 
ruped’s rights, calling upon the aid of 
all the ancient .saints im her calen- 
dar, but finding them. alas! power- 
less against the modern fire - eater, 


with vague threats to carry her wrongs 











WESTERN KERRY 


t> the law, whacks off her cow and clears 
the line. 

All Ireland is studded with ancient 
monuments, but the climax is attained in 
the Dingle district ; to quote the roll-call 
of one section—the Barony of Corkaguiny 
—about the size of a medium English 
parish, will suffice. Eleven stone cahers, 
three carns, forty calluraghs, or ancient 
burying grounds (now only used for the in- 
terment of unbaptised children), ten 
castles, eighteen artificial caves, twenty-one 
Churches in ruins, and nine Church sites, 


no evil-smelling or dank crypts have tw be | 
sought out by flickering candle light; 
all lie open to the sunlight, unhaunted by 
special microbe troublers, unhaunted by 
that worse enemy, the officious guide, for, 
wherever you journey in Ireland, saving 
those spots where the usual ruck of tourists 
have forced the breed into existence, the 
peasant is uniformly courteous, ready to 
give information when asked, but 
never intrusive. I know Ireland well, 
and I have yet, «nm her comparatively 
unknown parts, to experience a rudenass 





EKANDON CREEK, DINGLE. 


two hundred and eighteen cloghauns, or 
bee-hive shaped stone houses, sixteen crom- 
lechs, twelve .large stone crosses, three 
hundred and seventy-six earthen raths or 
forts, one hundred and thirteen gallauns 
or immense rude stand ng stones, forty- 
four monumental pillars (mostly bearing 
Ogham or lint writing inscriptions), 
fifteen oratories, nine penitential sta- 
t'on;, sixty-six wells, many dedicated to 
some saint, and twenty-nine misce}aneous 
remains. 

Legends hover round these as the doves 
flutter round the stones of S:. Mark’s of 
Venice. All, moreover, can be explored 
while drinking in the pure Atl ntic breezes ; 


by word or deed from an Irish country- 
man. 

Dingle until the.last few years was, ex- 
cept by sea and car, cut off from the rest 
of*the world. The nearest railway station, 
Tralee, being thirty-three miles away, the 
car road ran through a bleak and moun- 
tainous country, and no halt, save to 
change horses, broke the long drive. The 
probability of rain daunted the pleasure- 
seeker, although to the hardy native rain 
and storm enough to have driven the aver- 
age mortal to a dog kennel for shelter 
seemed but an episode to be commented on 
but not avoided. I can recall one day 
while travelling on the car, the rain, im- 


is sui 


—— 








592 WESTERN 


pelled by a sudden change in 
the strong wind, varied its 
monotonous perpendicular fall 
to a horizontal rush. I, in 
desperation, took temporary 
refuge with car and horse in an 
old shed. Therein stood a 
Kerry man, a driver of a mob 
of ponies, who had taken off his 
clothes to “dhry himself.” 
Carefully he wrung: the excess 
of water out of each garment, 
and, replacing his attire, in- 
formed me that “it was a fine 
soft day, but the weight of 
water in his clothes made them 
heavy to walk in,” and, light- 
ing his pipe, he unconceruedly 
faced again the wrath of the 
elements. 

The township of Dingle is 
fairly large, moderately clean, 


KERRY 





and possesses two good hotels. ANCIENT HOUSE, BEE-HIVE SHAPE, AT PERFEET. 


It has a good harbour, and is in 
weekly communication with 
Cork by steamship, which, 
carrying back fish, the staple trade 
of the- town, returns with “ notions” 
to supply the inhabitants and trawling sea- 
men. A handsome Roman Catholic 
Church is situated in the centre of the 
town, and a most interesting Protestant 





GALLERUS ORATORY, DINGLE. 


Most ancient Christian Church in Ireland. 


Supposed to have been built by Phenecian Metal 


Workers. 


Church is well worth the investigations of 
the antiquary. Crime is rare in the dis- 
trict, the principle business of the magis- 
trates being to fine publicans, who are 
many, for being open during unlawful 
hours, and also to settle the personal 
family _ dis- 
putes of the 
townsfolk. We 
were invited 
to inspect the 
Hospital and 
the  Work- 
house, a very 
fine one, by 
the way, but, 
preferring 
stone ruins to 
human ones, 
the day after 
our arrival at 
Dingle we be- 
gan by in- 
specting the 


Oratory of 
Gallerus, sup- 
posed to be the 


most ancient 
Christian 
Church in Ire- 











WESTERN KERRY 


land. It is in perfect preservation built of 
enormous roughly hewn stones placed to- 
gether without cement. The doorway, about 
five feet four inches high, is of the Cyclo- 
pean type of architecture, and at the east 
end of the building is a small window, 
sufficient to admit light and air. It isa 
strange sensation to stand inside the 
ancient building, antecedent, according to 
Dr. Keane, to the advent of St. Patrick, 
and remember how many races and changes 
that plain building has survived. The 
land it stands upon is classic ground. Not 
far off; and clearly in view, is St. Bran- 
don’s mountain, with its holy wells at its 
summit, to which, legend tells us, the saint 


593 


Ireland, and were, by order of Lord Czey 
and Sir Walter Raleigh, after surrender, 
slain toa man. Charles Kingsley, in the 
stirring pages of “Westward Ho!” tells 
well the tale. 

About a mile from Gallerus stands the 
ruined Church of Kilmelkedar, or St. Mel- 
kedar, an old building, erected about the 
twelfth century, on the site of an ancient 
heathen temple, the shrine of the Golden 
Moloch, the Phoenecian god, whose wor- 
shippers are credited with the erection of 
many of the buildings in this locality. 
This Church is remarkable for being the 
earliest known Christian Church in Ire- 
land that had a cross on the roof. The 


eee — = 





RUINS OF KILMELKEDAR CHURCH—ABOUT THE TWELFTH CENTURY. 


every morning made his pilgrimage. From 
the bay below the hill, St. Brandon, with 
a faithful few, sailed on his momentous 
voyage, and, tradition states, discovered 
America. His wondrous adventures are 
recorded by the monkish chronicles of the 
middle ages. Amongst other strange 
sights, the weirdest, may be, was his en- 
counter with Judas Iscariot, who, for one 
day in the year, is released from torment 
because he once shared half his coat with 
a naked beggar. 

Immediately facing Gallerus, about a 
league off, is the famous Fort del’Or, where 
the Spaniards made their last stand in 


cross is still to be seen over the chancel ; 
another large cross in the churchyard is an 
object of great veneration to the country 
folk. To the extreme left of the photo- 
graph is a remarkable Ogham: Stone, 
pierced near the top with a hole; this 
is a stone of blood-guiltiness, a pillar of 
refuge, in fact. As of old, the Jews had 
their cities of refuge, so, also, had the 
ancient inhabitants of Ireland. Once:a 
man, guilty of shedding - his*/fellow’s 
blood, could reach the’stone and place his 
hand or finger into the hole, he was safe 
from the slain man’s kindred. Other 
stones of this character exist in Kerry; a 











very fine one, I believe, near Sneem. An 
Irish oath to the present day is, “I swear 
by the hole in the stone.” The Church 
is still used for burials, and the tourist is 
advised to take heed to his steps lest he 
tread upon some poor relics of mortality as 
bones and skulls are too much in evidence, 
the shallow graves the Irish dig, in the 
course of a few years, wearing away and 
uncovering their contents. My friend 
peered into one of the vaults ; he made no 
remark, but looked white for a few 
minutes. 

Close to the Church is an old monastery, 
erected, probably, about the fourteenth 
century, containing a window, which, from 
its construction, was probably used as an 
open-air pulpit. On our return to Dingle 
we pass a group of the old bee-hive houses, 
but these, although curious, were not in as 
good preservation as others we afterwards 
inspected. A curious trait in the Irish 
character was experienced at Kilmelkedar, 
A country man walked up to the church- 
yard gate, his friends attending him; 
hardly had he crossed the bounds, when, 
rushing to a newly-made grave, he flung 
himself on his face, keening, moaning, and 
tearing up the earth with his hands. His 
friends tried to drag him away, but as 
often as they partially succeeded he burst 
from them and renewed his attempts. At 
length, by main force, he was borne back. 
Once outside the sacred confines his grief 
departed, and, lighting his pipe, he de- 
parted also. 

Inside Kilmelkedar Church, and leaning 
against one of the pillars, is a curiously- 
engraved stone, the inscription being partly 
written in ancient Irish characters and 
partly in Roman. 

Near Dingle, leading westerly over the 
mountains, and ending in Brandon Bay, 
is a very ancient roadway, called the 
Fahan road or the Thief’s Highway. It 
has its course marked out by upright 
stones placed at certain distances apart, 
and it was, undoubtedly, used in old times 
as the roadway of the freebooters. At 
different points in its track are remains of 
the ancient bee-hive houses, some in good 
preservation ; one near the summit of the 
Scrag Mountain in perfect condition. This 
house, in common with many others, is 
built of roughly hewn stones placed in a 
circle about 38 feet in circumference at 


504 WESTERN KERRY 


outside base; the wall about four feet 
thick, and rounding to the top, about seven 
feet high in the centre. Access to the in- 
terior is gained by a doorway measuring 
two feet six inches square. Alongside 
many of these houses are little chambers, 
probably for the shelter of their watch- 
dogs. Some of the dwellings are quite 
isolated, but many are in groups. The 
solitary ones seem to have been used as 
sentry-boxes, as they are placed in the best 
position for observation. In nearly, if 
not all, of these buildings at regular inter- 
vals stones are left, with their ends jutting 
out from the sides of the structure, pro- 
bably to allow the occupier or, perhaps, 
sentinel to rapidly ascend to the crown of 
the roof; or, it may be, the houses were 
thatched, and the projecting stones so left 
in order that the thatch ropes might be 
attached tothem. The architects of these 
domiciles are unknown ; rumour attributes 
them to the Danes, but a more probable 
surmise is that the Phoenician metal 
workers were their builders. They are 
much the shape of African kraals. It is 
known that a large traffic in wrought metal 
was carried on with the North of Africa ; 
probably then the now bare hills were well 
wooded, supplying fuel in abundance. A 
smelting forge was discovered near Mount 
Brandon with the remains of long-spent 
charcoal fires. 

The most remarkable find in recent years 
was discovered in an old chamber not far 
from Slea Head in the Fahan Highway 
before alluded to. The archeologists, on 
removing the flat paving stones, found the 
existence of a lower‘chamber about nine 
feet square, and in it, leaning against the 
wall, a small oblong stons with the head 
of a sphinx or Pharoah rudely engraved on 
it. Evidently, from its position, it was 
valued by its ancient owners, and is a 
striking link with the Pheenician past. 
The stone is now preserved in the Dublin 
Museum. 

I have mentioned but a very few of the 
wonderful records of antiquity scattered 
about this marvellously-interesting dis- 
trict ; the county is full of them. Scarcely 
a field but contains some relic of old. Many 
hundreds of old dwellings have been de- 
stroyed and the materials used in fences, 
but now the Royal Irish Academy has 
intervened in their behalf, and is having 





WESTERN KERRY 


the country properly surveyed with a view 
to their protection. Many days are plea- 
santly passed in tracing out these monu- 
ments of a nearly-forgotten race, and also 
in endeavouring to lure a few trout from 
the streams. 

But Dingle fishing is not to be compared 
with that of many other spots in the West. 
Streams are small, and trout agree both in 
size and quantity. 

Leaving stones and streams, we arrange 
for a farewell excursion round Slea Head 
before we depart homewards. Selecting 
a fine day, a long tramp past Burnham 
House, the home of Lord Ventry, through 
Ventry village, and along its magnificent 
golden strand, brings us to the headland, 
and before us stretches the mighty Atlan- 
tic Ocean, studded with the sixty islands 
and rocks of the Blasket group. About 
two miles away, the Great Blasket Island 
frowns down upon its smaller brethren, 
and 500 feet below us the sea, restless even 
oa that windless day, frets and foams over 
purple beds of wrack and golden sand. 
Far below us scream and hover thousands 
of sea fowl chasing their finny prey, 


which harassed by pirates below, 
spring into the sunlit air, flashing 
like bars of silver as they vainly 


seek for safety, denied them in their 
own elemerit. One solitary porpoise 
rolls and tumbles beneath us, the whole 
forming a picture alone worth the journey 
to Ireland to view. 


MA vy ro URS 
Ney APAY eT 

WK 14 seats, Rar’ 
ig WF aA A wv 


“4 WA 


“Tt 


No. 30. September, 1906. 


y Cae 


595 


We visit the Creek of Brandon, a curious 
crack in the sea cliffs, where once a large 
barque was hurled by the gale, and so 
wedged in by its narrow walls that it re- 
mained almost unbroken and upright for 
some time, while the fortunate crew crept 
along its bowsprit to dry land. Lucky it 
was for them it struck where it did, as there 
is no other opening in the rocks for miles 
on either side. We are sorely tempted to 
climb St. Brandon’s Mountain, but can find 
no guide, and have not the experience of 
the saint who daily ascended it to say his 
prayers, so have to abandon the attempt, 
although we wish greatly to verify the 
statement that on its very summit two wells 
of water exist. We cioss by a ricketty 
wooden bridge the Brandon River where the 
saint obtained his salmon, and, returning 
to Dingle, take for the present our last rest 
in Ireland, leaving by the morning’s train 
for Cork in time to catch the steamer for 
Bristol. For those resident in other parts 
than the West of England, the Bristol 
route, may be, is not a convenient one, but 
given a fair ability to resist the prostrating 
effects of twenty-four hours’ ocean rocking, 
the direct passage from Bristol to Cork is 
inexpensive and the least troublesome. 
The boats are clean and fair-sized, the 
catering plain but satisfying. Other routes 
are via Milford Haven with a ten hours’ 
passage, or, of course, the time-honoured 
but tedious railway journey via Holyhead 
and Dublin. 


y 
y 


s 
AN \ 
Ih 


WN); 
ue 
ll 


dlhhe 











By L. M. CHURCH. 


HE came across the gleaming. yellow 
field, a tail, slender, white-robed 
figure, humming a gay air the while. 
‘l brough the vine-covered lait ce of the 
summerhouse he saw her come up the path, 
and yniled a tender, zmused smile as ne 
watched her turn this way and that, ‘like 
a great white butterfiy, and heard the low 
hum of her voice. As she drew near he 
turned back to the table covered with 
papers and continued his writing. 

At the door she paused, glanoed at the 
grave, earnest face of the man at the 
table, who kept on writing, then knocked 
lightly on the casing. 

Hie did not look up. The pen travelled 
a trifle faster across the paper and a slight 
frown gathered on the wr'ter's face. She 
hesitated a moment, then bravely entered. 

“I suppose you are busy?” she ven- 
tured. 

He ‘ooked up and solemnly greeted 
her, and answered the question with the 
same silent bow. 

She sighed a litle as sha seated herself 
on a corner of the table. “Everybody 
is busy. Mother is in the kitchen with 
Rebecca, trying some rec'pes she has just 
read in a magazine. They don’t want me, 
and I fell just like talking to some one.” 

The pem scratched on across the sheet. 
There was no answer. 

“Ts the sermon nearly finished ?” 

He drew his chair a little q’oser to the 
table and shook his head in reply. 

“Tt sdams as if I must talk to some 
one.” 

A long pause. 

“Don't you like to have me talk to you. 
dear?’ 

The man placed his pen between his 

596 


teeth and turned to a reference book at 
his &bow. Silence reigned. 

“ Dear man, aren't you glad to see your 
wife ?” 

He closed the book, took the pen from 
his teeth, and resumed his writing. 

For some minutes she sat gazing out 
into the sunny field. Then, turning to 
him appealingly, she asked: “Do you 
wish I would go?” 

He smiled at her affectionately. 

She stood up and looked at him a 
minute as he wrote forever on and on. 
“Very wejl, I will go,” she answered, 
sadly, turning to the door. 

At the thresho'd she paused. “ Per- 
haps I shall never cdme back,” she darkly 
suggested. 

No sound came from the busy man. 

She passed out into the sunlight. 
“Good-bye,” she called as she faced 
about. 

Gravely, soberly, he bowed his head 
without lifting his eyes from the paper. 

And the tajl, white figure slowly 
moved awny. 

The faim: fragrance of the wild rose 
filled the air, borne by the summer breeze, 
and sweet was the song of the meadow 
lark beyond the brook. All the world 
seemed gay and glad, but still the man 
worked af his papers, nor seemed to notice 
that the bright sunshine and the breeze 
and the meadow lark were all calling to 
him to come out and rejoice with them. 

Once he stopped an instant and passed 
his hand through his hair as he thought, 
and as he paused a low, ‘murmur:ng 
sound attracted his attention. It was 
regular, likiz the buzzing of a bee, but rose 
and fell in musical cadences. With cvri- 








—————— $$ 








~ 
—— SS e--—ssssestsstienseenee fle 
= $$$ ee 








ON A SUMMER’S DAY. 507 


osity a: last he parted the vimes over the 
lattice and peeped out. 

A few yards from the summerhouse 
there partly reclined agains: a large rock 
the white figure of the woman, in the cool 
shade of a near-by maple. One elbow 
leaned on the gray stoce, while in her 
hand was a spear of grass, which she 
nibbled now and then. 

The man smiled as he laid down his 
pen and tiptoed softly out of the summér- 
house and a little way down the path. 

“My dear man is so busy this morning 
on his sermon he wan't le: me talk to 
him,” she was saying. “I interrupted him, 
and he doesn’t dike to be interrupted this 
morning, and I would like to interrupt 
him better than mnything on earth. Some 
mornings I like to sit on the verandah 
and sew or read and do things in the 
house, but today I feel so happy, just 
bubbling over to express myself to an 
agreeable compamion. If I had been 
writing that sermon, and he had come to 
me, I wouw'd have said: ‘My dear wife, 
it is a beautiful day, far too beautiful to 
stay in and work, and as it is only Tues- 
day my sermon shail wait. We will take 
Dolly and the phaéton and driv? off across 
country and talk and sing and have a 
glorious haliday and not come home till 
the sun is down.’ That’s what I would 
have said. But his hea: is hard, his duty 
is stern-and real, and his wilfe and the 
world are filled with frivolity.” She 
concluded with a sigh and dropped her 
gaze to a more common ltitude. 

A faimt spxy odour cams from the 
thouse. She sat up straight and the man 
hastily backed a few steps toward the 
summerhouse. 

“The ginger snaps—they are done,” 
she murmured, and drew in a deep, full 
breath. “And they are good,” she added. 
“And I will get sqme and bring to him 
to soften his heart. But if I just take 
them to him he will accept them without 
speaking. No, I know what I will do. 
I will ask him what I fave brought him 
and hide them so he won't know. I'll 
hide them rght here, by this rock, and 
give him three guesses, ard by the time 
he is interested and talkative I will come 
and get them, and then he will be won. 
Hooray !” 


The man waited to hear. no more, but 
ran softly and quickly back to the sum- 
merhouse before she rose and turned 
about. He was hard at work again in a 
tninute, and onily peeped through che vines 
im time to see the white gown flash down 
the path and imto the house. 

Then quickly he asized a large, blank 
sheet of paper and wro‘e on it in plain 
letters :— 


My Dear Wire: It is a beautiful day, far 
too beautiful to stay in and work, and as 
it is only Tuesday, my sermon shall wait. 
We will take Dolly and the phaéton and drive 
off across country and talk and sing and have 
a glorious holiday and not come home till the 
sun is down. 


Swiftly he ran ou: to the big rock with 
what he had written and placed the sheet 
im a conspicuous spot on it, holding it 
down by a smal! stone. Then with soft, 
rapid steps he mn back to his work, and 
with a amile on his face was soon writ- 
ing away an the unfinished sermon. 

Beyond the field was the orchard, and 
back of the orchard was the house, whose 
open doors and windows exlmled the 
fragrance of the oven. It was some time 
before the screen door closed with a 
slam, and a splash of white cou/d be seen 
among the ‘trees. 

M@he man heard the door, and with a 
wide smile of anticipation laid down his 
pen and gave himself up to the (njoyment 
of watching her approach. 

In her hands she held a blue plate, 
vivid agaimst the white of her gown, and 
on it were piled the fragrant brown cook- 
ies. Wall, gracefig', her fad: flushed and 
eyes dancing, like a goddess of joy and 
plenty she came, and did not notice as she 
tripped lightly up the path that the rock 
was inhabited. A few yards away she 
saw i:—the patda of white shining in the 
sunlight—and with eyes wdened with 
wonder she hurried on. 

The cookies were hag:ily deposited, the 
paper was in her hinds in a moment, and 
the man behind the vine-covered lattice 
watched with an ever-widening grin— 
watdaed the expressions of surprise, inter- 
est, wonder, and joy pass over her fad:; 
then as with a cry of elation she ran to 
ward the summerhouse, he tcok up his 
pem and sobered hiis ‘face. 


598 


With a rush she entered, the papers 
were scattered in the air, the pen was 
knocked to the floor, and rap:urously she 
info'ded him in a mighty hug, he whose 
eyoglasscs were left to dangle, but who 
tried to look stern. 

“Dear, dear man, do you mean it? 
Shall we go? Now? Right away?’ 
she breathlessly dempnded, aglow with ex- 
citeynent. 

He carefully readjusted his eyeglasses, 
khen ‘ooked down into the eager, flushed 
‘face. 

“We shall go”—he slowly, kindly an- 
swerei—* we shall go before long.” 

“Oh!” she cried, in disappomtment. 
“You said the sermon cou'd wait. Why 
can’t we go now, dear? Can't we go 
now ?” 


ON A SUMMER'S DAY. 


Very soberly, very tenderly, he lifted 7 
the anxious face -and gized into the 
troubled eyes. 

“ Dear heart, we shall go,” he answered, 
“just as soon as I can find it possible © 
to——” He paused, as if he could go no 
further. x 

“Oh, dear, what? Just as soon as 
what?” she asked, in gr'eved tones. 

“Just as soon,’ he went on seriously, 
ki.dly, “as I fird it possible to”—he 
smi'ed a litt'e at her growing impatience 
—“ just as soon as I find it possible to eas 
the ginger snaps that are on the blue 
plate behind the big rock.” 

W:th a wild cry of retief she flew out 
of the door, while the man gathered his 
papers, put them away, and locked the 
drawer.