{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_373/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_373","id":"gutenberg_373","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/373","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Essays","Short stories"],"text":"Transcribed from the Chatto and Windus 1911 edition by David Price, email\nccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\n                                LAY MORALS\n\n\n                             And Other Papers\n\n                                    BY\n                          ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON\n\n\n\n                            [Picture: Graphic]\n\n                              A NEW EDITION\n                            WITH A PREFACE BY\n                              MRS. STEVENSON\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                                  LONDON\n                             CHATTO & WINDUS\n                                   1911\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                          _All rights reserved._\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\nBY MRS. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON {0}\n\n\nIn our long voyage on the yacht _Casco_, we visited many islands; I\nbelieve on every one we found the scourge of leprosy.  In the Marquesas\nthere was a regular leper settlement, though the persons living there\nseemed free to wander where they wished, fishing on the beach, or\nvisiting friends in the villages.  I remember one afternoon, at Anaho,\nwhen my husband and I, tired after a long quest for shells, sat down on\nthe sand to rest awhile, a native man stepped out from under some\ncocoanut trees, regarding us hesitatingly as though fearful of intruding.\nMy husband waved an invitation to the stranger to join us, offering his\ncigarette to the man in the island fashion.  The cigarette was accepted\nand, after a puff or two, courteously passed back again according to\nnative etiquette.  The hand that held it was the maimed hand of a leper.\nTo my consternation my husband took the cigarette and smoked it out.\nAfterwards when we were alone and I spoke of my horror he said, \u2018I could\nnot mortify the man.  And if you think I _liked_ doing it\u2014that was\nanother reason; because I _didn\u2019t_ want to.\u2019\n\nAnother day, while we were still anchored in Anaho Bay, a messenger from\nround a distant headland came in a whale-boat with an urgent request that\nwe go to see a young white girl who was ill with some mysterious malady.\nWe had supposed that, with the beach-comber \u2018Charley the red,\u2019 we were\nthe only white people on our side of the island.  Though there was much\nwind that day and the sea ran high, we started at once, impelled partly\nby curiosity and partly by the pathetic nature of the message.\nFortunately we took our luncheon with us, eating it on the beach before\nwe went up to the house where the sick girl lay.  Our hostess, the girl\u2019s\nmother, met us with regrets that we had already lunched, saying, \u2018I have\na most excellent cook; here he is, now.\u2019  She turned, as she spoke, to an\nelderly Chinaman who was plainly in an advanced stage of leprosy.  When\nthe man was gone, my husband asked if she had no fear of contagion.  \u2018I\ndon\u2019t believe in contagion,\u2019 was her reply.  But there was little doubt\nas to what ailed her daughter.  She was certainly suffering from leprosy.\nWe could only advise that the girl be taken to the French post at Santa\nMaria Bay where there was a doctor.\n\nOn our return to the _Casco_ we confessed to each other with what alarm\nand repugnance we touched the miserable girl.  We talked long that\nevening of Father Damien, his sublime heroism, and his martyrdom which\nwas already nearing its sad end.  Beyond all noble qualities my husband\nplaced courage.  The more he saw of leprosy, and he saw much in the\nislands, the higher rose his admiration for the simple priest of Molokai.\n\u2018I must see Molokai,\u2019 he said many times.  \u2018I must somehow manage to see\nMolokai.\u2019\n\nIn January 1889, we arrived in Honolulu, settling in a pleasant cottage\nby the sea to rest until we were ready to return to England.  The _Casco_\nwe sent back to San Francisco with the captain.  But the knowledge that\nevery few days some vessel was leaving Honolulu to cruise among islands\nwe had not seen, and now should never see, was more than we could bear.\nFirst we engaged passage on a missionary ship, but changed our minds\u2014my\nhusband would not be allowed to smoke on board, for one reason\u2014and\nchartered the trading schooner _Equator_.  This was thought too rough a\nvoyage for my mother-in-law, as indeed it would have been; so she was\nsent, somewhat protesting, back to Scotland.\n\nMy husband was still intent on seeing Molokai.  After the waste of much\ntime and red tape, he finally received an official permission to visit\nthe leper settlement.  It did not occur to him it would be necessary to\nget a separate official permission to _leave_ Molokai; hence he was\nnearly left behind when the vessel sailed out.  He only saved himself by\na prodigious leap which landed him on board the boat, whence nothing but\nforce could dislodge him.  By the doctor\u2019s orders he took gloves to wear\nas a precautionary measure against contagion, but they were never worn.\nAt first he avoided shaking hands, but when he played croquet with the\nyoung leper girls he would not listen to the Mother Superior\u2019s warning\nthat he must wear gloves.  He thought it might remind them of their\ncondition.  \u2018What will you do if you find you have contracted leprosy?\u2019 I\nasked.  \u2018Do?\u2019 he replied; \u2018why, you and I would spend the rest of our\nlives in Molokai and become humble followers of Father Damien.\u2019  As Mr.\nBalfour says in the Life of Stevenson, he was as stern with his family as\nhe was with himself, and as exacting.\n\nHe talked very little to us of the tragedy of Molokai, though I could see\nit lay heavy on his spirits; but of the great work begun by Father Damien\nand carried on by his successors he spoke fully.  He had followed the\nlife of the priest like a detective until there seemed nothing more to\nlearn.  Mother Mary Ann, the Mother Superior, he could never mention\nwithout deep emotion.  One of the first things he did on his return to\nHonolulu was to send her a grand piano for the use of her girls\u2014the girls\nwith whom he had played croquet.  He also sent toys, sewing materials,\nsmall tools for the younger children, and other things that I have\nforgotten.  After his death a letter was found among his papers, of which\nI have only the last few lines.  \u2018I cannot suppose you remember me, but I\nwon\u2019t forget you, nor God won\u2019t forget you for your kindness to the blind\nwhite leper at Molokai.\u2019\n\nDuring my husband\u2019s absence I had made every preparation for our voyage\non the _Equator_, so but little time was lost before we found ourselves\non board, our sails set for the south.  The _Equator_, which had easily\nlived through the great Samoan hurricane, made no such phenomenal runs as\nthe _Casco_, but we could trust her, and she had no \u2018tricks and ways\u2019\nthat we did not understand.  We liked the sailors, we loved the ship and\nher captain, so it was with heart-felt regret we said farewell in the\nharbour of Apia after a long and perfect cruise.\n\nAfter reading the letters that awaited us in Apia, we looked over the\nnewspapers.  Our indignation may be imagined when we read in one item\nthat, owing to the publication of a letter by a well-known Honolulu\nmissionary, depicting Father Damien as a dirty old peasant who had\ncontracted leprosy through his immoral habits, the project to erect a\nmonument to his memory would be abandoned.  \u2018I\u2019ll not believe it,\u2019 said\nmy husband, \u2018unless I see it with my own eyes; for it is too damnable for\nbelief!\u2019\n\nBut see it he did, in spite of his incredulity, for in Sydney, a month or\ntwo later, the very journal containing the letter condemnatory of Father\nDamien was among the first we chanced to open.  I shall never forget my\nhusband\u2019s ferocity of indignation, his leaping stride as he paced the\nroom holding the offending paper at arm\u2019s-length before his eyes that\nburned and sparkled with a peculiar flashing light.  His cousin Mr.\nBalfour, in his _Life of Robert Louis Stevenson_, says: \u2018his eyes . . .\nwhen he was moved to anger or any fierce emotion seemed literally to\nblaze and glow with a burning light.\u2019  In another moment he disappeared\nthrough the doorway, and I could hear him, in his own room, pulling his\nchair to the table, and the sound of his inkstand being dragged towards\nhim.\n\nThat afternoon he called us together\u2014my son, my daughter, and\nmyself\u2014saying that he had something serious to lay before us.  He went\nover the circumstances succinctly, and then we three had the incomparable\nexperience of hearing its author read aloud the defence of Father Damien\nwhile it was still red-hot from his indignant soul.\n\nAs we sat, dazed and overcome by emotion, he pointed out to us that the\nsubject-matter was libellous in the highest degree, and the publication\nof the article might cause the loss of his entire substance.  Without our\nconcurrence he would not take such a risk.  There was no dissenting\nvoice; how could there be?  The paper was published with almost no change\nor revision, though afterwards my husband said he considered this a\nmistake.  He thought he should have waited for his anger to cool, when he\nmight have been more impersonal and less egotistic.\n\nThe next day he consulted an eminent lawyer, more from curiosity than\nfrom any other reason.  Mr. Moses\u2014I think that was his name\u2014was at first\ninclined to be jocular.  I remember his smiling question: \u2018Have you\ncalled him a hell-hound or an atheist?  Otherwise there is no libel.\u2019\nBut when he looked over the manuscript his countenance changed.  \u2018This is\na serious affair,\u2019 he said; \u2018however, no one will publish it for you.\u2019\nIn that Mr. Moses was right; no one dared publish the pamphlet.  But that\ndifficulty was soon overcome.  My husband hired a printer by the day, and\nthe work was rushed through.  We then, my daughter, my son, and myself,\nwere set to work helping address the pamphlets, which were scattered far\nand wide.\n\nFather Damien was vindicated by a stranger, a man of another country and\nanother religion from his own.\n\n                                                            F. V. DE G. S.\n\n\n\n\nContents:\n\n\n   Preface by Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson\n   Lay Morals\n   Father Damien\n   The Pentland Rising\n      I.  The Causes of the Revolt\n      II.  The Beginning\n      III.  The March of the Rebels\n      IV.  Rullion Green\n      V.  A Record of Blood\n   The Day After To-morrow\n   College Papers\n      I.  Edinburgh Students in 1824\n      II.  The Modern Student\n      III.  Debating Societies\n   Criticisms\n      I.  Lord Lytton\u2019s \u201cFables in Song\u201d\n      II.  Salvini\u2019s Macbeth\n      III.  Bagster\u2019s \u201cPilgrim\u2019s Progress\u201d\n   Sketches\n      I.  The Satirist\n      II.  Nuits Blanches\n      III.  The Wreath of Immortelles\n      IV.  Nurses\n      V.  A Character\n  The Great North Road\n      I.  Nance at the \u201cGreen Dragon\u201d\n      II.  In which Mr. Archer is Installed\n      III.  Jonathan Holdaway\n      IV.  Mingling Threads\n      V.  Life in the Castle\n      IV.  The Bad Half-Crown\n      VII.  The Bleaching-Green\n      VIII.  The Mail Guard\n   The Young Chevalier\n      Prologue: The Wine-Seller\u2019s Wife\n      I.  The Prince\n   Heathercat\n      I.  Traqairs of Montroymont\n      II.  Francie\n      III.  The Hill-End of Drumlowe\n\n\n\n\nLAY MORALS\n\n\n_The following chapters of a projected treatise on Ethics were drafted at\nEdinburgh in the spring of_ 1879.  _They are unrevised_, _and must not be\ntaken as representing_, _either as to matter or form_, _their author\u2019s\nfinal thoughts_; _but they contain much that is essentially\ncharacteristic of his mind_.\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n               _Copyright in the United States of America_.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nThe problem of education is twofold: first to know, and then to utter.\nEvery one who lives any semblance of an inner life thinks more nobly and\nprofoundly than he speaks; and the best of teachers can impart only\nbroken images of the truth which they perceive.  Speech which goes from\none to another between two natures, and, what is worse, between two\nexperiences, is doubly relative.  The speaker buries his meaning; it is\nfor the hearer to dig it up again; and all speech, written or spoken, is\nin a dead language until it finds a willing and prepared hearer.  Such,\nmoreover, is the complexity of life, that when we condescend upon details\nin our advice, we may be sure we condescend on error; and the best of\neducation is to throw out some magnanimous hints.  No man was ever so\npoor that he could express all he has in him by words, looks, or actions;\nhis true knowledge is eternally incommunicable, for it is a knowledge of\nhimself; and his best wisdom comes to him by no process of the mind, but\nin a supreme self-dictation, which keeps varying from hour to hour in its\ndictates with the variation of events and circumstances.\n\nA few men of picked nature, full of faith, courage, and contempt for\nothers, try earnestly to set forth as much as they can grasp of this\ninner law; but the vast majority, when they come to advise the young,\nmust be content to retail certain doctrines which have been already\nretailed to them in their own youth.  Every generation has to educate\nanother which it has brought upon the stage.  People who readily accept\nthe responsibility of parentship, having very different matters in their\neye, are apt to feel rueful when that responsibility falls due.  What are\nthey to tell the child about life and conduct, subjects on which they\nhave themselves so few and such confused opinions?  Indeed, I do not\nknow; the least said, perhaps, the soonest mended; and yet the child\nkeeps asking, and the parent must find some words to say in his own\ndefence.  Where does he find them? and what are they when found?\n\nAs a matter of experience, and in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out\nof a thousand, he will instil into his wide-eyed brat three bad things:\nthe terror of public opinion, and, flowing from that as a fountain, the\ndesire of wealth and applause.  Besides these, or what might be deduced\nas corollaries from these, he will teach not much else of any effective\nvalue: some dim notions of divinity, perhaps, and book-keeping, and how\nto walk through a quadrille.\n\nBut, you may tell me, the young people are taught to be Christians.  It\nmay be want of penetration, but I have not yet been able to perceive it.\nAs an honest man, whatever we teach, and be it good or evil, it is not\nthe doctrine of Christ.  What he taught (and in this he is like all other\nteachers worthy of the name) was not a code of rules, but a ruling\nspirit; not truths, but a spirit of truth; not views, but a view.  What\nhe showed us was an attitude of mind.  Towards the many considerations on\nwhich conduct is built, each man stands in a certain relation.  He takes\nlife on a certain principle.  He has a compass in his spirit which points\nin a certain direction.  It is the attitude, the relation, the point of\nthe compass, that is the whole body and gist of what he has to teach us;\nin this, the details are comprehended; out of this the specific precepts\nissue, and by this, and this only, can they be explained and applied.\nAnd thus, to learn aright from any teacher, we must first of all, like a\nhistorical artist, think ourselves into sympathy with his position and,\nin the technical phrase, create his character.  A historian confronted\nwith some ambiguous politician, or an actor charged with a part, have but\none pre-occupation; they must search all round and upon every side, and\ngrope for some central conception which is to explain and justify the\nmost extreme details; until that is found, the politician is an enigma,\nor perhaps a quack, and the part a tissue of fustian sentiment and big\nwords; but once that is found, all enters into a plan, a human nature\nappears, the politician or the stage-king is understood from point to\npoint, from end to end.  This is a degree of trouble which will be gladly\ntaken by a very humble artist; but not even the terror of eternal fire\ncan teach a business man to bend his imagination to such athletic\nefforts.  Yet without this, all is vain; until we understand the whole,\nwe shall understand none of the parts; and otherwise we have no more than\nbroken images and scattered words; the meaning remains buried; and the\nlanguage in which our prophet speaks to us is a dead language in our\nears.\n\nTake a few of Christ\u2019s sayings and compare them with our current\ndoctrines.\n\n\u2018Ye cannot,\u2019 he says, \u2018_serve God and Mammon_.\u2019  Cannot?  And our whole\nsystem is to teach us how we can!\n\n\u2018_The children of this world are wiser in their generation than the\nchildren of light_.\u2019  Are they?  I had been led to understand the\nreverse: that the Christian merchant, for example, prospered exceedingly\nin his affairs; that honesty was the best policy; that an author of\nrepute had written a conclusive treatise \u2018How to make the best of both\nworlds.\u2019  Of both worlds indeed!  Which am I to believe then\u2014Christ or\nthe author of repute?\n\n\u2018_Take no thought for the morrow_.\u2019  Ask the Successful Merchant;\ninterrogate your own heart; and you will have to admit that this is not\nonly a silly but an immoral position.  All we believe, all we hope, all\nwe honour in ourselves or our contemporaries, stands condemned in this\none sentence, or, if you take the other view, condemns the sentence as\nunwise and inhumane.  We are not then of the \u2018same mind that was in\nChrist.\u2019  We disagree with Christ.  Either Christ meant nothing, or else\nhe or we must be in the wrong.  Well says Thoreau, speaking of some texts\nfrom the New Testament, and finding a strange echo of another style which\nthe reader may recognise: \u2018Let but one of these sentences be rightly read\nfrom any pulpit in the land, and there would not be left one stone of\nthat meeting-house upon another.\u2019\n\nIt may be objected that these are what are called \u2018hard sayings\u2019; and\nthat a man, or an education, may be very sufficiently Christian although\nit leave some of these sayings upon one side.  But this is a very gross\ndelusion.  Although truth is difficult to state, it is both easy and\nagreeable to receive, and the mind runs out to meet it ere the phrase be\ndone.  The universe, in relation to what any man can say of it, is plain,\npatent and staringly comprehensible.  In itself, it is a great and\ntravailing ocean, unsounded, unvoyageable, an eternal mystery to man; or,\nlet us say, it is a monstrous and impassable mountain, one side of which,\nand a few near slopes and foothills, we can dimly study with these mortal\neyes.  But what any man can say of it, even in his highest utterance,\nmust have relation to this little and plain corner, which is no less\nvisible to us than to him.  We are looking on the same map; it will go\nhard if we cannot follow the demonstration.  The longest and most\nabstruse flight of a philosopher becomes clear and shallow, in the flash\nof a moment, when we suddenly perceive the aspect and drift of his\nintention.  The longest argument is but a finger pointed; once we get our\nown finger rightly parallel, and we see what the man meant, whether it be\na new star or an old street-lamp.  And briefly, if a saying is hard to\nunderstand, it is because we are thinking of something else.\n\nBut to be a true disciple is to think of the same things as our prophet,\nand to think of different things in the same order.  To be of the same\nmind with another is to see all things in the same perspective; it is not\nto agree in a few indifferent matters near at hand and not much debated;\nit is to follow him in his farthest flights, to see the force of his\nhyperboles, to stand so exactly in the centre of his vision that whatever\nhe may express, your eyes will light at once on the original, that\nwhatever he may see to declare, your mind will at once accept.  You do\nnot belong to the school of any philosopher, because you agree with him\nthat theft is, on the whole, objectionable, or that the sun is overhead\nat noon.  It is by the hard sayings that discipleship is tested.  We are\nall agreed about the middling and indifferent parts of knowledge and\nmorality; even the most soaring spirits too often take them tamely upon\ntrust.  But the man, the philosopher or the moralist, does not stand upon\nthese chance adhesions; and the purpose of any system looks towards those\nextreme points where it steps valiantly beyond tradition and returns with\nsome covert hint of things outside.  Then only can you be certain that\nthe words are not words of course, nor mere echoes of the past; then only\nare you sure that if he be indicating anything at all, it is a star and\nnot a street-lamp; then only do you touch the heart of the mystery, since\nit was for these that the author wrote his book.\n\nNow, every now and then, and indeed surprisingly often, Christ finds a\nword that transcends all common-place morality; every now and then he\nquits the beaten track to pioneer the unexpressed, and throws out a\npregnant and magnanimous hyperbole; for it is only by some bold poetry of\nthought that men can be strung up above the level of everyday conceptions\nto take a broader look upon experience or accept some higher principle of\nconduct.  To a man who is of the same mind that was in Christ, who stands\nat some centre not too far from his, and looks at the world and conduct\nfrom some not dissimilar or, at least, not opposing attitude\u2014or, shortly,\nto a man who is of Christ\u2019s philosophy\u2014every such saying should come home\nwith a thrill of joy and corroboration; he should feel each one below his\nfeet as another sure foundation in the flux of time and chance; each\nshould be another proof that in the torrent of the years and generations,\nwhere doctrines and great armaments and empires are swept away and\nswallowed, he stands immovable, holding by the eternal stars.  But alas!\nat this juncture of the ages it is not so with us; on each and every such\noccasion our whole fellowship of Christians falls back in disapproving\nwonder and implicitly denies the saying.  Christians! the farce is\nimpudently broad.  Let us stand up in the sight of heaven and confess.\nThe ethics that we hold are those of Benjamin Franklin.  _Honesty is the\nbest policy_, is perhaps a hard saying; it is certainly one by which a\nwise man of these days will not too curiously direct his steps; but I\nthink it shows a glimmer of meaning to even our most dimmed\nintelligences; I think we perceive a principle behind it; I think,\nwithout hyperbole, we are of the same mind that was in Benjamin Franklin.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nBut, I may be told, we teach the ten commandments, where a world of\nmorals lies condensed, the very pith and epitome of all ethics and\nreligion; and a young man with these precepts engraved upon his mind must\nfollow after profit with some conscience and Christianity of method.  A\nman cannot go very far astray who neither dishonours his parents, nor\nkills, nor commits adultery, nor steals, nor bears false witness; for\nthese things, rightly thought out, cover a vast field of duty.\n\nAlas! what is a precept?  It is at best an illustration; it is case law\nat the best which can be learned by precept.  The letter is not only\ndead, but killing; the spirit which underlies, and cannot be uttered,\nalone is true and helpful.  This is trite to sickness; but familiarity\nhas a cunning disenchantment; in a day or two she can steal all beauty\nfrom the mountain tops; and the most startling words begin to fall dead\nupon the ear after several repetitions.  If you see a thing too often,\nyou no longer see it; if you hear a thing too often, you no longer hear\nit.  Our attention requires to be surprised; and to carry a fort by\nassault, or to gain a thoughtful hearing from the ruck of mankind, are\nfeats of about an equal difficulty and must be tried by not dissimilar\nmeans.  The whole Bible has thus lost its message for the common run of\nhearers; it has become mere words of course; and the parson may bawl\nhimself scarlet and beat the pulpit like a thing possessed, but his\nhearers will continue to nod; they are strangely at peace, they know all\nhe has to say; ring the old bell as you choose, it is still the old bell\nand it cannot startle their composure.  And so with this byword about the\nletter and the spirit.  It is quite true, no doubt; but it has no meaning\nin the world to any man of us.  Alas! it has just this meaning, and\nneither more nor less: that while the spirit is true, the letter is\neternally false.\n\nThe shadow of a great oak lies abroad upon the ground at noon, perfect,\nclear, and stable like the earth.  But let a man set himself to mark out\nthe boundary with cords and pegs, and were he never so nimble and never\nso exact, what with the multiplicity of the leaves and the progression of\nthe shadow as it flees before the travelling sun, long ere he has made\nthe circuit the whole figure will have changed.  Life may be compared,\nnot to a single tree, but to a great and complicated forest; circumstance\nis more swiftly changing than a shadow, language much more inexact than\nthe tools of a surveyor; from day to day the trees fall and are renewed;\nthe very essences are fleeting as we look; and the whole world of leaves\nis swinging tempest-tossed among the winds of time.  Look now for your\nshadows.  O man of formul\u00e6, is this a place for you?  Have you fitted the\nspirit to a single case?  Alas, in the cycle of the ages when shall such\nanother be proposed for the judgment of man?  Now when the sun shines and\nthe winds blow, the wood is filled with an innumerable multitude of\nshadows, tumultuously tossed and changing; and at every gust the whole\ncarpet leaps and becomes new.  Can you or your heart say more?\n\nLook back now, for a moment, on your own brief experience of life; and\nalthough you lived it feelingly in your own person, and had every step of\nconduct burned in by pains and joys upon your memory, tell me what\ndefinite lesson does experience hand on from youth to manhood, or from\nboth to age?  The settled tenor which first strikes the eye is but the\nshadow of a delusion.  This is gone; that never truly was; and you\nyourself are altered beyond recognition.  Times and men and circumstances\nchange about your changing character, with a speed of which no earthly\nhurricane affords an image.  What was the best yesterday, is it still the\nbest in this changed theatre of a to-morrow?  Will your own Past truly\nguide you in your own violent and unexpected Future?  And if this be\nquestionable, with what humble, with what hopeless eyes, should we not\nwatch other men driving beside us on their unknown careers, seeing with\nunlike eyes, impelled by different gales, doing and suffering in another\nsphere of things?\n\nAnd as the authentic clue to such a labyrinth and change of scene, do you\noffer me these two score words? these five bald prohibitions?  For the\nmoral precepts are no more than five; the first four deal rather with\nmatters of observance than of conduct; the tenth, _Thou shalt not covet_,\nstands upon another basis, and shall be spoken of ere long.  The Jews, to\nwhom they were first given, in the course of years began to find these\nprecepts insufficient; and made an addition of no less than six hundred\nand fifty others!  They hoped to make a pocket-book of reference on\nmorals, which should stand to life in some such relation, say, as Hoyle\nstands in to the scientific game of whist.  The comparison is just, and\ncondemns the design; for those who play by rule will never be more than\ntolerable players; and you and I would like to play our game in life to\nthe noblest and the most divine advantage.  Yet if the Jews took a petty\nand huckstering view of conduct, what view do we take ourselves, who\ncallously leave youth to go forth into the enchanted forest, full of\nspells and dire chimeras, with no guidance more complete than is afforded\nby these five precepts?\n\n_Honour thy father and thy mother_.  Yes, but does that mean to obey? and\nif so, how long and how far?  _Thou shall not kill_.  Yet the very\nintention and purport of the prohibition may be best fulfilled by\nkilling.  _Thou shall not commit adultery_.  But some of the ugliest\nadulteries are committed in the bed of marriage and under the sanction of\nreligion and law.  _Thou shalt not bear false witness_.  How? by speech\nor by silence also? or even by a smile?  _Thou shalt not steal_.  Ah,\nthat indeed!  But what is _to steal_?\n\nTo steal?  It is another word to be construed; and who is to be our\nguide?  The police will give us one construction, leaving the word only\nthat least minimum of meaning without which society would fall in pieces;\nbut surely we must take some higher sense than this; surely we hope more\nthan a bare subsistence for mankind; surely we wish mankind to prosper\nand go on from strength to strength, and ourselves to live rightly in the\neye of some more exacting potentate than a policeman.  The approval or\nthe disapproval of the police must be eternally indifferent to a man who\nis both valorous and good.  There is extreme discomfort, but no shame, in\nthe condemnation of the law.  The law represents that modicum of morality\nwhich can be squeezed out of the ruck of mankind; but what is that to me,\nwho aim higher and seek to be my own more stringent judge?  I observe\nwith pleasure that no brave man has ever given a rush for such\nconsiderations.  The Japanese have a nobler and more sentimental feeling\nfor this social bond into which we all are born when we come into the\nworld, and whose comforts and protection we all indifferently share\nthroughout our lives:\u2014but even to them, no more than to our Western\nsaints and heroes, does the law of the state supersede the higher law of\nduty.  Without hesitation and without remorse, they transgress the\nstiffest enactments rather than abstain from doing right.  But the\naccidental superior duty being thus fulfilled, they at once return in\nallegiance to the common duty of all citizens; and hasten to denounce\nthemselves; and value at an equal rate their just crime and their equally\njust submission to its punishment.\n\nThe evading of the police will not long satisfy an active conscience or a\nthoughtful head.  But to show you how one or the other may trouble a man,\nand what a vast extent of frontier is left unridden by this invaluable\neighth commandment, let me tell you a few pages out of a young man\u2019s\nlife.\n\nHe was a friend of mine; a young man like others; generous, flighty, as\nvariable as youth itself, but always with some high motions and on the\nsearch for higher thoughts of life.  I should tell you at once that he\nthoroughly agrees with the eighth commandment.  But he got hold of some\nunsettling works, the New Testament among others, and this loosened his\nviews of life and led him into many perplexities.  As he was the son of a\nman in a certain position, and well off, my friend had enjoyed from the\nfirst the advantages of education, nay, he had been kept alive through a\nsickly childhood by constant watchfulness, comforts, and change of air;\nfor all of which he was indebted to his father\u2019s wealth.\n\nAt college he met other lads more diligent than himself, who followed the\nplough in summer-time to pay their college fees in winter; and this\ninequality struck him with some force.  He was at that age of a\nconversible temper, and insatiably curious in the aspects of life; and he\nspent much of his time scraping acquaintance with all classes of man- and\nwoman-kind.  In this way he came upon many depressed ambitions, and many\nintelligences stunted for want of opportunity; and this also struck him.\nHe began to perceive that life was a handicap upon strange, wrong-sided\nprinciples; and not, as he had been told, a fair and equal race.  He\nbegan to tremble that he himself had been unjustly favoured, when he saw\nall the avenues of wealth, and power, and comfort closed against so many\nof his superiors and equals, and held unwearyingly open before so idle,\nso desultory, and so dissolute a being as himself.  There sat a youth\nbeside him on the college benches, who had only one shirt to his back,\nand, at intervals sufficiently far apart, must stay at home to have it\nwashed.  It was my friend\u2019s principle to stay away as often as he dared;\nfor I fear he was no friend to learning.  But there was something that\ncame home to him sharply, in this fellow who had to give over study till\nhis shirt was washed, and the scores of others who had never an\nopportunity at all.  _If one of these could take his place_, he thought;\nand the thought tore away a bandage from his eyes.  He was eaten by the\nshame of his discoveries, and despised himself as an unworthy favourite\nand a creature of the back-stairs of Fortune.  He could no longer see\nwithout confusion one of these brave young fellows battling up-hill\nagainst adversity.  Had he not filched that fellow\u2019s birthright?  At best\nwas he not coldly profiting by the injustice of society, and greedily\ndevouring stolen goods?  The money, indeed, belonged to his father, who\nhad worked, and thought, and given up his liberty to earn it; but by what\njustice could the money belong to my friend, who had, as yet, done\nnothing but help to squander it?  A more sturdy honesty, joined to a more\neven and impartial temperament, would have drawn from these\nconsiderations a new force of industry, that this equivocal position\nmight be brought as swiftly as possible to an end, and some good services\nto mankind justify the appropriation of expense.  It was not so with my\nfriend, who was only unsettled and discouraged, and filled full of that\ntrumpeting anger with which young men regard injustices in the first\nblush of youth; although in a few years they will tamely acquiesce in\ntheir existence, and knowingly profit by their complications.  Yet all\nthis while he suffered many indignant pangs.  And once, when he put on\nhis boots, like any other unripe donkey, to run away from home, it was\nhis best consolation that he was now, at a single plunge, to free himself\nfrom the responsibility of this wealth that was not his, and do battle\nequally against his fellows in the warfare of life.\n\nSome time after this, falling into ill-health, he was sent at great\nexpense to a more favourable climate; and then I think his perplexities\nwere thickest.  When he thought of all the other young men of singular\npromise, upright, good, the prop of families, who must remain at home to\ndie, and with all their possibilities be lost to life and mankind; and\nhow he, by one more unmerited favour, was chosen out from all these\nothers to survive; he felt as if there were no life, no labour, no\ndevotion of soul and body, that could repay and justify these\npartialities.  A religious lady, to whom he communicated these\nreflections, could see no force in them whatever.  \u2018It was God\u2019s will,\u2019\nsaid she.  But he knew it was by God\u2019s will that Joan of Arc was burnt at\nRouen, which cleared neither Bedford nor Bishop Cauchon; and again, by\nGod\u2019s will that Christ was crucified outside Jerusalem, which excused\nneither the rancour of the priests nor the timidity of Pilate.  He knew,\nmoreover, that although the possibility of this favour he was now\nenjoying issued from his circumstances, its acceptance was the act of his\nown will; and he had accepted it greedily, longing for rest and sunshine.\nAnd hence this allegation of God\u2019s providence did little to relieve his\nscruples.  I promise you he had a very troubled mind.  And I would not\nlaugh if I were you, though while he was thus making mountains out of\nwhat you think molehills, he were still (as perhaps he was) contentedly\npractising many other things that to you seem black as hell.  Every man\nis his own judge and mountain-guide through life.  There is an old story\nof a mote and a beam, apparently not true, but worthy perhaps of some\nconsideration.  I should, if I were you, give some consideration to these\nscruples of his, and if I were he, I should do the like by yours; for it\nis not unlikely that there may be something under both.  In the meantime\nyou must hear how my friend acted.  Like many invalids, he supposed that\nhe would die.  Now, should he die, he saw no means of repaying this huge\nloan which, by the hands of his father, mankind had advanced him for his\nsickness.  In that case it would be lost money.  So he determined that\nthe advance should be as small as possible; and, so long as he continued\nto doubt his recovery, lived in an upper room, and grudged himself all\nbut necessaries.  But so soon as he began to perceive a change for the\nbetter, he felt justified in spending more freely, to speed and brighten\nhis return to health, and trusted in the future to lend a help to\nmankind, as mankind, out of its treasury, had lent a help to him.\n\nI do not say but that my friend was a little too curious and partial in\nhis view; nor thought too much of himself and too little of his parents;\nbut I do say that here are some scruples which tormented my friend in his\nyouth, and still, perhaps, at odd times give him a prick in the midst of\nhis enjoyments, and which after all have some foundation in justice, and\npoint, in their confused way, to some more honourable honesty within the\nreach of man.  And at least, is not this an unusual gloss upon the eighth\ncommandment?  And what sort of comfort, guidance, or illumination did\nthat precept afford my friend throughout these contentions?  \u2018Thou shalt\nnot steal.\u2019  With all my heart!  But _am_ I stealing?\n\nThe truly quaint materialism of our view of life disables us from\npursuing any transaction to an end.  You can make no one understand that\nhis bargain is anything more than a bargain, whereas in point of fact it\nis a link in the policy of mankind, and either a good or an evil to the\nworld.  We have a sort of blindness which prevents us from seeing\nanything but sovereigns.  If one man agrees to give another so many\nshillings for so many hours\u2019 work, and then wilfully gives him a certain\nproportion of the price in bad money and only the remainder in good, we\ncan see with half an eye that this man is a thief.  But if the other\nspends a certain proportion of the hours in smoking a pipe of tobacco,\nand a certain other proportion in looking at the sky, or the clock, or\ntrying to recall an air, or in meditation on his own past adventures, and\nonly the remainder in downright work such as he is paid to do, is he,\nbecause the theft is one of time and not of money,\u2014is he any the less a\nthief?  The one gave a bad shilling, the other an imperfect hour; but\nboth broke the bargain, and each is a thief.  In piecework, which is what\nmost of us do, the case is none the less plain for being even less\nmaterial.  If you forge a bad knife, you have wasted some of mankind\u2019s\niron, and then, with unrivalled cynicism, you pocket some of mankind\u2019s\nmoney for your trouble.  Is there any man so blind who cannot see that\nthis is theft?  Again, if you carelessly cultivate a farm, you have been\nplaying fast and loose with mankind\u2019s resources against hunger; there\nwill be less bread in consequence, and for lack of that bread somebody\nwill die next winter: a grim consideration.  And you must not hope to\nshuffle out of blame because you got less money for your less quantity of\nbread; for although a theft be partly punished, it is none the less a\ntheft for that.  You took the farm against competitors; there were others\nready to shoulder the responsibility and be answerable for the tale of\nloaves; but it was you who took it.  By the act you came under a tacit\nbargain with mankind to cultivate that farm with your best endeavour; you\nwere under no superintendence, you were on parole; and you have broke\nyour bargain, and to all who look closely, and yourself among the rest if\nyou have moral eyesight, you are a thief.  Or take the case of men of\nletters.  Every piece of work which is not as good as you can make it,\nwhich you have palmed off imperfect, meagrely thought, niggardly in\nexecution, upon mankind who is your paymaster on parole and in a sense\nyour pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue performance, should rise up\nagainst you in the court of your own heart and condemn you for a thief.\nHave you a salary?  If you trifle with your health, and so render\nyourself less capable for duty, and still touch, and still greedily\npocket the emolument\u2014what are you but a thief?  Have you double accounts?\ndo you by any time-honoured juggle, deceit, or ambiguous process, gain\nmore from those who deal with you than it you were bargaining and dealing\nface to face in front of God?\u2014What are you but a thief?  Lastly, if you\nfill an office, or produce an article, which, in your heart of hearts,\nyou think a delusion and a fraud upon mankind, and still draw your salary\nand go through the sham man\u0153uvres of this office, or still book your\nprofits and keep on flooding the world with these injurious goods?\u2014though\nyou were old, and bald, and the first at church, and a baronet, what are\nyou but a thief?  These may seem hard words and mere curiosities of the\nintellect, in an age when the spirit of honesty is so sparingly\ncultivated that all business is conducted upon lies and so-called customs\nof the trade, that not a man bestows two thoughts on the utility or\nhonourableness of his pursuit.  I would say less if I thought less.  But\nlooking to my own reason and the right of things, I can only avow that I\nam a thief myself, and that I passionately suspect my neighbours of the\nsame guilt.\n\nWhere did you hear that it was easy to be honest?  Do you find that in\nyour Bible?  Easy!  It is easy to be an ass and follow the multitude like\na blind, besotted bull in a stampede; and that, I am well aware, is what\nyou and Mrs. Grundy mean by being honest.  But it will not bear the\nstress of time nor the scrutiny of conscience.  Even before the lowest of\nall tribunals,\u2014before a court of law, whose business it is, not to keep\nmen right, or within a thousand miles of right, but to withhold them from\ngoing so tragically wrong that they will pull down the whole jointed\nfabric of society by their misdeeds\u2014even before a court of law, as we\nbegin to see in these last days, our easy view of following at each\nother\u2019s tails, alike to good and evil, is beginning to be reproved and\npunished, and declared no honesty at all, but open theft and swindling;\nand simpletons who have gone on through life with a quiet conscience may\nlearn suddenly, from the lips of a judge, that the custom of the trade\nmay be a custom of the devil.  You thought it was easy to be honest.  Did\nyou think it was easy to be just and kind and truthful?  Did you think\nthe whole duty of aspiring man was as simple as a horn-pipe? and you\ncould walk through life like a gentleman and a hero, with no more concern\nthan it takes to go to church or to address a circular?  And yet all this\ntime you had the eighth commandment! and, what makes it richer, you would\nnot have broken it for the world!\n\nThe truth is, that these commandments by themselves are of little use in\nprivate judgment.  If compression is what you want, you have their whole\nspirit compressed into the golden rule; and yet there expressed with more\nsignificance, since the law is there spiritually and not materially\nstated.  And in truth, four out of these ten commands, from the sixth to\nthe ninth, are rather legal than ethical.  The police-court is their\nproper home.  A magistrate cannot tell whether you love your neighbour as\nyourself, but he can tell more or less whether you have murdered, or\nstolen, or committed adultery, or held up your hand and testified to that\nwhich was not; and these things, for rough practical tests, are as good\nas can be found.  And perhaps, therefore, the best condensation of the\nJewish moral law is in the maxims of the priests, \u2018neminem l\u00e6dere\u2019 and\n\u2018suum cuique tribuere.\u2019  But all this granted, it becomes only the more\nplain that they are inadequate in the sphere of personal morality; that\nwhile they tell the magistrate roughly when to punish, they can never\ndirect an anxious sinner what to do.\n\nOnly Polonius, or the like solemn sort of ass, can offer us a succinct\nproverb by way of advice, and not burst out blushing in our faces.  We\ngrant them one and all and for all that they are worth; it is something\nabove and beyond that we desire.  Christ was in general a great enemy to\nsuch a way of teaching; we rarely find him meddling with any of these\nplump commands but it was to open them out, and lift his hearers from the\nletter to the spirit.  For morals are a personal affair; in the war of\nrighteousness every man fights for his own hand; all the six hundred\nprecepts of the Mishna cannot shake my private judgment; my magistracy of\nmyself is an indefeasible charge, and my decisions absolute for the time\nand case.  The moralist is not a judge of appeal, but an advocate who\npleads at my tribunal.  He has to show not the law, but that the law\napplies.  Can he convince me? then he gains the cause.  And thus you find\nChrist giving various counsels to varying people, and often jealously\ncareful to avoid definite precept.  Is he asked, for example, to divide a\nheritage?  He refuses: and the best advice that he will offer is but a\nparaphrase of that tenth commandment which figures so strangely among the\nrest.  _Take heed, and beware of covetousness_.  If you complain that\nthis is vague, I have failed to carry you along with me in my argument.\nFor no definite precept can be more than an illustration, though its\ntruth were resplendent like the sun, and it was announced from heaven by\nthe voice of God.  And life is so intricate and changing, that perhaps\nnot twenty times, or perhaps not twice in the ages, shall we find that\nnice consent of circumstances to which alone it can apply.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nAlthough the world and life have in a sense become commonplace to our\nexperience, it is but in an external torpor; the true sentiment slumbers\nwithin us; and we have but to reflect on ourselves or our surroundings to\nrekindle our astonishment.  No length of habit can blunt our first\nsurprise.  Of the world I have but little to say in this connection; a\nfew strokes shall suffice.  We inhabit a dead ember swimming wide in the\nblank of space, dizzily spinning as it swims, and lighted up from several\nmillion miles away by a more horrible hell-fire than was ever conceived\nby the theological imagination.  Yet the dead ember is a green,\ncommodious dwelling-place; and the reverberation of this hell-fire ripens\nflower and fruit and mildly warms us on summer eves upon the lawn.  Far\noff on all hands other dead embers, other flaming suns, wheel and race in\nthe apparent void; the nearest is out of call, the farthest so far that\nthe heart sickens in the effort to conceive the distance.  Shipwrecked\nseamen on the deep, though they bestride but the truncheon of a boom, are\nsafe and near at home compared with mankind on its bullet.  Even to us\nwho have known no other, it seems a strange, if not an appalling, place\nof residence.\n\nBut far stranger is the resident, man, a creature compact of wonders\nthat, after centuries of custom, is still wonderful to himself.  He\ninhabits a body which he is continually outliving, discarding and\nrenewing.  Food and sleep, by an unknown alchemy, restore his spirits and\nthe freshness of his countenance.  Hair grows on him like grass; his\neyes, his brain, his sinews, thirst for action; he joys to see and touch\nand hear, to partake the sun and wind, to sit down and intently ponder on\nhis astonishing attributes and situation, to rise up and run, to perform\nthe strange and revolting round of physical functions.  The sight of a\nflower, the note of a bird, will often move him deeply; yet he looks\nunconcerned on the impassable distances and portentous bonfires of the\nuniverse.  He comprehends, he designs, he tames nature, rides the sea,\nploughs, climbs the air in a balloon, makes vast inquiries, begins\ninterminable labours, joins himself into federations and populous cities,\nspends his days to deliver the ends of the earth or to benefit unborn\nposterity; and yet knows himself for a piece of unsurpassed fragility and\nthe creature of a few days.  His sight, which conducts him, which takes\nnotice of the farthest stars, which is miraculous in every way and a\nthing defying explanation or belief, is yet lodged in a piece of jelly,\nand can be extinguished with a touch.  His heart, which all through life\nso indomitably, so athletically labours, is but a capsule, and may be\nstopped with a pin.  His whole body, for all its savage energies, its\nleaping and its winged desires, may yet be tamed and conquered by a\ndraught of air or a sprinkling of cold dew.  What he calls death, which\nis the seeming arrest of everything, and the ruin and hateful\ntransformation of the visible body, lies in wait for him outwardly in a\nthousand accidents, and grows up in secret diseases from within.  He is\nstill learning to be a man when his faculties are already beginning to\ndecline; he has not yet understood himself or his position before he\ninevitably dies.  And yet this mad, chimerical creature can take no\nthought of his last end, lives as though he were eternal, plunges with\nhis vulnerable body into the shock of war, and daily affronts death with\nunconcern.  He cannot take a step without pain or pleasure.  His life is\na tissue of sensations, which he distinguishes as they seem to come more\ndirectly from himself or his surroundings.  He is conscious of himself as\na joyer or a sufferer, as that which craves, chooses, and is satisfied;\nconscious of his surroundings as it were of an inexhaustible purveyor,\nthe source of aspects, inspirations, wonders, cruel knocks and\ntransporting caresses.  Thus he goes on his way, stumbling among delights\nand agonies.\n\nMatter is a far-fetched theory, and materialism is without a root in man.\nTo him everything is important in the degree to which it moves him.  The\ntelegraph wires and posts, the electricity speeding from clerk to clerk,\nthe clerks, the glad or sorrowful import of the message, and the paper on\nwhich it is finally brought to him at home, are all equally facts, all\nequally exist for man.  A word or a thought can wound him as acutely as a\nknife of steel.  If he thinks he is loved, he will rise up and glory to\nhimself, although he be in a distant land and short of necessary bread.\nDoes he think he is not loved?\u2014he may have the woman at his beck, and\nthere is not a joy for him in all the world.  Indeed, if we are to make\nany account of this figment of reason, the distinction between material\nand immaterial, we shall conclude that the life of each man as an\nindividual is immaterial, although the continuation and prospects of\nmankind as a race turn upon material conditions.  The physical business\nof each man\u2019s body is transacted for him; like a sybarite, he has\nattentive valets in his own viscera; he breathes, he sweats, he digests\nwithout an effort, or so much as a consenting volition; for the most part\nhe even eats, not with a wakeful consciousness, but as it were between\ntwo thoughts.  His life is centred among other and more important\nconsiderations; touch him in his honour or his love, creatures of the\nimagination which attach him to mankind or to an individual man or woman;\ncross him in his piety which connects his soul with heaven; and he turns\nfrom his food, he loathes his breath, and with a magnanimous emotion cuts\nthe knots of his existence and frees himself at a blow from the web of\npains and pleasures.\n\nIt follows that man is twofold at least; that he is not a rounded and\nautonomous empire; but that in the same body with him there dwell other\npowers tributary but independent.  If I now behold one walking in a\ngarden, curiously coloured and illuminated by the sun, digesting his food\nwith elaborate chemistry, breathing, circulating blood, directing himself\nby the sight of his eyes, accommodating his body by a thousand delicate\nbalancings to the wind and the uneven surface of the path, and all the\ntime, perhaps, with his mind engaged about America, or the dog-star, or\nthe attributes of God\u2014what am I to say, or how am I to describe the thing\nI see?  Is that truly a man, in the rigorous meaning of the word? or is\nit not a man and something else?  What, then, are we to count the\ncentre-bit and axle of a being so variously compounded?  It is a question\nmuch debated.  Some read his history in a certain intricacy of nerve and\nthe success of successive digestions; others find him an exiled piece of\nheaven blown upon and determined by the breath of God; and both schools\nof theorists will scream like scalded children at a word of doubt.  Yet\neither of these views, however plausible, is beside the question; either\nmay be right; and I care not; I ask a more particular answer, and to a\nmore immediate point.  What is the man?  There is Something that was\nbefore hunger and that remains behind after a meal.  It may or may not be\nengaged in any given act or passion, but when it is, it changes,\nheightens, and sanctifies.  Thus it is not engaged in lust, where\nsatisfaction ends the chapter; and it is engaged in love, where no\nsatisfaction can blunt the edge of the desire, and where age, sickness,\nor alienation may deface what was desirable without diminishing the\nsentiment.  This something, which is the man, is a permanence which\nabides through the vicissitudes of passion, now overwhelmed and now\ntriumphant, now unconscious of itself in the immediate distress of\nappetite or pain, now rising unclouded above all.  So, to the man, his\nown central self fades and grows clear again amid the tumult of the\nsenses, like a revolving Pharos in the night.  It is forgotten; it is\nhid, it seems, for ever; and yet in the next calm hour he shall behold\nhimself once more, shining and unmoved among changes and storm.\n\nMankind, in the sense of the creeping mass that is born and eats, that\ngenerates and dies, is but the aggregate of the outer and lower sides of\nman.  This inner consciousness, this lantern alternately obscured and\nshining, to and by which the individual exists and must order his\nconduct, is something special to himself and not common to the race.  His\njoys delight, his sorrows wound him, according as _this_ is interested or\nindifferent in the affair; according as they arise in an imperial war or\nin a broil conducted by the tributary chieftains of the mind.  He may\nlose all, and _this_ not suffer; he may lose what is materially a trifle,\nand _this_ leap in his bosom with a cruel pang.  I do not speak of it to\nhardened theorists: the living man knows keenly what it is I mean.\n\n\u2018Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something better and more divine\nthan the things which cause the various effects, and, as it were, pull\nthee by the strings.  What is that now in thy mind? is it fear, or\nsuspicion, or desire, or anything of that kind?\u2019  Thus far Marcus\nAurelius, in one of the most notable passages in any book.  Here is a\nquestion worthy to be answered.  What is in thy mind?  What is the\nutterance of your inmost self when, in a quiet hour, it can be heard\nintelligibly?  It is something beyond the compass of your thinking,\ninasmuch as it is yourself; but is it not of a higher spirit than you had\ndreamed betweenwhiles, and erect above all base considerations?  This\nsoul seems hardly touched with our infirmities; we can find in it\ncertainly no fear, suspicion, or desire; we are only conscious\u2014and that\nas though we read it in the eyes of some one else\u2014of a great and\nunqualified readiness.  A readiness to what? to pass over and look beyond\nthe objects of desire and fear, for something else.  And this something\nelse? this something which is apart from desire and fear, to which all\nthe kingdoms of the world and the immediate death of the body are alike\nindifferent and beside the point, and which yet regards conduct\u2014by what\nname are we to call it?  It may be the love of God; or it may be an\ninherited (and certainly well concealed) instinct to preserve self and\npropagate the race; I am not, for the moment, averse to either theory;\nbut it will save time to call it righteousness.  By so doing I intend no\nsubterfuge to beg a question; I am indeed ready, and more than willing,\nto accept the rigid consequence, and lay aside, as far as the treachery\nof the reason will permit, all former meanings attached to the word\nrighteousness.  What is right is that for which a man\u2019s central self is\never ready to sacrifice immediate or distant interests; what is wrong is\nwhat the central self discards or rejects as incompatible with the fixed\ndesign of righteousness.\n\nTo make this admission is to lay aside all hope of definition.  That\nwhich is right upon this theory is intimately dictated to each man by\nhimself, but can never be rigorously set forth in language, and never,\nabove all, imposed upon another.  The conscience has, then, a vision like\nthat of the eyes, which is incommunicable, and for the most part\nilluminates none but its possessor.  When many people perceive the same\nor any cognate facts, they agree upon a word as symbol; and hence we have\nsuch words as _tree_, _star_, _love_, _honour_, or _death_; hence also we\nhave this word _right_, which, like the others, we all understand, most\nof us understand differently, and none can express succinctly otherwise.\nYet even on the straitest view, we can make some steps towards\ncomprehension of our own superior thoughts.  For it is an incredible and\nmost bewildering fact that a man, through life, is on variable terms with\nhimself; he is aware of tiffs and reconciliations; the intimacy is at\ntimes almost suspended, at times it is renewed again with joy.  As we\nsaid before, his inner self or soul appears to him by successive\nrevelations, and is frequently obscured.  It is from a study of these\nalternations that we can alone hope to discover, even dimly, what seems\nright and what seems wrong to this veiled prophet of ourself.\n\nAll that is in the man in the larger sense, what we call impression as\nwell as what we call intuition, so far as my argument looks, we must\naccept.  It is not wrong to desire food, or exercise, or beautiful\nsurroundings, or the love of sex, or interest which is the food of the\nmind.  All these are craved; all these should be craved; to none of these\nin itself does the soul demur; where there comes an undeniable want, we\nrecognise a demand of nature.  Yet we know that these natural demands may\nbe superseded; for the demands which are common to mankind make but a\nshadowy consideration in comparison to the demands of the individual\nsoul.  Food is almost the first prerequisite; and yet a high character\nwill go without food to the ruin and death of the body rather than gain\nit in a manner which the spirit disavows.  Pascal laid aside mathematics;\nOrigen doctored his body with a knife; every day some one is thus\nmortifying his dearest interests and desires, and, in Christ\u2019s words,\nentering maim into the Kingdom of Heaven.  This is to supersede the\nlesser and less harmonious affections by renunciation; and though by this\nascetic path we may get to heaven, we cannot get thither a whole and\nperfect man.  But there is another way, to supersede them by\nreconciliation, in which the soul and all the faculties and senses pursue\na common route and share in one desire.  Thus, man is tormented by a very\nimperious physical desire; it spoils his rest, it is not to be denied;\nthe doctors will tell you, not I, how it is a physical need, like the\nwant of food or slumber.  In the satisfaction of this desire, as it first\nappears, the soul sparingly takes part; nay, it oft unsparingly regrets\nand disapproves the satisfaction.  But let the man learn to love a woman\nas far as he is capable of love; and for this random affection of the\nbody there is substituted a steady determination, a consent of all his\npowers and faculties, which supersedes, adopts, and commands the other.\nThe desire survives, strengthened, perhaps, but taught obedience and\nchanged in scope and character.  Life is no longer a tale of betrayals\nand regrets; for the man now lives as a whole; his consciousness now\nmoves on uninterrupted like a river; through all the extremes and ups and\ndowns of passion, he remains approvingly conscious of himself.\n\nNow to me, this seems a type of that rightness which the soul demands.\nIt demands that we shall not live alternately with our opposing\ntendencies in continual see-saw of passion and disgust, but seek some\npath on which the tendencies shall no longer oppose, but serve each other\nto a common end.  It demands that we shall not pursue broken ends, but\ngreat and comprehensive purposes, in which soul and body may unite like\nnotes in a harmonious chord.  That were indeed a way of peace and\npleasure, that were indeed a heaven upon earth.  It does not demand,\nhowever, or, to speak in measure, it does not demand of me, that I should\nstarve my appetites for no purpose under heaven but as a purpose in\nitself; or, in a weak despair, pluck out the eye that I have not yet\nlearned to guide and enjoy with wisdom.  The soul demands unity of\npurpose, not the dismemberment of man; it seeks to roll up all his\nstrength and sweetness, all his passion and wisdom, into one, and make of\nhim a perfect man exulting in perfection.  To conclude ascetically is to\ngive up, and not to solve, the problem.  The ascetic and the creeping\nhog, although they are at different poles, have equally failed in life.\nThe one has sacrificed his crew; the other brings back his seamen in a\ncock-boat, and has lost the ship.  I believe there are not many\nsea-captains who would plume themselves on either result as a success.\n\nBut if it is righteousness thus to fuse together our divisive impulses\nand march with one mind through life, there is plainly one thing more\nunrighteous than all others, and one declension which is irretrievable\nand draws on the rest.  And this is to lose consciousness of oneself.  In\nthe best of times, it is but by flashes, when our whole nature is clear,\nstrong and conscious, and events conspire to leave us free, that we enjoy\ncommunion with our soul.  At the worst, we are so fallen and passive that\nwe may say shortly we have none.  An arctic torpor seizes upon men.\nAlthough built of nerves, and set adrift in a stimulating world, they\ndevelop a tendency to go bodily to sleep; consciousness becomes engrossed\namong the reflex and mechanical parts of life; and soon loses both the\nwill and power to look higher considerations in the face.  This is ruin;\nthis is the last failure in life; this is temporal damnation, damnation\non the spot and without the form of judgment.  \u2018What shall it profit a\nman if he gain the whole world and _lose himself_?\u2019\n\nIt is to keep a man awake, to keep him alive to his own soul and its\nfixed design of righteousness, that the better part of moral and\nreligious education is directed; not only that of words and doctors, but\nthe sharp ferule of calamity under which we are all God\u2019s scholars till\nwe die.  If, as teachers, we are to say anything to the purpose, we must\nsay what will remind the pupil of his soul; we must speak that soul\u2019s\ndialect; we must talk of life and conduct as his soul would have him\nthink of them.  If, from some conformity between us and the pupil, or\nperhaps among all men, we do in truth speak in such a dialect and express\nsuch views, beyond question we shall touch in him a spring; beyond\nquestion he will recognise the dialect as one that he himself has spoken\nin his better hours; beyond question he will cry, \u2018I had forgotten, but\nnow I remember; I too have eyes, and I had forgot to use them!  I too\nhave a soul of my own, arrogantly upright, and to that I will listen and\nconform.\u2019  In short, say to him anything that he has once thought, or\nbeen upon the point of thinking, or show him any view of life that he has\nonce clearly seen, or been upon the point of clearly seeing; and you have\ndone your part and may leave him to complete the education for himself.\n\nNow, the view taught at the present time seems to me to want greatness;\nand the dialect in which alone it can be intelligibly uttered is not the\ndialect of my soul.  It is a sort of postponement of life; nothing quite\nis, but something different is to be; we are to keep our eyes upon the\nindirect from the cradle to the grave.  We are to regulate our conduct\nnot by desire, but by a politic eye upon the future; and to value acts as\nthey will bring us money or good opinion; as they will bring us, in one\nword, _profit_.  We must be what is called respectable, and offend no one\nby our carriage; it will not do to make oneself conspicuous\u2014who knows?\neven in virtue? says the Christian parent!  And we must be what is called\nprudent and make money; not only because it is pleasant to have money,\nbut because that also is a part of respectability, and we cannot hope to\nbe received in society without decent possessions.  Received in society!\nas if that were the kingdom of heaven!  There is dear Mr. So-and-so;\u2014look\nat him!\u2014so much respected\u2014so much looked up to\u2014quite the Christian\nmerchant!  And we must cut our conduct as strictly as possible after the\npattern of Mr. So-and-so; and lay our whole lives to make money and be\nstrictly decent.  Besides these holy injunctions, which form by far the\ngreater part of a youth\u2019s training in our Christian homes, there are at\nleast two other doctrines.  We are to live just now as well as we can,\nbut scrape at last into heaven, where we shall be good.  We are to worry\nthrough the week in a lay, disreputable way, but, to make matters square,\nlive a different life on Sunday.\n\nThe train of thought we have been following gives us a key to all these\npositions, without stepping aside to justify them on their own ground.\nIt is because we have been disgusted fifty times with physical squalls,\nand fifty times torn between conflicting impulses, that we teach people\nthis indirect and tactical procedure in life, and to judge by remote\nconsequences instead of the immediate face of things.  The very desire to\nact as our own souls would have us, coupled with a pathetic disbelief in\nourselves, moves us to follow the example of others; perhaps, who knows?\nthey may be on the right track; and the more our patterns are in number,\nthe better seems the chance; until, if we be acting in concert with a\nwhole civilised nation, there are surely a majority of chances that we\nmust be acting right.  And again, how true it is that we can never behave\nas we wish in this tormented sphere, and can only aspire to different and\nmore favourable circumstances, in order to stand out and be ourselves\nwholly and rightly!  And yet once more, if in the hurry and pressure of\naffairs and passions you tend to nod and become drowsy, here are\ntwenty-four hours of Sunday set apart for you to hold counsel with your\nsoul and look around you on the possibilities of life.\n\nThis is not, of course, all that is to be, or even should be, said for\nthese doctrines.  Only, in the course of this chapter, the reader and I\nhave agreed upon a few catchwords, and been looking at morals on a\ncertain system; it was a pity to lose an opportunity of testing the\ncatchwords, and seeing whether, by this system as well as by others,\ncurrent doctrines could show any probable justification.  If the\ndoctrines had come too badly out of the trial, it would have condemned\nthe system.  Our sight of the world is very narrow; the mind but a\npedestrian instrument; there\u2019s nothing new under the sun, as Solomon\nsays, except the man himself; and though that changes the aspect of\neverything else, yet he must see the same things as other people, only\nfrom a different side.\n\nAnd now, having admitted so much, let us turn to criticism.\n\nIf you teach a man to keep his eyes upon what others think of him,\nunthinkingly to lead the life and hold the principles of the majority of\nhis contemporaries, you must discredit in his eyes the one authoritative\nvoice of his own soul.  He may be a docile citizen; he will never be a\nman.  It is ours, on the other hand, to disregard this babble and\nchattering of other men better and worse than we are, and to walk\nstraight before us by what light we have.  They may be right; but so,\nbefore heaven, are we.  They may know; but we know also, and by that\nknowledge we must stand or fall.  There is such a thing as loyalty to a\nman\u2019s own better self; and from those who have not that, God help me, how\nam I to look for loyalty to others?  The most dull, the most imbecile, at\na certain moment turn round, at a certain point will hear no further\nargument, but stand unflinching by their own dumb, irrational sense of\nright.  It is not only by steel or fire, but through contempt and blame,\nthat the martyr fulfils the calling of his dear soul.  Be glad if you are\nnot tried by such extremities.  But although all the world ranged\nthemselves in one line to tell you \u2018This is wrong,\u2019 be you your own\nfaithful vassal and the ambassador of God\u2014throw down the glove and answer\n\u2018This is right.\u2019  Do you think you are only declaring yourself?  Perhaps\nin some dim way, like a child who delivers a message not fully\nunderstood, you are opening wider the straits of prejudice and preparing\nmankind for some truer and more spiritual grasp of truth; perhaps, as you\nstand forth for your own judgment, you are covering a thousand weak ones\nwith your body; perhaps, by this declaration alone, you have avoided the\nguilt of false witness against humanity and the little ones unborn.  It\nis good, I believe, to be respectable, but much nobler to respect oneself\nand utter the voice of God.  God, if there be any God, speaks daily in a\nnew language by the tongues of men; the thoughts and habits of each fresh\ngeneration and each new-coined spirit throw another light upon the\nuniverse and contain another commentary on the printed Bibles; every\nscruple, every true dissent, every glimpse of something new, is a letter\nof God\u2019s alphabet; and though there is a grave responsibility for all who\nspeak, is there none for those who unrighteously keep silence and\nconform?  Is not that also to conceal and cloak God\u2019s counsel?  And how\nshould we regard the man of science who suppressed all facts that would\nnot tally with the orthodoxy of the hour?\n\nWrong?  You are as surely wrong as the sun rose this morning round the\nrevolving shoulder of the world.  Not truth, but truthfulness, is the\ngood of your endeavour.  For when will men receive that first part and\nprerequisite of truth, that, by the order of things, by the greatness of\nthe universe, by the darkness and partiality of man\u2019s experience, by the\ninviolate secrecy of God, kept close in His most open revelations, every\nman is, and to the end of the ages must be, wrong?  Wrong to the\nuniverse; wrong to mankind; wrong to God.  And yet in another sense, and\nthat plainer and nearer, every man of men, who wishes truly, must be\nright.  He is right to himself, and in the measure of his sagacity and\ncandour.  That let him do in all sincerity and zeal, not sparing a\nthought for contrary opinions; that, for what it is worth, let him\nproclaim.  Be not afraid; although he be wrong, so also is the dead,\nstuffed Dagon he insults.  For the voice of God, whatever it is, is not\nthat stammering, inept tradition which the people holds.  These truths\nsurvive in travesty, swamped in a world of spiritual darkness and\nconfusion; and what a few comprehend and faithfully hold, the many, in\ntheir dead jargon, repeat, degrade, and misinterpret.\n\nSo far of Respectability; what the Covenanters used to call \u2018rank\nconformity\u2019: the deadliest gag and wet blanket that can be laid on men.\nAnd now of Profit.  And this doctrine is perhaps the more redoubtable,\nbecause it harms all sorts of men; not only the heroic and self-reliant,\nbut the obedient, cowlike squadrons.  A man, by this doctrine, looks to\nconsequences at the second, or third, or fiftieth turn.  He chooses his\nend, and for that, with wily turns and through a great sea of tedium,\nsteers this mortal bark.  There may be political wisdom in such a view;\nbut I am persuaded there can spring no great moral zeal.  To look thus\nobliquely upon life is the very recipe for moral slumber.  Our intention\nand endeavour should be directed, not on some vague end of money or\napplause, which shall come to us by a ricochet in a month or a year, or\ntwenty years, but on the act itself; not on the approval of others, but\non the rightness of that act.  At every instant, at every step in life,\nthe point has to be decided, our soul has to be saved, heaven has to be\ngained or lost.  At every step our spirits must applaud, at every step we\nmust set down the foot and sound the trumpet.  \u2018This have I done,\u2019 we\nmust say; \u2018right or wrong, this have I done, in unfeigned honour of\nintention, as to myself and God.\u2019  The profit of every act should be\nthis, that it was right for us to do it.  Any other profit than that, if\nit involved a kingdom or the woman I love, ought, if I were God\u2019s upright\nsoldier, to leave me untempted.\n\nIt is the mark of what we call a righteous decision, that it is made\ndirectly and for its own sake.  The whole man, mind and body, having come\nto an agreement, tyrannically dictates conduct.  There are two\ndispositions eternally opposed: that in which we recognise that one thing\nis wrong and another right, and that in which, not seeing any clear\ndistinction, we fall back on the consideration of consequences.  The\ntruth is, by the scope of our present teaching, nothing is thought very\nwrong and nothing very right, except a few actions which have the\ndisadvantage of being disrespectable when found out; the more serious\npart of men inclining to think all things _rather wrong_, the more jovial\nto suppose them _right enough for practical purposes_.  I will engage my\nhead, they do not find that view in their own hearts; they have taken it\nup in a dark despair; they are but troubled sleepers talking in their\nsleep.  The soul, or my soul at least, thinks very distinctly upon many\npoints of right and wrong, and often differs flatly with what is held out\nas the thought of corporate humanity in the code of society or the code\nof law.  Am I to suppose myself a monster?  I have only to read books,\nthe Christian Gospels for example, to think myself a monster no longer;\nand instead I think the mass of people are merely speaking in their\nsleep.\n\nIt is a commonplace, enshrined, if I mistake not, even in school\ncopy-books, that honour is to be sought and not fame.  I ask no other\nadmission; we are to seek honour, upright walking with our own conscience\nevery hour of the day, and not fame, the consequence, the far-off\nreverberation of our footsteps.  The walk, not the rumour of the walk, is\nwhat concerns righteousness.  Better disrespectable honour than\ndishonourable fame.  Better useless or seemingly hurtful honour, than\ndishonour ruling empires and filling the mouths of thousands.  For the\nman must walk by what he sees, and leave the issue with God who made him\nand taught him by the fortune of his life.  You would not dishonour\nyourself for money; which is at least tangible; would you do it, then,\nfor a doubtful forecast in politics, or another person\u2019s theory in\nmorals?\n\nSo intricate is the scheme of our affairs, that no man can calculate the\nbearing of his own behaviour even on those immediately around him, how\nmuch less upon the world at large or on succeeding generations!  To walk\nby external prudence and the rule of consequences would require, not a\nman, but God.  All that we know to guide us in this changing labyrinth is\nour soul with its fixed design of righteousness, and a few old precepts\nwhich commend themselves to that.  The precepts are vague when we\nendeavour to apply them; consequences are more entangled than a wisp of\nstring, and their confusion is unrestingly in change; we must hold to\nwhat we know and walk by it.  We must walk by faith, indeed, and not by\nknowledge.\n\nYou do not love another because he is wealthy or wise or eminently\nrespectable: you love him because you love him; that is love, and any\nother only a derision and grimace.  It should be the same with all our\nactions.  If we were to conceive a perfect man, it should be one who was\nnever torn between conflicting impulses, but who, on the absolute consent\nof all his parts and faculties, submitted in every action of his life to\na self-dictation as absolute and unreasoned as that which bids him love\none woman and be true to her till death.  But we should not conceive him\nas sagacious, ascetical, playing off his appetites against each other,\nturning the wing of public respectable immorality instead of riding it\ndirectly down, or advancing toward his end through a thousand sinister\ncompromises and considerations.  The one man might be wily, might be\nadroit, might be wise, might be respectable, might be gloriously useful;\nit is the other man who would be good.\n\nThe soul asks honour and not fame; to be upright, not to be successful;\nto be good, not prosperous; to be essentially, not outwardly,\nrespectable.  Does your soul ask profit?  Does it ask money?  Does it ask\nthe approval of the indifferent herd?  I believe not.  For my own part, I\nwant but little money, I hope; and I do not want to be decent at all, but\nto be good.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nWe have spoken of that supreme self-dictation which keeps varying from\nhour to hour in its dictates with the variation of events and\ncircumstances.  Now, for us, that is ultimate.  It may be founded on some\nreasonable process, but it is not a process which we can follow or\ncomprehend.  And moreover the dictation is not continuous, or not\ncontinuous except in very lively and well-living natures; and\nbetween-whiles we must brush along without it.  Practice is a more\nintricate and desperate business than the toughest theorising; life is an\naffair of cavalry, where rapid judgment and prompt action are alone\npossible and right.  As a matter of fact, there is no one so upright but\nhe is influenced by the world\u2019s chatter; and no one so headlong but he\nrequires to consider consequences and to keep an eye on profit.  For the\nsoul adopts all affections and appetites without exception, and cares\nonly to combine them for some common purpose which shall interest all.\nNow, respect for the opinion of others, the study of consequences, and\nthe desire of power and comfort, are all undeniably factors in the nature\nof man; and the more undeniably since we find that, in our current\ndoctrines, they have swallowed up the others and are thought to conclude\nin themselves all the worthy parts of man.  These, then, must also be\nsuffered to affect conduct in the practical domain, much or little\naccording as they are forcibly or feebly present to the mind of each.\n\nNow, a man\u2019s view of the universe is mostly a view of the civilised\nsociety in which he lives.  Other men and women are so much more grossly\nand so much more intimately palpable to his perceptions, that they stand\nbetween him and all the rest; they are larger to his eye than the sun, he\nhears them more plainly than thunder, with them, by them, and for them,\nhe must live and die.  And hence the laws that affect his intercourse\nwith his fellow-men, although merely customary and the creatures of a\ngeneration, are more clearly and continually before his mind than those\nwhich bind him into the eternal system of things, support him in his\nupright progress on this whirling ball, or keep up the fire of his bodily\nlife.  And hence it is that money stands in the first rank of\nconsiderations and so powerfully affects the choice.  For our society is\nbuilt with money for mortar; money is present in every joint of\ncircumstance; it might be named the social atmosphere, since, in society,\nit is by that alone that men continue to live, and only through that or\nchance that they can reach or affect one another.  Money gives us food,\nshelter, and privacy; it permits us to be clean in person, opens for us\nthe doors of the theatre, gains us books for study or pleasure, enables\nus to help the distresses of others, and puts us above necessity so that\nwe can choose the best in life.  If we love, it enables us to meet and\nlive with the loved one, or even to prolong her health and life; if we\nhave scruples, it gives us an opportunity to be honest; if we have any\nbright designs, here is what will smooth the way to their accomplishment.\nPenury is the worst slavery, and will soon lead to death.\n\nBut money is only a means; it presupposes a man to use it.  The rich can\ngo where he pleases, but perhaps please himself nowhere.  He can buy a\nlibrary or visit the whole world, but perhaps has neither patience to\nread nor intelligence to see.  The table may be loaded and the appetite\nwanting; the purse may be full, and the heart empty.  He may have gained\nthe world and lost himself; and with all his wealth around him, in a\ngreat house and spacious and beautiful demesne, he may live as blank a\nlife as any tattered ditcher.  Without an appetite, without an\naspiration, void of appreciation, bankrupt of desire and hope, there, in\nhis great house, let him sit and look upon his fingers.  It is perhaps a\nmore fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be\nborn a millionaire.  Although neither is to be despised, it is always\nbetter policy to learn an interest than to make a thousand pounds; for\nthe money will soon be spent, or perhaps you may feel no joy in spending\nit; but the interest remains imperishable and ever new.  To become a\nbotanist, a geologist, a social philosopher, an antiquary, or an artist,\nis to enlarge one\u2019s possessions in the universe by an incalculably higher\ndegree, and by a far surer sort of property, than to purchase a farm of\nmany acres.  You had perhaps two thousand a year before the transaction;\nperhaps you have two thousand five hundred after it.  That represents\nyour gain in the one case.  But in the other, you have thrown down a\nbarrier which concealed significance and beauty.  The blind man has\nlearned to see.  The prisoner has opened up a window in his cell and\nbeholds enchanting prospects; he will never again be a prisoner as he\nwas; he can watch clouds and changing seasons, ships on the river,\ntravellers on the road, and the stars at night; happy prisoner! his eyes\nhave broken jail!  And again he who has learned to love an art or science\nhas wisely laid up riches against the day of riches; if prosperity come,\nhe will not enter poor into his inheritance; he will not slumber and\nforget himself in the lap of money, or spend his hours in counting idle\ntreasures, but be up and briskly doing; he will have the true alchemic\ntouch, which is not that of Midas, but which transmutes dead money into\nliving delight and satisfaction.  _\u00catre et pas avoir_\u2014to be, not to\npossess\u2014that is the problem of life.  To be wealthy, a rich nature is the\nfirst requisite and money but the second.  To be of a quick and healthy\nblood, to share in all honourable curiosities, to be rich in admiration\nand free from envy, to rejoice greatly in the good of others, to love\nwith such generosity of heart that your love is still a dear possession\nin absence or unkindness\u2014these are the gifts of fortune which money\ncannot buy and without which money can buy nothing.  For what can a man\npossess, or what can he enjoy, except himself?  If he enlarge his nature,\nit is then that he enlarges his estates.  If his nature be happy and\nvaliant, he will enjoy the universe as if it were his park and orchard.\n\nBut money is not only to be spent; it has also to be earned.  It is not\nmerely a convenience or a necessary in social life; but it is the coin in\nwhich mankind pays his wages to the individual man.  And from this side,\nthe question of money has a very different scope and application.  For no\nman can be honest who does not work.  Service for service.  If the farmer\nbuys corn, and the labourer ploughs and reaps, and the baker sweats in\nhis hot bakery, plainly you who eat must do something in your turn.  It\nis not enough to take off your hat, or to thank God upon your knees for\nthe admirable constitution of society and your own convenient situation\nin its upper and more ornamental stories.  Neither is it enough to buy\nthe loaf with a sixpence; for then you are only changing the point of the\ninquiry; and you must first have _bought the sixpence_.  Service for\nservice: how have you bought your sixpences?  A man of spirit desires\ncertainty in a thing of such a nature; he must see to it that there is\nsome reciprocity between him and mankind; that he pays his expenditure in\nservice; that he has not a lion\u2019s share in profit and a drone\u2019s in\nlabour; and is not a sleeping partner and mere costly incubus on the\ngreat mercantile concern of mankind.\n\nServices differ so widely with different gifts, and some are so\ninappreciable to external tests, that this is not only a matter for the\nprivate conscience, but one which even there must be leniently and\ntrustfully considered.  For remember how many serve mankind who do no\nmore than meditate; and how many are precious to their friends for no\nmore than a sweet and joyous temper.  To perform the function of a man of\nletters it is not necessary to write; nay, it is perhaps better to be a\nliving book.  So long as we love we serve; so long as we are loved by\nothers, I would almost say that we are indispensable; and no man is\nuseless while he has a friend.  The true services of life are inestimable\nin money, and are never paid.  Kind words and caresses, high and wise\nthoughts, humane designs, tender behaviour to the weak and suffering, and\nall the charities of man\u2019s existence, are neither bought nor sold.\n\nYet the dearest and readiest, if not the most just, criterion of a man\u2019s\nservices, is the wage that mankind pays him or, briefly, what he earns.\nThere at least there can be no ambiguity.  St. Paul is fully and freely\nentitled to his earnings as a tentmaker, and Socrates fully and freely\nentitled to his earnings as a sculptor, although the true business of\neach was not only something different, but something which remained\nunpaid.  A man cannot forget that he is not superintended, and serves\nmankind on parole.  He would like, when challenged by his own conscience,\nto reply: \u2018I have done so much work, and no less, with my own hands and\nbrain, and taken so much profit, and no more, for my own personal\ndelight.\u2019  And though St. Paul, if he had possessed a private fortune,\nwould probably have scorned to waste his time in making tents, yet of all\nsacrifices to public opinion none can be more easily pardoned than that\nby which a man, already spiritually useful to the world, should restrict\nthe field of his chief usefulness to perform services more apparent, and\npossess a livelihood that neither stupidity nor malice could call in\nquestion.  Like all sacrifices to public opinion and mere external\ndecency, this would certainly be wrong; for the soul should rest\ncontented with its own approval and indissuadably pursue its own calling.\nYet, so grave and delicate is the question, that a man may well hesitate\nbefore he decides it for himself; he may well fear that he sets too high\na valuation on his own endeavours after good; he may well condescend upon\na humbler duty, where others than himself shall judge the service and\nproportion the wage.\n\nAnd yet it is to this very responsibility that the rich are born.  They\ncan shuffle off the duty on no other; they are their own paymasters on\nparole; and must pay themselves fair wages and no more.  For I suppose\nthat in the course of ages, and through reform and civil war and\ninvasion, mankind was pursuing some other and more general design than to\nset one or two Englishmen of the nineteenth century beyond the reach of\nneeds and duties.  Society was scarce put together, and defended with so\nmuch eloquence and blood, for the convenience of two or three\nmillionaires and a few hundred other persons of wealth and position.  It\nis plain that if mankind thus acted and suffered during all these\ngenerations, they hoped some benefit, some ease, some wellbeing, for\nthemselves and their descendants; that if they supported law and order,\nit was to secure fair-play for all; that if they denied themselves in the\npresent, they must have had some designs upon the future.  Now, a great\nhereditary fortune is a miracle of man\u2019s wisdom and mankind\u2019s\nforbearance; it has not only been amassed and handed down, it has been\nsuffered to be amassed and handed down; and surely in such a\nconsideration as this, its possessor should find only a new spur to\nactivity and honour, that with all this power of service he should not\nprove unserviceable, and that this mass of treasure should return in\nbenefits upon the race.  If he had twenty, or thirty, or a hundred\nthousand at his banker\u2019s, or if all Yorkshire or all California were his\nto manage or to sell, he would still be morally penniless, and have the\nworld to begin like Whittington, until he had found some way of serving\nmankind.  His wage is physically in his own hand; but, in honour, that\nwage must still be earned.  He is only steward on parole of what is\ncalled his fortune.  He must honourably perform his stewardship.  He must\nestimate his own services and allow himself a salary in proportion, for\nthat will be one among his functions.  And while he will then be free to\nspend that salary, great or little, on his own private pleasures, the\nrest of his fortune he but holds and disposes under trust for mankind; it\nis not his, because he has not earned it; it cannot be his, because his\nservices have already been paid; but year by year it is his to\ndistribute, whether to help individuals whose birthright and outfit have\nbeen swallowed up in his, or to further public works and institutions.\n\nAt this rate, short of inspiration, it seems hardly possible to be both\nrich and honest; and the millionaire is under a far more continuous\ntemptation to thieve than the labourer who gets his shilling daily for\ndespicable toils.  Are you surprised?  It is even so.  And you repeat it\nevery Sunday in your churches.  \u2018It is easier for a camel to pass through\nthe eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.\u2019  I\nhave heard this and similar texts ingeniously explained away and brushed\nfrom the path of the aspiring Christian by the tender Great-heart of the\nparish.  One excellent clergyman told us that the \u2018eye of a needle\u2019 meant\na low, Oriental postern through which camels could not pass till they\nwere unloaded\u2014which is very likely just; and then went on, bravely\nconfounding the \u2018kingdom of God\u2019 with heaven, the future paradise, to\nshow that of course no rich person could expect to carry his riches\nbeyond the grave\u2014which, of course, he could not and never did.  Various\ngreedy sinners of the congregation drank in the comfortable doctrine with\nrelief.  It was worth the while having come to church that Sunday\nmorning!  All was plain.  The Bible, as usual, meant nothing in\nparticular; it was merely an obscure and figurative school-copybook; and\nif a man were only respectable, he was a man after God\u2019s own heart.\n\nAlas! I fear not.  And though this matter of a man\u2019s services is one for\nhis own conscience, there are some cases in which it is difficult to\nrestrain the mind from judging.  Thus I shall be very easily persuaded\nthat a man has earned his daily bread; and if he has but a friend or two\nto whom his company is delightful at heart, I am more than persuaded at\nonce.  But it will be very hard to persuade me that any one has earned an\nincome of a hundred thousand.  What he is to his friends, he still would\nbe if he were made penniless to-morrow; for as to the courtiers of luxury\nand power, I will neither consider them friends, nor indeed consider them\nat all.  What he does for mankind there are most likely hundreds who\nwould do the same, as effectually for the race and as pleasurably to\nthemselves, for the merest fraction of this monstrous wage.  Why it is\npaid, I am, therefore, unable to conceive, and as the man pays it\nhimself, out of funds in his detention, I have a certain backwardness to\nthink him honest.\n\nAt least, we have gained a very obvious point: that _what a man spends\nupon himself_, _he shall have earned by services to the race_.  Thence\nflows a principle for the outset of life, which is a little different\nfrom that taught in the present day.  I am addressing the middle and the\nupper classes; those who have already been fostered and prepared for life\nat some expense; those who have some choice before them, and can pick\nprofessions; and above all, those who are what is called independent, and\nneed do nothing unless pushed by honour or ambition.  In this particular\nthe poor are happy; among them, when a lad comes to his strength, he must\ntake the work that offers, and can take it with an easy conscience.  But\nin the richer classes the question is complicated by the number of\nopportunities and a variety of considerations.  Here, then, this\nprinciple of ours comes in helpfully.  The young man has to seek, not a\nroad to wealth, but an opportunity of service; not money, but honest\nwork.  If he has some strong propensity, some calling of nature, some\nover-weening interest in any special field of industry, inquiry, or art,\nhe will do right to obey the impulse; and that for two reasons: the first\nexternal, because there he will render the best services; the second\npersonal, because a demand of his own nature is to him without appeal\nwhenever it can be satisfied with the consent of his other faculties and\nappetites.  If he has no such elective taste, by the very principle on\nwhich he chooses any pursuit at all he must choose the most honest and\nserviceable, and not the most highly remunerated.  We have here an\nexternal problem, not from or to ourself, but flowing from the\nconstitution of society; and we have our own soul with its fixed design\nof righteousness.  All that can be done is to present the problem in\nproper terms, and leave it to the soul of the individual.  Now, the\nproblem to the poor is one of necessity: to earn wherewithal to live,\nthey must find remunerative labour.  But the problem to the rich is one\nof honour: having the wherewithal, they must find serviceable labour.\nEach has to earn his daily bread: the one, because he has not yet got it\nto eat; the other, who has already eaten it, because he has not yet\nearned it.\n\nOf course, what is true of bread is true of luxuries and comforts,\nwhether for the body or the mind.  But the consideration of luxuries\nleads us to a new aspect of the whole question, and to a second\nproposition no less true, and maybe no less startling, than the last.\n\nAt the present day, we, of the easier classes, are in a state of surfeit\nand disgrace after meat.  Plethora has filled us with indifference; and\nwe are covered from head to foot with the callosities of habitual\nopulence.  Born into what is called a certain rank, we live, as the\nsaying is, up to our station.  We squander without enjoyment, because our\nfathers squandered.  We eat of the best, not from delicacy, but from\nbrazen habit.  We do not keenly enjoy or eagerly desire the presence of a\nluxury; we are unaccustomed to its absence.  And not only do we squander\nmoney from habit, but still more pitifully waste it in ostentation.  I\ncan think of no more melancholy disgrace for a creature who professes\neither reason or pleasure for his guide, than to spend the smallest\nfraction of his income upon that which he does not desire; and to keep a\ncarriage in which you do not wish to drive, or a butler of whom you are\nafraid, is a pathetic kind of folly.  Money, being a means of happiness,\nshould make both parties happy when it changes hands; rightly disposed,\nit should be twice blessed in its employment; and buyer and seller should\nalike have their twenty shillings worth of profit out of every pound.\nBenjamin Franklin went through life an altered man, because he once paid\ntoo dearly for a penny whistle.  My concern springs usually from a deeper\nsource, to wit, from having bought a whistle when I did not want one.  I\nfind I regret this, or would regret it if I gave myself the time, not\nonly on personal but on moral and philanthropical considerations.  For,\nfirst, in a world where money is wanting to buy books for eager students\nand food and medicine for pining children, and where a large majority are\nstarved in their most immediate desires, it is surely base, stupid, and\ncruel to squander money when I am pushed by no appetite and enjoy no\nreturn of genuine satisfaction.  My philanthropy is wide enough in scope\nto include myself; and when I have made myself happy, I have at least one\ngood argument that I have acted rightly; but where that is not so, and I\nhave bought and not enjoyed, my mouth is closed, and I conceive that I\nhave robbed the poor.  And, second, anything I buy or use which I do not\nsincerely want or cannot vividly enjoy, disturbs the balance of supply\nand demand, and contributes to remove industrious hands from the\nproduction of what is useful or pleasurable and to keep them busy upon\nropes of sand and things that are a weariness to the flesh.  That\nextravagance is truly sinful, and a very silly sin to boot, in which we\nimpoverish mankind and ourselves.  It is another question for each man\u2019s\nheart.  He knows if he can enjoy what he buys and uses; if he cannot, he\nis a dog in the manger; nay, it he cannot, I contend he is a thief, for\nnothing really belongs to a man which he cannot use.  Proprietor is\nconnected with propriety; and that only is the man\u2019s which is proper to\nhis wants and faculties.\n\nA youth, in choosing a career, must not be alarmed by poverty.  Want is a\nsore thing, but poverty does not imply want.  It remains to be seen\nwhether with half his present income, or a third, he cannot, in the most\ngenerous sense, live as fully as at present.  He is a fool who objects to\nluxuries; but he is also a fool who does not protest against the waste of\nluxuries on those who do not desire and cannot enjoy them.  It remains to\nbe seen, by each man who would live a true life to himself and not a\nmerely specious life to society, how many luxuries he truly wants and to\nhow many he merely submits as to a social propriety; and all these last\nhe will immediately forswear.  Let him do this, and he will be surprised\nto find how little money it requires to keep him in complete contentment\nand activity of mind and senses.  Life at any level among the easy\nclasses is conceived upon a principle of rivalry, where each man and each\nhousehold must ape the tastes and emulate the display of others.  One is\ndelicate in eating, another in wine, a third in furniture or works of art\nor dress; and I, who care nothing for any of these refinements, who am\nperhaps a plain athletic creature and love exercise, beef, beer, flannel\nshirts and a camp bed, am yet called upon to assimilate all these other\ntastes and make these foreign occasions of expenditure my own.  It may be\ncynical: I am sure I shall be told it is selfish; but I will spend my\nmoney as I please and for my own intimate personal gratification, and\nshould count myself a nincompoop indeed to lay out the colour of a\nhalfpenny on any fancied social decency or duty.  I shall not wear gloves\nunless my hands are cold, or unless I am born with a delight in them.\nDress is my own affair, and that of one other in the world; that, in fact\nand for an obvious reason, of any woman who shall chance to be in love\nwith me.  I shall lodge where I have a mind.  If I do not ask society to\nlive with me, they must be silent; and even if I do, they have no further\nright but to refuse the invitation!  There is a kind of idea abroad that\na man must live up to his station, that his house, his table, and his\ntoilette, shall be in a ratio of equivalence, and equally imposing to the\nworld.  If this is in the Bible, the passage has eluded my inquiries.  If\nit is not in the Bible, it is nowhere but in the heart of the fool.\nThrow aside this fancy.  See what you want, and spend upon that;\ndistinguish what you do not care about, and spend nothing upon that.\nThere are not many people who can differentiate wines above a certain and\nthat not at all a high price.  Are you sure you are one of these?  Are\nyou sure you prefer cigars at sixpence each to pipes at some fraction of\na farthing?  Are you sure you wish to keep a gig?  Do you care about\nwhere you sleep, or are you not as much at your ease in a cheap lodging\nas in an Elizabethan manor-house?  Do you enjoy fine clothes?  It is not\npossible to answer these questions without a trial; and there is nothing\nmore obvious to my mind, than that a man who has not experienced some ups\nand downs, and been forced to live more cheaply than in his father\u2019s\nhouse, has still his education to begin.  Let the experiment be made, and\nhe will find to his surprise that he has been eating beyond his appetite\nup to that hour; that the cheap lodging, the cheap tobacco, the rough\ncountry clothes, the plain table, have not only no power to damp his\nspirits, but perhaps give him as keen pleasure in the using as the\ndainties that he took, betwixt sleep and waking, in his former callous\nand somnambulous submission to wealth.\n\nThe true Bohemian, a creature lost to view under the imaginary Bohemians\nof literature, is exactly described by such a principle of life.  The\nBohemian of the novel, who drinks more than is good for him and prefers\nanything to work, and wears strange clothes, is for the most part a\nrespectable Bohemian, respectable in disrespectability, living for the\noutside, and an adventurer.  But the man I mean lives wholly to himself,\ndoes what he wishes, and not what is thought proper, buys what he wants\nfor himself, and not what is thought proper, works at what he believes he\ncan do well and not what will bring him in money or favour.  You may be\nthe most respectable of men, and yet a true Bohemian.  And the test is\nthis: a Bohemian, for as poor as he may be, is always open-handed to his\nfriends; he knows what he can do with money and how he can do without it,\na far rarer and more useful knowledge; he has had less, and continued to\nlive in some contentment; and hence he cares not to keep more, and shares\nhis sovereign or his shilling with a friend.  The poor, if they are\ngenerous, are Bohemian in virtue of their birth.  Do you know where\nbeggars go?  Not to the great houses where people sit dazed among their\nthousands, but to the doors of poor men who have seen the world; and it\nwas the widow who had only two mites, who cast half her fortune into the\ntreasury.\n\nBut a young man who elects to save on dress or on lodging, or who in any\nway falls out of the level of expenditure which is common to his level in\nsociety, falls out of society altogether.  I suppose the young man to\nhave chosen his career on honourable principles; he finds his talents and\ninstincts can be best contented in a certain pursuit; in a certain\nindustry, he is sure that he is serving mankind with a healthy and\nbecoming service; and he is not sure that he would be doing so, or doing\nso equally well, in any other industry within his reach.  Then that is\nhis true sphere in life; not the one in which he was born to his father,\nbut the one which is proper to his talents and instincts.  And suppose he\ndoes fall out of society, is that a cause of sorrow?  Is your heart so\ndead that you prefer the recognition of many to the love of a few?  Do\nyou think society loves you?  Put it to the proof.  Decline in material\nexpenditure, and you will find they care no more for you than for the\nKhan of Tartary.  You will lose no friends.  If you had any, you will\nkeep them.  Only those who were friends to your coat and equipage will\ndisappear; the smiling faces will disappear as by enchantment; but the\nkind hearts will remain steadfastly kind.  Are you so lost, are you so\ndead, are you so little sure of your own soul and your own footing upon\nsolid fact, that you prefer before goodness and happiness the countenance\nof sundry diners-out, who will flee from you at a report of ruin, who\nwill drop you with insult at a shadow of disgrace, who do not know you\nand do not care to know you but by sight, and whom you in your turn\nneither know nor care to know in a more human manner?  Is it not the\nprinciple of society, openly avowed, that friendship must not interfere\nwith business; which being paraphrased, means simply that a consideration\nof money goes before any consideration of affection known to this\ncold-blooded gang, that they have not even the honour of thieves, and\nwill rook their nearest and dearest as readily as a stranger?  I hope I\nwould go as far as most to serve a friend; but I declare openly I would\nnot put on my hat to do a pleasure to society.  I may starve my appetites\nand control my temper for the sake of those I love; but society shall\ntake me as I choose to be, or go without me.  Neither they nor I will\nlose; for where there is no love, it is both laborious and unprofitable\nto associate.\n\nBut it is obvious that if it is only right for a man to spend money on\nthat which he can truly and thoroughly enjoy, the doctrine applies with\nequal force to the rich and to the poor, to the man who has amassed many\nthousands as well as to the youth precariously beginning life.  And it\nmay be asked, Is not this merely preparing misers, who are not the best\nof company?  But the principle was this: that which a man has not fairly\nearned, and, further, that which he cannot fully enjoy, does not belong\nto him, but is a part of mankind\u2019s treasure which he holds as steward on\nparole.  To mankind, then, it must be made profitable; and how this\nshould be done is, once more, a problem which each man must solve for\nhimself, and about which none has a right to judge him.  Yet there are a\nfew considerations which are very obvious and may here be stated.\nMankind is not only the whole in general, but every one in particular.\nEvery man or woman is one of mankind\u2019s dear possessions; to his or her\njust brain, and kind heart, and active hands, mankind intrusts some of\nits hopes for the future; he or she is a possible well-spring of good\nacts and source of blessings to the race.  This money which you do not\nneed, which, in a rigid sense, you do not want, may therefore be returned\nnot only in public benefactions to the race, but in private kindnesses.\nYour wife, your children, your friends stand nearest to you, and should\nbe helped the first.  There at least there can be little imposture, for\nyou know their necessities of your own knowledge.  And consider, if all\nthe world did as you did, and according to their means extended help in\nthe circle of their affections, there would be no more crying want in\ntimes of plenty and no more cold, mechanical charity given with a doubt\nand received with confusion.  Would not this simple rule make a new world\nout of the old and cruel one which we inhabit?\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n          [_After two more sentences the fragment breaks off_.]\n\n\n\n\nFATHER DAMIEN\nAN OPEN LETTER TO THE REVEREND DR. HYDE OF HONOLULU\n\n\n                                                                   SYDNEY,\n                                                      _February_ 25, 1890.\n\nSir,\u2014It may probably occur to you that we have met, and visited, and\nconversed; on my side, with interest.  You may remember that you have\ndone me several courtesies, for which I was prepared to be grateful.  But\nthere are duties which come before gratitude, and offences which justly\ndivide friends, far more acquaintances.  Your letter to the Reverend H.\nB. Gage is a document which, in my sight, if you had filled me with bread\nwhen I was starving, if you had sat up to nurse my father when he lay\na-dying, would yet absolve me from the bonds of gratitude.  You know\nenough, doubtless, of the process of canonisation to be aware that, a\nhundred years after the death of Damien, there will appear a man charged\nwith the painful office of the _devil\u2019s advocate_.  After that noble\nbrother of mine, and of all frail clay, shall have lain a century at\nrest, one shall accuse, one defend him.  The circumstance is unusual that\nthe devil\u2019s advocate should be a volunteer, should be a member of a sect\nimmediately rival, and should make haste to take upon himself his ugly\noffice ere the bones are cold; unusual, and of a taste which I shall\nleave my readers free to qualify; unusual, and to me inspiring.  If I\nhave at all learned the trade of using words to convey truth and to\narouse emotion, you have at last furnished me with a subject.  For it is\nin the interest of all mankind, and the cause of public decency in every\nquarter of the world, not only that Damien should be righted, but that\nyou and your letter should be displayed at length, in their true colours,\nto the public eye.\n\nTo do this properly, I must begin by quoting you at large: I shall then\nproceed to criticise your utterance from several points of view, divine\nand human, in the course of which I shall attempt to draw again, and with\nmore specification, the character of the dead saint whom it has pleased\nyou to vilify: so much being done, I shall say farewell to you for ever.\n\n                                                                \u2018HONOLULU,\n                                                        \u2018_August_ 2, 1889.\n\n    \u2018Rev. H. B. GAGE.\n\n    \u2018Dear Brother,\u2014In answer to your inquiries about Father Damien, I can\n    only reply that we who knew the man are surprised at the extravagant\n    newspaper laudations, as if he was a most saintly philanthropist.\n    The simple truth is, he was a coarse, dirty man, head-strong and\n    bigoted.  He was not sent to Molokai, but went there without orders;\n    did not stay at the leper settlement (before he became one himself),\n    but circulated freely over the whole island (less than half the\n    island is devoted to the lepers), and he came often to Honolulu.  He\n    had no hand in the reforms and improvements inaugurated, which were\n    the work of our Board of Health, as occasion required and means were\n    provided.  He was not a pure man in his relations with women, and the\n    leprosy of which he died should be attributed to his vices and\n    carelessness.  Others have done much for the lepers, our own\n    ministers, the government physicians, and so forth, but never with\n    the Catholic idea of meriting eternal life.\u2014Yours, etc.,\n\n                                                        \u2018C. M. HYDE.\u2019 {65}\n\nTo deal fitly with a letter so extraordinary, I must draw at the outset\non my private knowledge of the signatory and his sect.  It may offend\nothers; scarcely you, who have been so busy to collect, so bold to\npublish, gossip on your rivals.  And this is perhaps the moment when I\nmay best explain to you the character of what you are to read: I conceive\nyou as a man quite beyond and below the reticences of civility: with what\nmeasure you mete, with that shall it be measured you again; with you, at\nlast, I rejoice to feel the button off the foil and to plunge home.  And\nif in aught that I shall say I should offend others, your colleagues,\nwhom I respect and remember with affection, I can but offer them my\nregret; I am not free, I am inspired by the consideration of interests\nfar more large; and such pain as can be inflicted by anything from me\nmust be indeed trifling when compared with the pain with which they read\nyour letter.  It is not the hangman, but the criminal, that brings\ndishonour on the house.\n\nYou belong, sir, to a sect\u2014I believe my sect, and that in which my\nancestors laboured\u2014which has enjoyed, and partly failed to utilise, an\nexceptional advantage in the islands of Hawaii.  The first missionaries\ncame; they found the land already self-purged of its old and bloody\nfaith; they were embraced, almost on their arrival, with enthusiasm; what\ntroubles they supported came far more from whites than from Hawaiians;\nand to these last they stood (in a rough figure) in the shoes of God.\nThis is not the place to enter into the degree or causes of their\nfailure, such as it is.  One element alone is pertinent, and must here be\nplainly dealt with.  In the course of their evangelical calling, they\u2014or\ntoo many of them\u2014grew rich.  It may be news to you that the houses of\nmissionaries are a cause of mocking on the streets of Honolulu.  It will\nat least be news to you, that when I returned your civil visit, the\ndriver of my cab commented on the size, the taste, and the comfort of\nyour home.  It would have been news certainly to myself, had any one told\nme that afternoon that I should live to drag such matter into print.  But\nyou see, sir, how you degrade better men to your own level; and it is\nneedful that those who are to judge betwixt you and me, betwixt Damien\nand the devil\u2019s advocate, should understand your letter to have been\npenned in a house which could raise, and that very justly, the envy and\nthe comments of the passers-by.  I think (to employ a phrase of yours\nwhich I admire) it \u2018should be attributed\u2019 to you that you have never\nvisited the scene of Damien\u2019s life and death.  If you had, and had\nrecalled it, and looked about your pleasant rooms, even your pen perhaps\nwould have been stayed.\n\nYour sect (and remember, as far as any sect avows me, it is mine) has not\ndone ill in a worldly sense in the Hawaiian Kingdom.  When calamity\nbefell their innocent parishioners, when leprosy descended and took root\nin the Eight Islands, a _quid pro quo_ was to be looked for.  To that\nprosperous mission, and to you, as one of its adornments, God had sent at\nlast an opportunity.  I know I am touching here upon a nerve acutely\nsensitive.  I know that others of your colleagues look back on the\ninertia of your Church, and the intrusive and decisive heroism of Damien,\nwith something almost to be called remorse.  I am sure it is so with\nyourself; I am persuaded your letter was inspired by a certain envy, not\nessentially ignoble, and the one human trait to be espied in that\nperformance.  You were thinking of the lost chance, the past day; of that\nwhich should have been conceived and was not; of the service due and not\nrendered.  Time was, said the voice in your ear, in your pleasant room,\nas you sat raging and writing; and if the words written were base beyond\nparallel, the rage, I am happy to repeat\u2014it is the only compliment I\nshall pay you\u2014the rage was almost virtuous.  But, sir, when we have\nfailed, and another has succeeded; when we have stood by, and another has\nstepped in; when we sit and grow bulky in our charming mansions, and a\nplain, uncouth peasant steps into the battle, under the eyes of God, and\nsuccours the afflicted, and consoles the dying, and is himself afflicted\nin his turn, and dies upon the field of honour\u2014the battle cannot be\nretrieved as your unhappy irritation has suggested.  It is a lost battle,\nand lost for ever.  One thing remained to you in your defeat\u2014some rags of\ncommon honour; and these you have made haste to cast away.\n\nCommon honour; not the honour of having done anything right, but the\nhonour of not having done aught conspicuously foul; the honour of the\ninert: that was what remained to you.  We are not all expected to be\nDamiens; a man may conceive his duty more narrowly, he may love his\ncomforts better; and none will cast a stone at him for that.  But will a\ngentleman of your reverend profession allow me an example from the fields\nof gallantry?  When two gentlemen compete for the favour of a lady, and\nthe one succeeds and the other is rejected, and (as will sometimes\nhappen) matter damaging to the successful rival\u2019s credit reaches the ear\nof the defeated, it is held by plain men of no pretensions that his mouth\nis, in the circumstance, almost necessarily closed.  Your Church and\nDamien\u2019s were in Hawaii upon a rivalry to do well: to help, to edify, to\nset divine examples.  You having (in one huge instance) failed, and\nDamien succeeded, I marvel it should not have occurred to you that you\nwere doomed to silence; that when you had been outstripped in that high\nrivalry, and sat inglorious in the midst of your wellbeing, in your\npleasant room\u2014and Damien, crowned with glories and horrors, toiled and\nrotted in that pigsty of his under the cliffs of Kalawao\u2014you, the elect\nwho would not, were the last man on earth to collect and propagate gossip\non the volunteer who would and did.\n\nI think I see you\u2014for I try to see you in the flesh as I write these\nsentences\u2014I think I see you leap at the word pigsty, a hyperbolical\nexpression at the best.  \u2018He had no hand in the reforms,\u2019 he was \u2018a\ncoarse, dirty man\u2019; these were your own words; and you may think it\npossible that I am come to support you with fresh evidence.  In a sense,\nit is even so.  Damien has been too much depicted with a conventional\nhalo and conventional features; so drawn by men who perhaps had not the\neye to remark or the pen to express the individual; or who perhaps were\nonly blinded and silenced by generous admiration, such as I partly envy\nfor myself\u2014such as you, if your soul were enlightened, would envy on your\nbended knees.  It is the least defect of such a method of portraiture\nthat it makes the path easy for the devil\u2019s advocate, and leaves for the\nmisuse of the slanderer a considerable field of truth.  For the truth\nthat is suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the enemy.  The\nworld, in your despite, may perhaps owe you something, if your letter be\nthe means of substituting once for all a credible likeness for a wax\nabstraction.  For, if that world at all remember you, on the day when\nDamien of Molokai shall be named Saint, it will be in virtue of one work:\nyour letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage.\n\nYou may ask on what authority I speak.  It was my inclement destiny to\nbecome acquainted, not with Damien, but with Dr. Hyde.  When I visited\nthe lazaretto, Damien was already in his resting grave.  But such\ninformation as I have, I gathered on the spot in conversation with those\nwho knew him well and long: some indeed who revered his memory; but\nothers who had sparred and wrangled with him, who beheld him with no\nhalo, who perhaps regarded him with small respect, and through whose\nunprepared and scarcely partial communications the plain, human features\nof the man shone on me convincingly.  These gave me what knowledge I\npossess; and I learnt it in that scene where it could be most completely\nand sensitively understood\u2014Kalawao, which you have never visited, about\nwhich you have never so much as endeavoured to inform yourself; for,\nbrief as your letter is, you have found the means to stumble into that\nconfession.  \u2018_Less than one-half_ of the island,\u2019 you say, \u2018is devoted\nto the lepers.\u2019  Molokai\u2014\u2018_Molokai ahina_,\u2019 the \u2018grey,\u2019 lofty, and most\ndesolate island\u2014along all its northern side plunges a front of precipice\ninto a sea of unusual profundity.  This range of cliff is, from east to\nwest, the true end and frontier of the island.  Only in one spot there\nprojects into the ocean a certain triangular and rugged down, grassy,\nstony, windy, and rising in the midst into a hill with a dead crater: the\nwhole bearing to the cliff that overhangs it somewhat the same relation\nas a bracket to a wall.  With this hint you will now be able to pick out\nthe leper station on a map; you will be able to judge how much of Molokai\nis thus cut off between the surf and precipice, whether less than a half,\nor less than a quarter, or a fifth, or a tenth\u2014or, say, a twentieth; and\nthe next time you burst into print you will be in a position to share\nwith us the issue of your calculations.\n\nI imagine you to be one of those persons who talk with cheerfulness of\nthat place which oxen and wain-ropes could not drag you to behold.  You,\nwho do not even know its situation on the map, probably denounce\nsensational descriptions, stretching your limbs the while in your\npleasant parlour on Beretania Street.  When I was pulled ashore there one\nearly morning, there sat with me in the boat two sisters, bidding\nfarewell (in humble imitation of Damien) to the lights and joys of human\nlife.  One of these wept silently; I could not withhold myself from\njoining her.  Had you been there, it is my belief that nature would have\ntriumphed even in you; and as the boat drew but a little nearer, and you\nbeheld the stairs crowded with abominable deformations of our common\nmanhood, and saw yourself landing in the midst of such a population as\nonly now and then surrounds us in the horror of a nightmare\u2014what a\nhaggard eye you would have rolled over your reluctant shoulder towards\nthe house on Beretania Street!  Had you gone on; had you found every\nfourth face a blot upon the landscape; had you visited the hospital and\nseen the butt-ends of human beings lying there almost unrecognisable, but\nstill breathing, still thinking, still remembering; you would have\nunderstood that life in the lazaretto is an ordeal from which the nerves\nof a man\u2019s spirit shrink, even as his eye quails under the brightness of\nthe sun; you would have felt it was (even to-day) a pitiful place to\nvisit and a hell to dwell in.  It is not the fear of possible infection.\nThat seems a little thing when compared with the pain, the pity, and the\ndisgust of the visitor\u2019s surroundings, and the atmosphere of affliction,\ndisease, and physical disgrace in which he breathes.  I do not think I am\na man more than usually timid; but I never recall the days and nights I\nspent upon that island promontory (eight days and seven nights), without\nheartfelt thankfulness that I am somewhere else.  I find in my diary that\nI speak of my stay as a \u2018grinding experience\u2019: I have once jotted in the\nmargin, \u2018_Harrowing_ is the word\u2019; and when the _Mokolii_ bore me at last\ntowards the outer world, I kept repeating to myself, with a new\nconception of their pregnancy, those simple words of the song\u2014\n\n    \u2018\u2019Tis the most distressful country that ever yet was seen.\u2019\n\nAnd observe: that which I saw and suffered from was a settlement purged,\nbettered, beautified; the new village built, the hospital and the\nBishop-Home excellently arranged; the sisters, the doctor, and the\nmissionaries, all indefatigable in their noble tasks.  It was a different\nplace when Damien came there and made his great renunciation, and slept\nthat first night under a tree amidst his rotting brethren: alone with\npestilence; and looking forward (with what courage, with what pitiful\nsinkings of dread, God only knows) to a lifetime of dressing sores and\nstumps.\n\nYou will say, perhaps, I am too sensitive, that sights as painful abound\nin cancer hospitals and are confronted daily by doctors and nurses.  I\nhave long learned to admire and envy the doctors and the nurses.  But\nthere is no cancer hospital so large and populous as Kalawao and\nKalaupapa; and in such a matter every fresh case, like every inch of\nlength in the pipe of an organ, deepens the note of the impression; for\nwhat daunts the onlooker is that monstrous sum of human suffering by\nwhich he stands surrounded.  Lastly, no doctor or nurse is called upon to\nenter once for all the doors of that gehenna; they do not say farewell,\nthey need not abandon hope, on its sad threshold; they but go for a time\nto their high calling, and can look forward as they go to relief, to\nrecreation, and to rest.  But Damien shut-to with his own hand the doors\nof his own sepulchre.\n\nI shall now extract three passages from my diary at Kalawao.\n\n_A_.  \u2018Damien is dead and already somewhat ungratefully remembered in the\nfield of his labours and sufferings.  \u201cHe was a good man, but very\nofficious,\u201d says one.  Another tells me he had fallen (as other priests\nso easily do) into something of the ways and habits of thought of a\nKanaka; but he had the wit to recognise the fact, and the good sense to\nlaugh at\u2019 [over] \u2018it.  A plain man it seems he was; I cannot find he was\na popular.\u2019\n\n_B_.  \u2018After Ragsdale\u2019s death\u2019 [Ragsdale was a famous Luna, or overseer,\nof the unruly settlement] \u2018there followed a brief term of office by\nFather Damien which served only to publish the weakness of that noble\nman.  He was rough in his ways, and he had no control.  Authority was\nrelaxed; Damien\u2019s life was threatened, and he was soon eager to resign.\u2019\n\n_C_.  \u2018Of Damien I begin to have an idea.  He seems to have been a man of\nthe peasant class, certainly of the peasant type: shrewd, ignorant and\nbigoted, yet with an open mind, and capable of receiving and digesting a\nreproof if it were bluntly administered; superbly generous in the least\nthing as well as in the greatest, and as ready to give his last shirt\n(although not without human grumbling) as he had been to sacrifice his\nlife; essentially indiscreet and officious, which made him a troublesome\ncolleague; domineering in all his ways, which made him incurably\nunpopular with the Kanakas, but yet destitute of real authority, so that\nhis boys laughed at him and he must carry out his wishes by the means of\nbribes.  He learned to have a mania for doctoring; and set up the Kanakas\nagainst the remedies of his regular rivals: perhaps (if anything matter\nat all in the treatment of such a disease) the worst thing that he did,\nand certainly the easiest.  The best and worst of the man appear very\nplainly in his dealings with Mr. Chapman\u2019s money; he had originally laid\nit out\u2019 [intended to lay it out] \u2018entirely for the benefit of Catholics,\nand even so not wisely; but after a long, plain talk, he admitted his\nerror fully and revised the list.  The sad state of the boys\u2019 home is in\npart the result of his lack of control; in part, of his own slovenly ways\nand false ideas of hygiene.  Brother officials used to call it \u201cDamien\u2019s\nChinatown.\u201d  \u201cWell,\u201d they would say, \u201cyour China-town keeps growing.\u201d\nAnd he would laugh with perfect good-nature, and adhere to his errors\nwith perfect obstinacy.  So much I have gathered of truth about this\nplain, noble human brother and father of ours; his imperfections are the\ntraits of his face, by which we know him for our fellow; his martyrdom\nand his example nothing can lessen or annul; and only a person here on\nthe spot can properly appreciate their greatness.\u2019\n\nI have set down these private passages, as you perceive, without\ncorrection; thanks to you, the public has them in their bluntness.  They\nare almost a list of the man\u2019s faults, for it is rather these that I was\nseeking: with his virtues, with the heroic profile of his life, I and the\nworld were already sufficiently acquainted.  I was besides a little\nsuspicious of Catholic testimony; in no ill sense, but merely because\nDamien\u2019s admirers and disciples were the least likely to be critical.  I\nknow you will be more suspicious still; and the facts set down above were\none and all collected from the lips of Protestants who had opposed the\nfather in his life.  Yet I am strangely deceived, or they build up the\nimage of a man, with all his weaknesses, essentially heroic, and alive\nwith rugged honesty, generosity, and mirth.\n\nTake it for what it is, rough private jottings of the worst sides of\nDamien\u2019s character, collected from the lips of those who had laboured\nwith and (in your own phrase) \u2018knew the man\u2019;\u2014though I question whether\nDamien would have said that he knew you.  Take it, and observe with\nwonder how well you were served by your gossips, how ill by your\nintelligence and sympathy; in how many points of fact we are at one, and\nhow widely our appreciations vary.  There is something wrong here; either\nwith you or me.  It is possible, for instance, that you, who seem to have\nso many ears in Kalawao, had heard of the affair of Mr. Chapman\u2019s money,\nand were singly struck by Damien\u2019s intended wrong-doing.  I was struck\nwith that also, and set it fairly down; but I was struck much more by the\nfact that he had the honesty of mind to be convinced.  I may here tell\nyou that it was a long business; that one of his colleagues sat with him\nlate into the night, multiplying arguments and accusations; that the\nfather listened as usual with \u2018perfect good-nature and perfect\nobstinacy\u2019; but at the last, when he was persuaded\u2014\u2018Yes,\u2019 said he, \u2018I am\nvery much obliged to you; you have done me a service; it would have been\na theft.\u2019  There are many (not Catholics merely) who require their heroes\nand saints to be infallible; to these the story will be painful; not to\nthe true lovers, patrons, and servants of mankind.\n\nAnd I take it, this is a type of our division; that you are one of those\nwho have an eye for faults and failures; that you take a pleasure to find\nand publish them; and that, having found them, you make haste to forget\nthe overvailing virtues and the real success which had alone introduced\nthem to your knowledge.  It is a dangerous frame of mind.  That you may\nunderstand how dangerous, and into what a situation it has already\nbrought you, we will (if you please) go hand-in-hand through the\ndifferent phrases of your letter, and candidly examine each from the\npoint of view of its truth, its appositeness, and its charity.\n\nDamien was _coarse_.\n\nIt is very possible.  You make us sorry for the lepers, who had only a\ncoarse old peasant for their friend and father.  But you, who were so\nrefined, why were you not there, to cheer them with the lights of\nculture?  Or may I remind you that we have some reason to doubt if John\nthe Baptist were genteel; and in the case of Peter, on whose career you\ndoubtless dwell approvingly in the pulpit, no doubt at all he was a\n\u2018coarse, headstrong\u2019 fisherman!  Yet even in our Protestant Bibles Peter\nis called Saint.\n\nDamien was _dirty_.\n\nHe was.  Think of the poor lepers annoyed with this dirty comrade!  But\nthe clean Dr. Hyde was at his food in a fine house.\n\nDamien was _headstrong_.\n\nI believe you are right again; and I thank God for his strong head and\nheart.\n\nDamien was _bigoted_.\n\nI am not fond of bigots myself, because they are not fond of me.  But\nwhat is meant by bigotry, that we should regard it as a blemish in a\npriest?  Damien believed his own religion with the simplicity of a\npeasant or a child; as I would I could suppose that you do.  For this, I\nwonder at him some way off; and had that been his only character, should\nhave avoided him in life.  But the point of interest in Damien, which has\ncaused him to be so much talked about and made him at last the subject of\nyour pen and mine, was that, in him, his bigotry, his intense and narrow\nfaith, wrought potently for good, and strengthened him to be one of the\nworld\u2019s heroes and exemplars.\n\nDamien _was not sent to Molokai_, _but went there without orders_.\n\nIs this a misreading? or do you really mean the words for blame?  I have\nheard Christ, in the pulpits of our Church, held up for imitation on the\nground that His sacrifice was voluntary.  Does Dr. Hyde think otherwise?\n\nDamien _did not stay at the settlement_, _etc._\n\nIt is true he was allowed many indulgences.  Am I to understand that you\nblame the father for profiting by these, or the officers for granting\nthem?  In either case, it is a mighty Spartan standard to issue from the\nhouse on Beretania Street; and I am convinced you will find yourself with\nfew supporters.\n\nDamien _had no hand in the reforms_, _etc._\n\nI think even you will admit that I have already been frank in my\ndescription of the man I am defending; but before I take you up upon this\nhead, I will be franker still, and tell you that perhaps nowhere in the\nworld can a man taste a more pleasurable sense of contrast than when he\npasses from Damien\u2019s \u2018Chinatown\u2019 at Kalawao to the beautiful Bishop-Home\nat Kalaupapa.  At this point, in my desire to make all fair for you, I\nwill break my rule and adduce Catholic testimony.  Here is a passage from\nmy diary about my visit to the Chinatown, from which you will see how it\nis (even now) regarded by its own officials: \u2018We went round all the\ndormitories, refectories, etc.\u2014dark and dingy enough, with a superficial\ncleanliness, which he\u2019 [Mr. Dutton, the lay-brother] \u2018did not seek to\ndefend.  \u201cIt is almost decent,\u201d said he; \u201cthe sisters will make that all\nright when we get them here.\u201d\u2019  And yet I gathered it was already better\nsince Damien was dead, and far better than when he was there alone and\nhad his own (not always excellent) way.  I have now come far enough to\nmeet you on a common ground of fact; and I tell you that, to a mind not\nprejudiced by jealousy, all the reforms of the lazaretto, and even those\nwhich he most vigorously opposed, are properly the work of Damien.  They\nare the evidence of his success; they are what his heroism provoked from\nthe reluctant and the careless.  Many were before him in the field; Mr.\nMeyer, for instance, of whose faithful work we hear too little: there\nhave been many since; and some had more worldly wisdom, though none had\nmore devotion, than our saint.  Before his day, even you will confess,\nthey had effected little.  It was his part, by one striking act of\nmartyrdom, to direct all men\u2019s eyes on that distressful country.  At a\nblow, and with the price of his life, he made the place illustrious and\npublic.  And that, if you will consider largely, was the one reform\nneedful; pregnant of all that should succeed.  It brought money; it\nbrought (best individual addition of them all) the sisters; it brought\nsupervision, for public opinion and public interest landed with the man\nat Kalawao.  If ever any man brought reforms, and died to bring them, it\nwas he.  There is not a clean cup or towel in the Bishop-Home, but dirty\nDamien washed it.\n\nDamien _was not a pure man in his relations with women_, _etc._\n\nHow do you know that?  Is this the nature of the conversation in that\nhouse on Beretania Street which the cabman envied, driving past?\u2014racy\ndetails of the misconduct of the poor peasant priest, toiling under the\ncliffs of Molokai?\n\nMany have visited the station before me; they seem not to have heard the\nrumour.  When I was there I heard many shocking tales, for my informants\nwere men speaking with the plainness of the laity; and I heard plenty of\ncomplaints of Damien.  Why was this never mentioned? and how came it to\nyou in the retirement of your clerical parlour?\n\nBut I must not even seem to deceive you.  This scandal, when I read it in\nyour letter, was not new to me.  I had heard it once before; and I must\ntell you how.  There came to Samoa a man from Honolulu; he, in a\npublic-house on the beach, volunteered the statement that Damien had\n\u2018contracted the disease from having connection with the female lepers\u2019;\nand I find a joy in telling you how the report was welcomed in a\npublic-house.  A man sprang to his feet; I am not at liberty to give his\nname, but from what I heard I doubt if you would care to have him to\ndinner in Beretania Street.  \u2018You miserable little\u2014\u2019 (here is a word I\ndare not print, it would so shock your ears).  \u2018You miserable little\u2014,\u2019\nhe cried, \u2018if the story were a thousand times true, can\u2019t you see you are\na million times a lower\u2014for daring to repeat it?\u2019  I wish it could be\ntold of you that when the report reached you in your house, perhaps after\nfamily worship, you had found in your soul enough holy anger to receive\nit with the same expressions; ay, even with that one which I dare not\nprint; it would not need to have been blotted away, like Uncle Toby\u2019s\noath, by the tears of the recording angel; it would have been counted to\nyou for your brightest righteousness.  But you have deliberately chosen\nthe part of the man from Honolulu, and you have played it with\nimprovements of your own.  The man from Honolulu\u2014miserable, leering\ncreature\u2014communicated the tale to a rude knot of beach-combing drinkers\nin a public-house, where (I will so far agree with your temperance\nopinions) man is not always at his noblest; and the man from Honolulu had\nhimself been drinking\u2014drinking, we may charitably fancy, to excess.  It\nwas to your \u2018Dear Brother, the Reverend H. B. Gage,\u2019 that you chose to\ncommunicate the sickening story; and the blue ribbon which adorns your\nportly bosom forbids me to allow you the extenuating plea that you were\ndrunk when it was done.  Your \u2018dear brother\u2019\u2014a brother indeed\u2014made haste\nto deliver up your letter (as a means of grace, perhaps) to the religious\npapers; where, after many months, I found and read and wondered at it;\nand whence I have now reproduced it for the wonder of others.  And you\nand your dear brother have, by this cycle of operations, built up a\ncontrast very edifying to examine in detail.  The man whom you would not\ncare to have to dinner, on the one side; on the other, the Reverend Dr.\nHyde and the Reverend H. B. Gage: the Apia bar-room, the Honolulu manse.\n\nBut I fear you scarce appreciate how you appear to your fellow-men; and\nto bring it home to you, I will suppose your story to be true.  I will\nsuppose\u2014and God forgive me for supposing it\u2014that Damien faltered and\nstumbled in his narrow path of duty; I will suppose that, in the horror\nof his isolation, perhaps in the fever of incipient disease, he, who was\ndoing so much more than he had sworn, failed in the letter of his\npriestly oath\u2014he, who was so much a better man than either you or me, who\ndid what we have never dreamed of daring\u2014he too tasted of our common\nfrailty.  \u2018O, Iago, the pity of it!\u2019  The least tender should be moved to\ntears; the most incredulous to prayer.  And all that you could do was to\npen your letter to the Reverend H. B. Gage!\n\nIs it growing at all clear to you what a picture you have drawn of your\nown heart?  I will try yet once again to make it clearer.  You had a\nfather: suppose this tale were about him, and some informant brought it\nto you, proof in hand: I am not making too high an estimate of your\nemotional nature when I suppose you would regret the circumstance? that\nyou would feel the tale of frailty the more keenly since it shamed the\nauthor of your days? and that the last thing you would do would be to\npublish it in the religious press?  Well, the man who tried to do what\nDamien did, is my father, and the father of the man in the Apia bar, and\nthe father of all who love goodness; and he was your father too, if God\nhad given you grace to see it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PENTLAND RISING\nA PAGE OF HISTORY\n1666\n\n\n    \u2018A cloud of witnesses lyes here,\n    Who for Christ\u2019s interest did appear.\u2019\n\n                            _Inscription on Battlefield at Rullion Green_.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\u2014THE CAUSES OF THE REVOLT\n\n\n    \u2018Halt, passenger; take heed what thou dost see,\n    This tomb doth show for what some men did die.\u2019\n\n                        _Monument_, _Greyfriars\u2019 Churchyard_,_ Edinburgh_,\n                                                           1661\u20131668. {85}\n\nTwo hundred years ago a tragedy was enacted in Scotland, the memory\nwhereof has been in great measure lost or obscured by the deep tragedies\nwhich followed it.  It is, as it were, the evening of the night of\npersecution\u2014a sort of twilight, dark indeed to us, but light as the\nnoonday when compared with the midnight gloom which followed.  This fact,\nof its being the very threshold of persecution, lends it, however, an\nadditional interest.\n\nThe prejudices of the people against Episcopacy were \u2018out of measure\nincreased,\u2019 says Bishop Burnet, \u2018by the new incumbents who were put in\nthe places of the ejected preachers, and were generally very mean and\ndespicable in all respects.  They were the worst preachers I ever heard;\nthey were ignorant to a reproach; and many of them were openly vicious.\nThey . . . were indeed the dreg and refuse of the northern parts.  Those\nof them who arose above contempt or scandal were men of such violent\ntempers that they were as much hated as the others were despised.\u2019 {86}\nIt was little to be wondered at, from this account that the country-folk\nrefused to go to the parish church, and chose rather to listen to outed\nministers in the fields.  But this was not to be allowed, and their\npersecutors at last fell on the method of calling a roll of the\nparishioners\u2019 names every Sabbath, and marking a fine of twenty shillings\nScots to the name of each absenter.  In this way very large debts were\nincurred by persons altogether unable to pay.  Besides this, landlords\nwere fined for their tenants\u2019 absences, tenants for their landlords\u2019,\nmasters for their servants\u2019, servants for their masters\u2019, even though\nthey themselves were perfectly regular in their attendance.  And as the\ncurates were allowed to fine with the sanction of any common soldier, it\nmay be imagined that often the pretexts were neither very sufficient nor\nwell proven.\n\nWhen the fines could not be paid at once, Bibles, clothes, and household\nutensils were seized upon, or a number of soldiers, proportionate to his\nwealth, were quartered on the offender.  The coarse and drunken privates\nfilled the houses with woe; snatched the bread from the children to feed\ntheir dogs; shocked the principles, scorned the scruples, and blasphemed\nthe religion of their humble hosts; and when they had reduced them to\ndestitution, sold the furniture, and burned down the roof-tree which was\nconsecrated to the peasants by the name of Home.  For all this attention\neach of these soldiers received from his unwilling landlord a certain sum\nof money per day\u2014three shillings sterling, according to _Naphtali_.  And\nfrequently they were forced to pay quartering money for more men than\nwere in reality \u2018cessed on them.\u2019  At that time it was no strange thing\nto behold a strong man begging for money to pay his fines, and many\nothers who were deep in arrears, or who had attracted attention in some\nother way, were forced to flee from their homes, and take refuge from\narrest and imprisonment among the wild mosses of the uplands. {87a}\n\nOne example in particular we may cite:\n\nJohn Neilson, the Laird of Corsack, a worthy man, was, unfortunately for\nhimself, a Nonconformist.  First he was fined in four hundred pounds\nScots, and then through cessing he lost nineteen hundred and ninety-three\npounds Scots.  He was next obliged to leave his house and flee from place\nto place, during which wanderings he lost his horse.  His wife and\nchildren were turned out of doors, and then his tenants were fined till\nthey too were almost ruined.  As a final stroke, they drove away all his\ncattle to Glasgow and sold them. {87b}  Surely it was time that something\nwere done to alleviate so much sorrow, to overthrow such tyranny.\n\nAbout this time too there arrived in Galloway a person calling himself\nCaptain Andrew Gray, and advising the people to revolt.  He displayed\nsome documents purporting to be from the northern Covenanters, and\nstating that they were prepared to join in any enterprise commenced by\ntheir southern brethren.  The leader of the persecutors was Sir James\nTurner, an officer afterwards degraded for his share in the matter.  \u2018He\nwas naturally fierce, but was mad when he was drunk, and that was very\noften,\u2019 said Bishop Burnet.  \u2018He was a learned man, but had always been\nin armies, and knew no other rule but to obey orders.  He told me he had\nno regard to any law, but acted, as he was commanded, in a military way.\u2019\n{88}\n\nThis was the state of matters, when an outrage was committed which gave\nspirit and determination to the oppressed countrymen, lit the flame of\ninsubordination, and for the time at least recoiled on those who\nperpetrated it with redoubled force.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\u2014THE BEGINNING\n\n\n    I love no warres,\n    I love no jarres,\n    Nor strife\u2019s fire.\n    May discord cease,\n    Let\u2019s live in peace:\n    This I desire.\n\n    If it must be\n    Warre we must see\n    (So fates conspire),\n    May we not feel\n    The force of steel:\n    This I desire.\n\n                                                     T. JACKSON, 1651 {89}\n\nUpon Tuesday, November 13th, 1666, Corporal George Deanes and three other\nsoldiers set upon an old man in the clachan of Dalry and demanded the\npayment of his fines.  On the old man\u2019s refusing to pay, they forced a\nlarge party of his neighbours to go with them and thresh his corn.  The\nfield was a certain distance out of the clachan, and four persons,\ndisguised as countrymen, who had been out on the moors all night, met\nthis mournful drove of slaves, compelled by the four soldiers to work for\nthe ruin of their friend.  However, chided to the bone by their night on\nthe hills, and worn out by want of food, they proceeded to the village\ninn to refresh themselves.  Suddenly some people rushed into the room\nwhere they were sitting, and told them that the soldiers were about to\nroast the old man, naked, on his own girdle.  This was too much for them\nto stand, and they repaired immediately to the scene of this gross\noutrage, and at first merely requested that the captive should be\nreleased.  On the refusal of the two soldiers who were in the front room,\nhigh words were given and taken on both sides, and the other two rushed\nforth from an adjoining chamber and made at the countrymen with drawn\nswords.  One of the latter, John M\u2018Lellan of Barscob, drew a pistol and\nshot the corporal in the body.  The pieces of tobacco-pipe with which it\nwas loaded, to the number of ten at least, entered him, and he was so\nmuch disturbed that he never appears to have recovered, for we find long\nafterwards a petition to the Privy Council requesting a pension for him.\nThe other soldiers then laid down their arms, the old man was rescued,\nand the rebellion was commenced. {90}\n\nAnd now we must turn to Sir James Turner\u2019s memoirs of himself; for,\nstrange to say, this extraordinary man was remarkably fond of literary\ncomposition, and wrote, besides the amusing account of his own adventures\njust mentioned, a large number of essays and short biographies, and a\nwork on war, entitled _Pallas Armata_.  The following are some of the\nshorter pieces \u2018Magick,\u2019 \u2018Friendship,\u2019 \u2018Imprisonment,\u2019 \u2018Anger,\u2019\n\u2018Revenge,\u2019 \u2018Duells,\u2019 \u2018Cruelty,\u2019 \u2018A Defence of some of the Ceremonies of\nthe English Liturgie\u2014to wit\u2014Bowing at the Name of Jesus, The frequent\nrepetition of the Lord\u2019s Prayer and Good Lord deliver us, Of the\nDoxologie, Of Surplesses, Rotchets, Canonnicall Coats,\u2019 etc.  From what\nwe know of his character we should expect \u2018Anger\u2019 and \u2018Cruelty\u2019 to be\nvery full and instructive.  But what earthly right he had to meddle with\necclesiastical subjects it is hard to see.\n\nUpon the 12th of the month he had received some information concerning\nGray\u2019s proceedings, but as it was excessively indefinite in its\ncharacter, he paid no attention to it.  On the evening of the 14th,\nCorporal Deanes was brought into Dumfries, who affirmed stoutly that he\nhad been shot while refusing to sign the Covenant\u2014a story rendered\nsingularly unlikely by the after conduct of the rebels.  Sir James\ninstantly dispatched orders to the cessed soldiers either to come to\nDumfries or meet him on the way to Dalry, and commanded the thirteen or\nfourteen men in the town with him to come at nine next morning to his\nlodging for supplies.\n\nOn the morning of Thursday the rebels arrived at Dumfries with 50 horse\nand 150 foot.  Neilson of Corsack, and Gray, who commanded, with a\nconsiderable troop, entered the town, and surrounded Sir James Turner\u2019s\nlodging.  Though it was between eight and nine o\u2019clock, that worthy,\nbeing unwell, was still in bed, but rose at once and went to the window.\n\nNeilson and some others cried, \u2018You may have fair quarter.\u2019\n\n\u2018I need no quarter,\u2019 replied Sir James; \u2018nor can I be a prisoner, seeing\nthere is no war declared.\u2019  On being told, however, that he must either\nbe a prisoner or die, he came down, and went into the street in his\nnight-shirt.  Here Gray showed himself very desirous of killing him, but\nhe was overruled by Corsack.  However, he was taken away a prisoner,\nCaptain Gray mounting him on his own horse, though, as Turner naively\nremarks, \u2018there was good reason for it, for he mounted himself on a farre\nbetter one of mine.\u2019  A large coffer containing his clothes and money,\ntogether with all his papers, were taken away by the rebels.  They robbed\nMaster Chalmers, the Episcopalian minister of Dumfries, of his horse,\ndrank the King\u2019s health at the market cross, and then left Dumfries. {92}\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\u2014THE MARCH OF THE REBELS\n\n\n    \u2018Stay, passenger, take notice what thou reads,\n    At Edinburgh lie our bodies, here our heads;\n    Our right hands stood at Lanark, these we want,\n    Because with them we signed the Covenant.\u2019\n\n                                _Epitaph on a Tombstone at Hamilton_. {93}\n\nOn Friday the 16th, Bailie Irvine of Dumfries came to the Council at\nEdinburgh, and gave information concerning this \u2018horrid rebellion.\u2019  In\nthe absence of Rothes, Sharpe presided\u2014much to the wrath of some members;\nand as he imagined his own safety endangered, his measures were most\nenergetic.  Dalzell was ordered away to the West, the guards round the\ncity were doubled, officers and soldiers were forced to take the oath of\nallegiance, and all lodgers were commanded to give in their names.\nSharpe, surrounded with all these guards and precautions,\ntrembled\u2014trembled as he trembled when the avengers of blood drew him from\nhis chariot on Magus Muir,\u2014for he knew how he had sold his trust, how he\nhad betrayed his charge, and he felt that against him must their chiefest\nhatred be directed, against him their direst thunder-bolts be forged.\nBut even in his fear the apostate Presbyterian was unrelenting,\nunpityingly harsh; he published in his manifesto no promise of pardon, no\ninducement to submission.  He said, \u2018If you submit not you must die,\u2019 but\nnever added, \u2018If you submit you may live!\u2019 {94a}\n\nMeantime the insurgents proceeded on their way.  At Carsphairn they were\ndeserted by Captain Gray, who, doubtless in a fit of oblivion, neglected\nto leave behind him the coffer containing Sir James\u2019s money.  Who he was\nis a mystery, unsolved by any historian; his papers were evidently\nforgeries\u2014that, and his final flight, appear to indicate that he was an\nagent of the Royalists, for either the King or the Duke of York was heard\nto say, \u2018That, if he might have his wish, he would have them all turn\nrebels and go to arms.\u2019 {94b}\n\nUpon the 18th day of the month they left Carsphairn and marched onwards.\n\nTurner was always lodged by his captors at a good inn, frequently at the\nbest of which their halting-place could boast.  Here many visits were\npaid to him by the ministers and officers of the insurgent force.  In his\ndescription of these interviews he displays a vein of satiric severity,\nadmitting any kindness that was done to him with some qualifying souvenir\nof former harshness, and gloating over any injury, mistake, or folly,\nwhich it was his chance to suffer or to hear.  He appears,\nnotwithstanding all this, to have been on pretty good terms with his\ncruel \u2018phanaticks,\u2019 as the following extract sufficiently proves:\n\n\u2018Most of the foot were lodged about the church or churchyard, and order\ngiven to ring bells next morning for a sermon to be preached by Mr.\nWelch.  Maxwell of Morith, and Major M\u2018Cullough invited me to heare \u201cthat\nphanatick sermon\u201d (for soe they merrilie called it).  They said that\npreaching might prove an effectual meane to turne me, which they\nheartilie wished.  I answered to them that I was under guards, and that\nif they intended to heare that sermon, it was probable I might likewise,\nfor it was not like my guards wold goe to church and leave me alone at my\nlodgeings.  Bot to what they said of my conversion, I said it wold be\nhard to turne a Turner.  Bot because I founde them in a merrie humour, I\nsaid, if I did not come to heare Mr. Welch preach, then they might fine\nme in fortie shillings Scots, which was double the suome of what I had\nexacted from the phanatics.\u2019 {95}\n\nThis took place at Ochiltree, on the 22nd day of the month.  The\nfollowing is recounted by this personage with malicious glee, and\ncertainly, if authentic, it is a sad proof of how chaff is mixed with\nwheat, and how ignorant, almost impious, persons were engaged in this\nmovement; nevertheless we give it, for we wish to present with\nimpartiality all the alleged facts to the reader:\n\n\u2018Towards the evening Mr. Robinsone and Mr. Crukshank gaue me a visite; I\ncalled for some ale purposelie to heare one of them blesse it.  It fell\nMr. Robinsone to seeke the blessing, who said one of the most bombastick\ngraces that ever I heard in my life.  He summoned God Allmightie very\nimperiouslie to be their secondarie (for that was his language).  \u201cAnd\nif,\u201d said he, \u201cthou wilt not be our Secondarie, we will not fight for\nthee at all, for it is not our cause bot thy cause; and if thou wilt not\nfight for our cause and thy oune cause, then we are not obliged to fight\nfor it.  They say,\u201d said he, \u201cthat Dukes, Earles, and Lords are coming\nwith the King\u2019s General against us, bot they shall be nothing bot a\nthreshing to us.\u201d  This grace did more fullie satisfie me of the folly\nand injustice of their cause, then the ale did quench my thirst.\u2019 {96a}\n\nFrequently the rebels made a halt near some roadside alehouse, or in some\nconvenient park, where Colonel Wallace, who had now taken the command,\nwould review the horse and foot, during which time Turner was sent either\ninto the alehouse or round the shoulder of the hill, to prevent him from\nseeing the disorders which were likely to arise.  He was, at last, on the\n25th day of the month, between Douglas and Lanark, permitted to behold\ntheir evolutions.  \u2018I found their horse did consist of four hundreth and\nfortie, and the foot of five hundreth and upwards. . . . The horsemen\nwere armed for most part with suord and pistoll, some onlie with suord.\nThe foot with musket, pike, sith (scythe), forke, and suord; and some\nwith suords great and long.\u2019  He admired much the proficiency of their\ncavalry, and marvelled how they had attained to it in so short a time.\n{96b}\n\nAt Douglas, which they had just left on the morning of this great\nwapinshaw, they were charged\u2014awful picture of depravity!\u2014with the theft\nof a silver spoon and a nightgown.  Could it be expected that while the\nwhole country swarmed with robbers of every description, such a rare\nopportunity for plunder should be lost by rogues\u2014that among a thousand\nmen, even though fighting for religion, there should not be one Achan in\nthe camp?  At Lanark a declaration was drawn up and signed by the chief\nrebels.  In it occurs the following:\n\n\u2018The just sense whereof \u2019\u2014the sufferings of the country\u2014\u2018made us choose,\nrather to betake ourselves to the fields for self-defence, than to stay\nat home, burdened daily with the calamities of others, and tortured with\nthe fears of our own approaching misery.\u2019 {97}\n\nThe whole body, too, swore the Covenant, to which ceremony the epitaph at\nthe head of this chapter seems to refer.\n\nA report that Dalzell was approaching drove them from Lanark to Bathgate,\nwhere, on the evening of Monday the 26th, the wearied army stopped.  But\nat twelve o\u2019clock the cry, which served them for a trumpet, of \u2018Horse!\nhorse!\u2019 and \u2018Mount the prisoner!\u2019 resounded through the night-shrouded\ntown, and called the peasants from their well-earned rest to toil onwards\nin their march.  The wind howled fiercely over the moorland; a close,\nthick, wetting rain descended.  Chilled to the bone, worn out with long\nfatigue, sinking to the knees in mire, onward they marched to\ndestruction.  One by one the weary peasants fell off from their ranks to\nsleep, and die in the rain-soaked moor, or to seek some house by the\nwayside wherein to hide till daybreak.  One by one at first, then in\ngradually increasing numbers, at every shelter that was seen, whole\ntroops left the waning squadrons, and rushed to hide themselves from the\nferocity of the tempest.  To right and left nought could be descried but\nthe broad expanse of the moor, and the figures of their fellow-rebels,\nseen dimly through the murky night, plodding onwards through the sinking\nmoss.  Those who kept together\u2014a miserable few\u2014often halted to rest\nthemselves, and to allow their lagging comrades to overtake them.  Then\nonward they went again, still hoping for assistance, reinforcement, and\nsupplies; onward again, through the wind, and the rain, and the\ndarkness\u2014onward to their defeat at Pentland, and their scaffold at\nEdinburgh.  It was calculated that they lost one half of their army on\nthat disastrous night-march.\n\nNext night they reached the village of Colinton, four miles from\nEdinburgh, where they halted for the last time. {98}\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\u2014RULLION GREEN\n\n\n    \u2018From Covenanters with uplifted hands,\n    From Remonstrators with associate bands,\n             Good Lord, deliver us!\u2019\n\n                                        _Royalist Rhyme_, KIRKTON, p. 127.\n\nLate on the fourth night of November, exactly twenty-four days before\nRullion Green, Richard and George Chaplain, merchants in Haddington,\nbeheld four men, clad like West-country Whigamores, standing round some\nobject on the ground.  It was at the two-mile cross, and within that\ndistance from their homes.  At last, to their horror, they discovered\nthat the recumbent figure was a livid corpse, swathed in a blood-stained\nwinding-sheet. {99}  Many thought that this apparition was a portent of\nthe deaths connected with the Pentland Rising.\n\nOn the morning of Wednesday, the 28th of November 1666, they left\nColinton and marched to Rullion Green.  There they arrived about sunset.\nThe position was a strong one.  On the summit of a bare, heathery spur of\nthe Pentlands are two hillocks, and between them lies a narrow band of\nflat marshy ground.  On the highest of the two mounds\u2014that nearest the\nPentlands, and on the left hand of the main body\u2014was the greater part of\nthe cavalry, under Major Learmont; on the other Barscob and the Galloway\ngentlemen; and in the centre Colonel Wallace and the weak, half-armed\ninfantry.  Their position was further strengthened by the depth of the\nvalley below, and the deep chasm-like course of the Rullion Burn.\n\nThe sun, going down behind the Pentlands, cast golden lights and blue\nshadows on their snow-clad summits, slanted obliquely into the rich plain\nbefore them, bathing with rosy splendour the leafless, snow-sprinkled\ntrees, and fading gradually into shadow in the distance.  To the south,\ntoo, they beheld a deep-shaded amphitheatre of heather and bracken; the\ncourse of the Esk, near Penicuik, winding about at the foot of its gorge;\nthe broad, brown expanse of Maw Moss; and, fading into blue\nindistinctness in the south, the wild heath-clad Peeblesshire hills.  In\nsooth, that scene was fair, and many a yearning glance was cast over that\npeaceful evening scene from the spot where the rebels awaited their\ndefeat; and when the fight was over, many a noble fellow lifted his head\nfrom the blood-stained heather to strive with darkening eyeballs to\nbehold that landscape, over which, as over his life and his cause, the\nshadows of night and of gloom were falling and thickening.\n\nIt was while waiting on this spot that the fear-inspiring cry was raised:\n\u2018The enemy!  Here come the enemy!\u2019\n\nUnwilling to believe their own doom\u2014for our insurgents still hoped for\nsuccess in some negotiations for peace which had been carried on at\nColinton\u2014they called out, \u2018They are some of our own.\u2019\n\n\u2018They are too blacke\u2019 (_i.e._ numerous), \u2018fie! fie! for ground to draw up\non,\u2019 cried Wallace, fully realising the want of space for his men, and\nproving that it was not till after this time that his forces were finally\narranged. {101a}\n\nFirst of all the battle was commenced by fifty Royalist horse sent\nobliquely across the hill to attack the left wing of the rebels.  An\nequal number of Learmont\u2019s men met them, and, after a struggle, drove\nthem back.  The course of the Rullion Burn prevented almost all pursuit,\nand Wallace, on perceiving it, dispatched a body of foot to occupy both\nthe burn and some ruined sheep-walls on the farther side.\n\nDalzell changed his position, and drew up his army at the foot of the\nhill, on the top of which were his foes.  He then dispatched a mingled\nbody of infantry and cavalry to attack Wallace\u2019s outpost, but they also\nwere driven back.  A third charge produced a still more disastrous\neffect, for Dalzell had to check the pursuit of his men by a\nreinforcement.\n\nThese repeated checks bred a panic in the Lieutenant-General\u2019s ranks, for\nseveral of his men flung down their arms.  Urged by such fatal symptoms,\nand by the approaching night, he deployed his men, and closed in\noverwhelming numbers on the centre and right flank of the insurgent army.\nIn the increasing twilight the burning matches of the firelocks,\nshimmering on barrel, halbert, and cuirass, lent to the approaching army\na picturesque effect, like a huge, many-armed giant breathing flame into\nthe darkness.\n\nPlaced on an overhanging hill, Welch and Semple cried aloud, \u2018The God of\nJacob! The God of Jacob!\u2019 and prayed with uplifted hands for victory.\n{101b}\n\nBut still the Royalist troops closed in.\n\nCaptain John Paton was observed by Dalzell, who determined to capture him\nwith his own hands.  Accordingly he charged forward, presenting his\npistols.  Paton fired, but the balls hopped off Dalzell\u2019s buff coat and\nfell into his boot.  With the superstition peculiar to his age, the\nNonconformist concluded that his adversary was rendered bullet-proof by\nenchantment, and, pulling some small silver coins from his pocket,\ncharged his pistol therewith.  Dalzell, seeing this, and supposing, it is\nlikely, that Paton was putting in larger balls, hid behind his servant,\nwho was killed. {102}\n\nMeantime the outposts were forced, and the army of Wallace was enveloped\nin the embrace of a hideous boa-constrictor\u2014tightening, closing, crushing\nevery semblance of life from the victim enclosed in his toils.  The\nflanking parties of horse were forced in upon the centre, and though, as\neven Turner grants, they fought with desperation, a general flight was\nthe result.\n\nBut when they fell there was none to sing their coronach or wail the\ndeath-wail over them.  Those who sacrificed themselves for the peace, the\nliberty, and the religion of their fellow-countrymen, lay bleaching in\nthe field of death for long, and when at last they were buried by\ncharity, the peasants dug up their bodies, desecrated their graves, and\ncast them once more upon the open heath for the sorry value of their\nwinding-sheets!\n\n_Inscription on stone at Rullion Green_:\n\n                                     HERE\n                                 AND NEAR TO\n                             THIS PLACE LYES THE\n                         REVEREND MR JOHN CROOKSHANK\n                           AND MR ANDREW MCCORMICK\n                         MINISTERS OF THE GOSPEL AND\n                      ABOUT FIFTY OTHER TRUE COVENANTED\n                            PRESBYTERIANS WHO WERE\n                      KILLED IN THIS PLACE IN THEIR OWN\n                      INOCENT SELF DEFENCE AND DEFFENCE\n                              OF THE COVENANTED\n                            WORK OF REFORMATION BY\n                            THOMAS DALZEEL OF BINS\n                           UPON THE 28 OF NOVEMBER\n                         1666.  REV. 12. 11. ERECTED\n                                SEPT. 28 1738.\n\n                             _Back of stone_:\n\n    A Cloud of Witnesses lyes here,\n    Who for Christ\u2019s Interest did appear,\n    For to restore true Liberty,\n    O\u2019erturn\u00e8d then by tyranny.\n    And by proud Prelats who did Rage\n    Against the Lord\u2019s Own heritage.\n    They sacrificed were for the laws\n    Of Christ their king, his noble cause.\n    These heroes fought with great renown;\n    By falling got the Martyr\u2019s crown. {103}\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\u2014A RECORD OF BLOOD\n\n\n    \u2018They cut his hands ere he was dead,\n    And after that struck of his head.\n    His blood under the altar cries\n    For vengeance on Christ\u2019s enemies.\u2019\n\n                         _Epitaph on Tomb at Longcross of Clermont_. {104}\n\nMaster Andrew Murray, an outed minister, residing in the Potterrow, on\nthe morning after the defeat, heard the sounds of cheering and the march\nof many feet beneath his window.  He gazed out.  With colours flying, and\nwith music sounding, Dalzell, victorious, entered Edinburgh.  But his\nbanners were dyed in blood, and a band of prisoners were marched within\nhis ranks.  The old man knew it all.  That martial and triumphant strain\nwas the death-knell of his friends and of their cause, the rust-hued\nspots upon the flags were the tokens of their courage and their death,\nand the prisoners were the miserable remnant spared from death in battle\nto die upon the scaffold.  Poor old man! he had outlived all joy.  Had he\nlived longer he would have seen increasing torment and increasing woe; he\nwould have seen the clouds, then but gathering in mist, cast a more than\nmidnight darkness over his native hills, and have fallen a victim to\nthose bloody persecutions which, later, sent their red memorials to the\nsea by many a burn.  By a merciful Providence all this was spared to\nhim\u2014he fell beneath the first blow; and ere four days had passed since\nRullion Green, the aged minister of God was gathered to is fathers.\n{105a}\n\nWhen Sharpe first heard of the rebellion, he applied to Sir Alexander\nRamsay, the Provost, for soldiers to guard his house.  Disliking their\noccupation, the soldiers gave him an ugly time of it.  All the night\nthrough they kept up a continuous series of \u2018alarms and incursions,\u2019\n\u2018cries of \u201cStand!\u201d \u201cGive fire!\u201d\u2019 etc., which forced the prelate to flee\nto the Castle in the morning, hoping there to find the rest which was\ndenied him at home. {105b}  Now, however, when all danger to himself was\npast, Sharpe came out in his true colours, and scant was the justice\nlikely to be shown to the foes of Scottish Episcopacy when the Primate\nwas by.  The prisoners were lodged in Haddo\u2019s Hole, a part of St. Giles\u2019\nCathedral, where, by the kindness of Bishop Wishart, to his credit be it\nspoken, they were amply supplied with food. {105c}\n\nSome people urged, in the Council, that the promise of quarter which had\nbeen given on the field of battle should protect the lives of the\nmiserable men.  Sir John Gilmoure, the greatest lawyer, gave no\nopinion\u2014certainly a suggestive circumstance\u2014but Lord Lee declared that\nthis would not interfere with their legal trial, \u2018so to bloody executions\nthey went.\u2019 {105d}  To the number of thirty they were condemned and\nexecuted; while two of them, Hugh M\u2018Kail, a young minister, and Neilson\nof Corsack, were tortured with the boots.\n\nThe goods of those who perished were confiscated, and their bodies were\ndismembered and distributed to different parts of the country; \u2018the heads\nof Major M\u2018Culloch and the two Gordons,\u2019 it was resolved, says Kirkton,\n\u2018should be pitched on the gate of Kirkcudbright; the two Hamiltons and\nStrong\u2019s head should be affixed at Hamilton, and Captain Arnot\u2019s sett on\nthe Watter Gate at Edinburgh.  The armes of all the ten, because they\nhade with uplifted hands renewed the Covenant at Lanark, were sent to the\npeople of that town to expiate that crime, by placing these arms on the\ntop of the prison.\u2019 {106}  Among these was John Neilson, the Laird of\nCorsack, who saved Turner\u2019s life at Dumfries; in return for which service\nSir James attempted, though without success, to get the poor man\nreprieved.  One of the condemned died of his wounds between the day of\ncondemnation and the day of execution.  \u2018None of them,\u2019 says Kirkton,\n\u2018would save their life by taking the declaration and renouncing the\nCovenant, though it was offered to them. . . . But never men died in\nScotland so much lamented by the people, not only spectators, but those\nin the country.  When Knockbreck and his brother were turned over, they\nclasped each other in their armes, and so endured the pangs of death.\nWhen Humphrey Colquhoun died, he spoke not like an ordinary citizen, but\nlike a heavenly minister, relating his comfortable Christian experiences,\nand called for his Bible, and laid it on his wounded arm, and read John\niii. 8, and spoke upon it to the admiration of all.  But most of all,\nwhen Mr. M\u2018Kail died, there was such a lamentation as was never known in\nScotland before; not one dry cheek upon all the street, or in all the\nnumberless windows in the mercate place.\u2019 {107a}\n\nThe following passage from this speech speaks for itself and its author:\n\n\u2018Hereafter I will not talk with flesh and blood, nor think on the world\u2019s\nconsolations.  Farewell to all my friends, whose company hath been\nrefreshful to me in my pilgrimage.  I have done with the light of the sun\nand the moon; welcome eternal light, eternal life, everlasting love,\neverlasting praise, everlasting glory.  Praise to Him that sits upon the\nthrone, and to the Lamb for ever!  Bless the Lord, O my soul, that hath\npardoned all my iniquities in the blood of His Son, and healed all my\ndiseases.  Bless Him, O all ye His angels that excel in strength, ye\nministers of His that do His pleasure.  Bless the Lord, O my soul!\u2019\n{107b}\n\nAfter having ascended the gallows ladder he again broke forth in the\nfollowing words of touching eloquence: \u2018And now I leave off to speak any\nmore to creatures, and begin my intercourse with God, which shall never\nbe broken off.  Farewell father and mother, friends and relations!\nFarewell the world and all delights!  Farewell meat and drink!  Farewell\nsun, moon, and stars!\u2014Welcome God and Father!  Welcome sweet Jesus\nChrist, the Mediator of the new covenant!  Welcome blessed Spirit of\ngrace and God of all consolation!  Welcome glory!  Welcome eternal life!\nWelcome Death!\u2019 {107c}\n\nAt Glasgow, too, where some were executed, they caused the soldiers to\nbeat the drums and blow the trumpets on their closing ears.  Hideous\nrefinement of revenge!  Even the last words which drop from the lips of a\ndying man\u2014words surely the most sincere and the most unbiassed which\nmortal mouth can utter\u2014even these were looked upon as poisoned and as\npoisonous.  \u2018Drown their last accents,\u2019 was the cry, \u2018lest they should\nlead the crowd to take their part, or at the least to mourn their doom!\u2019\n{108a}  But, after all, perhaps it was more merciful than one would\nthink\u2014unintentionally so, of course; perhaps the storm of harsh and\nfiercely jubilant noises, the clanging of trumpets, the rattling of\ndrums, and the hootings and jeerings of an unfeeling mob, which were the\nlast they heard on earth, might, when the mortal fight was over, when the\nriver of death was passed, add tenfold sweetness to the hymning of the\nangels, tenfold peacefulness to the shores which they had reached.\n\nNot content with the cruelty of these executions, some even of the\npeasantry, though these were confined to the shire of Mid-Lothian,\npursued, captured, plundered, and murdered the miserable fugitives who\nfell in their way.  One strange story have we of these times of blood and\npersecution: Kirkton the historian and popular tradition tell us alike of\na flame which often would arise from the grave, in a moss near Carnwath,\nof some of those poor rebels: of how it crept along the ground; of how it\ncovered the house of their murderer; and of how it scared him with its\nlurid glare.\n\nHear Daniel Defoe: {108b}\n\n    \u2018If the poor people were by these insupportable violences made\n    desperate, and driven to all the extremities of a wild despair, who\n    can justly reflect on them when they read in the Word of God \u201cThat\n    oppression makes a wise man mad\u201d?  And therefore were there no other\n    original of the insurrection known by the name of the Rising of\n    Pentland, it was nothing but what the intolerable oppressions of\n    those times might have justified to all the world, nature having\n    dictated to all people a right of defence when illegally and\n    arbitrarily attacked in a manner not justifiable either by laws of\n    nature, the laws of God, or the laws of the country.\u2019\n\nBear this remonstrance of Defoe\u2019s in mind, and though it is the fashion\nof the day to jeer and to mock, to execrate and to contemn, the noble\nband of Covenanters\u2014though the bitter laugh at their old-world religious\nviews, the curl of the lip at their merits, and the chilling silence on\ntheir bravery and their determination, are but too rife through all\nsociety\u2014be charitable to what was evil and honest to what was good about\nthe Pentland insurgents, who fought for life and liberty, for country and\nreligion, on the 28th of November 1666, now just two hundred years ago.\n\n                                * * * * *\n\nEDINBURGH, 28_th November_ 1866.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW\n\n\nHistory is much decried; it is a tissue of errors, we are told, no doubt\ncorrectly; and rival historians expose each other\u2019s blunders with\ngratification.  Yet the worst historian has a clearer view of the period\nhe studies than the best of us can hope to form of that in which we live.\nThe obscurest epoch is to-day; and that for a thousand reasons of\ninchoate tendency, conflicting report, and sheer mass and multiplicity of\nexperience; but chiefly, perhaps, by reason of an insidious shifting of\nlandmarks.  Parties and ideas continually move, but not by measurable\nmarches on a stable course; the political soil itself steals forth by\nimperceptible degrees, like a travelling glacier, carrying on its bosom\nnot only political parties but their flag-posts and cantonments; so that\nwhat appears to be an eternal city founded on hills is but a flying\nisland of Laputa.  It is for this reason in particular that we are all\nbecoming Socialists without knowing it; by which I would not in the least\nrefer to the acute case of Mr. Hyndman and his horn-blowing supporters,\nsounding their trumps of a Sunday within the walls of our individualist\nJericho\u2014but to the stealthy change that has come over the spirit of\nEnglishmen and English legislation.  A little while ago, and we were\nstill for liberty; \u2018crowd a few more thousands on the bench of\nGovernment,\u2019 we seemed to cry; \u2018keep her head direct on liberty, and we\ncannot help but come to port.\u2019  This is over; _laisser faire_ declines in\nfavour; our legislation grows authoritative, grows philanthropical,\nbristles with new duties and new penalties, and casts a spawn of\ninspectors, who now begin, note-book in hand, to darken the face of\nEngland.  It may be right or wrong, we are not trying that; but one thing\nit is beyond doubt: it is Socialism in action, and the strange thing is\nthat we scarcely know it.\n\nLiberty has served us a long while, and it may be time to seek new\naltars.  Like all other principles, she has been proved to be\nself-exclusive in the long run.  She has taken wages besides (like all\nother virtues) and dutifully served Mammon; so that many things we were\naccustomed to admire as the benefits of freedom and common to all were\ntruly benefits of wealth, and took their value from our neighbours\u2019\npoverty.  A few shocks of logic, a few disclosures (in the journalistic\nphrase) of what the freedom of manufacturers, landlords, or shipowners\nmay imply for operatives, tenants, or seamen, and we not unnaturally\nbegin to turn to that other pole of hope, beneficent tyranny.  Freedom,\nto be desirable, involves kindness, wisdom, and all the virtues of the\nfree; but the free man as we have seen him in action has been, as of\nyore, only the master of many helots; and the slaves are still ill-fed,\nill-clad, ill-taught, ill-housed, insolently treated, and driven to their\nmines and workshops by the lash of famine.  So much, in other men\u2019s\naffairs, we have begun to see clearly; we have begun to despair of virtue\nin these other men, and from our seat in Parliament begin to discharge\nupon them, thick as arrows, the host of our inspectors.  The landlord has\nlong shaken his head over the manufacturer; those who do business on land\nhave lost all trust in the virtues of the shipowner; the professions look\naskance upon the retail traders and have even started their co-operative\nstores to ruin them; and from out the smoke-wreaths of Birmingham a\nfinger has begun to write upon the wall the condemnation of the landlord.\nThus, piece by piece, do we condemn each other, and yet not perceive the\nconclusion, that our whole estate is somewhat damnable.  Thus, piece by\npiece, each acting against his neighbour, each sawing away the branch on\nwhich some other interest is seated, do we apply in detail our\nSocialistic remedies, and yet not perceive that we are all labouring\ntogether to bring in Socialism at large.  A tendency so stupid and so\nselfish is like to prove invincible; and if Socialism be at all a\npracticable rule of life, there is every chance that our grand-children\nwill see the day and taste the pleasures of existence in something far\nliker an ant-heap than any previous human polity.  And this not in the\nleast because of the voice of Mr. Hyndman or the horns of his followers;\nbut by the mere glacier movement of the political soil, bearing forward\non its bosom, apparently undisturbed, the proud camps of Whig and Tory.\nIf Mr. Hyndman were a man of keen humour, which is far from my conception\nof his character, he might rest from his troubling and look on: the walls\nof Jericho begin already to crumble and dissolve.  That great servile\nwar, the Armageddon of money and numbers, to which we looked forward when\nyoung, becomes more and more unlikely; and we may rather look to see a\npeaceable and blindfold evolution, the work of dull men immersed in\npolitical tactics and dead to political results.\n\nThe principal scene of this comedy lies, of course, in the House of\nCommons; it is there, besides, that the details of this new evolution (if\nit proceed) will fall to be decided; so that the state of Parliament is\nnot only diagnostic of the present but fatefully prophetic of the future.\nWell, we all know what Parliament is, and we are all ashamed of it.  We\nmay pardon it some faults, indeed, on the ground of Irish obstruction\u2014a\nbitter trial, which it supports with notable good humour.  But the excuse\nis merely local; it cannot apply to similar bodies in America and France;\nand what are we to say of these?  President Cleveland\u2019s letter may serve\nas a picture of the one; a glance at almost any paper will convince us of\nthe weakness of the other.  Decay appears to have seized on the organ of\npopular government in every land; and this just at the moment when we\nbegin to bring to it, as to an oracle of justice, the whole skein of our\nprivate affairs to be unravelled, and ask it, like a new Messiah, to take\nupon itself our frailties and play for us the part that should be played\nby our own virtues.  For that, in few words, is the case.  We cannot\ntrust ourselves to behave with decency; we cannot trust our consciences;\nand the remedy proposed is to elect a round number of our neighbours,\npretty much at random, and say to these: \u2018Be ye our conscience; make laws\nso wise, and continue from year to year to administer them so wisely,\nthat they shall save us from ourselves and make us righteous and happy,\nworld without end.  Amen.\u2019  And who can look twice at the British\nParliament and then seriously bring it such a task?  I am not advancing\nthis as an argument against Socialism: once again, nothing is further\nfrom my mind.  There are great truths in Socialism, or no one, not even\nMr. Hyndman, would be found to hold it; and if it came, and did one-tenth\npart of what it offers, I for one should make it welcome.  But if it is\nto come, we may as well have some notion of what it will be like; and the\nfirst thing to grasp is that our new polity will be designed and\nadministered (to put it courteously) with something short of inspiration.\nIt will be made, or will grow, in a human parliament; and the one thing\nthat will not very hugely change is human nature.  The Anarchists think\notherwise, from which it is only plain that they have not carried to the\nstudy of history the lamp of human sympathy.\n\nGiven, then, our new polity, with its new waggon-load of laws, what\nheadmarks must we look for in the life?  We chafe a good deal at that\nexcellent thing, the income-tax, because it brings into our affairs the\nprying fingers, and exposes us to the tart words, of the official.  The\nofficial, in all degrees, is already something of a terror to many of us.\nI would not willingly have to do with even a police-constable in any\nother spirit than that of kindness.  I still remember in my dreams the\neye-glass of a certain _attach\u00e9_ at a certain embassy\u2014an eyeglass that\nwas a standing indignity to all on whom it looked; and my next most\ndisagreeable remembrance is of a bracing, Republican postman in the city\nof San Francisco.  I lived in that city among working folk, and what my\nneighbours accepted at the postman\u2019s hands\u2014nay, what I took from him\nmyself\u2014it is still distasteful to recall.  The bourgeois, residing in the\nupper parts of society, has but few opportunities of tasting this\npeculiar bowl; but about the income-tax, as I have said, or perhaps about\na patent, or in the halls of an embassy at the hands of my friend of the\neye-glass, he occasionally sets his lips to it; and he may thus imagine\n(if he has that faculty of imagination, without which most faculties are\nvoid) how it tastes to his poorer neighbours, who must drain it to the\ndregs.  In every contact with authority, with their employer, with the\npolice, with the School Board officer, in the hospital, or in the\nworkhouse, they have equally the occasion to appreciate the light-hearted\ncivility of the man in office; and as an experimentalist in several\nout-of-the-way provinces of life, I may say it has but to be felt to be\nappreciated.  Well, this golden age of which we are speaking will be the\ngolden age of officials.  In all our concerns it will be their beloved\nduty to meddle, with what tact, with what obliging words, analogy will\naid us to imagine.  It is likely these gentlemen will be periodically\nelected; they will therefore have their turn of being underneath, which\ndoes not always sweeten men\u2019s conditions.  The laws they will have to\nadminister will be no clearer than those we know to-day, and the body\nwhich is to regulate their administration no wiser than the British\nParliament.  So that upon all hands we may look for a form of servitude\nmost galling to the blood\u2014servitude to many and changing masters, and for\nall the slights that accompany the rule of jack-in-office.  And if the\nSocialistic programme be carried out with the least fulness, we shall\nhave lost a thing, in most respects not much to be regretted, but as a\nmoderator of oppression, a thing nearly invaluable\u2014the newspaper.  For\nthe independent journal is a creature of capital and competition; it\nstands and falls with millionaires and railway bonds and all the abuses\nand glories of to-day; and as soon as the State has fairly taken its bent\nto authority and philanthropy, and laid the least touch on private\nproperty, the days of the independent journal are numbered.  State\nrailways may be good things and so may State bakeries; but a State\nnewspaper will never be a very trenchant critic of the State officials.\n\nBut again, these officials would have no sinecure.  Crime would perhaps\nbe less, for some of the motives of crime we may suppose would pass away.\nBut if Socialism were carried out with any fulness, there would be more\ncontraventions.  We see already new sins ringing up like mustard\u2014School\nBoard sins, factory sins, Merchant Shipping Act sins\u2014none of which I\nwould be thought to except against in particular, but all of which, taken\ntogether, show us that Socialism can be a hard master even in the\nbeginning.  If it go on to such heights as we hear proposed and lauded,\nif it come actually to its ideal of the ant-heap, ruled with iron\njustice, the number of new contraventions will be out of all proportion\nmultiplied.  Take the case of work alone.  Man is an idle animal.  He is\nat least as intelligent as the ant; but generations of advisers have in\nvain recommended him the ant\u2019s example.  Of those who are found truly\nindefatigable in business, some are misers; some are the practisers of\ndelightful industries, like gardening; some are students, artists,\ninventors, or discoverers, men lured forward by successive hopes; and the\nrest are those who live by games of skill or hazard\u2014financiers,\nbilliard-players, gamblers, and the like.  But in unloved toils, even\nunder the prick of necessity, no man is continually sedulous.  Once\neliminate the fear of starvation, once eliminate or bound the hope of\nriches, and we shall see plenty of skulking and malingering.  Society\nwill then be something not wholly unlike a cotton plantation in the old\ndays; with cheerful, careless, demoralised slaves, with elected\noverseers, and, instead of the planter, a chaotic popular assembly.  If\nthe blood be purposeful and the soil strong, such a plantation may\nsucceed, and be, indeed, a busy ant-heap, with full granaries and long\nhours of leisure.  But even then I think the whip will be in the\noverseer\u2019s hands, and not in vain.  For, when it comes to be a question\nof each man doing his own share or the rest doing more, prettiness of\nsentiment will be forgotten.  To dock the skulker\u2019s food is not enough;\nmany will rather eat haws and starve on petty pilferings than put their\nshoulder to the wheel for one hour daily.  For such as these, then, the\nwhip will be in the overseer\u2019s hand; and his own sense of justice and the\nsuperintendence of a chaotic popular assembly will be the only checks on\nits employment.  Now, you may be an industrious man and a good citizen,\nand yet not love, nor yet be loved by, Dr. Fell the inspector.  It is\nadmitted by private soldiers that the disfavour of a sergeant is an evil\nnot to be combated; offend the sergeant, they say, and in a brief while\nyou will either be disgraced or have deserted.  And the sergeant can no\nlonger appeal to the lash.  But if these things go on, we shall see, or\nour sons shall see, what it is to have offended an inspector.\n\nThis for the unfortunate.  But with the fortunate also, even those whom\nthe inspector loves, it may not be altogether well.  It is concluded that\nin such a state of society, supposing it to be financially sound, the\nlevel of comfort will be high.  It does not follow: there are strange\ndepths of idleness in man, a too-easily-got sufficiency, as in the case\nof the sago-eaters, often quenching the desire for all besides; and it is\npossible that the men of the richest ant-heaps may sink even into\nsqualor.  But suppose they do not; suppose our tricksy instrument of\nhuman nature, when we play upon it this new tune, should respond kindly;\nsuppose no one to be damped and none exasperated by the new conditions,\nthe whole enterprise to be financially sound\u2014a vaulting supposition\u2014and\nall the inhabitants to dwell together in a golden mean of comfort: we\nhave yet to ask ourselves if this be what man desire, or if it be what\nman will even deign to accept for a continuance.  It is certain that man\nloves to eat, it is not certain that he loves that only or that best.  He\nis supposed to love comfort; it is not a love, at least, that he is\nfaithful to.  He is supposed to love happiness; it is my contention that\nhe rather loves excitement.  Danger, enterprise, hope, the novel, the\naleatory, are dearer to man than regular meals.  He does not think so\nwhen he is hungry, but he thinks so again as soon as he is fed; and on\nthe hypothesis of a successful ant-heap, he would never go hungry.  It\nwould be always after dinner in that society, as, in the land of the\nLotos-eaters, it was always afternoon; and food, which, when we have it\nnot, seems all-important, drops in our esteem, as soon as we have it, to\na mere prerequisite of living.\n\nThat for which man lives is not the same thing for all individuals nor in\nall ages; yet it has a common base; what he seeks and what he must have\nis that which will seize and hold his attention.  Regular meals and\nweatherproof lodgings will not do this long.  Play in its wide sense, as\nthe artificial induction of sensation, including all games and all arts,\nwill, indeed, go far to keep him conscious of himself; but in the end he\nwearies for realities.  Study or experiment, to some rare natures, is the\nunbroken pastime of a life.  These are enviable natures; people shut in\nthe house by sickness often bitterly envy them; but the commoner man\ncannot continue to exist upon such altitudes: his feet itch for physical\nadventure; his blood boils for physical dangers, pleasures, and triumphs;\nhis fancy, the looker after new things, cannot continue to look for them\nin books and crucibles, but must seek them on the breathing stage of\nlife.  Pinches, buffets, the glow of hope, the shock of disappointment,\nfurious contention with obstacles: these are the true elixir for all\nvital spirits, these are what they seek alike in their romantic\nenterprises and their unromantic dissipations.  When they are taken in\nsome pinch closer than the common, they cry, \u2018Catch me here again!\u2019 and\nsure enough you catch them there again\u2014perhaps before the week is out.\nIt is as old as _Robinson Crusoe_; as old as man.  Our race has not been\nstrained for all these ages through that sieve of dangers that we call\nNatural Selection, to sit down with patience in the tedium of safety; the\nvoices of its fathers call it forth.  Already in our society as it\nexists, the bourgeois is too much cottoned about for any zest in living;\nhe sits in his parlour out of reach of any danger, often out of reach of\nany vicissitude but one of health; and there he yawns.  If the people in\nthe next villa took pot-shots at him, he might be killed indeed, but so\nlong as he escaped he would find his blood oxygenated and his views of\nthe world brighter.  If Mr. Mallock, on his way to the publishers, should\nhave his skirts pinned to a wall by a javelin, it would not occur to\nhim\u2014at least for several hours\u2014to ask if life were worth living; and if\nsuch peril were a daily matter, he would ask it never more; he would have\nother things to think about, he would be living indeed\u2014not lying in a box\nwith cotton, safe, but immeasurably dull.  The aleatory, whether it touch\nlife, or fortune, or renown\u2014whether we explore Africa or only toss for\nhalfpence\u2014that is what I conceive men to love best, and that is what we\nare seeking to exclude from men\u2019s existences.  Of all forms of the\naleatory, that which most commonly attends our working men\u2014the danger of\nmisery from want of work\u2014is the least inspiriting: it does not whip the\nblood, it does not evoke the glory of contest; it is tragic, but it is\npassive; and yet, in so far as it is aleatory, and a peril sensibly\ntouching them, it does truly season the men\u2019s lives.  Of those who fail,\nI do not speak\u2014despair should be sacred; but to those who even modestly\nsucceed, the changes of their life bring interest: a job found, a\nshilling saved, a dainty earned, all these are wells of pleasure\nspringing afresh for the successful poor; and it is not from these but\nfrom the villa-dweller that we hear complaints of the unworthiness of\nlife.  Much, then, as the average of the proletariat would gain in this\nnew state of life, they would also lose a certain something, which would\nnot be missed in the beginning, but would be missed progressively and\nprogressively lamented.  Soon there would be a looking back: there would\nbe tales of the old world humming in young men\u2019s ears, tales of the tramp\nand the pedlar, and the hopeful emigrant.  And in the stall-fed life of\nthe successful ant-heap\u2014with its regular meals, regular duties, regular\npleasures, an even course of life, and fear excluded\u2014the vicissitudes,\ndelights, and havens of to-day will seem of epic breadth.  This may seem\na shallow observation; but the springs by which men are moved lie much on\nthe surface.  Bread, I believe, has always been considered first, but the\ncircus comes close upon its heels.  Bread we suppose to be given amply;\nthe cry for circuses will be the louder, and if the life of our\ndescendants be such as we have conceived, there are two beloved pleasures\non which they will be likely to fall back: the pleasures of intrigue and\nof sedition.\n\nIn all this I have supposed the ant-heap to be financially sound.  I am\nno economist, only a writer of fiction; but even as such, I know one\nthing that bears on the economic question\u2014I know the imperfection of\nman\u2019s faculty for business.  The Anarchists, who count some rugged\nelements of common sense among what seem to me their tragic errors, have\nsaid upon this matter all that I could wish to say, and condemned\nbeforehand great economical polities.  So far it is obvious that they are\nright; they may be right also in predicting a period of communal\nindependence, and they may even be right in thinking that desirable.  But\nthe rise of communes is none the less the end of economic equality, just\nwhen we were told it was beginning.  Communes will not be all equal in\nextent, nor in quality of soil, nor in growth of population; nor will the\nsurplus produce of all be equally marketable.  It will be the old story\nof competing interests, only with a new unit; and, as it appears to me, a\nnew, inevitable danger.  For the merchant and the manufacturer, in this\nnew world, will be a sovereign commune; it is a sovereign power that will\nsee its crops undersold, and its manufactures worsted in the market.  And\nall the more dangerous that the sovereign power should be small.  Great\npowers are slow to stir; national affronts, even with the aid of\nnewspapers, filter slowly into popular consciousness; national losses are\nso unequally shared, that one part of the population will be counting its\ngains while another sits by a cold hearth.  But in the sovereign commune\nall will be centralised and sensitive.  When jealousy springs up, when\n(let us say) the commune of Poole has overreached the commune of\nDorchester, irritation will run like quicksilver throughout the body\npolitic; each man in Dorchester will have to suffer directly in his diet\nand his dress; even the secretary, who drafts the official\ncorrespondence, will sit down to his task embittered, as a man who has\ndined ill and may expect to dine worse; and thus a business difference\nbetween communes will take on much the same colour as a dispute between\ndiggers in the lawless West, and will lead as directly to the arbitrament\nof blows.  So that the establishment of the communal system will not only\nreintroduce all the injustices and heart-burnings of economic inequality,\nbut will, in all human likelihood, inaugurate a world of hedgerow\nwarfare.  Dorchester will march on Poole, Sherborne on Dorchester,\nWimborne on both; the waggons will be fired on as they follow the\nhighway, the trains wrecked on the lines, the ploughman will go armed\ninto the field of tillage; and if we have not a return of ballad\nliterature, the local press at least will celebrate in a high vein the\nvictory of Cerne Abbas or the reverse of Toller Porcorum.  At least this\nwill not be dull; when I was younger, I could have welcomed such a world\nwith relief; but it is the New-Old with a vengeance, and irresistibly\nsuggests the growth of military powers and the foundation of new empires.\n\n\n\n\nCOLLEGE PAPERS\n\n\nCHAPTER I\u2014EDINBURGH STUDENTS IN 1824\n\n\nOn the 2nd of January 1824 was issued the prospectus of the _Lapsus\nLingu\u00e6_; _or_, _the College Tatler_; and on the 7th the first number\nappeared.  On Friday the 2nd of April \u2018_Mr. Tatler_ became speechless.\u2019\nIts history was not all one success; for the editor (who applies to\nhimself the words of Iago, \u2018I am nothing if I am not critical\u2019)\noverstepped the bounds of caution, and found himself seriously embroiled\nwith the powers that were.  There appeared in No. XVI. a most bitter\nsatire upon Sir John Leslie, in which he was compared to Falstaff,\ncharged with puffing himself, and very prettily censured for publishing\nonly the first volume of a class-book, and making all purchasers pay for\nboth.  Sir John Leslie took up the matter angrily, visited Carfrae the\npublisher, and threatened him with an action, till he was forced to turn\nthe hapless _Lapsus_ out of doors.  The maltreated periodical found\nshelter in the shop of Huie, Infirmary Street; and No. XVII. was duly\nissued from the new office.  No. XVII. beheld _Mr. Tatler\u2019s_ humiliation,\nin which, with fulsome apology and not very credible assurances of\nrespect and admiration, he disclaims the article in question, and\nadvertises a new issue of No. XVI. with all objectionable matter omitted.\nThis, with pleasing euphemism, he terms in a later advertisement, \u2018a new\nand improved edition.\u2019  This was the only remarkable adventure of _Mr.\nTatler\u2019s_ brief existence; unless we consider as such a silly Chaldee\nmanuscript in imitation of _Blackwood_, and a letter of reproof from a\ndivinity student on the impiety of the same dull effusion.  He laments\nthe near approach of his end in pathetic terms.  \u2018How shall we summon up\nsufficient courage,\u2019 says he, \u2018to look for the last time on our beloved\nlittle devil and his inestimable proof-sheet?  How shall we be able to\npass No. 14 Infirmary Street and feel that all its attractions are over?\nHow shall we bid farewell for ever to that excellent man, with the long\ngreatcoat, wooden leg and wooden board, who acts as our representative at\nthe gate of _Alma Mater_?\u2019  But alas! he had no choice: _Mr. Tatler_,\nwhose career, he says himself, had been successful, passed peacefully\naway, and has ever since dumbly implored \u2018the bringing home of bell and\nburial.\u2019\n\n_Alter et idem_.  A very different affair was the _Lapsus Lingu\u00e6_ from\nthe _Edinburgh University Magazine_.  The two prospectuses alone, laid\nside by side, would indicate the march of luxury and the repeal of the\npaper duty.  The penny bi-weekly broadside of session 1828\u20134 was almost\nwholly dedicated to Momus.  Epigrams, pointless letters, amorous verses,\nand University grievances are the continual burthen of the song.  But\n_Mr. Tatler_ was not without a vein of hearty humour; and his pages\nafford what is much better: to wit, a good picture of student life as it\nthen was.  The students of those polite days insisted on retaining their\nhats in the class-room.  There was a cab-stance in front of the College;\nand \u2018Carriage Entrance\u2019 was posted above the main arch, on what the\nwriter pleases to call \u2018coarse, unclassic boards.\u2019  The benches of the\n\u2018Speculative\u2019 then, as now, were red; but all other Societies (the\n\u2018Dialectic\u2019 is the only survivor) met downstairs, in some rooms of which\nit is pointedly said that \u2018nothing else could conveniently be made of\nthem.\u2019  However horrible these dungeons may have been, it is certain that\nthey were paid for, and that far too heavily for the taste of session\n1823\u20134, which found enough calls upon its purse for porter and toasted\ncheese at Ambrose\u2019s, or cranberry tarts and ginger-wine at Doull\u2019s.\nDuelling was still a possibility; so much so that when two medicals fell\nto fisticuffs in Adam Square, it was seriously hinted that single combat\nwould be the result.  Last and most wonderful of all, Gall and Spurzheim\nwere in every one\u2019s mouth; and the Law student, after having exhausted\nByron\u2019s poetry and Scott\u2019s novels, informed the ladies of his belief in\nphrenology.  In the present day he would dilate on \u2018Red as a rose is\nshe,\u2019 and then mention that he attends Old Greyfriars\u2019, as a tacit claim\nto intellectual superiority.  I do not know that the advance is much.\n\nBut _Mr. Tatler\u2019s_ best performances were three short papers in which he\nhit off pretty smartly the idiosyncrasies of the \u2018_Divinity_,\u2019 the\n\u2018_Medical_,\u2019 and the \u2018_Law_\u2019 of session 1823\u20134.  The fact that there was\nno notice of the \u2018_Arts_\u2019 seems to suggest that they stood in the same\nintermediate position as they do now\u2014the epitome of student-kind.  _Mr.\nTatler\u2019s_ satire is, on the whole, good-humoured, and has not grown\nsuperannuated in _all_ its limbs.  His descriptions may limp at some\npoints, but there are certain broad traits that apply equally well to\nsession 1870\u20131.  He shows us the _Divinity_ of the period\u2014tall, pale, and\nslender\u2014his collar greasy, and his coat bare about the seams\u2014\u2018his white\nneckcloth serving four days, and regularly turned the third\u2019\u2014\u2018the rim of\nhis hat deficient in wool\u2019\u2014and \u2018a weighty volume of theology under his\narm.\u2019  He was the man to buy cheap \u2018a snuff-box, or a dozen of pencils,\nor a six-bladed knife, or a quarter of a hundred quills,\u2019 at any of the\npublic sale-rooms.  He was noted for cheap purchases, and for exceeding\nthe legal tender in halfpence.  He haunted \u2018the darkest and remotest\ncorner of the Theatre Gallery.\u2019  He was to be seen issuing from \u2018aerial\nlodging-houses.\u2019  Withal, says mine author, \u2018there were many good points\nabout him: he paid his landlady\u2019s bill, read his Bible, went twice to\nchurch on Sunday, seldom swore, was not often tipsy, and bought the\n_Lapsus Lingu\u00e6_.\u2019\n\nThe _Medical_, again, \u2018wore a white greatcoat, and consequently talked\nloud\u2019\u2014(there is something very delicious in that _consequently_).  He\nwore his hat on one side.  He was active, volatile, and went to the top\nof Arthur\u2019s Seat on the Sunday forenoon.  He was as quiet in a debating\nsociety as he was loud in the streets.  He was reckless and imprudent:\nyesterday he insisted on your sharing a bottle of claret with him (and\nclaret was claret then, before the cheap-and-nasty treaty), and to-morrow\nhe asks you for the loan of a penny to buy the last number of the\n_Lapsus_.\n\nThe student of _Law_, again, was a learned man.  \u2018He had turned over the\nleaves of Justinian\u2019s _Institutes_, and knew that they were written in\nLatin.  He was well acquainted with the title-page of Blackstone\u2019s\n_Commentaries_, and _argal_ (as the gravedigger in _Hamlet_ says) he was\nnot a person to be laughed at.\u2019  He attended the Parliament House in the\ncharacter of a critic, and could give you stale sneers at all the\ncelebrated speakers.  He was the terror of essayists at the Speculative\nor the Forensic.  In social qualities he seems to have stood unrivalled.\nEven in the police-office we find him shining with undiminished lustre.\n\u2018If a _Charlie_ should find him rather noisy at an untimely hour, and\nventure to take him into custody, he appears next morning like a Daniel\ncome to judgment.  He opens his mouth to speak, and the divine precepts\nof unchanging justice and Scots law flow from his tongue.  The magistrate\nlistens in amazement, and fines him only a couple of guineas.\u2019\n\nSuch then were our predecessors and their College Magazine.  Barclay,\nAmbrose, Young Amos, and Fergusson were to them what the Caf\u00e9, the\nRainbow, and Rutherford\u2019s are to us.  An hour\u2019s reading in these old\npages absolutely confuses us, there is so much that is similar and so\nmuch that is different; the follies and amusements are so like our own,\nand the manner of frolicking and enjoying are so changed, that one pauses\nand looks about him in philosophic judgment.  The muddy quadrangle is\nthick with living students; but in our eyes it swarms also with the\nphantasmal white greatcoats and tilted hats of 1824.  Two races meet:\nraces alike and diverse.  Two performances are played before our eyes;\nbut the change seems merely of impersonators, of scenery, of costume.\nPlot and passion are the same.  It is the fall of the spun shilling\nwhether seventy-one or twenty-four has the best of it.\n\nIn a future number we hope to give a glance at the individualities of the\npresent, and see whether the cast shall be head or tail\u2014whether we or the\nreaders of the _Lapsus_ stand higher in the balance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\u2014THE MODERN STUDENT CONSIDERED GENERALLY\n\n\nWe have now reached the difficult portion of our task.  _Mr. Tatler_, for\nall that we care, may have been as virulent as he liked about the\nstudents of a former; but for the iron to touch our sacred selves, for a\nbrother of the Guild to betray its most privy infirmities, let such a\nJudas look to himself as he passes on his way to the Scots Law or the\nDiagnostic, below the solitary lamp at the corner of the dark quadrangle.\nWe confess that this idea alarms us.  We enter a protest.  We bind\nourselves over verbally to keep the peace.  We hope, moreover, that\nhaving thus made you secret to our misgivings, you will excuse us if we\nbe dull, and set that down to caution which you might before have charged\nto the account of stupidity.\n\nThe natural tendency of civilisation is to obliterate those distinctions\nwhich are the best salt of life.  All the fine old professional flavour\nin language has evaporated.  Your very gravedigger has forgotten his\navocation in his electorship, and would quibble on the Franchise over\nOphelia\u2019s grave, instead of more appropriately discussing the duration of\nbodies under ground.  From this tendency, from this gradual attrition of\nlife, in which everything pointed and characteristic is being rubbed\ndown, till the whole world begins to slip between our fingers in smooth\nundistinguishable sands, from this, we say, it follows that we must not\nattempt to join _Mr. Taller_ in his simple division of students into\n_Law_, _Divinity_, and _Medical_.  Nowadays the Faculties may shake hands\nover their follies; and, like Mrs. Frail and Mrs. Foresight (in _Love for\nLove_) they may stand in the doors of opposite class-rooms, crying:\n\u2018Sister, Sister\u2014Sister everyway!\u2019  A few restrictions, indeed, remain to\ninfluence the followers of individual branches of study.  The Divinity,\nfor example, must be an avowed believer; and as this, in the present day,\nis unhappily considered by many as a confession of weakness, he is fain\nto choose one of two ways of gilding the distasteful orthodox bolus.\nSome swallow it in a thin jelly of metaphysics; for it is even a credit\nto believe in God on the evidence of some crack-jaw philosopher, although\nit is a decided slur to believe in Him on His own authority.  Others\nagain (and this we think the worst method), finding German grammar a\nsomewhat dry morsel, run their own little heresy as a proof of\nindependence; and deny one of the cardinal doctrines that they may hold\nthe others without being laughed at.\n\nBesides, however, such influences as these, there is little more\ndistinction between the faculties than the traditionary ideal, handed\ndown through a long sequence of students, and getting rounder and more\nfeatureless at each successive session.  The plague of uniformity has\ndescended on the College.  Students (and indeed all sorts and conditions\nof men) now require their faculty and character hung round their neck on\na placard, like the scenes in Shakespeare\u2019s theatre.  And in the midst of\nall this weary sameness, not the least common feature is the gravity of\nevery face.  No more does the merry medical run eagerly in the clear\nwinter morning up the rugged sides of Arthur\u2019s Seat, and hear the church\nbells begin and thicken and die away below him among the gathered smoke\nof the city.  He will not break Sunday to so little purpose.  He no\nlonger finds pleasure in the mere output of his surplus energy.  He\nhusbands his strength, and lays out walks, and reading, and amusement\nwith deep consideration, so that he may get as much work and pleasure out\nof his body as he can, and waste none of his energy on mere impulse, or\nsuch flat enjoyment as an excursion in the country.\n\nSee the quadrangle in the interregnum of classes, in those two or three\nminutes when it is full of passing students, and we think you will admit\nthat, if we have not made it \u2018an habitation of dragons,\u2019 we have at least\ntransformed it into \u2018a court for owls.\u2019  Solemnity broods heavily over\nthe enclosure; and wherever you seek it, you will find a dearth of\nmerriment, an absence of real youthful enjoyment.  You might as well try\n\n    \u2018To move wild laughter in the throat of death\u2019\n\nas to excite any healthy stir among the bulk of this staid company.\n\nThe studious congregate about the doors of the different classes,\ndebating the matter of the lecture, or comparing note-books.  A reserved\nrivalry sunders them.  Here are some deep in Greek particles: there,\nothers are already inhabitants of that land\n\n    \u2018Where entity and quiddity,\n    \u2018Like ghosts of defunct bodies fly\u2014\n    Where Truth in person does appear\n    Like words congealed in northern air.\u2019\n\nBut none of them seem to find any relish for their studies\u2014no pedantic\nlove of this subject or that lights up their eyes\u2014science and learning\nare only means for a livelihood, which they have considerately embraced\nand which they solemnly pursue.  \u2018Labour\u2019s pale priests,\u2019 their lips seem\nincapable of laughter, except in the way of polite recognition of\nprofessorial wit.  The stains of ink are chronic on their meagre fingers.\nThey walk like Saul among the asses.\n\nThe dandies are not less subdued.  In 1824 there was a noisy dapper\ndandyism abroad.  Vulgar, as we should now think, but yet genial\u2014a matter\nof white greatcoats and loud voices\u2014strangely different from the stately\nfrippery that is rife at present.  These men are out of their element in\nthe quadrangle.  Even the small remains of boisterous humour, which still\nclings to any collection of young men, jars painfully on their morbid\nsensibilities; and they beat a hasty retreat to resume their perfunctory\nmarch along Princes Street.  Flirtation is to them a great social duty, a\npainful obligation, which they perform on every occasion in the same\nchill official manner, and with the same commonplace advances, the same\ndogged observance of traditional behaviour.  The shape of their raiment\nis a burden almost greater than they can bear, and they halt in their\nwalk to preserve the due adjustment of their trouser-knees, till one\nwould fancy he had mixed in a procession of Jacobs.  We speak, of course,\nfor ourselves; but we would as soon associate with a herd of sprightly\napes as with these gloomy modern beaux.  Alas, that our Mirabels, our\nValentines, even our Brummels, should have left their mantles upon\nnothing more amusing!\n\nNor are the fast men less constrained.  Solemnity, even in dissipation,\nis the order of the day; and they go to the devil with a perverse\nseriousness, a systematic rationalism of wickedness that would have\nsurprised the simpler sinners of old.  Some of these men whom we see\ngravely conversing on the steps have but a slender acquaintance with each\nother.  Their intercourse consists principally of mutual bulletins of\ndepravity; and, week after week, as they meet they reckon up their items\nof transgression, and give an abstract of their downward progress for\napproval and encouragement.  These folk form a freemasonry of their own.\nAn oath is the shibboleth of their sinister fellowship.  Once they hear a\nman swear, it is wonderful how their tongues loosen and their bashful\nspirits take enlargement, under the consciousness of brotherhood.  There\nis no folly, no pardoning warmth of temper about them; they are as\nsteady-going and systematic in their own way as the studious in theirs.\n\nNot that we are without merry men.  No.  We shall not be ungrateful to\nthose, whose grimaces, whose ironical laughter, whose active feet in the\n\u2018College Anthem\u2019 have beguiled so many weary hours and added a pleasant\nvariety to the strain of close attention.  But even these are too\nevidently professional in their antics.  They go about cogitating puns\nand inventing tricks.  It is their vocation, Hal.  They are the\ngratuitous jesters of the class-room; and, like the clown when he leaves\nthe stage, their merriment too often sinks as the bell rings the hour of\nliberty, and they pass forth by the Post-Office, grave and sedate, and\nmeditating fresh gambols for the morrow.\n\nThis is the impression left on the mind of any observing student by too\nmany of his fellows.  They seem all frigid old men; and one pauses to\nthink how such an unnatural state of matters is produced.  We feel\ninclined to blame for it the unfortunate absence of _University feeling_\nwhich is so marked a characteristic of our Edinburgh students.\nAcademical interests are so few and far between\u2014students, as students,\nhave so little in common, except a peevish rivalry\u2014there is such an\nentire want of broad college sympathies and ordinary college friendships,\nthat we fancy that no University in the kingdom is in so poor a plight.\nOur system is full of anomalies.  A, who cut B whilst he was a shabby\nstudent, curries sedulously up to him and cudgels his memory for\nanecdotes about him when he becomes the great so-and-so.  Let there be an\nend of this shy, proud reserve on the one hand, and this shuddering fine\nladyism on the other; and we think we shall find both ourselves and the\nCollege bettered.  Let it be a sufficient reason for intercourse that two\nmen sit together on the same benches.  Let the great A be held excused\nfor nodding to the shabby B in Princes Street, if he can say, \u2018That\nfellow is a student.\u2019  Once this could be brought about, we think you\nwould find the whole heart of the University beat faster.  We think you\nwould find a fusion among the students, a growth of common feelings, an\nincreasing sympathy between class and class, whose influence (in such a\nheterogeneous company as ours) might be of incalculable value in all\nbranches of politics and social progress.  It would do more than this.\nIf we could find some method of making the University a real mother to\nher sons\u2014something beyond a building of class-rooms, a Senatus and a\nlottery of somewhat shabby prizes\u2014we should strike a death-blow at the\nconstrained and unnatural attitude of our Society.  At present we are not\na united body, but a loose gathering of individuals, whose inherent\nattraction is allowed to condense them into little knots and coteries.\nOur last snowball riot read us a plain lesson on our condition.  There\nwas no party spirit\u2014no unity of interests.  A few, who were mischievously\ninclined, marched off to the College of Surgeons in a pretentious file;\nbut even before they reached their destination the feeble inspiration had\ndied out in many, and their numbers were sadly thinned.  Some followed\nstrange gods in the direction of Drummond Street, and others slunk back\nto meek good-boyism at the feet of the Professors.  The same is visible\nin better things.  As you send a man to an English University that he may\nhave his prejudices rubbed off, you might send him to Edinburgh that he\nmay have them ingrained\u2014rendered indelible\u2014fostered by sympathy into\nliving principles of his spirit.  And the reason of it is quite plain.\nFrom this absence of University feeling it comes that a man\u2019s friendships\nare always the direct and immediate results of these very prejudices.  A\ncommon weakness is the best master of ceremonies in our quadrangle: a\nmutual vice is the readiest introduction.  The studious associate with\nthe studious alone\u2014the dandies with the dandies.  There is nothing to\nforce them to rub shoulders with the others; and so they grow day by day\nmore wedded to their own original opinions and affections.  They see\nthrough the same spectacles continually.  All broad sentiments, all real\ncatholic humanity expires; and the mind gets gradually stiffened into one\nposition\u2014becomes so habituated to a contracted atmosphere, that it\nshudders and withers under the least draught of the free air that\ncirculates in the general field of mankind.\n\nSpecialism in Society then is, we think, one cause of our present state.\nSpecialism in study is another.  We doubt whether this has ever been a\ngood thing since the world began; but we are sure it is much worse now\nthan it was.  Formerly, when a man became a specialist, it was out of\naffection for his subject.  With a somewhat grand devotion he left all\nthe world of Science to follow his true love; and he contrived to find\nthat strange pedantic interest which inspired the man who\n\n    \u2018Settled _Hoti\u2019s_ business\u2014let it be\u2014\n       Properly based _Oun\u2014_\n    Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_,\n       Dead from the waist down.\u2019\n\nNowadays it is quite different.  Our pedantry wants even the saving\nclause of Enthusiasm.  The election is now matter of necessity and not of\nchoice.  Knowledge is now too broad a field for your Jack-of-all-Trades;\nand, from beautifully utilitarian reasons, he makes his choice, draws his\npen through a dozen branches of study, and behold\u2014John the Specialist.\nThat this is the way to be wealthy we shall not deny; but we hold that it\nis _not_ the way to be healthy or wise.  The whole mind becomes narrowed\nand circumscribed to one \u2018punctual spot\u2019 of knowledge.  A rank unhealthy\nsoil breeds a harvest of prejudices.  Feeling himself above others in his\none little branch\u2014in the classification of toadstools, or Carthaginian\nhistory\u2014he waxes great in his own eyes and looks down on others.  Having\nall his sympathies educated in one way, they die out in every other; and\nhe is apt to remain a peevish, narrow, and intolerant bigot.  Dilettante\nis now a term of reproach; but there is a certain form of dilettantism to\nwhich no one can object.  It is this that we want among our students.  We\nwish them to abandon no subject until they have seen and felt its\nmerit\u2014to act under a general interest in all branches of knowledge, not a\ncommercial eagerness to excel in one.\n\nIn both these directions our sympathies are constipated.  We are apostles\nof our own caste and our own subject of study, instead of being, as we\nshould, true men and _loving_ students.  Of course both of these could be\ncorrected by the students themselves; but this is nothing to the purpose:\nit is more important to ask whether the Senatus or the body of alumni\ncould do nothing towards the growth of better feeling and wider\nsentiments.  Perhaps in another paper we may say something upon this\nhead.\n\nOne other word, however, before we have done.  What shall we be when we\ngrow really old?  Of yore, a man was thought to lay on restrictions and\nacquire new deadweight of mournful experience with every year, till he\nlooked back on his youth as the very summer of impulse and freedom.  We\nplease ourselves with thinking that it cannot be so with us.  We would\nfain hope that, as we have begun in one way, we may end in another; and\nthat when we are in fact the octogenarians that we _seem_ at present,\nthere shall be no merrier men on earth.  It is pleasant to picture us,\nsunning ourselves in Princes Street of a morning, or chirping over our\nevening cups, with all the merriment that we wanted in youth.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\u2014DEBATING SOCIETIES\n\n\nA debating society is at first somewhat of a disappointment.  You do not\noften find the youthful Demosthenes chewing his pebbles in the same room\nwith you; or, even if you do, you will probably think the performance\nlittle to be admired.  As a general rule, the members speak shamefully\nill.  The subjects of debate are heavy; and so are the fines.  The Ballot\nQuestion\u2014oldest of dialectic nightmares\u2014is often found astride of a\nsomnolent sederunt.  The Greeks and Romans, too, are reserved as sort of\n_general-utility_ men, to do all the dirty work of illustration; and they\nfill as many functions as the famous waterfall scene at the \u2018Princess\u2019s,\u2019\nwhich I found doing duty on one evening as a gorge in Peru, a haunt of\nGerman robbers, and a peaceful vale in the Scottish borders.  There is a\nsad absence of striking argument or real lively discussion.  Indeed, you\nfeel a growing contempt for your fellow-members; and it is not until you\nrise yourself to hawk and hesitate and sit shamefully down again, amid\neleemosynary applause, that you begin to find your level and value others\nrightly.  Even then, even when failure has damped your critical ardour,\nyou will see many things to be laughed at in the deportment of your\nrivals.\n\nMost laughable, perhaps, are your indefatigable strivers after eloquence.\nThey are of those who \u2018pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope,\u2019 and\nwho, since they expect that \u2018the deficiencies of last sentence will be\nsupplied by the next,\u2019 have been recommended by Dr. Samuel Johnson to\n\u2018attend to the History of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.\u2019  They are\ncharacterised by a hectic hopefulness.  Nothing damps them.  They rise\nfrom the ruins of one abortive sentence, to launch forth into another\nwith unabated vigour.  They have all the manner of an orator.  From the\ntone of their voice, you would expect a splendid period\u2014and lo! a string\nof broken-backed, disjointed clauses, eked out with stammerings and\nthroat-clearings.  They possess the art (learned from the pulpit) of\nrounding an uneuphonious sentence by dwelling on a single syllable\u2014of\nstriking a balance in a top-heavy period by lengthening out a word into a\nmelancholy quaver.  Withal, they never cease to hope.  Even at last, even\nwhen they have exhausted all their ideas, even after the would-be\nperoration has finally refused to perorate, they remain upon their feet\nwith their mouths open, waiting for some further inspiration, like\nChaucer\u2019s widow\u2019s son in the dung-hole, after\n\n    \u2018His throat was kit unto the nekk\u00e9 bone,\u2019\n\nin vain expectation of that seed that was to be laid upon his tongue, and\ngive him renewed and clearer utterance.\n\nThese men may have something to say, if they could only say it\u2014indeed\nthey generally have; but the next class are people who, having nothing to\nsay, are cursed with a facility and an unhappy command of words, that\nmakes them the prime nuisances of the society they affect.  They try to\ncover their absence of matter by an unwholesome vitality of delivery.\nThey look triumphantly round the room, as if courting applause, after a\ntorrent of diluted truism.  They talk in a circle, harping on the same\ndull round of argument, and returning again and again to the same remark\nwith the same sprightliness, the same irritating appearance of novelty.\n\nAfter this set, any one is tolerable; so we shall merely hint at a few\nother varieties.  There is your man who is pre-eminently conscientious,\nwhose face beams with sincerity as he opens on the negative, and who\nvotes on the affirmative at the end, looking round the room with an air\nof chastened pride.  There is also the irrelevant speaker, who rises,\nemits a joke or two, and then sits down again, without ever attempting to\ntackle the subject of debate.  Again, we have men who ride pick-a-back on\ntheir family reputation, or, if their family have none, identify\nthemselves with some well-known statesman, use his opinions, and lend him\ntheir patronage on all occasions.  This is a dangerous plan, and serves\noftener, I am afraid, to point a difference than to adorn a speech.\n\nBut alas! a striking failure may be reached without tempting Providence\nby any of these ambitious tricks.  Our own stature will be found high\nenough for shame.  The success of three simple sentences lures us into a\nfatal parenthesis in the fourth, from whose shut brackets we may never\ndisentangle the thread of our discourse.  A momentary flush tempts us\ninto a quotation; and we may be left helpless in the middle of one of\nPope\u2019s couplets, a white film gathering before our eyes, and our kind\nfriends charitably trying to cover our disgrace by a feeble round of\napplause.  _Amis lecteurs_, this is a painful topic.  It is possible that\nwe too, we, the \u2018potent, grave, and reverend\u2019 editor, may have suffered\nthese things, and drunk as deep as any of the cup of shameful failure.\nLet us dwell no longer on so delicate a subject.\n\nIn spite, however, of these disagreeables, I should recommend any student\nto suffer them with Spartan courage, as the benefits he receives should\nrepay him an hundredfold for them all.  The life of the debating society\nis a handy antidote to the life of the classroom and quadrangle.  Nothing\ncould be conceived more excellent as a weapon against many of those\n_peccant humours_ that we have been railing against in the jeremiad of\nour last \u2018College Paper\u2019\u2014particularly in the field of intellect.  It is a\nsad sight to see our heather-scented students, our boys of seventeen,\ncoming up to College with determined views\u2014_rou\u00e9s_ in speculation\u2014having\ngauged the vanity of philosophy or learned to shun it as the middle-man\nof heresy\u2014a company of determined, deliberate opinionists, not to be\nmoved by all the sleights of logic.  What have such men to do with study?\nIf their minds are made up irrevocably, why burn the \u2018studious lamp\u2019 in\nsearch of further confirmation?  Every set opinion I hear a student\ndeliver I feel a certain lowering of my regard.  He who studies, he who\nis yet employed in groping for his premises, should keep his mind fluent\nand sensitive, keen to mark flaws, and willing to surrender untenable\npositions.  He should keep himself teachable, or cease the expensive\nfarce of being taught.  It is to further this docile spirit that we\ndesire to press the claims of debating societies.  It is as a means of\nmelting down this museum of premature petrifactions into living and\nimpressionable soul that we insist on their utility.  If we could once\nprevail on our students to feel no shame in avowing an uncertain attitude\ntowards any subject, if we could teach them that it was unnecessary for\nevery lad to have his _opinionette_ on every topic, we should have gone a\nfar way towards bracing the intellectual tone of the coming race of\nthinkers; and this it is which debating societies are so well fitted to\nperform.\n\nWe there meet people of every shade of opinion, and make friends with\nthem.  We are taught to rail against a man the whole session through, and\nthen hob-a-nob with him at the concluding entertainment.  We find men of\ntalent far exceeding our own, whose conclusions are widely different from\nours; and we are thus taught to distrust ourselves.  But the best means\nof all towards catholicity is that wholesome rule which some folk are\nmost inclined to condemn\u2014I mean the law of _obliged speeches_.  Your\nsenior member commands; and you must take the affirmative or the\nnegative, just as suits his best convenience.  This tends to the most\nperfect liberality.  It is no good hearing the arguments of an opponent,\nfor in good verity you rarely follow them; and even if you do take the\ntrouble to listen, it is merely in a captious search for weaknesses.\nThis is proved, I fear, in every debate; when you hear each speaker\narguing out his own prepared _sp\u00e9cialit\u00e9_ (he never intended speaking, of\ncourse, until some remarks of, etc.), arguing out, I say, his own\n_coached-up_ subject without the least attention to what has gone before,\nas utterly at sea about the drift of his adversary\u2019s speech as Panurge\nwhen he argued with Thaumaste, and merely linking his own prelection to\nthe last by a few flippant criticisms.  Now, as the rule stands, you are\nsaddled with the side you disapprove, and so you are forced, by regard\nfor your own fame, to argue out, to feel with, to elaborate completely,\nthe case as it stands against yourself; and what a fund of wisdom do you\nnot turn up in this idle digging of the vineyard!  How many new\ndifficulties take form before your eyes? how many superannuated arguments\ncripple finally into limbo, under the glance of your enforced\neclecticism!\n\nNor is this the only merit of Debating Societies.  They tend also to\nfoster taste, and to promote friendship between University men.  This\nlast, as we have had occasion before to say, is the great requirement of\nour student life; and it will therefore be no waste of time if we devote\na paragraph to this subject in its connection with Debating Societies.\nAt present they partake too much of the nature of a _clique_.  Friends\npropose friends, and mutual friends second them, until the society\ndegenerates into a sort of family party.  You may confirm old\nacquaintances, but you can rarely make new ones.  You find yourself in\nthe atmosphere of your own daily intercourse.  Now, this is an\nunfortunate circumstance, which it seems to me might readily be\nrectified.  Our Principal has shown himself so friendly towards all\nCollege improvements that I cherish the hope of seeing shortly realised a\ncertain suggestion, which is not a new one with me, and which must often\nhave been proposed and canvassed heretofore\u2014I mean, a real _University\nDebating Society_, patronised by the Senatus, presided over by the\nProfessors, to which every one might gain ready admittance on sight of\nhis matriculation ticket, where it would be a favour and not a necessity\nto speak, and where the obscure student might have another object for\nattendance besides the mere desire to save his fines: to wit, the chance\nof drawing on himself the favourable consideration of his teachers.  This\nwould be merely following in the good tendency, which has been so\nnoticeable during all this session, to increase and multiply student\nsocieties and clubs of every sort.  Nor would it be a matter of much\ndifficulty.  The united societies would form a nucleus: one of the\nclass-rooms at first, and perhaps afterwards the great hall above the\nlibrary, might be the place of meeting.  There would be no want of\nattendance or enthusiasm, I am sure; for it is a very different thing to\nspeak under the bushel of a private club on the one hand, and, on the\nother, in a public place, where a happy period or a subtle argument may\ndo the speaker permanent service in after life.  Such a club might end,\nperhaps, by rivalling the \u2018Union\u2019 at Cambridge or the \u2018Union\u2019 at Oxford.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\u2014THE PHILOSOPHY OF UMBRELLAS {151}\n\n\nIt is wonderful to think what a turn has been given to our whole Society\nby the fact that we live under the sign of Aquarius\u2014that our climate is\nessentially wet.  A mere arbitrary distinction, like the walking-swords\nof yore, might have remained the symbol of foresight and respectability,\nhad not the raw mists and dropping showers of our island pointed the\ninclination of Society to another exponent of those virtues.  A ribbon of\nthe Legion of Honour or a string of medals may prove a person\u2019s courage;\na title may prove his birth; a professorial chair his study and\nacquirement; but it is the habitual carriage of the umbrella that is the\nstamp of Respectability.  The umbrella has become the acknowledged index\nof social position.\n\nRobinson Crusoe presents us with a touching instance of the hankering\nafter them inherent in the civilised and educated mind.  To the\nsuperficial, the hot suns of Juan Fernandez may sufficiently account for\nhis quaint choice of a luxury; but surely one who had borne the hard\nlabour of a seaman under the tropics for all these years could have\nsupported an excursion after goats or a peaceful _constitutional_ arm in\narm with the nude Friday.  No, it was not this: the memory of a vanished\nrespectability called for some outward manifestation, and the result\nwas\u2014an umbrella.  A pious castaway might have rigged up a belfry and\nsolaced his Sunday mornings with the mimicry of church-bells; but Crusoe\nwas rather a moralist than a pietist, and his leaf-umbrella is as fine an\nexample of the civilised mind striving to express itself under adverse\ncircumstances as we have ever met with.\n\nIt is not for nothing, either, that the umbrella has become the very\nforemost badge of modern civilisation\u2014the Urim and Thummim of\nrespectability.  Its pregnant symbolism has taken its rise in the most\nnatural manner.  Consider, for a moment, when umbrellas were first\nintroduced into this country, what manner of men would use them, and what\nclass would adhere to the useless but ornamental cane.  The first,\nwithout doubt, would be the hypochondriacal, out of solicitude for their\nhealth, or the frugal, out of care for their raiment; the second, it is\nequally plain, would include the fop, the fool, and the Bobadil.  Any one\nacquainted with the growth of Society, and knowing out of what small\nseeds of cause are produced great revolutions, and wholly new conditions\nof intercourse, sees from this simple thought how the carriage of an\numbrella came to indicate frugality, judicious regard for bodily welfare,\nand scorn for mere outward adornment, and, in one word, all those homely\nand solid virtues implied in the term RESPECTABILITY.  Not that the\numbrella\u2019s costliness has nothing to do with its great influence.  Its\npossession, besides symbolising (as we have already indicated) the change\nfrom wild Esau to plain Jacob dwelling in tents, implies a certain\ncomfortable provision of fortune.  It is not every one that can expose\ntwenty-six shillings\u2019 worth of property to so many chances of loss and\ntheft.  So strongly do we feel on this point, indeed, that we are almost\ninclined to consider all who possess really well-conditioned umbrellas as\nworthy of the Franchise.  They have a qualification standing in their\nlobbies; they carry a sufficient stake in the common-weal below their\narm.  One who bears with him an umbrella\u2014such a complicated structure of\nwhalebone, of silk, and of cane, that it becomes a very microcosm of\nmodern industry\u2014is necessarily a man of peace.  A half-crown cane may be\napplied to an offender\u2019s head on a very moderate provocation; but a\nsix-and-twenty shilling silk is a possession too precious to be\nadventured in the shock of war.\n\nThese are but a few glances at how umbrellas (in the general) came to\ntheir present high estate.  But the true Umbrella-Philosopher meets with\nfar stranger applications as he goes about the streets.\n\nUmbrellas, like faces, acquire a certain sympathy with the individual who\ncarries them: indeed, they are far more capable of betraying his trust;\nfor whereas a face is given to us so far ready made, and all our power\nover it is in frowning, and laughing, and grimacing, during the first\nthree or four decades of life, each umbrella is selected from a whole\nshopful, as being most consonant to the purchaser\u2019s disposition.  An\nundoubted power of diagnosis rests with the practised\nUmbrella-Philosopher.  O you who lisp, and amble, and change the fashion\nof your countenances\u2014you who conceal all these, how little do you think\nthat you left a proof of your weakness in our umbrella-stand\u2014that even\nnow, as you shake out the folds to meet the thickening snow, we read in\nits ivory handle the outward and visible sign of your snobbery, or from\nthe exposed gingham of its cover detect, through coat and waistcoat, the\nhidden hypocrisy of the \u2018_dickey_\u2019!  But alas! even the umbrella is no\ncertain criterion.  The falsity and the folly of the human race have\ndegraded that graceful symbol to the ends of dishonesty; and while some\numbrellas, from carelessness in selection, are not strikingly\ncharacteristic (for it is only in what a man loves that he displays his\nreal nature), others, from certain prudential motives, are chosen\ndirectly opposite to the person\u2019s disposition.  A mendacious umbrella is\na sign of great moral degradation.  Hypocrisy naturally shelters itself\nbelow a silk; while the fast youth goes to visit his religious friends\narmed with the decent and reputable gingham.  May it not be said of the\nbearers of these inappropriate umbrellas that they go about the streets\n\u2018with a lie in their right hand\u2019?\n\nThe kings of Siam, as we read, besides having a graduated social scale of\numbrellas (which was a good thing), prevented the great bulk of their\nsubjects from having any at all, which was certainly a bad thing.  We\nshould be sorry to believe that this Eastern legislator was a fool\u2014the\nidea of an aristocracy of umbrellas is too philosophic to have originated\nin a nobody\u2014and we have accordingly taken exceeding pains to find out the\nreason of this harsh restriction.  We think we have succeeded; but, while\nadmiring the principle at which he aimed, and while cordially recognising\nin the Siamese potentate the only man before ourselves who had taken a\nreal grasp of the umbrella, we must be allowed to point out how\nunphilosophically the great man acted in this particular.  His object,\nplainly, was to prevent any unworthy persons from bearing the sacred\nsymbol of domestic virtues.  We cannot excuse his limiting these virtues\nto the circle of his court.  We must only remember that such was the\nfeeling of the age in which he lived.  Liberalism had not yet raised the\nwar-cry of the working classes.  But here was his mistake: it was a\nneedless regulation.  Except in a very few cases of hypocrisy joined to a\npowerful intellect, men, not by nature _umbrellarians_, have tried again\nand again to become so by art, and yet have failed\u2014have expended their\npatrimony in the purchase of umbrella after umbrella, and yet have\nsystematically lost them, and have finally, with contrite spirits and\nshrunken purses, given up their vain struggle, and relied on theft and\nborrowing for the remainder of their lives.  This is the most remarkable\nfact that we have had occasion to notice; and yet we challenge the candid\nreader to call it in question.  Now, as there cannot be any _moral\nselection_ in a mere dead piece of furniture\u2014as the umbrella cannot be\nsupposed to have an affinity for individual men equal and reciprocal to\nthat which men certainly feel toward individual umbrellas\u2014we took the\ntrouble of consulting a scientific friend as to whether there was any\npossible physical explanation of the phenomenon.  He was unable to supply\na plausible theory, or even hypothesis; but we extract from his letter\nthe following interesting passage relative to the physical peculiarities\nof umbrellas: \u2018Not the least important, and by far the most curious\nproperty of the umbrella, is the energy which it displays in affecting\nthe atmospheric strata.  There is no fact in meteorology better\nestablished\u2014indeed, it is almost the only one on which meteorologists are\nagreed\u2014than that the carriage of an umbrella produces desiccation of the\nair; while if it be left at home, aqueous vapour is largely produced, and\nis soon deposited in the form of rain.  No theory,\u2019 my friend continues,\n\u2018competent to explain this hygrometric law has been given (as far as I am\naware) by Herschel, Dove, Glaisher, Tait, Buchan, or any other writer;\nnor do I pretend to supply the defect.  I venture, however, to throw out\nthe conjecture that it will be ultimately found to belong to the same\nclass of natural laws as that agreeable to which a slice of toast always\ndescends with the buttered surface downwards.\u2019\n\nBut it is time to draw to a close.  We could expatiate much longer upon\nthis topic, but want of space constrains us to leave unfinished these few\ndesultory remarks\u2014slender contributions towards a subject which has\nfallen sadly backward, and which, we grieve to say, was better understood\nby the king of Siam in 1686 than by all the philosophers of to-day.  If,\nhowever, we have awakened in any rational mind an interest in the\nsymbolism of umbrellas\u2014in any generous heart a more complete sympathy\nwith the dumb companion of his daily walk\u2014or in any grasping spirit a\npure notion of respectability strong enough to make him expend his\nsix-and-twenty shillings\u2014we shall have deserved well of the world, to say\nnothing of the many industrious persons employed in the manufacture of\nthe article.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\u2014THE PHILOSOPHY OF NOMENCLATURE\n\n\n    \u2018How many C\u00e6sars and Pompeys, by mere inspirations of the names, have\n    been rendered worthy of them?  And how many are there, who might have\n    done exceeding well in the world, had not their characters and\n    spirits been totally depressed and Nicodemus\u2019d into\n    nothing?\u2019\u2014_Tristram Shandy_, vol. I. chap xix.\n\nSuch were the views of the late Walter Shandy, Esq., Turkey merchant.  To\nthe best of my belief, Mr. Shandy is the first who fairly pointed out the\nincalculable influence of nomenclature upon the whole life\u2014who seems\nfirst to have recognised the one child, happy in an heroic appellation,\nsoaring upwards on the wings of fortune, and the other, like the dead\nsailor in his shotted hammock, haled down by sheer weight of name into\nthe abysses of social failure.  Solomon possibly had his eye on some such\ntheory when he said that \u2018a good name is better than precious ointment\u2019;\nand perhaps we may trace a similar spirit in the compilers of the English\nCatechism, and the affectionate interest with which they linger round the\ncatechumen\u2019s name at the very threshold of their work.  But, be these as\nthey may, I think no one can censure me for appending, in pursuance of\nthe expressed wish of his son, the Turkey merchant\u2019s name to his system,\nand pronouncing, without further preface, a short epitome of the\n\u2018Shandean Philosophy of Nomenclature.\u2019\n\nTo begin, then: the influence of our name makes itself felt from the very\ncradle.  As a schoolboy I remember the pride with which I hailed Robin\nHood, Robert Bruce, and Robert le Diable as my name-fellows; and the\nfeeling of sore disappointment that fell on my heart when I found a\nfreebooter or a general who did not share with me a single one of my\nnumerous _pr\u00e6nomina_.  Look at the delight with which two children find\nthey have the same name.  They are friends from that moment forth; they\nhave a bond of union stronger than exchange of nuts and sweetmeats.  This\nfeeling, I own, wears off in later life.  Our names lose their freshness\nand interest, become trite and indifferent.  But this, dear reader, is\nmerely one of the sad effects of those \u2018shades of the prison-house\u2019 which\ncome gradually betwixt us and nature with advancing years; it affords no\nweapon against the philosophy of names.\n\nIn after life, although we fail to trace its working, that name which\ncareless godfathers lightly applied to your unconscious infancy will have\nbeen moulding your character, and influencing with irresistible power the\nwhole course of your earthly fortunes.  But the last name, overlooked by\nMr. Shandy, is no whit less important as a condition of success.  Family\nnames, we must recollect, are but inherited nicknames; and if the\n_sobriquet_ were applicable to the ancestor, it is most likely applicable\nto the descendant also.  You would not expect to find Mr. M\u2018Phun acting\nas a mute, or Mr. M\u2018Lumpha excelling as a professor of dancing.\nTherefore, in what follows, we shall consider names, independent of\nwhether they are first or last.  And to begin with, look what a pull\n_Cromwell_ had over _Pym_\u2014the one name full of a resonant imperialism,\nthe other, mean, pettifogging, and unheroic to a degree.  Who would\nexpect eloquence from _Pym_\u2014who would read poems by _Pym_\u2014who would bow\nto the opinion of _Pym_?  He might have been a dentist, but he should\nnever have aspired to be a statesman.  I can only wonder that he\nsucceeded as he did.  Pym and Habakkuk stand first upon the roll of men\nwho have triumphed, by sheer force of genius, over the most unfavourable\nappellations.  But even these have suffered; and, had they been more\nfitly named, the one might have been Lord Protector, and the other have\nshared the laurels with Isaiah.  In this matter we must not forget that\nall our great poets have borne great names.  Chaucer, Spenser,\nShakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Shelley\u2014what a constellation of\nlordly words!  Not a single common-place name among them\u2014not a Brown, not\na Jones, not a Robinson; they are all names that one would stop and look\nat on a door-plate.  Now, imagine if _Pepys_ had tried to clamber somehow\ninto the enclosure of poetry, what a blot would that word have made upon\nthe list!  The thing was impossible.  In the first place a certain\nnatural consciousness that men would have held him down to the level of\nhis name, would have prevented him from rising above the Pepsine\nstandard, and so haply withheld him altogether from attempting verse.\nNext, the booksellers would refuse to publish, and the world to read\nthem, on the mere evidence of the fatal appellation.  And now, before I\nclose this section, I must say one word as to _punnable_ names, names\nthat stand alone, that have a significance and life apart from him that\nbears them.  These are the bitterest of all.  One friend of mine goes\nbowed and humbled through life under the weight of this misfortune; for\nit is an awful thing when a man\u2019s name is a joke, when he cannot be\nmentioned without exciting merriment, and when even the intimation of his\ndeath bids fair to carry laughter into many a home.\n\nSo much for people who are badly named.  Now for people who are _too_\nwell named, who go top-heavy from the font, who are baptized into a false\nposition, and find themselves beginning life eclipsed under the fame of\nsome of the great ones of the past.  A man, for instance, called William\nShakespeare could never dare to write plays.  He is thrown into too\nhumbling an apposition with the author of _Hamlet_.  Its own name coming\nafter is such an anti-climax.  \u2018The plays of William Shakespeare\u2019? says\nthe reader\u2014\u2018O no!  The plays of William Shakespeare Cockerill,\u2019 and he\nthrows the book aside.  In wise pursuance of such views, Mr. John Milton\nHengler, who not long since delighted us in this favoured town, has never\nattempted to write an epic, but has chosen a new path, and has excelled\nupon the tight-rope.  A marked example of triumph over this is the case\nof Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti.  On the face of the matter, I should have\nadvised him to imitate the pleasing modesty of the last-named gentleman,\nand confine his ambition to the sawdust.  But Mr. Rossetti has triumphed.\nHe has even dared to translate from his mighty name-father; and the voice\nof fame supports him in his boldness.\n\nDear readers, one might write a year upon this matter.  A lifetime of\ncomparison and research could scarce suffice for its elucidation.  So\nhere, if it please you, we shall let it rest.  Slight as these notes have\nbeen, I would that the great founder of the system had been alive to see\nthem.  How he had warmed and brightened, how his persuasive eloquence\nwould have fallen on the ears of Toby; and what a letter of praise and\nsympathy would not the editor have received before the month was out!\nAlas, the thing was not to be.  Walter Shandy died and was duly buried,\nwhile yet his theory lay forgotten and neglected by his\nfellow-countrymen.  But, reader, the day will come, I hope, when a\npaternal government will stamp out, as seeds of national weakness, all\ndepressing patronymics, and when godfathers and godmothers will soberly\nand earnestly debate the interest of the nameless one, and not rush\nblindfold to the christening.  In these days there shall be written a\n\u2018Godfather\u2019s Assistant,\u2019 in shape of a dictionary of names, with their\nconcomitant virtues and vices; and this book shall be scattered broadcast\nthrough the land, and shall be on the table of every one eligible for\ngodfathership, until such a thing as a vicious or untoward appellation\nshall have ceased from off the face of the earth.\n\n\n\n\nCRITICISMS\n\n\nCHAPTER I\u2014LORD LYTTON\u2019S \u2018FABLES IN SONG\u2019\n\n\nIt seems as if Lord Lytton, in this new book of his, had found the form\nmost natural to his talent.  In some ways, indeed, it may be held\ninferior to _Chronicles and Characters_; we look in vain for anything\nlike the terrible intensity of the night-scene in _Irene_, or for any\nsuch passages of massive and memorable writing as appeared, here and\nthere, in the earlier work, and made it not altogether unworthy of its\nmodel, Hugo\u2019s _Legend of the Ages_.  But it becomes evident, on the most\nhasty retrospect, that this earlier work was a step on the way towards\nthe later.  It seems as if the author had been feeling about for his\ndefinite medium, and was already, in the language of the child\u2019s game,\ngrowing hot.  There are many pieces in _Chronicles and Characters_ that\nmight be detached from their original setting, and embodied, as they\nstand, among the _Fables in Song_.\n\nFor the term Fable is not very easy to define rigorously.  In the most\ntypical form some moral precept is set forth by means of a conception\npurely fantastic, and usually somewhat trivial into the bargain; there is\nsomething playful about it, that will not support a very exacting\ncriticism, and the lesson must be apprehended by the fancy at half a\nhint.  Such is the great mass of the old stories of wise animals or\nfoolish men that have amused our childhood.  But we should expect the\nfable, in company with other and more important literary forms, to be\nmore and more loosely, or at least largely, comprehended as time went on,\nand so to degenerate in conception from this original type.  That\ndepended for much of its piquancy on the very fact that it was fantastic:\nthe point of the thing lay in a sort of humorous inappropriateness; and\nit is natural enough that pleasantry of this description should become\nless common, as men learn to suspect some serious analogy underneath.\nThus a comical story of an ape touches us quite differently after the\nproposition of Mr. Darwin\u2019s theory.  Moreover, there lay, perhaps, at the\nbottom of this primitive sort of fable, a humanity, a tenderness of rough\ntruths; so that at the end of some story, in which vice or folly had met\nwith its destined punishment, the fabulist might be able to assure his\nauditors, as we have often to assure tearful children on the like\noccasions, that they may dry their eyes, for none of it was true.\n\nBut this benefit of fiction becomes lost with more sophisticated hearers\nand authors: a man is no longer the dupe of his own artifice, and cannot\ndeal playfully with truths that are a matter of bitter concern to him in\nhis life.  And hence, in the progressive centralisation of modern\nthought, we should expect the old form of fable to fall gradually into\ndesuetude, and be gradually succeeded by another, which is a fable in all\npoints except that it is not altogether fabulous.  And this new form,\nsuch as we should expect, and such as we do indeed find, still presents\nthe essential character of brevity; as in any other fable also, there is,\nunderlying and animating the brief action, a moral idea; and as in any\nother fable, the object is to bring this home to the reader through the\nintellect rather than through the feelings; so that, without being very\ndeeply moved or interested by the characters of the piece, we should\nrecognise vividly the hinges on which the little plot revolves.  But the\nfabulist now seeks analogies where before he merely sought humorous\nsituations.  There will be now a logical nexus between the moral\nexpressed and the machinery employed to express it.  The machinery, in\nfact, as this change is developed, becomes less and less fabulous.  We\nfind ourselves in presence of quite a serious, if quite a miniature\ndivision of creative literature; and sometimes we have the lesson\nembodied in a sober, everyday narration, as in the parables of the New\nTestament, and sometimes merely the statement or, at most, the\ncollocation of significant facts in life, the reader being left to\nresolve for himself the vague, troublesome, and not yet definitely moral\nsentiment which has been thus created.  And step by step with the\ndevelopment of this change, yet another is developed: the moral tends to\nbecome more indeterminate and large.  It ceases to be possible to append\nit, in a tag, to the bottom of the piece, as one might write the name\nbelow a caricature; and the fable begins to take rank with all other\nforms of creative literature, as something too ambitious, in spite of its\nminiature dimensions, to be resumed in any succinct formula without the\nloss of all that is deepest and most suggestive in it.\n\nNow it is in this widest sense that Lord Lytton understands the term;\nthere are examples in his two pleasant volumes of all the forms already\nmentioned, and even of another which can only be admitted among fables by\nthe utmost possible leniency of construction.  \u2018Composure,\u2019 \u2018Et C\u00e6tera,\u2019\nand several more, are merely similes poetically elaborated.  So, too, is\nthe pathetic story of the grandfather and grandchild: the child, having\ntreasured away an icicle and forgotten it for ten minutes, comes back to\nfind it already nearly melted, and no longer beautiful: at the same time,\nthe grandfather has just remembered and taken out a bundle of\nlove-letters, which he too had stored away in years gone by, and then\nlong neglected; and, behold! the letters are as faded and sorrowfully\ndisappointing as the icicle.  This is merely a simile poetically worked\nout; and yet it is in such as these, and some others, to be mentioned\nfurther on, that the author seems at his best.  Wherever he has really\nwritten after the old model, there is something to be deprecated: in\nspite of all the spirit and freshness, in spite of his happy assumption\nof that cheerful acceptation of things as they are, which, rightly or\nwrongly, we come to attribute to the ideal fabulist, there is ever a\nsense as of something a little out of place.  A form of literature so\nvery innocent and primitive looks a little over-written in Lord Lytton\u2019s\nconscious and highly-coloured style.  It may be bad taste, but sometimes\nwe should prefer a few sentences of plain prose narration, and a little\nBewick by way of tail-piece.  So that it is not among those fables that\nconform most nearly to the old model, but one had nearly said among those\nthat most widely differ from it, that we find the most satisfactory\nexamples of the author\u2019s manner.\n\nIn the mere matter of ingenuity, the metaphysical fables are the most\nremarkable; such as that of the windmill who imagined that it was he who\nraised the wind; or that of the grocer\u2019s balance (\u2018Cogito ergo sum\u2019) who\nconsidered himself endowed with free-will, reason, and an infallible\npractical judgment; until, one fine day, the police made a descent upon\nthe shop, and find the weights false and the scales unequal; and the\nwhole thing is broken up for old iron.  Capital fables, also, in the same\nironical spirit, are \u2018Prometheus Unbound,\u2019 the tale of the vainglorying\nof a champagne-cork, and \u2018Teleology,\u2019 where a nettle justifies the ways\nof God to nettles while all goes well with it, and, upon a change of\nluck, promptly changes its divinity.\n\nIn all these there is still plenty of the fabulous if you will, although,\neven here, there may be two opinions possible; but there is another\ngroup, of an order of merit perhaps still higher, where we look in vain\nfor any such playful liberties with Nature.  Thus we have \u2018Conservation\nof Force\u2019; where a musician, thinking of a certain picture, improvises in\nthe twilight; a poet, hearing the music, goes home inspired, and writes a\npoem; and then a painter, under the influence of this poem, paints\nanother picture, thus lineally descended from the first.  This is\nfiction, but not what we have been used to call fable.  We miss the\nincredible element, the point of audacity with which the fabulist was\nwont to mock at his readers.  And still more so is this the case with\nothers.  \u2018The Horse and the Fly\u2019 states one of the unanswerable problems\nof life in quite a realistic and straightforward way.  A fly startles a\ncab-horse, the coach is overset; a newly-married pair within and the\ndriver, a man with a wife and family, are all killed.  The horse\ncontinues to gallop off in the loose traces, and ends the tragedy by\nrunning over an only child; and there is some little pathetic detail here\nintroduced in the telling, that makes the reader\u2019s indignation very\nwhite-hot against some one.  It remains to be seen who that some one is\nto be: the fly?  Nay, but on closer inspection, it appears that the fly,\nactuated by maternal instinct, was only seeking a place for her eggs: is\nmaternal instinct, then, \u2018sole author of these mischiefs all\u2019?  \u2018Who\u2019s in\nthe Right?\u2019 one of the best fables in the book, is somewhat in the same\nvein.  After a battle has been won, a group of officers assemble inside a\nbattery, and debate together who should have the honour of the success;\nthe Prince, the general staff, the cavalry, the engineer who posted the\nbattery in which they then stand talking, are successively named: the\nsergeant, who pointed the guns, sneers to himself at the mention of the\nengineer; and, close by, the gunner, who had applied the match, passes\naway with a smile of triumph, since it was through his hand that the\nvictorious blow had been dealt.  Meanwhile, the cannon claims the honour\nover the gunner; the cannon-ball, who actually goes forth on the dread\nmission, claims it over the cannon, who remains idly behind; the powder\nreminds the cannon-ball that, but for him, it would still be lying on the\narsenal floor; and the match caps the discussion; powder, cannon-ball,\nand cannon would be all equally vain and ineffectual without fire.  Just\nthen there comes on a shower of rain, which wets the powder and puts out\nthe match, and completes this lesson of dependence, by indicating the\nnegative conditions which are as necessary for any effect, in their\nabsence, as is the presence of this great fraternity of positive\nconditions, not any one of which can claim priority over any other.  But\nthe fable does not end here, as perhaps, in all logical strictness, it\nshould.  It wanders off into a discussion as to which is the truer\ngreatness, that of the vanquished fire or that of the victorious rain.\nAnd the speech of the rain is charming:\n\n    \u2018Lo, with my little drops I bless again\n    And beautify the fields which thou didst blast!\n    Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt,\n    But call not Greatness what the Gods call Guilt.\n    Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt,\n    And poppied corn, I bring.\n    \u2018Mid mouldering Babels, to oblivion built,\n    My violets spring.\n    Little by little my small drops have strength\n    To deck with green delights the grateful earth.\u2019\n\nAnd so forth, not quite germane (it seems to me) to the matter in hand,\nbut welcome for its own sake.\n\nBest of all are the fables that deal more immediately with the emotions.\nThere is, for instance, that of \u2018The Two Travellers,\u2019 which is profoundly\nmoving in conception, although by no means as well written as some\nothers.  In this, one of the two, fearfully frost-bitten, saves his life\nout of the snow at the cost of all that was comely in his body; just as,\nlong before, the other, who has now quietly resigned himself to death,\nhad violently freed himself from Love at the cost of all that was finest\nand fairest in his character.  Very graceful and sweet is the fable (if\nso it should be called) in which the author sings the praises of that\n\u2018kindly perspective,\u2019 which lets a wheat-stalk near the eye cover twenty\nleagues of distant country, and makes the humble circle about a man\u2019s\nhearth more to him than all the possibilities of the external world.  The\ncompanion fable to this is also excellent.  It tells us of a man who had,\nall his life through, entertained a passion for certain blue hills on the\nfar horizon, and had promised himself to travel thither ere he died, and\nbecome familiar with these distant friends.  At last, in some political\ntrouble, he is banished to the very place of his dreams.  He arrives\nthere overnight, and, when he rises and goes forth in the morning, there\nsure enough are the blue hills, only now they have changed places with\nhim, and smile across to him, distant as ever, from the old home whence\nhe has come.  Such a story might have been very cynically treated; but it\nis not so done, the whole tone is kindly and consolatory, and the\ndisenchanted man submissively takes the lesson, and understands that\nthings far away are to be loved for their own sake, and that the\nunattainable is not truly unattainable, when we can make the beauty of it\nour own.  Indeed, throughout all these two volumes, though there is much\npractical scepticism, and much irony on abstract questions, this kindly\nand consolatory spirit is never absent.  There is much that is cheerful\nand, after a sedate, fireside fashion, hopeful.  No one will be\ndiscouraged by reading the book; but the ground of all this hopefulness\nand cheerfulness remains to the end somewhat vague.  It does not seem to\narise from any practical belief in the future either of the individual or\nthe race, but rather from the profound personal contentment of the\nwriter.  This is, I suppose, all we must look for in the case.  It is as\nmuch as we can expect, if the fabulist shall prove a shrewd and cheerful\nfellow-wayfarer, one with whom the world does not seem to have gone much\namiss, but who has yet laughingly learned something of its evil.  It will\ndepend much, of course, upon our own character and circumstances, whether\nthe encounter will be agreeable and bracing to the spirits, or offend us\nas an ill-timed mockery.  But where, as here, there is a little tincture\nof bitterness along with the good-nature, where it is plainly not the\nhumour of a man cheerfully ignorant, but of one who looks on, tolerant\nand superior and smilingly attentive, upon the good and bad of our\nexistence, it will go hardly if we do not catch some reflection of the\nsame spirit to help us on our way.  There is here no impertinent and\nlying proclamation of peace\u2014none of the cheap optimism of the well-to-do;\nwhat we find here is a view of life that would be even grievous, were it\nnot enlivened with this abiding cheerfulness, and ever and anon redeemed\nby a stroke of pathos.\n\nIt is natural enough, I suppose, that we should find wanting in this book\nsome of the intenser qualities of the author\u2019s work; and their absence is\nmade up for by much happy description after a quieter fashion.  The burst\nof jubilation over the departure of the snow, which forms the prelude to\n\u2018The Thistle,\u2019 is full of spirit and of pleasant images.  The speech of\nthe forest in \u2018Sans Souci\u2019 is inspired by a beautiful sentiment for\nnature of the modern sort, and pleases us more, I think, as poetry should\nplease us, than anything in _Chronicles and Characters_.  There are some\nadmirable felicities of expression here and there; as that of the hill,\nwhose summit\n\n             \u2018Did print\n    The azure air with pines.\u2019\n\nMoreover, I do not recollect in the author\u2019s former work any symptom of\nthat sympathetic treatment of still life, which is noticeable now and\nagain in the fables; and perhaps most noticeably, when he sketches the\nburned letters as they hover along the gusty flue, \u2018Thin, sable veils,\nwherein a restless spark Yet trembled.\u2019  But the description is at its\nbest when the subjects are unpleasant, or even grisly.  There are a few\ncapital lines in this key on the last spasm of the battle before alluded\nto.  Surely nothing could be better, in its own way, than the fish in\n\u2018The Last Cruise of the Arrogant,\u2019 \u2018the shadowy, side-faced, silent\nthings,\u2019 that come butting and staring with lidless eyes at the sunken\nsteam-engine.  And although, in yet another, we are told, pleasantly\nenough, how the water went down into the valleys, where it set itself\ngaily to saw wood, and on into the plains, where it would soberly carry\ngrain to town; yet the real strength of the fable is when it dealt with\nthe shut pool in which certain unfortunate raindrops are imprisoned among\nslugs and snails, and in the company of an old toad.  The sodden\ncontentment of the fallen acorn is strangely significant; and it is\nastonishing how unpleasantly we are startled by the appearance of her\nhorrible lover, the maggot.\n\nAnd now for a last word, about the style.  This is not easy to criticise.\nIt is impossible to deny to it rapidity, spirit, and a full sound; the\nlines are never lame, and the sense is carried forward with an\nuninterrupted, impetuous rush.  But it is not equal.  After passages of\nreally admirable versification, the author falls back upon a sort of\nloose, cavalry manner, not unlike the style of some of Mr. Browning\u2019s\nminor pieces, and almost inseparable from wordiness, and an easy\nacceptation of somewhat cheap finish.  There is nothing here of that\ncompression which is the note of a really sovereign style.  It is unfair,\nperhaps, to set a not remarkable passage from Lord Lytton side by side\nwith one of the signal masterpieces of another, and a very perfect poet;\nand yet it is interesting, when we see how the portraiture of a dog,\ndetailed through thirty odd lines, is frittered down and finally almost\nlost in the mere laxity of the style, to compare it with the clear,\nsimple, vigorous delineation that Burns, in four couplets, has given us\nof the ploughman\u2019s collie.  It is interesting, at first, and then it\nbecomes a little irritating; for when we think of other passages so much\nmore finished and adroit, we cannot help feeling, that with a little more\nardour after perfection of form, criticism would have found nothing left\nfor her to censure.  A similar mark of precipitate work is the number of\nadjectives tumultuously heaped together, sometimes to help out the sense,\nand sometimes (as one cannot but suspect) to help out the sound of the\nverses.  I do not believe, for instance, that Lord Lytton himself would\ndefend the lines in which we are told how Laoco\u00f6n \u2018Revealed to Roman\ncrowds, now _Christian_ grown, That _Pagan_ anguish which, in _Parian_\nstone, The _Rhodian_ artist,\u2019 and so on.  It is not only that this is bad\nin itself; but that it is unworthy of the company in which it is found;\nthat such verses should not have appeared with the name of a good\nversifier like Lord Lytton.  We must take exception, also, in conclusion,\nto the excess of alliteration.  Alliteration is so liable to be abused\nthat we can scarcely be too sparing of it; and yet it is a trick that\nseems to grow upon the author with years.  It is a pity to see fine\nverses, such as some in \u2018Demos,\u2019 absolutely spoiled by the recurrence of\none wearisome consonant.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\u2014SALVINI\u2019S MACBETH\n\n\nSalvini closed his short visit to Edinburgh by a performance of\n_Macbeth_.  It was, perhaps, from a sentiment of local colour that he\nchose to play the Scottish usurper for the first time before Scotsmen;\nand the audience were not insensible of the privilege.  Few things,\nindeed, can move a stronger interest than to see a great creation taking\nshape for the first time.  If it is not purely artistic, the sentiment is\nsurely human.  And the thought that you are before all the world, and\nhave the start of so many others as eager as yourself, at least keeps you\nin a more unbearable suspense before the curtain rises, if it does not\nenhance the delight with which you follow the performance and see the\nactor \u2018bend up each corporal agent\u2019 to realise a masterpiece of a few\nhours\u2019 duration.  With a player so variable as Salvini, who trusts to the\nfeelings of the moment for so much detail, and who, night after night,\ndoes the same thing differently but always well, it can never be safe to\npass judgment after a single hearing.  And this is more particularly true\nof last week\u2019s _Macbeth_; for the whole third act was marred by a\ngrievously humorous misadventure.  Several minutes too soon the ghost of\nBanquo joined the party, and after having sat helpless a while at a\ntable, was ignominiously withdrawn.  Twice was this ghostly\nJack-in-the-box obtruded on the stage before his time; twice removed\nagain; and yet he showed so little hurry when he was really wanted, that,\nafter an awkward pause, Macbeth had to begin his apostrophe to empty air.\nThe arrival of the belated spectre in the middle, with a jerk that made\nhim nod all over, was the last accident in the chapter, and worthily\ntopped the whole.  It may be imagined how lamely matters went throughout\nthese cross purposes.\n\nIn spite of this, and some other hitches, Salvini\u2019s Macbeth had an\nemphatic success.  The creation is worthy of a place beside the same\nartist\u2019s Othello and Hamlet.  It is the simplest and most unsympathetic\nof the three; but the absence of the finer lineaments of Hamlet is\nredeemed by gusto, breadth, and a headlong unity.  Salvini sees nothing\ngreat in Macbeth beyond the royalty of muscle, and that courage which\ncomes of strong and copious circulation.  The moral smallness of the man\nis insisted on from the first, in the shudder of uncontrollable jealousy\nwith which he sees Duncan embracing Banquo.  He may have some northern\npoetry of speech, but he has not much logical understanding.  In his\ndealings with the supernatural powers he is like a savage with his\nfetich, trusting them beyond bounds while all goes well, and whenever he\nis crossed, casting his belief aside and calling \u2018fate into the list.\u2019\nFor his wife, he is little more than an agent, a frame of bone and sinew\nfor her fiery spirit to command.  The nature of his feeling towards her\nis rendered with a most precise and delicate touch.  He always yields to\nthe woman\u2019s fascination; and yet his caresses (and we know how much\nmeaning Salvini can give to a caress) are singularly hard and unloving.\nSometimes he lays his hand on her as he might take hold of any one who\nhappened to be nearest to him at a moment of excitement.  Love has fallen\nout of this marriage by the way, and left a curious friendship.  Only\nonce\u2014at the very moment when she is showing herself so little a woman and\nso much a high-spirited man\u2014only once is he very deeply stirred towards\nher; and that finds expression in the strange and horrible transport of\nadmiration, doubly strange and horrible on Salvini\u2019s lips\u2014\u2018Bring forth\nmen-children only!\u2019\n\nThe murder scene, as was to be expected, pleased the audience best.\nMacbeth\u2019s voice, in the talk with his wife, was a thing not to be\nforgotten; and when he spoke of his hangman\u2019s hands he seemed to have\nblood in his utterance.  Never for a moment, even in the very article of\nthe murder, does he possess his own soul.  He is a man on wires.  From\nfirst to last it is an exhibition of hideous cowardice.  For, after all,\nit is not here, but in broad daylight, with the exhilaration of conflict,\nwhere he can assure himself at every blow he has the longest sword and\nthe heaviest hand, that this man\u2019s physical bravery can keep him up; he\nis an unwieldy ship, and needs plenty of way on before he will steer.\n\nIn the banquet scene, while the first murderer gives account of what he\nhas done, there comes a flash of truculent joy at the \u2018twenty trench\u00e8d\ngashes\u2019 on Banquo\u2019s head.  Thus Macbeth makes welcome to his imagination\nthose very details of physical horror which are so soon to turn sour in\nhim.  As he runs out to embrace these cruel circumstances, as he seeks to\nrealise to his mind\u2019s eye the reassuring spectacle of his dead enemy, he\nis dressing out the phantom to terrify himself; and his imagination,\nplaying the part of justice, is to \u2018commend to his own lips the\ningredients of his poisoned chalice.\u2019  With the recollection of Hamlet\nand his father\u2019s spirit still fresh upon him, and the holy awe with which\nthat good man encountered things not dreamt of in his philosophy, it was\nnot possible to avoid looking for resemblances between the two\napparitions and the two men haunted.  But there are none to be found.\nMacbeth has a purely physical dislike for Banquo\u2019s spirit and the \u2018twenty\ntrench\u00e8d gashes.\u2019  He is afraid of he knows not what.  He is abject, and\nagain blustering.  In the end he so far forgets himself, his terror, and\nthe nature of what is before him, that he rushes upon it as he would upon\na man.  When his wife tells him he needs repose, there is something\nreally childish in the way he looks about the room, and, seeing nothing,\nwith an expression of almost sensual relief, plucks up heart enough to go\nto bed.  And what is the upshot of the visitation?  It is written in\nShakespeare, but should be read with the commentary of Salvini\u2019s voice\nand expression:\u2014\u2018O! _siam nell\u2019 opra ancor fanciulli_\u2019\u2014\u2018We are yet but\nyoung in deed.\u2019  Circle below circle.  He is looking with horrible\nsatisfaction into the mouth of hell.  There may still be a prick to-day;\nbut to-morrow conscience will be dead, and he may move untroubled in this\nelement of blood.\n\nIn the fifth act we see this lowest circle reached; and it is Salvini\u2019s\nfinest moment throughout the play.  From the first he was admirably made\nup, and looked Macbeth to the full as perfectly as ever he looked\nOthello.  From the first moment he steps upon the stage you can see this\ncharacter is a creation to the fullest meaning of the phrase; for the man\nbefore you is a type you know well already.  He arrives with Banquo on\nthe heath, fair and red-bearded, sparing of gesture, full of pride and\nthe sense of animal wellbeing, and satisfied after the battle like a\nbeast who has eaten his fill.  But in the fifth act there is a change.\nThis is still the big, burly, fleshly, handsome-looking Thane; here is\nstill the same face which in the earlier acts could be superficially\ngood-humoured and sometimes royally courteous.  But now the atmosphere of\nblood, which pervades the whole tragedy, has entered into the man and\nsubdued him to its own nature; and an indescribable degradation, a\nslackness and puffiness, has overtaken his features.  He has breathed the\nair of carnage, and supped full of horrors.  Lady Macbeth complains of\nthe smell of blood on her hand: Macbeth makes no complaint\u2014he has ceased\nto notice it now; but the same smell is in his nostrils.  A contained\nfury and disgust possesses him.  He taunts the messenger and the doctor\nas people would taunt their mortal enemies.  And, indeed, as he knows\nright well, every one is his enemy now, except his wife.  About her he\nquestions the doctor with something like a last human anxiety; and, in\ntones of grisly mystery, asks him if he can \u2018minister to a mind\ndiseased.\u2019  When the news of her death is brought him, he is staggered\nand falls into a seat; but somehow it is not anything we can call grief\nthat he displays.  There had been two of them against God and man; and\nnow, when there is only one, it makes perhaps less difference than he had\nexpected.  And so her death is not only an affliction, but one more\ndisillusion; and he redoubles in bitterness.  The speech that follows,\ngiven with tragic cynicism in every word, is a dirge, not so much for her\nas for himself.  From that time forth there is nothing human left in him,\nonly \u2018the fiend of Scotland,\u2019 Macduff\u2019s \u2018hell-hound,\u2019 whom, with a stern\nglee, we see baited like a bear and hunted down like a wolf.  He is\ninspired and set above fate by a demoniacal energy, a lust of wounds and\nslaughter.  Even after he meets Macduff his courage does not fail; but\nwhen he hears the Thane was not born of woman, all virtue goes out of\nhim; and though he speaks sounding words of defiance, the last combat is\nlittle better than a suicide.\n\nThe whole performance is, as I said, so full of gusto and a headlong\nunity; the personality of Macbeth is so sharp and powerful; and within\nthese somewhat narrow limits there is so much play and saliency that, so\nfar as concerns Salvini himself, a third great success seems indubitable.\nUnfortunately, however, a great actor cannot fill more than a very small\nfraction of the boards; and though Banquo\u2019s ghost will probably be more\nseasonable in his future apparitions, there are some more inherent\ndifficulties in the piece.  The company at large did not distinguish\nthemselves.  Macduff, to the huge delight of the gallery, out-Macduff\u2019d\nthe average ranter.  The lady who filled the principal female part has\ndone better on other occasions, but I fear she has not metal for what she\ntried last week.  Not to succeed in the sleep-walking scene is to make a\nmemorable failure.  As it was given, it succeeded in being wrong in art\nwithout being true to nature.\n\nAnd there is yet another difficulty, happily easy to reform, which\nsomewhat interfered with the success of the performance.  At the end of\nthe incantation scene the Italian translator has made Macbeth fall\ninsensible upon the stage.  This is a change of questionable propriety\nfrom a psychological point of view; while in point of view of effect it\nleaves the stage for some moments empty of all business.  To remedy this,\na bevy of green ballet-girls came forth and pointed their toes about the\nprostrate king.  A dance of High Church curates, or a hornpipe by Mr. T.\nP. Cooke, would not be more out of the key; though the gravity of a Scots\naudience was not to be overcome, and they merely expressed their\ndisapprobation by a round of moderate hisses, a similar irruption of\nChristmas fairies would most likely convulse a London theatre from pit to\ngallery with inextinguishable laughter.  It is, I am told, the Italian\ntradition; but it is one more honoured in the breach than the observance.\nWith the total disappearance of these damsels, with a stronger Lady\nMacbeth, and, if possible, with some compression of those scenes in which\nSalvini does not appear, and the spectator is left at the mercy of\nMacduffs and Duncans, the play would go twice as well, and we should be\nbetter able to follow and enjoy an admirable work of dramatic art.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\u2014BAGSTER\u2019S \u2018PILGRIM\u2019S PROGRESS\u2019\n\n\nI have here before me an edition of the _Pilgrim\u2019s Progress_, bound in\ngreen, without a date, and described as \u2018illustrated by nearly three\nhundred engravings, and memoir of Bunyan.\u2019  On the outside it is lettered\n\u2018Bagster\u2019s Illustrated Edition,\u2019 and after the author\u2019s apology, facing\nthe first page of the tale, a folding pictorial \u2018Plan of the Road\u2019 is\nmarked as \u2018drawn by the late Mr. T. Conder,\u2019 and engraved by J. Basire.\nNo further information is anywhere vouchsafed; perhaps the publishers had\njudged the work too unimportant; and we are still left ignorant whether\nor not we owe the woodcuts in the body of the volume to the same hand\nthat drew the plan.  It seems, however, more than probable.  The literal\nparticularity of mind which, in the map, laid down the flower-plots in\nthe devil\u2019s garden, and carefully introduced the court-house in the town\nof Vanity, is closely paralleled in many of the cuts; and in both, the\narchitecture of the buildings and the disposition of the gardens have a\nkindred and entirely English air.  Whoever he was, the author of these\nwonderful little pictures may lay claim to be the best illustrator of\nBunyan. {183}  They are not only good illustrations, like so many others;\nbut they are like so few, good illustrations of Bunyan.  Their spirit, in\ndefect and quality, is still the same as his own.  The designer also has\nlain down and dreamed a dream, as literal, as quaint, and almost as\napposite as Bunyan\u2019s; and text and pictures make but the two sides of the\nsame homespun yet impassioned story.  To do justice to the designs, it\nwill be necessary to say, for the hundredth time, a word or two about the\nmasterpiece which they adorn.\n\nAll allegories have a tendency to escape from the purpose of their\ncreators; and as the characters and incidents become more and more\ninteresting in themselves, the moral, which these were to show forth,\nfalls more and more into neglect.  An architect may command a wreath of\nvine-leaves round the cornice of a monument; but if, as each leaf came\nfrom the chisel, it took proper life and fluttered freely on the wall,\nand if the vine grew, and the building were hidden over with foliage and\nfruit, the architect would stand in much the same situation as the writer\nof allegories.  The _Fa\u00ebry Queen_ was an allegory, I am willing to\nbelieve; but it survives as an imaginative tale in incomparable verse.\nThe case of Bunyan is widely different; and yet in this also Allegory,\npoor nymph, although never quite forgotten, is sometimes rudely thrust\nagainst the wall.  Bunyan was fervently in earnest; with \u2018his fingers in\nhis ears, he ran on,\u2019 straight for his mark.  He tells us himself, in the\nconclusion to the first part, that he did not fear to raise a laugh;\nindeed, he feared nothing, and said anything; and he was greatly served\nin this by a certain rustic privilege of his style, which, like the talk\nof strong uneducated men, when it does not impress by its force, still\ncharms by its simplicity.  The mere story and the allegorical design\nenjoyed perhaps his equal favour.  He believed in both with an energy of\nfaith that was capable of moving mountains.  And we have to remark in\nhim, not the parts where inspiration fails and is supplied by cold and\nmerely decorative invention, but the parts where faith has grown to be\ncredulity, and his characters become so real to him that he forgets the\nend of their creation.  We can follow him step by step into the trap\nwhich he lays for himself by his own entire good faith and triumphant\nliterality of vision, till the trap closes and shuts him in an\ninconsistency.  The allegories of the Interpreter and of the Shepherds of\nthe Delectable Mountains are all actually performed, like stage-plays,\nbefore the pilgrims.  The son of Mr. Great-grace visibly \u2018tumbles hills\nabout with his words.\u2019  Adam the First has his condemnation written\nvisibly on his forehead, so that Faithful reads it.  At the very instant\nthe net closes round the pilgrims, \u2018the white robe falls from the black\nman\u2019s body.\u2019  Despair \u2018getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel\u2019; it was\nin \u2018sunshiny weather\u2019 that he had his fits; and the birds in the grove\nabout the House Beautiful, \u2018our country birds,\u2019 only sing their little\npious verses \u2018at the spring, when the flowers appear and the sun shines\nwarm.\u2019  \u2018I often,\u2019 says Piety, \u2018go out to hear them; we also ofttimes\nkeep them tame on our house.\u2019  The post between Beulah and the Celestial\nCity sounds his horn, as you may yet hear in country places.  Madam\nBubble, that \u2018tall, comely dame, something of a swarthy complexion, in\nvery pleasant attire, but old,\u2019 \u2018gives you a smile at the end of each\nsentence\u2019\u2014a real woman she; we all know her.  Christiana dying \u2018gave Mr.\nStand-fast a ring,\u2019 for no possible reason in the allegory, merely\nbecause the touch was human and affecting.  Look at Great-heart, with his\nsoldierly ways, garrison ways, as I had almost called them; with his\ntaste in weapons; his delight in any that \u2018he found to be a man of his\nhands\u2019; his chivalrous point of honour, letting Giant Maul get up again\nwhen he was down, a thing fairly flying in the teeth of the moral; above\nall, with his language in the inimitable tale of Mr. Fearing: \u2018I thought\nI should have lost my man\u2019\u2014\u2018chicken-hearted\u2019\u2014\u2018at last he came in, and I\nwill say that for my lord, he carried it wonderful lovingly to him.\u2019\nThis is no Independent minister; this is a stout, honest, big-busted\nancient, adjusting his shoulder-belts, twirling his long moustaches as he\nspeaks.  Last and most remarkable, \u2018My sword,\u2019 says the dying\nValiant-for-Truth, he in whom Great-heart delighted, \u2018my sword I give to\nhim that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, _and my courage and skill to\nhim that can get it_.\u2019  And after this boast, more arrogantly unorthodox\nthan was ever dreamed of by the rejected Ignorance, we are told that \u2018all\nthe trumpets sounded for him on the other side.\u2019\n\nIn every page the book is stamped with the same energy of vision and the\nsame energy of belief.  The quality is equally and indifferently\ndisplayed in the spirit of the fighting, the tenderness of the pathos,\nthe startling vigour and strangeness of the incidents, the natural strain\nof the conversations, and the humanity and charm of the characters.\nTrivial talk over a meal, the dying words of heroes, the delights of\nBeulah or the Celestial City, Apollyon and my Lord Hate-good,\nGreat-heart, and Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, all have been imagined with the\nsame clearness, all written of with equal gusto and precision, all\ncreated in the same mixed element, of simplicity that is almost comical,\nand art that, for its purpose, is faultless.\n\nIt was in much the same spirit that our artist sat down to his drawings.\nHe is by nature a Bunyan of the pencil.  He, too, will draw anything,\nfrom a butcher at work on a dead sheep, up to the courts of Heaven.  \u2018A\nLamb for Supper\u2019 is the name of one of his designs, \u2018Their Glorious\nEntry\u2019 of another.  He has the same disregard for the ridiculous, and\nenjoys somewhat of the same privilege of style, so that we are pleased\neven when we laugh the most.  He is literal to the verge of folly.  If\ndust is to be raised from the unswept parlour, you may be sure it will\n\u2018fly abundantly\u2019 in the picture.  If Faithful is to lie \u2018as dead\u2019 before\nMoses, dead he shall lie with a warrant\u2014dead and stiff like granite; nay\n(and here the artist must enhance upon the symbolism of the author), it\nis with the identical stone tables of the law that Moses fells the\nsinner.  Good and bad people, whom we at once distinguish in the text by\ntheir names, Hopeful, Honest, and Valiant-for-Truth, on the one hand, as\nagainst By-ends, Sir Having Greedy, and the Lord Old-man on the other,\nare in these drawings as simply distinguished by their costume.  Good\npeople, when not armed _cap-\u00e0-pie_, wear a speckled tunic girt about the\nwaist, and low hats, apparently of straw.  Bad people swagger in\ntail-coats and chimney-pots, a few with knee-breeches, but the large\nmajority in trousers, and for all the world like guests at a\ngarden-party.  Worldly-Wiseman alone, by some inexplicable quirk, stands\nbefore Christian in laced hat, embroidered waistcoat, and trunk-hose.\nBut above all examples of this artist\u2019s intrepidity, commend me to the\nprint entitled \u2018Christian Finds it Deep.\u2019  \u2018A great darkness and horror,\u2019\nsays the text, have fallen on the pilgrim; it is the comfortless deathbed\nwith which Bunyan so strikingly concludes the sorrows and conflicts of\nhis hero.  How to represent this worthily the artist knew not; and yet he\nwas determined to represent it somehow.  This was how he did: Hopeful is\nstill shown to his neck above the water of death; but Christian has\nbodily disappeared, and a blot of solid blackness indicates his place.\n\nAs you continue to look at these pictures, about an inch square for the\nmost part, sometimes printed three or more to the page, and each having a\nprinted legend of its own, however trivial the event recorded, you will\nsoon become aware of two things: first, that the man can draw, and,\nsecond, that he possesses the gift of an imagination.  \u2018Obstinate\nreviles,\u2019 says the legend; and you should see Obstinate reviling.  \u2018He\nwarily retraces his steps\u2019; and there is Christian, posting through the\nplain, terror and speed in every muscle.  \u2018Mercy yearns to go\u2019 shows you\na plain interior with packing going forward, and, right in the middle,\nMercy yearning to go\u2014every line of the girl\u2019s figure yearning.  In \u2018The\nChamber called Peace\u2019 we see a simple English room, bed with white\ncurtains, window valance and door, as may be found in many thousand\nunpretentious houses; but far off, through the open window, we behold the\nsun uprising out of a great plain, and Christian hails it with his hand:\n\n    \u2018Where am I now! is this the love and care\n    Of Jesus, for the men that pilgrims are!\n    Thus to provide!  That I should be forgiven!\n    And dwell already the next door to heaven!\u2019\n\nA page or two further, from the top of the House Beautiful, the damsels\npoint his gaze toward the Delectable Mountains: \u2018The Prospect,\u2019 so the\ncut is ticketed\u2014and I shall be surprised, if on less than a square inch\nof paper you can show me one so wide and fair.  Down a cross road on an\nEnglish plain, a cathedral city outlined on the horizon, a hazel shaw\nupon the left, comes Madam Wanton dancing with her fair enchanted cup,\nand Faithful, book in hand, half pauses.  The cut is perfect as a symbol;\nthe giddy movement of the sorceress, the uncertain poise of the man\nstruck to the heart by a temptation, the contrast of that even plain of\nlife whereon he journeys with the bold, ideal bearing of the wanton\u2014the\nartist who invented and portrayed this had not merely read Bunyan, he had\nalso thoughtfully lived.  The Delectable Mountains\u2014I continue skimming\nthe first part\u2014are not on the whole happily rendered.  Once, and once\nonly, the note is struck, when Christian and Hopeful are seen coming,\nshoulder-high, through a thicket of green shrubs\u2014box, perhaps, or\nperfumed nutmeg; while behind them, domed or pointed, the hills stand\nranged against the sky.  A little further, and we come to that\nmasterpiece of Bunyan\u2019s insight into life, the Enchanted Ground; where,\nin a few traits, he has set down the latter end of such a number of the\nwould-be good; where his allegory goes so deep that, to people looking\nseriously on life, it cuts like satire.  The true significance of this\ninvention lies, of course, far out of the way of drawing; only one\nfeature, the great tedium of the land, the growing weariness in\nwell-doing, may be somewhat represented in a symbol.  The pilgrims are\nnear the end: \u2018Two Miles Yet,\u2019 says the legend.  The road goes ploughing\nup and down over a rolling heath; the wayfarers, with outstretched arms,\nare already sunk to the knees over the brow of the nearest hill; they\nhave just passed a milestone with the cipher two; from overhead a great,\npiled, summer cumulus, as of a slumberous summer afternoon, beshadows\nthem: two miles! it might be hundreds.  In dealing with the Land of\nBeulah the artist lags, in both parts, miserably behind the text, but in\nthe distant prospect of the Celestial City more than regains his own.\nYou will remember when Christian and Hopeful \u2018with desire fell sick.\u2019\n\u2018Effect of the Sunbeams\u2019 is the artist\u2019s title.  Against the sky, upon a\ncliffy mountain, the radiant temple beams upon them over deep, subjacent\nwoods; they, behind a mound, as if seeking shelter from the splendour\u2014one\nprostrate on his face, one kneeling, and with hands ecstatically\nlifted\u2014yearn with passion after that immortal city.  Turn the page, and\nwe behold them walking by the very shores of death; Heaven, from this\nnigher view, has risen half-way to the zenith, and sheds a wider glory;\nand the two pilgrims, dark against that brightness, walk and sing out of\nthe fulness of their hearts.  No cut more thoroughly illustrates at once\nthe merit and the weakness of the artist.  Each pilgrim sings with a book\nin his grasp\u2014a family Bible at the least for bigness; tomes so recklessly\nenormous that our second, impulse is to laughter.  And yet that is not\nthe first thought, nor perhaps the last.  Something in the attitude of\nthe manikins\u2014faces they have none, they are too small for that\u2014something\nin the way they swing these monstrous volumes to their singing, something\nperhaps borrowed from the text, some subtle differentiation from the cut\nthat went before and the cut that follows after\u2014something, at least,\nspeaks clearly of a fearful joy, of Heaven seen from the deathbed, of the\nhorror of the last passage no less than of the glorious coming home.\nThere is that in the action of one of them which always reminds me, with\na difference, of that haunting last glimpse of Thomas Idle, travelling to\nTyburn in the cart.  Next come the Shining Ones, wooden and trivial\nenough; the pilgrims pass into the river; the blot already mentioned\nsettles over and obliterates Christian.  In two more cuts we behold them\ndrawing nearer to the other shore; and then, between two radiant angels,\none of whom points upward, we see them mounting in new weeds, their\nformer lendings left behind them on the inky river.  More angels meet\nthem; Heaven is displayed, and if no better, certainly no worse, than it\nhas been shown by others\u2014a place, at least, infinitely populous and\nglorious with light\u2014a place that haunts solemnly the hearts of children.\nAnd then this symbolic draughtsman once more strikes into his proper\nvein.  Three cuts conclude the first part.  In the first the gates close,\nblack against the glory struggling from within.  The second shows us\nIgnorance\u2014alas! poor Arminian!\u2014hailing, in a sad twilight, the ferryman\nVain-Hope; and in the third we behold him, bound hand and foot, and black\nalready with the hue of his eternal fate, carried high over the\nmountain-tops of the world by two angels of the anger of the Lord.\n\u2018Carried to Another Place,\u2019 the artist enigmatically names his plate\u2014a\nterrible design.\n\nWherever he touches on the black side of the supernatural his pencil\ngrows more daring and incisive.  He has many true inventions in the\nperilous and diabolic; he has many startling nightmares realised.  It is\nnot easy to select the best; some may like one and some another; the\nnude, depilated devil bounding and casting darts against the Wicket Gate;\nthe scroll of flying horrors that hang over Christian by the Mouth of\nHell; the horned shade that comes behind him whispering blasphemies; the\ndaylight breaking through that rent cave-mouth of the mountains and\nfalling chill adown the haunted tunnel; Christian\u2019s further progress\nalong the causeway, between the two black pools, where, at every yard or\ntwo, a gin, a pitfall, or a snare awaits the passer-by\u2014loathsome white\ndevilkins harbouring close under the bank to work the springes, Christian\nhimself pausing and pricking with his sword\u2019s point at the nearest noose,\nand pale discomfortable mountains rising on the farther side; or yet\nagain, the two ill-favoured ones that beset the first of Christian\u2019s\njourney, with the frog-like structure of the skull, the frog-like\nlimberness of limbs\u2014crafty, slippery, lustful-looking devils, drawn\nalways in outline as though possessed of a dim, infernal luminosity.\nHorrid fellows are they, one and all; horrid fellows and horrific scenes.\nIn another spirit that Good-Conscience \u2018to whom Mr. Honest had spoken in\nhis lifetime,\u2019 a cowled, grey, awful figure, one hand pointing to the\nheavenly shore, realises, I will not say all, but some at least of the\nstrange impressiveness of Bunyan\u2019s words.  It is no easy nor pleasant\nthing to speak in one\u2019s lifetime with Good-Conscience; he is an austere,\nunearthly friend, whom maybe Torquemada knew; and the folds of his\nraiment are not merely claustral, but have something of the horror of the\npall.  Be not afraid, however; with the hand of that appearance Mr.\nHonest will get safe across.\n\nYet perhaps it is in sequences that this artist best displays himself.\nHe loves to look at either side of a thing: as, for instance, when he\nshows us both sides of the wall\u2014\u2018Grace Inextinguishable\u2019 on the one side,\nwith the devil vainly pouring buckets on the flame, and \u2018The Oil of\nGrace\u2019 on the other, where the Holy Spirit, vessel in hand, still\nsecretly supplies the fire.  He loves, also, to show us the same event\ntwice over, and to repeat his instantaneous photographs at the interval\nof but a moment.  So we have, first, the whole troop of pilgrims coming\nup to Valiant, and Great-heart to the front, spear in hand and parleying;\nand next, the same cross-roads, from a more distant view, the convoy now\nscattered and looking safely and curiously on, and Valiant handing over\nfor inspection his \u2018right Jerusalem blade.\u2019  It is true that this\ndesigner has no great care after consistency: Apollyon\u2019s spear is laid\nby, his quiver of darts will disappear, whenever they might hinder the\ndesigner\u2019s freedom; and the fiend\u2019s tail is blobbed or forked at his good\npleasure.  But this is not unsuitable to the illustration of the fervent\nBunyan, breathing hurry and momentary inspiration.  He, with his hot\npurpose, hunting sinners with a lasso, shall himself forget the things\nthat he has written yesterday.  He shall first slay Heedless in the\nValley of the Shadow, and then take leave of him talking in his sleep, as\nif nothing had happened, in an arbour on the Enchanted Ground.  And\nagain, in his rhymed prologue, he shall assign some of the glory of the\nsiege of Doubting Castle to his favourite Valiant-for-the-Truth, who did\nnot meet with the besiegers till long after, at that dangerous corner by\nDeadman\u2019s Lane.  And, with all inconsistencies and freedoms, there is a\npower shown in these sequences of cuts: a power of joining on one action\nor one humour to another; a power of following out the moods, even of the\ndismal subterhuman fiends engendered by the artist\u2019s fancy; a power of\nsustained continuous realisation, step by step, in nature\u2019s order, that\ncan tell a story, in all its ins and outs, its pauses and surprises,\nfully and figuratively, like the art of words.\n\nOne such sequence is the fight of Christian and Apollyon\u2014six cuts, weird\nand fiery, like the text.  The pilgrim is throughout a pale and stockish\nfigure; but the devil covers a multitude of defects.  There is no better\ndevil of the conventional order than our artist\u2019s Apollyon, with his\nmane, his wings, his bestial legs, his changing and terrifying\nexpression, his infernal energy to slay.  In cut the first you see him\nafar off, still obscure in form, but already formidable in suggestion.\nCut the second, \u2018The Fiend in Discourse,\u2019 represents him, not reasoning,\nrailing rather, shaking his spear at the pilgrim, his shoulder advanced,\nhis tail writhing in the air, his foot ready for a spring, while\nChristian stands back a little, timidly defensive.  The third illustrates\nthese magnificent words: \u2018Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole\nbreadth of the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter: prepare\nthyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go no\nfarther: here will I spill thy soul!  And with that he threw a flaming\ndart at his breast.\u2019  In the cut he throws a dart with either hand,\nbelching pointed flames out of his mouth, spreading his broad vans, and\nstraddling the while across the path, as only a fiend can straddle who\nhas just sworn by his infernal den.  The defence will not be long against\nsuch vice, such flames, such red-hot nether energy.  And in the fourth\ncut, to be sure, he has leaped bodily upon his victim, sped by foot and\npinion, and roaring as he leaps.  The fifth shows the climacteric of the\nbattle; Christian has reached nimbly out and got his sword, and dealt\nthat deadly home-thrust, the fiend still stretched upon him, but \u2018giving\nback, as one that had received his mortal wound.\u2019  The raised head, the\nbellowing mouth, the paw clapped upon the sword, the one wing relaxed in\nagony, all realise vividly these words of the text.  In the sixth and\nlast, the trivial armed figure of the pilgrim is seen kneeling with\nclasped hands on the betrodden scene of contest and among the shivers of\nthe darts; while just at the margin the hinder quarters and the tail of\nApollyon are whisking off, indignant and discounted.\n\nIn one point only do these pictures seem to be unworthy of the text, and\nthat point is one rather of the difference of arts than the difference of\nartists.  Throughout his best and worst, in his highest and most divine\nimaginations as in the narrowest sallies of his sectarianism, the\nhuman-hearted piety of Bunyan touches and ennobles, convinces, accuses\nthe reader.  Through no art beside the art of words can the kindness of a\nman\u2019s affections be expressed.  In the cuts you shall find faithfully\nparodied the quaintness and the power, the triviality and the surprising\nfreshness of the author\u2019s fancy; there you shall find him out-stripped in\nready symbolism and the art of bringing things essentially invisible\nbefore the eyes: but to feel the contact of essential goodness, to be\nmade in love with piety, the book must be read and not the prints\nexamined.\n\nFarewell should not be taken with a grudge; nor can I dismiss in any\nother words than those of gratitude a series of pictures which have, to\none at least, been the visible embodiment of Bunyan from childhood up,\nand shown him, through all his years, Great-heart lungeing at Giant Maul,\nand Apollyon breathing fire at Christian, and every turn and town along\nthe road to the Celestial City, and that bright place itself, seen as to\na stave of music, shining afar off upon the hill-top, the candle of the\nworld.\n\n\n\n\nSKETCHES\n\n\nI.  THE SATIRIST\n\n\nMy companion enjoyed a cheap reputation for wit and insight.  He was by\nhabit and repute a satirist.  If he did occasionally condemn anything or\nanybody who richly deserved it, and whose demerits had hitherto escaped,\nit was simply because he condemned everything and everybody.  While I was\nwith him he disposed of St. Paul with an epigram, shook my reverence for\nShakespeare in a neat antithesis, and fell foul of the Almighty Himself,\non the score of one or two out of the ten commandments.  Nothing escaped\nhis blighting censure.  At every sentence he overthrew an idol, or\nlowered my estimation of a friend.  I saw everything with new eyes, and\ncould only marvel at my former blindness.  How was it possible that I had\nnot before observed A\u2019s false hair, B\u2019s selfishness, or C\u2019s boorish\nmanners?  I and my companion, methought, walked the streets like a couple\nof gods among a swarm of vermin; for every one we saw seemed to bear\nopenly upon his brow the mark of the apocalyptic beast.  I half expected\nthat these miserable beings, like the people of Lystra, would recognise\ntheir betters and force us to the altar; in which case, warned by the\nlate of Paul and Barnabas, I do not know that my modesty would have\nprevailed upon me to decline.  But there was no need for such churlish\nvirtue.  More blinded than the Lycaonians, the people saw no divinity in\nour gait; and as our temporary godhead lay more in the way of observing\nthan healing their infirmities, we were content to pass them by in scorn.\n\nI could not leave my companion, not from regard or even from interest,\nbut from a very natural feeling, inseparable from the case.  To\nunderstand it, let us take a simile.  Suppose yourself walking down the\nstreet with a man who continues to sprinkle the crowd out of a flask of\nvitriol.  You would be much diverted with the grimaces and contortions of\nhis victims; and at the same time you would fear to leave his arm until\nhis bottle was empty, knowing that, when once among the crowd, you would\nrun a good chance yourself of baptism with his biting liquor.  Now my\ncompanion\u2019s vitriol was inexhaustible.\n\nIt was perhaps the consciousness of this, the knowledge that I was being\nanointed already out of the vials of his wrath, that made me fall to\ncriticising the critic, whenever we had parted.\n\nAfter all, I thought, our satirist has just gone far enough into his\nneighbours to find that the outside is false, without caring to go\nfarther and discover what is really true.  He is content to find that\nthings are not what they seem, and broadly generalises from it that they\ndo not exist at all.  He sees our virtues are not what they pretend they\nare; and, on the strength of that, he denies us the possession of virtue\naltogether.  He has learnt the first lesson, that no man is wholly good;\nbut he has not even suspected that there is another equally true, to wit,\nthat no man is wholly bad.  Like the inmate of a coloured star, he has\neyes for one colour alone.  He has a keen scent after evil, but his\nnostrils are plugged against all good, as people plugged their nostrils\nbefore going about the streets of the plague-struck city.\n\nWhy does he do this?  It is most unreasonable to flee the knowledge of\ngood like the infection of a horrible disease, and batten and grow fat in\nthe real atmosphere of a lazar-house.  This was my first thought; but my\nsecond was not like unto it, and I saw that our satirist was wise, wise\nin his generation, like the unjust steward.  He does not want light,\nbecause the darkness is more pleasant.  He does not wish to see the good,\nbecause he is happier without it.  I recollect that when I walked with\nhim, I was in a state of divine exaltation, such as Adam and Eve must\nhave enjoyed when the savour of the fruit was still unfaded between their\nlips; and I recognise that this must be the man\u2019s habitual state.  He has\nthe forbidden fruit in his waist-coat pocket, and can make himself a god\nas often and as long as he likes.  He has raised himself upon a glorious\npedestal above his fellows; he has touched the summit of ambition; and he\nenvies neither King nor Kaiser, Prophet nor Priest, content in an\nelevation as high as theirs, and much more easily attained.  Yes, certes,\nmuch more easily attained.  He has not risen by climbing himself, but by\npushing others down.  He has grown great in his own estimation, not by\nblowing himself out, and risking the fate of \u00c6sop\u2019s frog, but simply by\nthe habitual use of a diminishing glass on everybody else.  And I think\naltogether that his is a better, a safer, and a surer recipe than most\nothers.\n\nAfter all, however, looking back on what I have written, I detect a\nspirit suspiciously like his own.  All through, I have been comparing\nmyself with our satirist, and all through, I have had the best of the\ncomparison.  Well, well, contagion is as often mental as physical; and I\ndo not think my readers, who have all been under his lash, will blame me\nvery much for giving the headsman a mouthful of his own sawdust.\n\n\n\nII.  NUITS BLANCHES\n\n\nIf any one should know the pleasure and pain of a sleepless night, it\nshould be I.  I remember, so long ago, the sickly child that woke from\nhis few hours\u2019 slumber with the sweat of a nightmare on his brow, to lie\nawake and listen and long for the first signs of life among the silent\nstreets.  These nights of pain and weariness are graven on my mind; and\nso when the same thing happened to me again, everything that I heard or\nsaw was rather a recollection than a discovery.\n\nWeighed upon by the opaque and almost sensible darkness, I listened\neagerly for anything to break the sepulchral quiet.  But nothing came,\nsave, perhaps, an emphatic crack from the old cabinet that was made by\nDeacon Brodie, or the dry rustle of the coals on the extinguished fire.\nIt was a calm; or I know that I should have heard in the roar and clatter\nof the storm, as I have not heard it for so many years, the wild career\nof a horseman, always scouring up from the distance and passing swiftly\nbelow the window; yet always returning again from the place whence first\nhe came, as though, baffled by some higher power, he had retraced his\nsteps to gain impetus for another and another attempt.\n\nAs I lay there, there arose out of the utter stillness the rumbling of a\ncarriage a very great way off, that drew near, and passed within a few\nstreets of the house, and died away as gradually as it had arisen.  This,\ntoo, was as a reminiscence.\n\nI rose and lifted a corner of the blind.  Over the black belt of the\ngarden I saw the long line of Queen Street, with here and there a lighted\nwindow.  How often before had my nurse lifted me out of bed and pointed\nthem out to me, while we wondered together if, there also, there were\nchildren that could not sleep, and if these lighted oblongs were signs of\nthose that waited like us for the morning.\n\nI went out into the lobby, and looked down into the great deep well of\nthe staircase.  For what cause I know not, just as it used to be in the\nold days that the feverish child might be the better served, a peep of\ngas illuminated a narrow circle far below me.  But where I was, all was\ndarkness and silence, save the dry monotonous ticking of the clock that\ncame ceaselessly up to my ear.\n\nThe final crown of it all, however, the last touch of reproduction on the\npictures of my memory, was the arrival of that time for which, all night\nthrough, I waited and longed of old.  It was my custom, as the hours\ndragged on, to repeat the question, \u2018When will the carts come in?\u2019 and\nrepeat it again and again until at last those sounds arose in the street\nthat I have heard once more this morning.  The road before our house is a\ngreat thoroughfare for early carts.  I know not, and I never have known,\nwhat they carry, whence they come, or whither they go.  But I know that,\nlong ere dawn, and for hours together, they stream continuously past,\nwith the same rolling and jerking of wheels and the same clink of horses\u2019\nfeet.  It was not for nothing that they made the burthen of my wishes all\nnight through.  They are really the first throbbings of life, the\nharbingers of day; and it pleases you as much to hear them as it must\nplease a shipwrecked seaman once again to grasp a hand of flesh and blood\nafter years of miserable solitude.  They have the freshness of the\ndaylight life about them.  You can hear the carters cracking their whips\nand crying hoarsely to their horses or to one another; and sometimes even\na peal of healthy, harsh horse-laughter comes up to you through the\ndarkness.  There is now an end of mystery and fear.  Like the knocking at\nthe door in _Macbeth_, {205} or the cry of the watchman in the _Tour de\nNesle_, they show that the horrible c\u00e6sura is over and the nightmares\nhave fled away, because the day is breaking and the ordinary life of men\nis beginning to bestir itself among the streets.\n\nIn the middle of it all I fell asleep, to be wakened by the officious\nknocking at my door, and I find myself twelve years older than I had\ndreamed myself all night.\n\n\n\nIII.  THE WREATH OF IMMORTELLES\n\n\nIt is all very well to talk of death as \u2018a pleasant potion of\nimmortality\u2019, but the most of us, I suspect, are of \u2018queasy stomachs,\u2019\nand find it none of the sweetest. {206a}  The graveyard may be cloak-room\nto Heaven; but we must admit that it is a very ugly and offensive\nvestibule in itself, however fair may be the life to which it leads.  And\nthough Enoch and Elias went into the temple through a gate which\ncertainly may be called Beautiful, the rest of us have to find our way to\nit through Ezekiel\u2019s low-bowed door and the vault full of creeping things\nand all manner of abominable beasts.  Nevertheless, there is a certain\nframe of mind to which a cemetery is, if not an antidote, at least an\nalleviation.  If you are in a fit of the blues, go nowhere else.  It was\nin obedience to this wise regulation that the other morning found me\nlighting my pipe at the entrance to Old Greyfriars\u2019, thoroughly sick of\nthe town, the country, and myself.\n\nTwo of the men were talking at the gate, one of them carrying a spade in\nhands still crusted with the soil of graves.  Their very aspect was\ndelightful to me; and I crept nearer to them, thinking to pick up some\nsnatch of sexton gossip, some \u2018talk fit for a charnel,\u2019 {206b} something,\nin fine, worthy of that fastidious logician, that adept in coroner\u2019s law,\nwho has come down to us as the patron of Yaughan\u2019s liquor, and the very\nprince of gravediggers.  Scots people in general are so much wrapped up\nin their profession that I had a good chance of overhearing such\nconversation: the talk of fish-mongers running usually on stockfish and\nhaddocks; while of the Scots sexton I could repeat stories and speeches\nthat positively smell of the graveyard.  But on this occasion I was\ndoomed to disappointment.  My two friends were far into the region of\ngeneralities.  Their profession was forgotten in their electorship.\nPolitics had engulfed the narrower economy of grave-digging.  \u2018Na, na,\u2019\nsaid the one, \u2018ye\u2019re a\u2019 wrang.\u2019  \u2018The English and Irish Churches,\u2019\nanswered the other, in a tone as if he had made the remark before, and it\nhad been called in question\u2014\u2018The English and Irish Churches have\n_impoverished_ the country.\u2019\n\n\u2018Such are the results of education,\u2019 thought I as I passed beside them\nand came fairly among the tombs.  Here, at least, there were no\ncommonplace politics, no diluted this-morning\u2019s leader, to distract or\noffend me.  The old shabby church showed, as usual, its quaint extent of\nroofage and the relievo skeleton on one gable, still blackened with the\nfire of thirty years ago.  A chill dank mist lay over all.  The Old\nGreyfriars\u2019 churchyard was in perfection that morning, and one could go\nround and reckon up the associations with no fear of vulgar interruption.\nOn this stone the Covenant was signed.  In that vault, as the story goes,\nJohn Knox took hiding in some Reformation broil.  From that window Burke\nthe murderer looked out many a time across the tombs, and perhaps o\u2019\nnights let himself down over the sill to rob some new-made grave.\nCertainly he would have a selection here.  The very walks have been\ncarried over forgotten resting-places; and the whole ground is uneven,\nbecause (as I was once quaintly told) \u2018when the wood rots it stands to\nreason the soil should fall in,\u2019 which, from the law of gravitation, is\ncertainly beyond denial.  But it is round the boundary that there are the\nfinest tombs.  The whole irregular space is, as it were, fringed with\nquaint old monuments, rich in death\u2019s-heads and scythes and hour-glasses,\nand doubly rich in pious epitaphs and Latin mottoes\u2014rich in them to such\nan extent that their proper space has run over, and they have crawled\nend-long up the shafts of columns and ensconced themselves in all sorts\nof odd corners among the sculpture.  These tombs raise their backs\nagainst the rabble of squalid dwelling-houses, and every here and there a\nclothes-pole projects between two monuments its fluttering trophy of\nwhite and yellow and red.  With a grim irony they recall the banners in\nthe Invalides, banners as appropriate perhaps over the sepulchres of\ntailors and weavers as these others above the dust of armies.  Why they\nput things out to dry on that particular morning it was hard to imagine.\nThe grass was grey with drops of rain, the headstones black with\nmoisture.  Yet, in despite of weather and common sense, there they hung\nbetween the tombs; and beyond them I could see through open windows into\nmiserable rooms where whole families were born and fed, and slept and\ndied.  At one a girl sat singing merrily with her back to the graveyard;\nand from another came the shrill tones of a scolding woman.  Every here\nand there was a town garden full of sickly flowers, or a pile of crockery\ninside upon the window-seat.  But you do not grasp the full connection\nbetween these houses of the dead and the living, the unnatural marriage\nof stately sepulchres and squalid houses, till, lower down, where the\nroad has sunk far below the surface of the cemetery, and the very roofs\nare scarcely on a level with its wall, you observe that a proprietor has\ntaken advantage of a tall monument and trained a chimney-stack against\nits back.  It startles you to see the red, modern pots peering over the\nshoulder of the tomb.\n\nA man was at work on a grave, his spade clinking away the drift of bones\nthat permeates the thin brown soil; but my first disappointment had\ntaught me to expect little from Greyfriars\u2019 sextons, and I passed him by\nin silence.  A slater on the slope of a neighbouring roof eyed me\ncuriously.  A lean black cat, looking as if it had battened on strange\nmeats, slipped past me.  A little boy at a window put his finger to his\nnose in so offensive a manner that I was put upon my dignity, and turned\ngrandly off to read old epitaphs and peer through the gratings into the\nshadow of vaults.\n\nJust then I saw two women coming down a path, one of them old, and the\nother younger, with a child in her arms.  Both had faces eaten with\nfamine and hardened with sin, and both had reached that stage of\ndegradation, much lower in a woman than a man, when all care for dress is\nlost.  As they came down they neared a grave, where some pious friend or\nrelative had laid a wreath of immortelles, and put a bell glass over it,\nas is the custom.  The effect of that ring of dull yellow among so many\nblackened and dusty sculptures was more pleasant than it is in modern\ncemeteries, where every second mound can boast a similar coronal; and\nhere, where it was the exception and not the rule, I could even fancy the\ndrops of moisture that dimmed the covering were the tears of those who\nlaid it where it was.  As the two women came up to it, one of them\nkneeled down on the wet grass and looked long and silently through the\nclouded shade, while the second stood above her, gently oscillating to\nand fro to lull the muling baby.  I was struck a great way off with\nsomething religious in the attitude of these two unkempt and haggard\nwomen; and I drew near faster, but still cautiously, to hear what they\nwere saying.  Surely on them the spirit of death and decay had descended;\nI had no education to dread here: should I not have a chance of seeing\nnature?  Alas! a pawnbroker could not have been more practical and\ncommonplace, for this was what the kneeling woman said to the woman\nupright\u2014this and nothing more: \u2018Eh, what extravagance!\u2019\n\nO nineteenth century, wonderful art thou indeed\u2014wonderful, but wearisome\nin thy stale and deadly uniformity.  Thy men are more like numerals than\nmen.  They must bear their idiosyncrasies or their professions written on\na placard about their neck, like the scenery in Shakespeare\u2019s theatre.\nThy precepts of economy have pierced into the lowest ranks of life; and\nthere is now a decorum in vice, a respectability among the disreputable,\na pure spirit of Philistinism among the waifs and strays of thy Bohemia.\nFor lo! thy very gravediggers talk politics; and thy castaways kneel upon\nnew graves, to discuss the cost of the monument and grumble at the\nimprovidence of love.\n\nSuch was the elegant apostrophe that I made as I went out of the gates\nagain, happily satisfied in myself, and feeling that I alone of all whom\nI had seen was able to profit by the silent poem of these green mounds\nand blackened headstones.\n\n\n\nIV.  NURSES\n\n\nI knew one once, and the room where, lonely and old, she waited for\ndeath.  It was pleasant enough, high up above the lane, and looking forth\nupon a hill-side, covered all day with sheets and yellow blankets, and\nwith long lines of underclothing fluttering between the battered posts.\nThere were any number of cheap prints, and a drawing by one of \u2018her\nchildren,\u2019 and there were flowers in the window, and a sickly canary\nwithered into consumption in an ornamental cage.  The bed, with its\nchecked coverlid, was in a closet.  A great Bible lay on the table; and\nher drawers were full of \u2018scones,\u2019 which it was her pleasure to give to\nyoung visitors such as I was then.\n\nYou may not think this a melancholy picture; but the canary, and the cat,\nand the white mouse that she had for a while, and that died, were all\nindications of the want that ate into her heart.  I think I know a little\nof what that old woman felt; and I am as sure as if I had seen her, that\nshe sat many an hour in silent tears, with the big Bible open before her\nclouded eyes.\n\nIf you could look back upon her life, and feel the great chain that had\nlinked her to one child after another, sometimes to be wrenched suddenly\nthrough, and sometimes, which is infinitely worse, to be torn gradually\noff through years of growing neglect, or perhaps growing dislike!  She\nhad, like the mother, overcome that natural repugnance\u2014repugnance which\nno man can conquer\u2014towards the infirm and helpless mass of putty of the\nearlier stage.  She had spent her best and happiest years in tending,\nwatching, and learning to love like a mother this child, with which she\nhas no connection and to which she has no tie.  Perhaps she refused some\nsweetheart (such things have been), or put him off and off, until he lost\nheart and turned to some one else, all for fear of leaving this creature\nthat had wound itself about her heart.  And the end of it all\u2014her month\u2019s\nwarning, and a present perhaps, and the rest of the life to vain regret.\nOr, worse still, to see the child gradually forgetting and forsaking her,\nfostered in disrespect and neglect on the plea of growing manliness, and\nat last beginning to treat her as a servant whom he had treated a few\nyears before as a mother.  She sees the Bible or the Psalm-book, which\nwith gladness and love unutterable in her heart she had bought for him\nyears ago out of her slender savings, neglected for some newer gift of\nhis father, lying in dust in the lumber-room or given away to a poor\nchild, and the act applauded for its unfeeling charity.  Little wonder if\nshe becomes hurt and angry, and attempts to tyrannise and to grasp her\nold power back again.  We are not all patient Grizzels, by good fortune,\nbut the most of us human beings with feelings and tempers of our own.\n\nAnd so, in the end, behold her in the room that I described.  Very likely\nand very naturally, in some fling of feverish misery or recoil of\nthwarted love, she has quarrelled with her old employers and the children\nare forbidden to see her or to speak to her; or at best she gets her rent\npaid and a little to herself, and now and then her late charges are sent\nup (with another nurse, perhaps) to pay her a short visit.  How bright\nthese visits seem as she looks forward to them on her lonely bed!  How\nunsatisfactory their realisation, when the forgetful child, half\nwondering, checks with every word and action the outpouring of her\nmaternal love!  How bitter and restless the memories that they leave\nbehind!  And for the rest, what else has she?\u2014to watch them with eager\neyes as they go to school, to sit in church where she can see them every\nSunday, to be passed some day unnoticed in the street, or deliberately\ncut because the great man or the great woman are with friends before whom\nthey are ashamed to recognise the old woman that loved them.\n\nWhen she goes home that night, how lonely will the room appear to her!\nPerhaps the neighbours may hear her sobbing to herself in the dark, with\nthe fire burnt out for want of fuel, and the candle still unlit upon the\ntable.\n\nAnd it is for this that they live, these quasi-mothers\u2014mothers in\neverything but the travail and the thanks.  It is for this that they have\nremained virtuous in youth, living the dull life of a household servant.\nIt is for this that they refused the old sweetheart, and have no fireside\nor offspring of their own.\n\nI believe in a better state of things, that there will be no more nurses,\nand that every mother will nurse her own offspring; for what can be more\nhardening and demoralising than to call forth the tenderest feelings of a\nwoman\u2019s heart and cherish them yourself as long as you need them, as long\nas your children require a nurse to love them, and then to blight and\nthwart and destroy them, whenever your own use for them is at an end.\nThis may be Utopian; but it is always a little thing if one mother or two\nmothers can be brought to feel more tenderly to those who share their\ntoil and have no part in their reward.\n\n\n\nV.  A CHARACTER\n\n\nThe man has a red, bloated face, and his figure is short and squat.  So\nfar there is nothing in him to notice, but when you see his eyes, you can\nread in these hard and shallow orbs a depravity beyond measure depraved,\na thirst after wickedness, the pure, disinterested love of Hell for its\nown sake.  The other night, in the street, I was watching an omnibus\npassing with lit-up windows, when I heard some one coughing at my side as\nthough he would cough his soul out; and turning round, I saw him stopping\nunder a lamp, with a brown greatcoat buttoned round him and his whole\nface convulsed.  It seemed as if he could not live long; and so the sight\nset my mind upon a train of thought, as I finished my cigar up and down\nthe lighted streets.\n\nHe is old, but all these years have not yet quenched his thirst for evil,\nand his eyes still delight themselves in wickedness.  He is dumb; but he\nwill not let that hinder his foul trade, or perhaps I should say, his yet\nfouler amusement, and he has pressed a slate into the service of\ncorruption.  Look at him, and he will sign to you with his bloated head,\nand when you go to him in answer to the sign, thinking perhaps that the\npoor dumb man has lost his way, you will see what he writes upon his\nslate.  He haunts the doors of schools, and shows such inscriptions as\nthese to the innocent children that come out.  He hangs about\npicture-galleries, and makes the noblest pictures the text for some\nsilent homily of vice.  His industry is a lesson to ourselves.  Is it not\nwonderful how he can triumph over his infirmities and do such an amount\nof harm without a tongue?  Wonderful industry\u2014strange, fruitless,\npleasureless toil?  Must not the very devil feel a soft emotion to see\nhis disinterested and laborious service?  Ah, but the devil knows better\nthan this: he knows that this man is penetrated with the love of evil and\nthat all his pleasure is shut up in wickedness: he recognises him,\nperhaps, as a fit type for mankind of his satanic self, and watches over\nhis effigy as we might watch over a favourite likeness.  As the business\nman comes to love the toil, which he only looked upon at first as a\nladder towards other desires and less unnatural gratifications, so the\ndumb man has felt the charm of his trade and fallen captivated before the\neyes of sin.  It is a mistake when preachers tell us that vice is hideous\nand loathsome; for even vice has her H\u00f6rsel and her devotees, who love\nher for her own sake.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREAT NORTH ROAD\n\n\nCHAPTER I\u2014NANCE AT THE \u2018GREEN DRAGON\u2019\n\n\nNance Holdaway was on her knees before the fire blowing the green wood\nthat voluminously smoked upon the dogs, and only now and then shot forth\na smothered flame; her knees already ached and her eyes smarted, for she\nhad been some while at this ungrateful task, but her mind was gone far\naway to meet the coming stranger.  Now she met him in the wood, now at\nthe castle gate, now in the kitchen by candle-light; each fresh\npresentment eclipsed the one before; a form so elegant, manners so\nsedate, a countenance so brave and comely, a voice so winning and\nresolute\u2014sure such a man was never seen!  The thick-coming fancies poured\nand brightened in her head like the smoke and flames upon the hearth.\n\nPresently the heavy foot of her uncle Jonathan was heard upon the stair,\nand as he entered the room she bent the closer to her work.  He glanced\nat the green fagots with a sneer, and looked askance at the bed and the\nwhite sheets, at the strip of carpet laid, like an island, on the great\nexpanse of the stone floor, and at the broken glazing of the casement\nclumsily repaired with paper.\n\n\u2018Leave that fire a-be,\u2019 he cried.  \u2018What, have I toiled all my life to\nturn innkeeper at the hind end?  Leave it a-be, I say.\u2019\n\n\u2018La, uncle, it doesn\u2019t burn a bit; it only smokes,\u2019 said Nance, looking\nup from her position.\n\n\u2018You are come of decent people on both sides,\u2019 returned the old man.\n\u2018Who are you to blow the coals for any Robin-run-agate?  Get up, get on\nyour hood, make yourself useful, and be off to the \u201cGreen Dragon.\u201d\u2019\n\n\u2018I thought you was to go yourself,\u2019 Nance faltered.\n\n\u2018So did I,\u2019 quoth Jonathan; \u2018but it appears I was mistook.\u2019\n\nThe very excess of her eagerness alarmed her, and she began to hang back.\n\u2018I think I would rather not, dear uncle,\u2019 she said.  \u2018Night is at hand,\nand I think, dear, I would rather not.\u2019\n\n\u2018Now you look here,\u2019 replied Jonathan, \u2018I have my lord\u2019s orders, have I\nnot?  Little he gives me, but it\u2019s all my livelihood.  And do you fancy,\nif I disobey my lord, I\u2019m likely to turn round for a lass like you?  No,\nI\u2019ve that hell-fire of pain in my old knee, I wouldn\u2019t walk a mile, not\nfor King George upon his bended knees.\u2019  And he walked to the window and\nlooked down the steep scarp to where the river foamed in the bottom of\nthe dell.\n\nNance stayed for no more bidding.  In her own room, by the glimmer of the\ntwilight, she washed her hands and pulled on her Sunday mittens; adjusted\nher black hood, and tied a dozen times its cherry ribbons; and in less\nthan ten minutes, with a fluttering heart and excellently bright eyes,\nshe passed forth under the arch and over the bridge, into the thickening\nshadows of the groves.  A well-marked wheel-track conducted her.  The\nwood, which upon both sides of the river dell was a mere scrambling\nthicket of hazel, hawthorn, and holly, boasted on the level of more\nconsiderable timber.  Beeches came to a good growth, with here and there\nan oak; and the track now passed under a high arcade of branches, and now\nran under the open sky in glades.  As the girl proceeded these glades\nbecame more frequent, the trees began again to decline in size, and the\nwood to degenerate into furzy coverts.  Last of all there was a fringe of\nelders; and beyond that the track came forth upon an open, rolling\nmoorland, dotted with wind-bowed and scanty bushes, and all golden brown\nwith the winter, like a grouse.  Right over against the girl the last red\nembers of the sunset burned under horizontal clouds; the night fell clear\nand still and frosty, and the track in low and marshy passages began to\ncrackle under foot with ice.\n\nSome half a mile beyond the borders of the wood the lights of the \u2018Green\nDragon\u2019 hove in sight, and running close beside them, very faint in the\ndying dusk, the pale ribbon of the Great North Road.  It was the back of\nthe post-house that was presented to Nance Holdaway; and as she continued\nto draw near and the night to fall more completely, she became aware of\nan unusual brightness and bustle.  A post-chaise stood in the yard, its\nlamps already lighted: light shone hospitably in the windows and from the\nopen door; moving lights and shadows testified to the activity of\nservants bearing lanterns.  The clank of pails, the stamping of hoofs on\nthe firm causeway, the jingle of harness, and, last of all, the energetic\nhissing of a groom, began to fall upon her ear.  By the stir you would\nhave thought the mail was at the door, but it was still too early in the\nnight.  The down mail was not due at the \u2018Green Dragon\u2019 for hard upon an\nhour; the up mail from Scotland not before two in the black morning.\n\nNance entered the yard somewhat dazzled.  Sam, the tall ostler, was\npolishing a curb-chain wit sand; the lantern at his feet letting up\nspouts of candle-light through the holes with which its conical roof was\npeppered.\n\n\u2018Hey, miss,\u2019 said he jocularly, \u2018you won\u2019t look at me any more, now you\nhave gentry at the castle.\u2019\n\nHer cheeks burned with anger.\n\n\u2018That\u2019s my lord\u2019s chay,\u2019 the man continued, nodding at the chaise, \u2018Lord\nWindermoor\u2019s.  Came all in a fluster\u2014dinner, bowl of punch, and put the\nhorses to. For all the world like a runaway match, my dear\u2014bar the bride.\nHe brought Mr. Archer in the chay with him.\u2019\n\n\u2018Is that Holdaway?\u2019 cried the landlord from the lighted entry, where he\nstood shading his eyes.\n\n\u2018Only me, sir,\u2019 answered Nance.\n\n\u2018O, you, Miss Nance,\u2019 he said.  \u2018Well, come in quick, my pretty.  My lord\nis waiting for your uncle.\u2019\n\nAnd he ushered Nance into a room cased with yellow wainscot and lighted\nby tall candles, where two gentlemen sat at a table finishing a bowl of\npunch.  One of these was stout, elderly, and irascible, with a face like\na full moon, well dyed with liquor, thick tremulous lips, a short, purple\nhand, in which he brandished a long pipe, and an abrupt and gobbling\nutterance.  This was my Lord Windermoor.  In his companion Nance beheld a\nyounger man, tall, quiet, grave, demurely dressed, and wearing his own\nhair.  Her glance but lighted on him, and she flushed, for in that second\nshe made sure that she had twice betrayed herself\u2014betrayed by the\ninvoluntary flash of her black eyes her secret impatience to behold this\nnew companion, and, what was far worse, betrayed her disappointment in\nthe realisation of her dreams.  He, meanwhile, as if unconscious,\ncontinued to regard her with unmoved decorum.\n\n\u2018O, a man of wood,\u2019 thought Nance.\n\n\u2018What\u2014what?\u2019 said his lordship.  \u2018Who is this?\u2019\n\n\u2018If you please, my lord, I am Holdaway\u2019s niece,\u2019 replied Nance, with a\ncurtsey.\n\n\u2018Should have been here himself,\u2019 observed his lordship.  \u2018Well, you tell\nHoldaway that I\u2019m aground, not a stiver\u2014not a stiver.  I\u2019m running from\nthe beagles\u2014going abroad, tell Holdaway.  And he need look for no more\nwages: glad of \u2019em myself, if I could get \u2019em.  He can live in the castle\nif he likes, or go to the devil.  O, and here is Mr. Archer; and I\nrecommend him to take him in\u2014a friend of mine\u2014and Mr. Archer will pay, as\nI wrote.  And I regard that in the light of a precious good thing for\nHoldaway, let me tell you, and a set-off against the wages.\u2019\n\n\u2018But O, my lord!\u2019 cried Nance, \u2018we live upon the wages, and what are we\nto do without?\u2019\n\n\u2018What am I to do?\u2014what am I to do?\u2019 replied Lord Windermoor with some\nexasperation.  \u2018I have no wages.  And there is Mr. Archer.  And if\nHoldaway doesn\u2019t like it, he can go to the devil, and you with him!\u2014and\nyou with him!\u2019\n\n\u2018And yet, my lord,\u2019 said Mr. Archer, \u2018these good people will have as keen\na sense of loss as you or I; keener, perhaps, since they have done\nnothing to deserve it.\u2019\n\n\u2018Deserve it?\u2019 cried the peer.  \u2018What?  What?  If a rascally highwayman\ncomes up to me with a confounded pistol, do you say that I\u2019ve deserved\nit?  How often am I to tell you, sir, that I was cheated\u2014that I was\ncheated?\u2019\n\n\u2018You are happy in the belief,\u2019 returned Mr. Archer gravely.\n\n\u2018Archer, you would be the death of me!\u2019 exclaimed his lordship.  \u2018You\nknow you\u2019re drunk; you know it, sir; and yet you can\u2019t get up a spark of\nanimation.\u2019\n\n\u2018I have drunk fair, my lord,\u2019 replied the younger man; \u2018but I own I am\nconscious of no exhilaration.\u2019\n\n\u2018If you had as black a look-out as me, sir,\u2019 cried the peer, \u2018you would\nbe very glad of a little innocent exhilaration, let me tell you.  I am\nglad of it\u2014glad of it, and I only wish I was drunker.  For let me tell\nyou it\u2019s a cruel hard thing upon a man of my time of life and my\nposition, to be brought down to beggary because the world is full of\nthieves and rascals\u2014thieves and rascals.  What?  For all I know, you may\nbe a thief and a rascal yourself; and I would fight you for a pinch of\nsnuff\u2014a pinch of snuff,\u2019 exclaimed his lordship.\n\nHere Mr. Archer turned to Nance Holdaway with a pleasant smile, so full\nof sweetness, kindness, and composure that, at one bound, her dreams\nreturned to her.  \u2018My good Miss Holdaway,\u2019 said he, \u2018if you are willing\nto show me the road, I am even eager to be gone.  As for his lordship and\nmyself, compose yourself; there is no fear; this is his lordship\u2019s way.\u2019\n\n\u2018What? what?\u2019 cried his lordship.  \u2018My way?  Ish no such a thing, my\nway.\u2019\n\n\u2018Come, my lord,\u2019 cried Archer; \u2018you and I very thoroughly understand each\nother; and let me suggest, it is time that both of us were gone.  The\nmail will soon be due.  Here, then, my lord, I take my leave of you, with\nthe most earnest assurance of my gratitude for the past, and a sincere\noffer of any services I may be able to render in the future.\u2019\n\n\u2018Archer,\u2019 exclaimed Lord Windermoor, \u2018I love you like a son.  Le\u2019 \u2019s have\nanother bowl.\u2019\n\n\u2018My lord, for both our sakes, you will excuse me,\u2019 replied Mr. Archer.\n\u2018We both require caution; we must both, for some while at least, avoid\nthe chance of a pursuit.\u2019\n\n\u2018Archer,\u2019 quoth his lordship, \u2018this is a rank ingratishood.  What?  I\u2019m\nto go firing away in the dark in the cold po\u2019chaise, and not so much as a\ngame of \u00e9cart\u00e9 possible, unless I stop and play with the postillion, the\npostillion; and the whole country swarming with thieves and rascals and\nhighwaymen.\u2019\n\n\u2018I beg your lordship\u2019s pardon,\u2019 put in the landlord, who now appeared in\nthe doorway to announce the chaise, \u2018but this part of the North Road is\nknown for safety.  There has not been a robbery, to call a robbery, this\nfive years\u2019 time.  Further south, of course, it\u2019s nearer London, and\nanother story,\u2019 he added.\n\n\u2018Well, then, if that\u2019s so,\u2019 concluded my lord, \u2018le\u2019 \u2019s have t\u2019other bowl\nand a pack of cards.\u2019\n\n\u2018My lord, you forget,\u2019 said Archer, \u2018I might still gain; but it is hardly\npossible for me to lose.\u2019\n\n\u2018Think I\u2019m a sharper?\u2019 inquired the peer.  \u2018Gen\u2019leman\u2019s parole\u2019s all I\nask.\u2019\n\nBut Mr. Archer was proof against these blandishments, and said farewell\ngravely enough to Lord Windermoor, shaking his hand and at the same time\nbowing very low.  \u2018You will never know,\u2019 says he, \u2018the service you have\ndone me.\u2019  And with that, and before my lord had finally taken up his\nmeaning, he had slipped about the table, touched Nance lightly but\nimperiously on the arm, and left the room.  In face of the outbreak of\nhis lordship\u2019s lamentations she made haste to follow the truant.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\u2014IN WHICH MR. ARCHER IS INSTALLED\n\n\nThe chaise had been driven round to the front door; the courtyard lay all\ndeserted, and only lit by a lantern set upon a window-sill.  Through this\nNance rapidly led the way, and began to ascend the swellings of the moor\nwith a heart that somewhat fluttered in her bosom.  She was not afraid,\nbut in the course of these last passages with Lord Windermoor Mr. Archer\nhad ascended to that pedestal on which her fancy waited to instal him.\nThe reality, she felt, excelled her dreams, and this cold night walk was\nthe first romantic incident in her experience.\n\nIt was the rule in these days to see gentlemen unsteady after dinner, yet\nNance was both surprised and amused when her companion, who had spoken so\nsoberly, began to stumble and waver by her side with the most airy\ndivagations.  Sometimes he would get so close to her that she must edge\naway; and at others lurch clear out of the track and plough among deep\nheather.  His courtesy and gravity meanwhile remained unaltered.  He\nasked her how far they had to go; whether the way lay all upon the\nmoorland, and when he learned they had to pass a wood expressed his\npleasure.  \u2018For,\u2019 said he, \u2018I am passionately fond of trees.  Trees and\nfair lawns, if you consider of it rightly, are the ornaments of nature,\nas palaces and fine approaches\u2014\u2019  And here he stumbled into a patch of\nslough and nearly fell.  The girl had hard work not to laugh, but at\nheart she was lost in admiration for one who talked so elegantly.\n\nThey had got to about a quarter of a mile from the \u2018Green Dragon,\u2019 and\nwere near the summit of the rise, when a sudden rush of wheels arrested\nthem.  Turning and looking back, they saw the post-house, now much\ndeclined in brightness; and speeding away northward the two tremulous\nbright dots of my Lord Windermoor\u2019s chaise-lamps.  Mr. Archer followed\nthese yellow and unsteady stars until they dwindled into points and\ndisappeared.\n\n\u2018There goes my only friend,\u2019 he said.  \u2018Death has cut off those that\nloved me, and change of fortune estranged my flatterers; and but for you,\npoor bankrupt, my life is as lonely as this moor.\u2019\n\nThe tone of his voice affected both of them.  They stood there on the\nside of the moor, and became thrillingly conscious of the void waste of\nthe night, without a feature for the eye, and except for the fainting\nwhisper of the carriage-wheels without a murmur for the ear.  And\ninstantly, like a mockery, there broke out, very far away, but clear and\njolly, the note of the mail-guard\u2019s horn.  \u2018Over the hills\u2019 was his air.\nIt rose to the two watchers on the moor with the most cheerful sentiment\nof human company and travel, and at the same time in and around the\n\u2018Green Dragon\u2019 it woke up a great bustle of lights running to and fro and\nclattering hoofs.  Presently after, out of the darkness to southward, the\nmail grew near with a growing rumble.  Its lamps were very large and\nbright, and threw their radiance forward in overlapping cones; the four\ncantering horses swarmed and steamed; the body of the coach followed like\na great shadow; and this lit picture slid with a sort of ineffectual\nswiftness over the black field of night, and was eclipsed by the\nbuildings of the \u2018Green Dragon.\u2019\n\nMr. Archer turned abruptly and resumed his former walk; only that he was\nnow more steady, kept better alongside his young conductor, and had\nfallen into a silence broken by sighs.  Nance waxed very pitiful over his\nfate, contrasting an imaginary past of courts and great society, and\nperhaps the King himself, with the tumbledown ruin in a wood to which she\nwas now conducting him.\n\n\u2018You must try, sir, to keep your spirits up,\u2019 said she.  \u2018To be sure this\nis a great change for one like you; but who knows the future?\u2019\n\nMr. Archer turned towards her in the darkness, and she could clearly\nperceive that he smiled upon her very kindly.  \u2018There spoke a sweet\nnature,\u2019 said he, \u2018and I must thank you for these words.  But I would not\nhave you fancy that I regret the past for any happiness found in it, or\nthat I fear the simplicity and hardship of the country.  I am a man that\nhas been much tossed about in life; now up, now down; and do you think\nthat I shall not be able to support what you support\u2014you who are kind,\nand therefore know how to feel pain; who are beautiful, and therefore\nhope; who are young, and therefore (or am I the more mistaken?)\ndiscontented?\u2019\n\n\u2018Nay, sir, not that, at least,\u2019 said Nance; \u2018not discontented.  If I were\nto be discontented, how should I look those that have real sorrows in the\nface?  I have faults enough, but not that fault; and I have my merits\ntoo, for I have a good opinion of myself.  But for beauty, I am not so\nsimple but that I can tell a banter from a compliment.\u2019\n\n\u2018Nay, nay,\u2019 said Mr. Archer, \u2018I had half forgotten; grief is selfish, and\nI was thinking of myself and not of you, or I had never blurted out so\nbold a piece of praise.  \u2019Tis the best proof of my sincerity.  But come,\nnow, I would lay a wager you are no coward?\u2019\n\n\u2018Indeed, sir, I am not more afraid than another,\u2019 said Nance.  \u2018None of\nmy blood are given to fear.\u2019\n\n\u2018And you are honest?\u2019 he returned.\n\n\u2018I will answer for that,\u2019 said she.\n\n\u2018Well, then, to be brave, to be honest, to be kind, and to be contented,\nsince you say you are so\u2014is not that to fill up a great part of virtue?\u2019\n\n\u2018I fear you are but a flatterer,\u2019 said Nance, but she did not say it\nclearly, for what with bewilderment and satisfaction, her heart was quite\noppressed.\n\nThere could be no harm, certainly, in these grave compliments; but yet\nthey charmed and frightened her, and to find favour, for reasons however\nobscure, in the eyes of this elegant, serious, and most unfortunate young\ngentleman, was a giddy elevation, was almost an apotheosis, for a country\nmaid.\n\nBut she was to be no more exercised; for Mr. Archer, disclaiming any\nthought of flattery, turned off to other subjects, and held her all\nthrough the wood in conversation, addressing her with an air of perfect\nsincerity, and listening to her answers with every mark of interest.  Had\nopen flattery continued, Nance would have soon found refuge in good\nsense; but the more subtle lure she could not suspect, much less avoid.\nIt was the first time she had ever taken part in a conversation\nilluminated by any ideas.  All was then true that she had heard and\ndreamed of gentlemen; they were a race apart, like deities knowing good\nand evil.  And then there burst upon her soul a divine thought, hope\u2019s\nglorious sunrise: since she could understand, since it seemed that she\ntoo, even she, could interest this sorrowful Apollo, might she not learn?\nor was she not learning?  Would not her soul awake and put forth wings?\nWas she not, in fact, an enchanted princess, waiting but a touch to\nbecome royal?  She saw herself transformed, radiantly attired, but in the\nmost exquisite taste: her face grown longer and more refined; her tint\netherealised; and she heard herself with delighted wonder talking like a\nbook.\n\nMeanwhile they had arrived at where the track comes out above the river\ndell, and saw in front of them the castle, faintly shadowed on the night,\ncovering with its broken battlements a bold projection of the bank, and\nshowing at the extreme end, where were the habitable tower and wing, some\ncrevices of candle-light.  Hence she called loudly upon her uncle, and he\nwas seen to issue, lantern in hand, from the tower door, and, where the\nruins did not intervene, to pick his way over the swarded courtyard,\navoiding treacherous cellars and winding among blocks of fallen masonry.\nThe arch of the great gate was still entire, flanked by two tottering\nbastions, and it was here that Jonathan met them, standing at the edge of\nthe bridge, bent somewhat forward, and blinking at them through the glow\nof his own lantern.  Mr. Archer greeted him with civility; but the old\nman was in no humour of compliance.  He guided the newcomer across the\ncourt-yard, looking sharply and quickly in his face, and grumbling all\nthe time about the cold, and the discomfort and dilapidation of the\ncastle.  He was sure he hoped that Mr. Archer would like it; but in truth\nhe could not think what brought him there.  Doubtless he had a good\nreason\u2014this with a look of cunning scrutiny\u2014but, indeed, the place was\nquite unfit for any person of repute; he himself was eaten up with the\nrheumatics.  It was the most rheumaticky place in England, and some fine\nday the whole habitable part (to call it habitable) would fetch away\nbodily and go down the slope into the river.  He had seen the cracks\nwidening; there was a plaguy issue in the bank below; he thought a spring\nwas mining it; it might be to-morrow, it might be next day; but they were\nall sure of a come-down sooner or later.  \u2018And that is a poor death,\u2019\nsaid he, \u2018for any one, let alone a gentleman, to have a whole old ruin\ndumped upon his belly.  Have a care to your left there; these cellar\nvaults have all broke down, and the grass and hemlock hide \u2019em.  Well,\nsir, here is welcome to you, such as it is, and wishing you well away.\u2019\n\nAnd with that Jonathan ushered his guest through the tower door, and down\nthree steps on the left hand into the kitchen or common room of the\ncastle.  It was a huge, low room, as large as a meadow, occupying the\nwhole width of the habitable wing, with six barred windows looking on the\ncourt, and two into the river valley.  A dresser, a table, and a few\nchairs stood dotted here and there upon the uneven flags.  Under the\ngreat chimney a good fire burned in an iron fire-basket; a high old\nsettee, rudely carved with figures and Gothic lettering, flanked it on\neither side; there was a hinge table and a stone bench in the chimney\ncorner, and above the arch hung guns, axes, lanterns, and great sheaves\nof rusty keys.\n\nJonathan looked about him, holding up the lantern, and shrugged his\nshoulders, with a pitying grimace.  \u2018Here it is,\u2019 he said.  \u2018See the damp\non the floor, look at the moss; where there\u2019s moss you may be sure that\nit\u2019s rheumaticky.  Try and get near that fire for to warm yourself; it\u2019ll\nblow the coat off your back.  And with a young gentleman with a face like\nyours, as pale as a tallow-candle, I\u2019d be afeard of a churchyard cough\nand a galloping decline,\u2019 says Jonathan, naming the maladies with gloomy\ngusto, \u2018or the cold might strike and turn your blood,\u2019 he added.\n\nMr. Archer fairly laughed.  \u2018My good Mr. Holdaway,\u2019 said he, \u2018I was born\nwith that same tallow-candle face, and the only fear that you inspire me\nwith is the fear that I intrude unwelcomely upon your private hours.  But\nI think I can promise you that I am very little troublesome, and I am\ninclined to hope that the terms which I can offer may still pay you the\nderangement.\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes, the terms,\u2019 said Jonathan, \u2018I was thinking of that.  As you say,\nthey are very small,\u2019 and he shook his head.\n\n\u2018Unhappily, I can afford no more,\u2019 said Mr. Archer.  \u2018But this we have\narranged already,\u2019 he added with a certain stiffness; \u2018and as I am aware\nthat Miss Holdaway has matter to communicate, I will, if you permit,\nretire at once.  To-night I must bivouac; to-morrow my trunk is to follow\nfrom the \u201cDragon.\u201d  So if you will show me to my room I shall wish you a\ngood slumber and a better awakening.\u2019\n\nJonathan silently gave the lantern to Nance, and she, turning and\ncurtseying in the doorway, proceeded to conduct their guest up the broad\nwinding staircase of the tower.  He followed with a very brooding face.\n\n\u2018Alas!\u2019 cried Nance, as she entered the room, \u2018your fire black out,\u2019 and,\nsetting down the lantern, she clapped upon her knees before the chimney\nand began to rearrange the charred and still smouldering remains.  Mr.\nArcher looked about the gaunt apartment with a sort of shudder.  The\ngreat height, the bare stone, the shattered windows, the aspect of the\nuncurtained bed, with one of its four fluted columns broken short, all\nstruck a chill upon his fancy.  From this dismal survey his eyes returned\nto Nance crouching before the fire, the candle in one hand and artfully\npuffing at the embers; the flames as they broke forth played upon the\nsoft outline of her cheek\u2014she was alive and young, coloured with the\nbright hues of life, and a woman.  He looked upon her, softening; and\nthen sat down and continued to admire the picture.\n\n\u2018There, sir,\u2019 said she, getting upon her feet, \u2018your fire is doing\nbravely now.  Good-night.\u2019\n\nHe rose and held out his hand.  \u2018Come,\u2019 said he, \u2018you are my only friend\nin these parts, and you must shake hands.\u2019\n\nShe brushed her hand upon her skirt and offered it, blushing.\n\n\u2018God bless you, my dear,\u2019 said he.\n\nAnd then, when he was alone, he opened one of the windows, and stared\ndown into the dark valley.  A gentle wimpling of the river among stones\nascended to his ear; the trees upon the other bank stood very black\nagainst the sky; farther away an owl was hooting.  It was dreary and\ncold, and as he turned back to the hearth and the fine glow of fire,\n\u2018Heavens!\u2019 said he to himself, \u2018what an unfortunate destiny is mine!\u2019\n\nHe went to bed, but sleep only visited his pillow in uneasy snatches.\nOutbreaks of loud speech came up the staircase; he heard the old stones\nof the castle crack in the frosty night with sharp reverberations, and\nthe bed complained under his tossings.  Lastly, far on into the morning,\nhe awakened from a doze to hear, very far off, in the extreme and\nbreathless quiet, a wailing flourish on the horn.  The down mail was\ndrawing near to the \u2018Green Dragon.\u2019  He sat up in bed; the sound was\ntragical by distance, and the modulation appealed to his ear like human\nspeech.  It seemed to call upon him with a dreary insistence\u2014to call him\nfar away, to address him personally, and to have a meaning that he failed\nto seize.  It was thus, at least, in this nodding castle, in a cold, miry\nwoodland, and so far from men and society, that the traffic on the Great\nNorth Road spoke to him in the intervals of slumber.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\u2014JONATHAN HOLDAWAY\n\n\nNance descended the tower stair, pausing at every step.  She was in no\nhurry to confront her uncle with bad news, and she must dwell a little\nlonger on the rich note of Mr. Archer\u2019s voice, the charm of his kind\nwords, and the beauty of his manner and person.  But, once at the\nstair-foot, she threw aside the spell and recovered her sensible and\nworkaday self.\n\nJonathan was seated in the middle of the settle, a mug of ale beside him,\nin the attitude of one prepared for trouble; but he did not speak, and\nsuffered her to fetch her supper and eat of it, with a very excellent\nappetite, in silence.  When she had done, she, too, drew a tankard of\nhome-brewed, and came and planted herself in front of him upon the\nsettle.\n\n\u2018Well?\u2019 said Jonathan.\n\n\u2018My lord has run away,\u2019 said Nance.\n\n\u2018What?\u2019 cried the old man.\n\n\u2018Abroad,\u2019 she continued; \u2018run away from creditors.  He said he had not a\nstiver, but he was drunk enough.  He said you might live on in the\ncastle, and Mr. Archer would pay you; but you was to look for no more\nwages, since he would be glad of them himself.\u2019\n\nJonathan\u2019s face contracted; the flush of a black, bilious anger mounted\nto the roots of his hair; he gave an inarticulate cry, leapt upon his\nfeet, and began rapidly pacing the stone floor.  At first he kept his\nhands behind his back in a tight knot; then he began to gesticulate as he\nturned.\n\n\u2018This man\u2014this lord,\u2019 he shouted, \u2018who is he?  He was born with a gold\nspoon in his mouth, and I with a dirty straw.  He rolled in his coach\nwhen he was a baby.  I have dug and toiled and laboured since I was that\nhigh\u2014that high.\u2019  And he shouted again.  \u2018I\u2019m bent and broke, and full of\npains.  D\u2019 ye think I don\u2019t know the taste of sweat?  Many\u2019s the gallon\nI\u2019ve drunk of it\u2014ay, in the midwinter, toiling like a slave.  All\nthrough, what has my life been?  Bend, bend, bend my old creaking back\ntill it would ache like breaking; wade about in the foul mire, never a\ndry stitch; empty belly, sore hands, hat off to my Lord Redface; kicks\nand ha\u2019pence; and now, here, at the hind end, when I\u2019m worn to my poor\nbones, a kick and done with it.\u2019  He walked a little while in silence,\nand then, extending his hand, \u2018Now you, Nance Holdaway,\u2019 says he, \u2018you\ncome of my blood, and you\u2019re a good girl.  When that man was a boy, I\nused to carry his gun for him.  I carried the gun all day on my two feet,\nand many a stitch I had, and chewed a bullet for.  He rode upon a horse,\nwith feathers in his hat; but it was him that had the shots and took the\ngame home.  Did I complain?  Not I.  I knew my station.  What did I ask,\nbut just the chance to live and die honest?  Nance Holdaway, don\u2019t let\nthem deny it to me\u2014don\u2019t let them do it.  I\u2019ve been as poor as Job, and\nas honest as the day, but now, my girl, you mark these words of mine, I\u2019m\ngetting tired of it.\u2019\n\n\u2018I wouldn\u2019t say such words, at least,\u2019 said Nance.\n\n\u2018You wouldn\u2019t?\u2019 said the old man grimly.  \u2018Well, and did I when I was\nyour age?  Wait till your back\u2019s broke and your hands tremble, and your\neyes fail, and you\u2019re weary of the battle and ask no more but to lie down\nin your bed and give the ghost up like an honest man; and then let there\nup and come some insolent, ungodly fellow\u2014ah! if I had him in these\nhands!  \u201cWhere\u2019s my money that you gambled?\u201d I should say.  \u201cWhere\u2019s my\nmoney that you drank and diced?\u201d  \u201cThief!\u201d is what I would say; \u201cThief!\u201d\u2019\nhe roared, \u2018\u201cThief\u201d\u2019\n\n\u2018Mr. Archer will hear you if you don\u2019t take care,\u2019 said Nance, \u2018and I\nwould be ashamed, for one, that he should hear a brave, old, honest,\nhard-working man like Jonathan Holdaway talk nonsense like a boy.\u2019\n\n\u2018D\u2019 ye think I mind for Mr. Archer?\u2019 he cried shrilly, with a clack of\nlaughter; and then he came close up to her, stooped down with his two\npalms upon his knees, and looked her in the eyes, with a strange hard\nexpression, something like a smile.  \u2018Do I mind for God, my girl?\u2019 he\nsaid; \u2018that\u2019s what it\u2019s come to be now, do I mind for God?\u2019\n\n\u2018Uncle Jonathan,\u2019 she said, getting up and taking him by the arm; \u2018you\nsit down again, where you were sitting.  There, sit still; I\u2019ll have no\nmore of this; you\u2019ll do yourself a mischief.  Come, take a drink of this\ngood ale, and I\u2019ll warm a tankard for you.  La, we\u2019ll pull through,\nyou\u2019ll see.  I\u2019m young, as you say, and it\u2019s my turn to carry the bundle;\nand don\u2019t you worry your bile, or we\u2019ll have sickness, too, as well as\nsorrow.\u2019\n\n\u2018D\u2019 ye think that I\u2019d forgotten you?\u2019 said Jonathan, with something like\na groan; and thereupon his teeth clicked to, and he sat silent with the\ntankard in his hand and staring straight before him.\n\n\u2018Why,\u2019 says Nance, setting on the ale to mull, \u2018men are always children,\nthey say, however old; and if ever I heard a thing like this, to set to\nand make yourself sick, just when the money\u2019s failing.  Keep a good heart\nup; you haven\u2019t kept a good heart these seventy years, nigh hand, to\nbreak down about a pound or two.  Here\u2019s this Mr. Archer come to lodge,\nthat you disliked so much.  Well, now you see it was a clear Providence.\nCome, let\u2019s think upon our mercies.  And here is the ale mulling lovely;\nsmell of it; I\u2019ll take a drop myself, it smells so sweet.  And, Uncle\nJonathan, you let me say one word.  You\u2019ve lost more than money before\nnow; you lost my aunt, and bore it like a man.  Bear this.\u2019\n\nHis face once more contracted; his fist doubled, and shot forth into the\nair, and trembled.  \u2018Let them look out!\u2019 he shouted.  \u2018Here, I warn all\nmen; I\u2019ve done with this foul kennel of knaves.  Let them look out!\u2019\n\n\u2018Hush, hush! for pity\u2019s sake,\u2019 cried Nance.\n\nAnd then all of a sudden he dropped his face into his hands, and broke\nout with a great hiccoughing dry sob that was horrible to hear.  \u2018O,\u2019 he\ncried, \u2018my God, if my son hadn\u2019t left me, if my Dick was here!\u2019 and the\nsobs shook him; Nance sitting still and watching him, with distress.  \u2018O,\nif he were here to help his father!\u2019 he went on again.  \u2018If I had a son\nlike other fathers, he would save me now, when all is breaking down; O,\nhe would save me!  Ay, but where is he?  Raking taverns, a thief perhaps.\nMy curse be on him!\u2019 he added, rising again into wrath.\n\n\u2018Hush!\u2019 cried Nance, springing to her feet: \u2018your boy, your dead wife\u2019s\nboy\u2014Aunt Susan\u2019s baby that she loved\u2014would you curse him?  O, God\nforbid!\u2019\n\nThe energy of her address surprised him from his mood.  He looked upon\nher, tearless and confused.  \u2018Let me go to my bed,\u2019 he said at last, and\nhe rose, and, shaking as with ague, but quite silent, lighted his candle,\nand left the kitchen.\n\nPoor Nance! the pleasant current of her dreams was all diverted.  She\nbeheld a golden city, where she aspired to dwell; she had spoken with a\ndeity, and had told herself that she might rise to be his equal; and now\nthe earthly ligaments that bound her down had been tightened.  She was\nlike a tree looking skyward, her roots were in the ground.  It seemed to\nher a thing so coarse, so rustic, to be thus concerned about a loss in\nmoney; when Mr. Archer, fallen from the sky-level of counts and nobles,\nfaced his changed destiny with so immovable a courage.  To weary of\nhonesty; that, at least, no one could do, but even to name it was already\na disgrace; and she beheld in fancy her uncle, and the young lad, all\nlaced and feathered, hand upon hip, bestriding his small horse.  The\nopposition seemed to perpetuate itself from generation to generation; one\nside still doomed to the clumsy and the servile, the other born to\nbeauty.\n\nShe thought of the golden zones in which gentlemen were bred, and figured\nwith so excellent a grace; zones in which wisdom and smooth words, white\nlinen and slim hands, were the mark of the desired inhabitants; where low\ntemptations were unknown, and honesty no virtue, but a thing as natural\nas breathing.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\u2014MINGLING THREADS\n\n\nIt was nearly seven before Mr. Archer left his apartment.  On the landing\nhe found another door beside his own opening on a roofless corridor, and\npresently he was walking on the top of the ruins.  On one hand he could\nlook down a good depth into the green court-yard; on the other his eye\nroved along the downward course of the river, the wet woods all smoking,\nthe shadows long and blue, the mists golden and rosy in the sun, here and\nthere the water flashing across an obstacle.  His heart expanded and\nsoftened to a grateful melancholy, and with his eye fixed upon the\ndistance, and no thought of present danger, he continued to stroll along\nthe elevated and treacherous promenade.\n\nA terror-stricken cry rose to him from the courtyard.  He looked down,\nand saw in a glimpse Nance standing below with hands clasped in horror\nand his own foot trembling on the margin of a gulf.  He recoiled and\nleant against a pillar, quaking from head to foot, and covering his face\nwith his hands; and Nance had time to run round by the stair and rejoin\nhim where he stood before he had changed a line of his position.\n\n\u2018Ah!\u2019 he cried, and clutched her wrist; \u2018don\u2019t leave me.  The place\nrocks; I have no head for altitudes.\u2019\n\n\u2018Sit down against that pillar,\u2019 said Nance.  \u2018Don\u2019t you be afraid; I\nwon\u2019t leave you, and don\u2019t look up or down: look straight at me.  How\nwhite you are!\u2019\n\n\u2018The gulf,\u2019 he said, and closed his eyes again and shuddered.\n\n\u2018Why,\u2019 said Nance, \u2018what a poor climber you must be!  That was where my\ncousin Dick used to get out of the castle after Uncle Jonathan had shut\nthe gate.  I\u2019ve been down there myself with him helping me.  I wouldn\u2019t\ntry with you,\u2019 she said, and laughed merrily.\n\nThe sound of her laughter was sincere and musical, and perhaps its beauty\nbarbed the offence to Mr. Archer.  The blood came into his face with a\nquick jet, and then left it paler than before.  \u2018It is a physical\nweakness,\u2019 he said harshly, \u2018and very droll, no doubt, but one that I can\nconquer on necessity.  See, I am still shaking.  Well, I advance to the\nbattlements and look down.  Show me your cousin\u2019s path.\u2019\n\n\u2018He would go sure-foot along that little ledge,\u2019 said Nance, pointing as\nshe spoke; \u2018then out through the breach and down by yonder buttress.  It\nis easier coming back, of course, because you see where you are going.\nFrom the buttress foot a sheep-walk goes along the scarp\u2014see, you can\nfollow it from here in the dry grass.  And now, sir,\u2019 she added, with a\ntouch of womanly pity, \u2018I would come away from here if I were you, for\nindeed you are not fit.\u2019\n\nSure enough Mr. Archer\u2019s pallor and agitation had continued to increase;\nhis cheeks were deathly, his clenched fingers trembled pitifully.  \u2018The\nweakness is physical,\u2019 he sighed, and had nearly fallen.  Nance led him\nfrom the spot, and he was no sooner back in the tower-stair, than he fell\nheavily against the wall and put his arm across his eyes.  A cup of\nbrandy had to be brought him before he could descend to breakfast; and\nthe perfection of Nance\u2019s dream was for the first time troubled.\n\nJonathan was waiting for them at table, with yellow, blood-shot eyes and\na peculiar dusky complexion.  He hardly waited till they found their\nseats, before, raising one hand, and stooping with his mouth above his\nplate, he put up a prayer for a blessing on the food and a spirit of\ngratitude in the eaters, and thereupon, and without more civility, fell\nto.  But it was notable that he was no less speedily satisfied than he\nhad been greedy to begin.  He pushed his plate away and drummed upon the\ntable.\n\n\u2018These are silly prayers,\u2019 said he, \u2018that they teach us.  Eat and be\nthankful, that\u2019s no such wonder.  Speak to me of starving\u2014there\u2019s the\ntouch.  You\u2019re a man, they tell me, Mr. Archer, that has met with some\nreverses?\u2019\n\n\u2018I have met with many,\u2019 replied Mr. Archer.\n\n\u2018Ha!\u2019 said Jonathan.  \u2018None reckons but the last.  Now, see; I tried to\nmake this girl here understand me.\u2019\n\n\u2018Uncle,\u2019 said Nance, \u2018what should Mr. Archer care for your concerns?  He\nhath troubles of his own, and came to be at peace, I think.\u2019\n\n\u2018I tried to make her understand me,\u2019 repeated Jonathan doggedly; \u2018and now\nI\u2019ll try you.  Do you think this world is fair?\u2019\n\n\u2018Fair and false!\u2019 quoth Mr. Archer.\n\nThe old man laughed immoderately.  \u2018Good,\u2019 said he, \u2018very good, but what\nI mean is this: do you know what it is to get up early and go to bed\nlate, and never take so much as a holiday but four: and one of these your\nown marriage day, and the other three the funerals of folk you loved, and\nall that, to have a quiet old age in shelter, and bread for your old\nbelly, and a bed to lay your crazy bones upon, with a clear conscience?\u2019\n\n\u2018Sir,\u2019 said Mr. Archer, with an inclination of his head, \u2018you portray a\nvery brave existence.\u2019\n\n\u2018Well,\u2019 continued Jonathan, \u2018and in the end thieves deceive you, thieves\nrob and rook you, thieves turn you out in your old age and send you\nbegging.  What have you got for all your honesty?  A fine return!  You\nthat might have stole scores of pounds, there you are out in the rain\nwith your rheumatics!\u2019\n\nMr. Archer had forgotten to eat; with his hand upon his chin he was\nstudying the old man\u2019s countenance.  \u2018And you conclude?\u2019 he asked.\n\n\u2018Conclude!\u2019 cried Jonathan.  \u2018I conclude I\u2019ll be upsides with them.\u2019\n\n\u2018Ay,\u2019 said the other, \u2018we are all tempted to revenge.\u2019\n\n\u2018You have lost money?\u2019 asked Jonathan.\n\n\u2018A great estate,\u2019 said Archer quietly.\n\n\u2018See now!\u2019 says Jonathan, \u2018and where is it?\u2019\n\n\u2018Nay, I sometimes think that every one has had his share of it but me,\u2019\nwas the reply.  \u2018All England hath paid his taxes with my patrimony: I was\na sheep that left my wool on every briar.\u2019\n\n\u2018And you sit down under that?\u2019 cried the old man.  \u2018Come now, Mr. Archer,\nyou and me belong to different stations; and I know mine\u2014no man\nbetter\u2014but since we have both been rooked, and are both sore with it,\nwhy, here\u2019s my hand with a very good heart, and I ask for yours, and no\noffence, I hope.\u2019\n\n\u2018There is surely no offence, my friend,\u2019 returned Mr. Archer, as they\nshook hands across the table; \u2018for, believe me, my sympathies are quite\nacquired to you.  This life is an arena where we fight with beasts; and,\nindeed,\u2019 he added, sighing, \u2018I sometimes marvel why we go down to it\nunarmed.\u2019\n\nIn the meanwhile a creaking of ungreased axles had been heard descending\nthrough the wood; and presently after, the door opened, and the tall\nostler entered the kitchen carrying one end of Mr. Archer\u2019s trunk.  The\nother was carried by an aged beggar man of that district, known and\nwelcome for some twenty miles about under the name of \u2018Old Cumberland.\u2019\nEach was soon perched upon a settle, with a cup of ale; and the ostler,\nwho valued himself upon his affability, began to entertain the company,\nstill with half an eye on Nance, to whom in gallant terms he expressly\ndedicated every sip of ale.  First he told of the trouble they had to get\nhis Lordship started in the chaise; and how he had dropped a rouleau of\ngold on the threshold, and the passage and doorstep had been strewn with\nguinea-pieces.  At this old Jonathan looked at Mr. Archer.  Next the\nvisitor turned to news of a more thrilling character: how the down mail\nhad been stopped again near Grantham by three men on horseback\u2014a white\nand two bays; how they had handkerchiefs on their faces; how Tom the\nguard\u2019s blunderbuss missed fire, but he swore he had winged one of them\nwith a pistol; and how they had got clean away with seventy pounds in\nmoney, some valuable papers, and a watch or two.\n\n\u2018Brave! brave!\u2019 cried Jonathan in ecstasy.  \u2018Seventy pounds!  O, it\u2019s\nbrave!\u2019\n\n\u2018Well, I don\u2019t see the great bravery,\u2019 observed the ostler,\nmisapprehending him.  \u2018Three men, and you may call that three to one.\nI\u2019ll call it brave when some one stops the mail single-handed; that\u2019s a\nrisk.\u2019\n\n\u2018And why should they hesitate?\u2019 inquired Mr. Archer.  \u2018The poor souls who\nare fallen to such a way of life, pray what have they to lose?  If they\nget the money, well; but if a ball should put them from their troubles,\nwhy, so better.\u2019\n\n\u2018Well, sir,\u2019 said the ostler, \u2018I believe you\u2019ll find they won\u2019t agree\nwith you.  They count on a good fling, you see; or who would risk it?\u2014And\nhere\u2019s my best respects to you, Miss Nance.\u2019\n\n\u2018And I forgot the part of cowardice,\u2019 resumed Mr. Archer.  \u2018All men\nfear.\u2019\n\n\u2018O, surely not!\u2019 cried Nance.\n\n\u2018All men,\u2019 reiterated Mr. Archer.\n\n\u2018Ay, that\u2019s a true word,\u2019 observed Old Cumberland, \u2018and a thief, anyway,\nfor it\u2019s a coward\u2019s trade.\u2019\n\n\u2018But these fellows, now,\u2019 said Jonathan, with a curious, appealing\nmanner\u2014\u2018these fellows with their seventy pounds!  Perhaps, Mr. Archer,\nthey were no true thieves after all, but just people who had been robbed\nand tried to get their own again.  What was that you said, about all\nEngland and the taxes?  One takes, another gives; why, that\u2019s almost\nfair.  If I\u2019ve been rooked and robbed, and the coat taken off my back, I\ncall it almost fair to take another\u2019s.\u2019\n\n\u2018Ask Old Cumberland,\u2019 observed the ostler; \u2018you ask Old Cumberland, Miss\nNance!\u2019 and he bestowed a wink upon his favoured fair one.\n\n\u2018Why that?\u2019 asked Jonathan.\n\n\u2018He had his coat taken\u2014ay, and his shirt too,\u2019 returned the ostler.\n\n\u2018Is that so?\u2019 cried Jonathan eagerly.  \u2018Was you robbed too?\u2019\n\n\u2018That was I,\u2019 replied Cumberland, \u2018with a warrant!  I was a well-to-do\nman when I was young.\u2019\n\n\u2018Ay!  See that!\u2019 says Jonathan.  \u2018And you don\u2019t long for a revenge?\u2019\n\n\u2018Eh!  Not me!\u2019 answered the beggar.  \u2018It\u2019s too long ago.  But if you\u2019ll\ngive me another mug of your good ale, my pretty lady, I won\u2019t say no to\nthat.\u2019\n\n\u2018And shalt have!  And shalt have!\u2019 cried Jonathan.  \u2018Or brandy even, if\nyou like it better.\u2019\n\nAnd as Cumberland did like it better, and the ostler chimed in, the party\npledged each other in a dram of brandy before separating.\n\nAs for Nance, she slipped forth into the ruins, partly to avoid the\nostler\u2019s gallantries, partly to lament over the defects of Mr. Archer.\nPlainly, he was no hero.  She pitied him; she began to feel a protecting\ninterest mingle with and almost supersede her admiration, and was at the\nsame time disappointed and yet drawn to him.  She was, indeed, conscious\nof such unshaken fortitude in her own heart, that she was almost tempted\nby an occasion to be bold for two.  She saw herself, in a brave attitude,\nshielding her imperfect hero from the world; and she saw, like a piece of\nheaven, his gratitude for her protection.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\u2014LIFE IN THE CASTLE\n\n\nFrom that day forth the life of these three persons in the ruin ran very\nsmoothly.  Mr. Archer now sat by the fire with a book, and now passed\nwhole days abroad, returning late, dead weary.  His manner was a mask;\nbut it was half transparent; through the even tenor of his gravity and\ncourtesy profound revolutions of feeling were betrayed, seasons of numb\ndespair, of restlessness, of aching temper.  For days he would say\nnothing beyond his usual courtesies and solemn compliments; and then, all\nof a sudden, some fine evening beside the kitchen fire, he would fall\ninto a vein of elegant gossip, tell of strange and interesting events,\nthe secrets of families, brave deeds of war, the miraculous discovery of\ncrime, the visitations of the dead.  Nance and her uncle would sit till\nthe small hours with eyes wide open: Jonathan applauding the unexpected\nincidents with many a slap of his big hand; Nance, perhaps, more pleased\nwith the narrator\u2019s eloquence and wise reflections; and then, again, days\nwould follow of abstraction, of listless humming, of frequent apologies\nand long hours of silence.  Once only, and then after a week of\nunrelieved melancholy, he went over to the \u2018Green Dragon,\u2019 spent the\nafternoon with the landlord and a bowl of punch, and returned as on the\nfirst night, devious in step but courteous and unperturbed of speech.\n\nIf he seemed more natural and more at his ease it was when he found Nance\nalone; and, laying by some of his reserve, talked before her rather than\nto her of his destiny, character and hopes.  To Nance these interviews\nwere but a doubtful privilege.  At times he would seem to take a pleasure\nin her presence, to consult her gravely, to hear and to discuss her\ncounsels; at times even, but these were rare and brief, he would talk of\nherself, praise the qualities that she possessed, touch indulgently on\nher defects, and lend her books to read and even examine her upon her\nreading; but far more often he would fall into a half unconsciousness,\nput her a question and then answer it himself, drop into the veiled tone\nof voice of one soliloquising, and leave her at last as though he had\nforgotten her existence.  It was odd, too, that in all this random\nconverse, not a fact of his past life, and scarce a name, should ever\ncross his lips.  A profound reserve kept watch upon his most unguarded\nmoments.  He spoke continually of himself, indeed, but still in enigmas;\na veiled prophet of egoism.\n\nThe base of Nance\u2019s feelings for Mr. Archer was admiration as for a\nsuperior being; and with this, his treatment, consciously or not,\naccorded happily.  When he forgot her, she took the blame upon herself.\nHis formal politeness was so exquisite that this essential brutality\nstood excused.  His compliments, besides, were always grave and rational;\nhe would offer reason for his praise, convict her of merit, and thus\ndisarm suspicion.  Nay, and the very hours when he forgot and remembered\nher alternately could by the ardent fallacies of youth be read in the\nlight of an attention.  She might be far from his confidence; but still\nshe was nearer it than any one.  He might ignore her presence, but yet he\nsought it.\n\nMoreover, she, upon her side, was conscious of one point of superiority.\nBeside this rather dismal, rather effeminate man, who recoiled from a\nworm, who grew giddy on the castle wall, who bore so helplessly the\nweight of his misfortunes, she felt herself a head and shoulders taller\nin cheerful and sterling courage.  She could walk head in air along the\nmost precarious rafter; her hand feared neither the grossness nor the\nharshness of life\u2019s web, but was thrust cheerfully, if need were, into\nthe briar bush, and could take hold of any crawling horror.  Ruin was\nmining the walls of her cottage, as already it had mined and subverted\nMr. Archer\u2019s palace.  Well, she faced it with a bright countenance and a\nbusy hand.  She had got some washing, some rough seamstress work from the\n\u2018Green Dragon,\u2019 and from another neighbour ten miles away across the\nmoor.  At this she cheerfully laboured, and from that height she could\nafford to pity the useless talents and poor attitude of Mr. Archer.  It\ndid not change her admiration, but it made it bearable.  He was above her\nin all ways; but she was above him in one.  She kept it to herself, and\nhugged it.  When, like all young creatures, she made long stories to\njustify, to nourish, and to forecast the course of her affection, it was\nthis private superiority that made all rosy, that cut the knot, and that,\nat last, in some great situation, fetched to her knees the dazzling but\nimperfect hero.  With this pretty exercise she beguiled the hours of\nlabour, and consoled herself for Mr. Archer\u2019s bearing.\n\nPity was her weapon and her weakness.  To accept the loved one\u2019s faults,\nalthough it has an air of freedom, is to kiss the chain, and this pity it\nwas which, lying nearer to her heart, lent the one element of true\nemotion to a fanciful and merely brain-sick love.\n\nThus it fell out one day that she had gone to the \u2018Green Dragon\u2019 and\nbrought back thence a letter to Mr. Archer.  He, upon seeing it, winced\nlike a man under the knife: pain, shame, sorrow, and the most trenchant\nedge of mortification cut into his heart and wrung the steady composure\nof his face.\n\n\u2018Dear heart! have you bad news?\u2019 she cried.\n\nBut he only replied by a gesture and fled to his room, and when, later\non, she ventured to refer to it, he stopped her on the threshold, as if\nwith words prepared beforehand.  \u2018There are some pains,\u2019 said he, \u2018too\nacute for consolation, or I would bring them to my kind consoler.  Let\nthe memory of that letter, if you please, be buried.\u2019  And then as she\ncontinued to gaze at him, being, in spite of herself, pained by his\nelaborate phrase, doubtfully sincere in word and manner: \u2018Let it be\nenough,\u2019 he added haughtily, \u2018that if this matter wring my heart, it doth\nnot touch my conscience.  I am a man, I would have you to know, who\nsuffers undeservedly.\u2019\n\nHe had never spoken so directly: never with so convincing an emotion; and\nher heart thrilled for him.  She could have taken his pains and died of\nthem with joy.\n\nMeanwhile she was left without support.  Jonathan now swore by his\nlodger, and lived for him.  He was a fine talker.  He knew the finest\nsight of stories; he was a man and a gentleman, take him for all in all,\nand a perfect credit to Old England.  Such were the old man\u2019s declared\nsentiments, and sure enough he clung to Mr. Archer\u2019s side, hung upon his\nutterance when he spoke, and watched him with unwearing interest when he\nwas silent.  And yet his feeling was not clear; in the partial wreck of\nhis mind, which was leaning to decay, some after-thought was strongly\npresent.  As he gazed in Mr. Archer\u2019s face a sudden brightness would\nkindle in his rheumy eyes, his eye-brows would lift as with a sudden\nthought, his mouth would open as though to speak, and close again on\nsilence.  Once or twice he even called Mr. Archer mysteriously forth into\nthe dark courtyard, took him by the button, and laid a demonstrative\nfinger on his chest; but there his ideas or his courage failed him; he\nwould shufflingly excuse himself and return to his position by the fire\nwithout a word of explanation.  \u2018The good man was growing old,\u2019 said Mr.\nArcher with a suspicion of a shrug.  But the good man had his idea, and\neven when he was alone the name of Mr. Archer fell from his lips\ncontinually in the course of mumbled and gesticulative conversation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\u2014THE BAD HALF-CROWN\n\n\nHowever early Nance arose, and she was no sluggard, the old man, who had\nbegun to outlive the earthly habit of slumber, would usually have been up\nlong before, the fire would be burning brightly, and she would see him\nwandering among the ruins, lantern in hand, and talking assiduously to\nhimself.  One day, however, after he had returned late from the market\ntown, she found that she had stolen a march upon that indefatigable early\nriser.  The kitchen was all blackness.  She crossed the castle-yard to\nthe wood-cellar, her steps printing the thick hoarfrost.  A scathing\nbreeze blew out of the north-east and slowly carried a regiment of black\nand tattered clouds over the face of heaven, which was already kindled\nwith the wild light of morning, but where she walked, in shelter of the\nruins, the flame of her candle burned steady.  The extreme cold smote\nupon her conscience.  She could not bear to think this bitter business\nfell usually to the lot of one so old as Jonathan, and made desperate\nresolutions to be earlier in the future.\n\nThe fire was a good blaze before he entered, limping dismally into the\nkitchen.  \u2018Nance,\u2019 said he, \u2018I be all knotted up with the rheumatics;\nwill you rub me a bit?\u2019  She came and rubbed him where and how he bade\nher.  \u2018This is a cruel thing that old age should be rheumaticky,\u2019 said\nhe.  \u2018When I was young I stood my turn of the teethache like a man! for\nwhy? because it couldn\u2019t last for ever; but these rheumatics come to live\nand die with you.  Your aunt was took before the time came; never had an\nache to mention.  Now I lie all night in my single bed and the blood\nnever warms in me; this knee of mine it seems like lighted up with\nrheumatics; it seems as though you could see to sew by it; and all the\nstrings of my old body ache, as if devils was pulling \u2019em.  Thank you\nkindly; that\u2019s someways easier now, but an old man, my dear, has little\nto look for; it\u2019s pain, pain, pain to the end of the business, and I\u2019ll\nnever be rightly warm again till I get under the sod,\u2019 he said, and\nlooked down at her with a face so aged and weary that she had nearly\nwept.\n\n\u2018I lay awake all night,\u2019 he continued; \u2018I do so mostly, and a long walk\nkills me.  Eh, deary me, to think that life should run to such a puddle!\nAnd I remember long syne when I was strong, and the blood all hot and\ngood about me, and I loved to run, too\u2014deary me, to run!  Well, that\u2019s\nall by.  You\u2019d better pray to be took early, Nance, and not live on till\nyou get to be like me, and are robbed in your grey old age, your cold,\nshivering, dark old age, that\u2019s like a winter\u2019s morning\u2019; and he bitterly\nshuddered, spreading his hands before the fire.\n\n\u2018Come now,\u2019 said Nance, \u2018the more you say the less you\u2019ll like it, Uncle\nJonathan; but if I were you I would be proud for to have lived all your\ndays honest and beloved, and come near the end with your good name: isn\u2019t\nthat a fine thing to be proud of?  Mr. Archer was telling me in some\nstrange land they used to run races each with a lighted candle, and the\nart was to keep the candle burning.  Well, now, I thought that was like\nlife: a man\u2019s good conscience is the flame he gets to carry, and if he\ncomes to the winning-post with that still burning, why, take it how you\nwill, the man\u2019s a hero\u2014even if he was low-born like you and me.\u2019\n\n\u2018Did Mr. Archer tell you that?\u2019 asked Jonathan.\n\n\u2018No, dear,\u2019 said she, \u2018that\u2019s my own thought about it.  He told me of the\nrace.  But see, now,\u2019 she continued, putting on the porridge, \u2018you say\nold age is a hard season, but so is youth.  You\u2019re half out of the\nbattle, I would say; you loved my aunt and got her, and buried her, and\nsome of these days soon you\u2019ll go to meet her; and take her my love and\ntell her I tried to take good care of you; for so I do, Uncle Jonathan.\u2019\n\nJonathan struck with his fist upon the settle.  \u2018D\u2019 ye think I want to\ndie, ye vixen?\u2019 he shouted.  \u2018I want to live ten hundred years.\u2019\n\nThis was a mystery beyond Nance\u2019s penetration, and she stared in wonder\nas she made the porridge.\n\n\u2018I want to live,\u2019 he continued, \u2018I want to live and to grow rich.  I want\nto drive my carriage and to dice in hells and see the ring, I do.  Is\nthis a life that I lived?  I want to be a rake, d\u2019 ye understand?  I want\nto know what things are like.  I don\u2019t want to die like a blind kitten,\nand me seventy-six.\u2019\n\n\u2018O fie!\u2019 said Nance.\n\nThe old man thrust out his jaw at her, with the grimace of an irreverent\nschoolboy.  Upon that aged face it seemed a blasphemy.  Then he took out\nof his bosom a long leather purse, and emptying its contents on the\nsettle, began to count and recount the pieces, ringing and examining\neach, and suddenly he leapt like a young man.  \u2018What!\u2019 he screamed.\n\u2018Bad?  O Lord!  I\u2019m robbed again!\u2019  And falling on his knees before the\nsettle he began to pour forth the most dreadful curses on the head of his\ndeceiver.  His eyes were shut, for to him this vile solemnity was prayer.\nHe held up the bad half-crown in his right hand, as though he were\ndisplaying it to Heaven, and what increased the horror of the scene, the\ncurses he invoked were those whose efficacy he had tasted\u2014old age and\npoverty, rheumatism and an ungrateful son.  Nance listened appalled; then\nshe sprang forward and dragged down his arm and laid her hand upon his\nmouth.\n\n\u2018Whist!\u2019 she cried.  \u2018Whist ye, for God\u2019s sake!  O my man, whist ye!  If\nHeaven were to hear; if poor Aunt Susan were to hear!  Think, she may be\nlistening.\u2019  And with the histrionism of strong emotion she pointed to a\ncorner of the kitchen.\n\nHis eyes followed her finger.  He looked there for a little, thinking,\nblinking; then he got stiffly to his feet and resumed his place upon the\nsettle, the bad piece still in his hand.  So he sat for some time,\nlooking upon the half-crown, and now wondering to himself on the\ninjustice and partiality of the law, now computing again and again the\nnature of his loss.  So he was still sitting when Mr. Archer entered the\nkitchen.  At this a light came into his face, and after some seconds of\nrumination he dispatched Nance upon an errand.\n\n\u2018Mr. Archer,\u2019 said he, as soon as they were alone together, \u2018would you\ngive me a guinea-piece for silver?\u2019\n\n\u2018Why, sir, I believe I can,\u2019 said Mr. Archer.\n\nAnd the exchange was just effected when Nance re-entered the apartment.\nThe blood shot into her face.\n\n\u2018What\u2019s to do here?\u2019 she asked rudely.\n\n\u2018Nothing, my dearie,\u2019 said old Jonathan, with a touch of whine.\n\n\u2018What\u2019s to do?\u2019 she said again.\n\n\u2018Your uncle was but changing me a piece of gold,\u2019 returned Mr. Archer.\n\n\u2018Let me see what he hath given you, Mr. Archer,\u2019 replied the girl.  \u2018I\nhad a bad piece, and I fear it is mixed up among the good.\u2019\n\n\u2018Well, well,\u2019 replied Mr. Archer, smiling, \u2018I must take the merchant\u2019s\nrisk of it.  The money is now mixed.\u2019\n\n\u2018I know my piece,\u2019 quoth Nance.  \u2018Come, let me see your silver, Mr.\nArcher.  If I have to get it by a theft I\u2019ll see that money,\u2019 she cried.\n\n\u2018Nay, child, if you put as much passion to be honest as the world to\nsteal, I must give way, though I betray myself,\u2019 said Mr. Archer.  \u2018There\nit is as I received it.\u2019\n\nNance quickly found the bad half-crown.\n\n\u2018Give him another,\u2019 she said, looking Jonathan in the face; and when that\nhad been done, she walked over to the chimney and flung the guilty piece\ninto the reddest of the fire.  Its base constituents began immediately to\nrun; even as she watched it the disc crumbled, and the lineaments of the\nKing became confused.  Jonathan, who had followed close behind, beheld\nthese changes from over her shoulder, and his face darkened sorely.\n\n\u2018Now,\u2019 said she, \u2018come back to table, and to-day it is I that shall say\ngrace, as I used to do in the old times, day about with Dick\u2019; and\ncovering her eyes with one hand, \u2018O Lord,\u2019 said she with deep emotion,\n\u2018make us thankful; and, O Lord, deliver us from evil!  For the love of\nthe poor souls that watch for us in heaven, O deliver us from evil.\u2019\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\u2014THE BLEACHING-GREEN\n\n\nThe year moved on to March; and March, though it blew bitter keen from\nthe North Sea, yet blinked kindly between whiles on the river dell.  The\nmire dried up in the closest covert; life ran in the bare branches, and\nthe air of the afternoon would be suddenly sweet with the fragrance of\nnew grass.\n\nAbove and below the castle the river crooked like the letter \u2018S.\u2019  The\nlower loop was to the left, and embraced the high and steep projection\nwhich was crowned by the ruins; the upper loop enclosed a lawny\npromontory, fringed by thorn and willow.  It was easy to reach it from\nthe castle side, for the river ran in this part very quietly among\ninnumerable boulders and over dam-like walls of rock.  The place was all\nenclosed, the wind a stranger, the turf smooth and solid; so it was\nchosen by Nance to be her bleaching-green.\n\nOne day she brought a bucketful of linen, and had but begun to wring and\nlay them out when Mr. Archer stepped from the thicket on the far side,\ndrew very deliberately near, and sat down in silence on the grass.  Nance\nlooked up to greet him with a smile, but finding her smile was not\nreturned, she fell into embarrassment and stuck the more busily to her\nemployment.  Man or woman, the whole world looks well at any work to\nwhich they are accustomed; but the girl was ashamed of what she did.  She\nwas ashamed, besides, of the sun-bonnet that so well became her, and\nashamed of her bare arms, which were her greatest beauty.\n\n\u2018Nausicaa,\u2019 said Mr. Archer at last, \u2018I find you like Nausicaa.\u2019\n\n\u2018And who was she?\u2019 asked Nance, and laughed in spite of herself, an empty\nand embarrassed laugh, that sounded in Mr. Archer\u2019s ears, indeed, like\nmusic, but to her own like the last grossness of rusticity.\n\n\u2018She was a princess of the Grecian islands,\u2019 he replied.  \u2018A king, being\nshipwrecked, found her washing by the shore.  Certainly I, too, was\nshipwrecked,\u2019 he continued, plucking at the grass.  \u2018There was never a\nmore desperate castaway\u2014to fall from polite life, fortune, a shrine of\nhonour, a grateful conscience, duties willingly taken up and faithfully\ndischarged; and to fall to this\u2014idleness, poverty, inutility, remorse.\u2019\nHe seemed to have forgotten her presence, but here he remembered her\nagain.  \u2018Nance,\u2019 said he, \u2018would you have a man sit down and suffer or\nrise up and strive?\u2019\n\n\u2018Nay,\u2019 she said.  \u2018I would always rather see him doing.\u2019\n\n\u2018Ha!\u2019 said Mr. Archer, \u2018but yet you speak from an imperfect knowledge.\nConceive a man damned to a choice of only evil\u2014misconduct upon either\nside, not a fault behind him, and yet naught before him but this choice\nof sins.  How would you say then?\u2019\n\n\u2018I would say that he was much deceived, Mr. Archer,\u2019 returned Nance.  \u2018I\nwould say there was a third choice, and that the right one.\u2019\n\n\u2018I tell you,\u2019 said Mr. Archer, \u2018the man I have in view hath two ways\nopen, and no more.  One to wait, like a poor mewling baby, till Fate save\nor ruin him; the other to take his troubles in his hand, and to perish or\nbe saved at once.  It is no point of morals; both are wrong.  Either way\nthis step-child of Providence must fall; which shall he choose, by doing\nor not doing?\u2019\n\n\u2018Fall, then, is what I would say,\u2019 replied Nance.  \u2018Fall where you will,\nbut do it!  For O, Mr. Archer,\u2019 she continued, stooping to her work, \u2018you\nthat are good and kind, and so wise, it doth sometimes go against my\nheart to see you live on here like a sheep in a turnip-field!  If you\nwere braver\u2014\u2019 and here she paused, conscience-smitten.\n\n\u2018Do I, indeed, lack courage?\u2019 inquired Mr. Archer of himself.  \u2018Courage,\nthe footstool of the virtues, upon which they stand?  Courage, that a\npoor private carrying a musket has to spare of; that does not fail a\nweasel or a rat; that is a brutish faculty?  I to fail there, I wonder?\nBut what is courage, then?  The constancy to endure oneself or to see\nothers suffer?  The itch of ill-advised activity: mere\nshuttle-wittedness, or to be still and patient?  To inquire of the\nsignificance of words is to rob ourselves of what we seem to know, and\nyet, of all things, certainly to stand still is the least heroic.\nNance,\u2019 he said, \u2018did you ever hear of _Hamlet_?\u2019\n\n\u2018Never,\u2019 said Nance.\n\n\u2018\u2019Tis an old play,\u2019 returned Mr. Archer, \u2018and frequently enacted.  This\nwhile I have been talking Hamlet.  You must know this Hamlet was a Prince\namong the Danes,\u2019 and he told her the play in a very good style, here and\nthere quoting a verse or two with solemn emphasis.\n\n\u2018It is strange,\u2019 said Nance; \u2018he was then a very poor creature?\u2019\n\n\u2018That was what he could not tell,\u2019 said Mr. Archer.  \u2018Look at me, am I as\npoor a creature?\u2019\n\nShe looked, and what she saw was the familiar thought of all her hours;\nthe tall figure very plainly habited in black, the spotless ruffles, the\nslim hands; the long, well-shapen, serious, shaven face, the wide and\nsomewhat thin-lipped mouth, the dark eyes that were so full of depth and\nchange and colour.  He was gazing at her with his brows a little knit,\nhis chin upon one hand and that elbow resting on his knee.\n\n\u2018Ye look a man!\u2019 she cried, \u2018ay, and should be a great one!  The more\nshame to you to lie here idle like a dog before the fire.\u2019\n\n\u2018My fair Holdaway,\u2019 quoth Mr. Archer, \u2018you are much set on action.  I\ncannot dig, to beg I am ashamed.\u2019  He continued, looking at her with a\nhalf-absent fixity, \u2018\u2019Tis a strange thing, certainly, that in my years of\nfortune I should never taste happiness, and now when I am broke, enjoy so\nmuch of it, for was I ever happier than to-day?  Was the grass softer,\nthe stream pleasanter in sound, the air milder, the heart more at peace?\nWhy should I not sink?  To dig\u2014why, after all, it should be easy.  To\ntake a mate, too?  Love is of all grades since Jupiter; love fails to\nnone; and children\u2019\u2014but here he passed his hand suddenly over his eyes.\n\u2018O fool and coward, fool and coward!\u2019 he said bitterly; \u2018can you forget\nyour fetters?  You did not know that I was fettered, Nance?\u2019 he asked,\nagain addressing her.\n\nBut Nance was somewhat sore.  \u2018I know you keep talking,\u2019 she said, and,\nturning half away from him, began to wring out a sheet across her\nshoulder.  \u2018I wonder you are not wearied of your voice.  When the hands\nlie abed the tongue takes a walk.\u2019\n\nMr. Archer laughed unpleasantly, rose and moved to the water\u2019s edge.  In\nthis part the body of the river poured across a little narrow fell, ran\nsome ten feet very smoothly over a bed of pebbles, then getting wind, as\nit were, of another shelf of rock which barred the channel, began, by\nimperceptible degrees, to separate towards either shore in dancing\ncurrents, and to leave the middle clear and stagnant.  The set towards\neither side was nearly equal; about one half of the whole water plunged\non the side of the castle, through a narrow gullet; about one half ran\nripping past the margin of the green and slipped across a babbling rapid.\n\n\u2018Here,\u2019 said Mr. Archer, after he had looked for some time at the fine\nand shifting demarcation of these currents, \u2018come here and see me try my\nfortune.\u2019\n\n\u2018I am not like a man,\u2019 said Nance; \u2018I have no time to waste.\u2019\n\n\u2018Come here,\u2019 he said again.  \u2018I ask you seriously, Nance.  We are not\nalways childish when we seem so.\u2019\n\nShe drew a little nearer.\n\n\u2018Now,\u2019 said he, \u2018you see these two channels\u2014choose one.\u2019\n\n\u2018I\u2019ll choose the nearest, to save time,\u2019 said Nance.\n\n\u2018Well, that shall be for action,\u2019 returned Mr. Archer.  \u2018And since I wish\nto have the odds against me, not only the other channel but yon stagnant\nwater in the midst shall be for lying still.  You see this?\u2019 he\ncontinued, pulling up a withered rush.  \u2018I break it in three.  I shall\nput each separately at the top of the upper fall, and according as they\ngo by your way or by the other I shall guide my life.\u2019\n\n\u2018This is very silly,\u2019 said Nance, with a movement of her shoulders.\n\n\u2018I do not think it so,\u2019 said Mr. Archer.\n\n\u2018And then,\u2019 she resumed, \u2018if you are to try your fortune, why not\nevenly?\u2019\n\n\u2018Nay,\u2019 returned Mr. Archer with a smile, \u2018no man can put complete\nreliance in blind fate; he must still cog the dice.\u2019\n\nBy this time he had got upon the rock beside the upper fall, and, bidding\nher look out, dropped a piece of rush into the middle of the intake.  The\nrusty fragment was sucked at once over the fall, came up again far on the\nright hand, leaned ever more and more in the same direction, and\ndisappeared under the hanging grasses on the castle side.\n\n\u2018One,\u2019 said Mr. Archer, \u2018one for standing still.\u2019\n\nBut the next launch had a different fate, and after hanging for a while\nabout the edge of the stagnant water, steadily approached the\nbleaching-green and danced down the rapid under Nance\u2019s eyes.\n\n\u2018One for me,\u2019 she cried with some exultation; and then she observed that\nMr. Archer had grown pale, and was kneeling on the rock, with his hand\nraised like a person petrified.  \u2018Why,\u2019 said she, \u2018you do not mind it, do\nyou?\u2019\n\n\u2018Does a man not mind a throw of dice by which a fortune hangs?\u2019 said Mr.\nArcher, rather hoarsely.  \u2018And this is more than fortune.  Nance, if you\nhave any kindness for my fate, put up a prayer before I launch the next\none.\u2019\n\n\u2018A prayer,\u2019 she cried, \u2018about a game like this?  I would not be so\nheathen.\u2019\n\n\u2018Well,\u2019 said he, \u2018then without,\u2019 and he closed his eyes and dropped the\npiece of rush.  This time there was no doubt.  It went for the rapid as\nstraight as any arrow.\n\n\u2018Action then!\u2019 said Mr. Archer, getting to his feet; \u2018and then God\nforgive us,\u2019 he added, almost to himself.\n\n\u2018God forgive us, indeed,\u2019 cried Nance, \u2018for wasting the good daylight!\nBut come, Mr. Archer, if I see you look so serious I shall begin to think\nyou was in earnest.\u2019\n\n\u2018Nay,\u2019 he said, turning upon her suddenly, with a full smile; \u2018but is not\nthis good advice?  I have consulted God and demigod; the nymph of the\nriver, and what I far more admire and trust, my blue-eyed Minerva.  Both\nhave said the same.  My own heart was telling it already.  Action, then,\nbe mine; and into the deep sea with all this paralysing casuistry.  I am\nhappy to-day for the first time.\u2019\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\u2014THE MAIL GUARD\n\n\nSomewhere about two in the morning a squall had burst upon the castle, a\nclap of screaming wind that made the towers rock, and a copious drift of\nrain that streamed from the windows.  The wind soon blew itself out, but\nthe day broke cloudy and dripping, and when the little party assembled at\nbreakfast their humours appeared to have changed with the change of\nweather.  Nance had been brooding on the scene at the river-side,\napplying it in various ways to her particular aspirations, and the\nresult, which was hardly to her mind, had taken the colour out of her\ncheeks.  Mr. Archer, too, was somewhat absent, his thoughts were of a\nmingled strain; and even upon his usually impassive countenance there\nwere betrayed successive depths of depression and starts of exultation,\nwhich the girl translated in terms of her own hopes and fears.  But\nJonathan was the most altered: he was strangely silent, hardly passing a\nword, and watched Mr. Archer with an eager and furtive eye.  It seemed as\nif the idea that had so long hovered before him had now taken a more\nsolid shape, and, while it still attracted, somewhat alarmed his\nimagination.\n\nAt this rate, conversation languished into a silence which was only\nbroken by the gentle and ghostly noises of the rain on the stone roof and\nabout all that field of ruins; and they were all relieved when the note\nof a man whistling and the sound of approaching footsteps in the grassy\ncourt announced a visitor.  It was the ostler from the \u2018Green Dragon\u2019\nbringing a letter for Mr. Archer.  Nance saw her hero\u2019s face contract and\nthen relax again at sight of it; and she thought that she knew why, for\nthe sprawling, gross black characters of the address were easily\ndistinguishable from the fine writing on the former letter that had so\nmuch disturbed him.  He opened it and began to read; while the ostler sat\ndown to table with a pot of ale, and proceeded to make himself agreeable\nafter his fashion.\n\n\u2018Fine doings down our way, Miss Nance,\u2019 said he.  \u2018I haven\u2019t been abed\nthis blessed night.\u2019\n\nNance expressed a polite interest, but her eye was on Mr. Archer, who was\nreading his letter with a face of such extreme indifference that she was\ntempted to suspect him of assumption.\n\n\u2018Yes,\u2019 continued the ostler, \u2018not been the like of it this fifteen years:\nthe North Mail stopped at the three stones.\u2019\n\nJonathan\u2019s cup was at his lip, but at this moment he choked with a great\nsplutter; and Mr. Archer, as if startled by the noise, made so sudden a\nmovement that one corner of the sheet tore off and stayed between his\nfinger and thumb.  It was some little time before the old man was\nsufficiently recovered to beg the ostler to go on, and he still kept\ncoughing and crying and rubbing his eyes.  Mr. Archer, on his side, laid\nthe letter down, and, putting his hands in his pocket, listened gravely\nto the tale.\n\n\u2018Yes,\u2019 resumed Sam, \u2018the North Mail was stopped by a single horseman;\ndash my wig, but I admire him!  There were four insides and two out, and\npoor Tom Oglethorpe, the guard.  Tom showed himself a man; let fly his\nblunderbuss at him; had him covered, too, and could swear to that; but\nthe Captain never let on, up with a pistol and fetched poor Tom a bullet\nthrough the body.  Tom, he squelched upon the seat, all over blood.  Up\ncomes the Captain to the window.  \u201cOblige me,\u201d says he, \u201cwith what you\nhave.\u201d  Would you believe it?  Not a man says cheep!\u2014not them.  \u201cThy\nhands over thy head.\u201d  Four watches, rings, snuff-boxes, seven-and-forty\npounds overhead in gold.  One Dicksee, a grazier, tries it on: gives him\na guinea.  \u201cBeg your pardon,\u201d says the Captain, \u201cI think too highly of\nyou to take it at your hand.  I will not take less than ten from such a\ngentleman.\u201d  This Dicksee had his money in his stocking, but there was\nthe pistol at his eye.  Down he goes, offs with his stocking, and there\nwas thirty golden guineas.  \u201cNow,\u201d says the Captain, \u201cyou\u2019ve tried it on\nwith me, but I scorns the advantage.  Ten I said,\u201d he says, \u201cand ten I\ntake.\u201d  So, dash my buttons, I call that man a man!\u2019 cried Sam in cordial\nadmiration.\n\n\u2018Well, and then?\u2019 says Mr. Archer.\n\n\u2018Then,\u2019 resumed Sam, \u2018that old fat fagot Engleton, him as held the\nribbons and drew up like a lamb when he was told to, picks up his cattle,\nand drives off again.  Down they came to the \u201cDragon,\u201d all singing like\nas if they was scalded, and poor Tom saying nothing.  You would \u2018a\u2019\nthought they had all lost the King\u2019s crown to hear them.  Down gets this\nDicksee.  \u201cPostmaster,\u201d he says, taking him by the arm, \u201cthis is a most\nabominable thing,\u201d he says.  Down gets a Major Clayton, and gets the old\nman by the other arm.  \u201cWe\u2019ve been robbed,\u201d he cries, \u201crobbed!\u201d  Down\ngets the others, and all around the old man telling their story, and what\nthey had lost, and how they was all as good as ruined; till at last Old\nEngleton says, says he, \u201cHow about Oglethorpe?\u201d says he.  \u201cAy,\u201d says the\nothers, \u201chow about the guard?\u201d  Well, with that we bousted him down, as\nwhite as a rag and all blooded like a sop.  I thought he was dead.  Well,\nhe ain\u2019t dead; but he\u2019s dying, I fancy.\u2019\n\n\u2018Did you say four watches?\u2019 said Jonathan.\n\n\u2018Four, I think.  I wish it had been forty,\u2019 cried Sam.  \u2018Such a party of\nsoused herrings I never did see\u2014not a man among them bar poor Tom.  But\nus that are the servants on the road have all the risk and none of the\nprofit.\u2019\n\n\u2018And this brave fellow,\u2019 asked Mr. Archer, very quietly, \u2018this\nOglethorpe\u2014how is he now?\u2019\n\n\u2018Well, sir, with my respects, I take it he has a hole bang through him,\u2019\nsaid Sam.  \u2018The doctor hasn\u2019t been yet.  He\u2019d \u2018a\u2019 been bright and early\nif it had been a passenger.  But, doctor or no, I\u2019ll make a good guess\nthat Tom won\u2019t see to-morrow.  He\u2019ll die on a Sunday, will poor Tom; and\nthey do say that\u2019s fortunate.\u2019\n\n\u2018Did Tom see him that did it?\u2019 asked Jonathan.\n\n\u2018Well, he saw him,\u2019 replied Sam, \u2018but not to swear by.  Said he was a\nvery tall man, and very big, and had a \u2019ankerchief about his face, and a\nvery quick shot, and sat his horse like a thorough gentleman, as he is.\u2019\n\n\u2018A gentleman!\u2019 cried Nance.  \u2018The dirty knave!\u2019\n\n\u2018Well, I calls a man like that a gentleman,\u2019 returned the ostler; \u2018that\u2019s\nwhat I mean by a gentleman.\u2019\n\n\u2018You don\u2019t know much of them, then,\u2019 said Nance.\n\n\u2018A gentleman would scorn to stoop to such a thing.  I call my uncle a\nbetter gentleman than any thief.\u2019\n\n\u2018And you would be right,\u2019 said Mr. Archer.\n\n\u2018How many snuff-boxes did he get?\u2019 asked Jonathan.\n\n\u2018O, dang me if I know,\u2019 said Sam; \u2018I didn\u2019t take an inventory.\u2019\n\n\u2018I will go back with you, if you please,\u2019 said Mr. Archer.  \u2018I should\nlike to see poor Oglethorpe.  He has behaved well.\u2019\n\n\u2018At your service, sir,\u2019 said Sam, jumping to his feet.  \u2018I dare to say a\ngentleman like you would not forget a poor fellow like Tom\u2014no, nor a\nplain man like me, sir, that went without his sleep to nurse him.  And\nexcuse me, sir,\u2019 added Sam, \u2018you won\u2019t forget about the letter neither?\u2019\n\n\u2018Surely not,\u2019 said Mr. Archer.\n\nOglethorpe lay in a low bed, one of several in a long garret of the inn.\nThe rain soaked in places through the roof and fell in minute drops;\nthere was but one small window; the beds were occupied by servants, the\nair of the garret was both close and chilly.  Mr. Archer\u2019s heart sank at\nthe threshold to see a man lying perhaps mortally hurt in so poor a\nsick-room, and as he drew near the low bed he took his hat off.  The\nguard was a big, blowsy, innocent-looking soul with a thick lip and a\nbroad nose, comically turned up; his cheeks were crimson, and when Mr.\nArcher laid a finger on his brow he found him burning with fever.\n\n\u2018I fear you suffer much,\u2019 he said, with a catch in his voice, as he sat\ndown on the bedside.\n\n\u2018I suppose I do, sir,\u2019 returned Oglethorpe; \u2018it is main sore.\u2019\n\n\u2018I am used to wounds and wounded men,\u2019 returned the visitor.  \u2018I have\nbeen in the wars and nursed brave fellows before now; and, if you will\nsuffer me, I propose to stay beside you till the doctor comes.\u2019\n\n\u2018It is very good of you, sir, I am sure,\u2019 said Oglethorpe.  \u2018The trouble\nis they won\u2019t none of them let me drink.\u2019\n\n\u2018If you will not tell the doctor,\u2019 said Mr. Archer, \u2018I will give you some\nwater.  They say it is bad for a green wound, but in the Low Countries we\nall drank water when we found the chance, and I could never perceive we\nwere the worse for it.\u2019\n\n\u2018Been wounded yourself, sir, perhaps?\u2019 called Oglethorpe.\n\n\u2018Twice,\u2019 said Mr. Archer, \u2018and was as proud of these hurts as any lady of\nher bracelets.  \u2019Tis a fine thing to smart for one\u2019s duty; even in the\npangs of it there is contentment.\u2019\n\n\u2018Ah, well!\u2019 replied the guard, \u2018if you\u2019ve been shot yourself, that\nexplains.  But as for contentment, why, sir, you see, it smarts, as you\nsay.  And then, I have a good wife, you see, and a bit of a brat\u2014a little\nthing, so high.\u2019\n\n\u2018Don\u2019t move,\u2019 said Mr. Archer.\n\n\u2018No, sir, I will not, and thank you kindly,\u2019 said Oglethorpe.  \u2018At York\nthey are.  A very good lass is my wife\u2014far too good for me.  And the\nlittle rascal\u2014well, I don\u2019t know how to say it, but he sort of comes\nround you.  If I were to go, sir, it would be hard on my poor girl\u2014main\nhard on her!\u2019\n\n\u2018Ay, you must feel bitter hardly to the rogue that laid you here,\u2019 said\nArcher.\n\n\u2018Why, no, sir, more against Engleton and the passengers,\u2019 replied the\nguard.  \u2018He played his hand, if you come to look at it; and I wish he had\nshot worse, or me better.  And yet I\u2019ll go to my grave but what I covered\nhim,\u2019 he cried.  \u2018It looks like witchcraft.  I\u2019ll go to my grave but what\nhe was drove full of slugs like a pepper-box.\u2019\n\n\u2018Quietly,\u2019 said Mr. Archer, \u2018you must not excite yourself.  These\ndeceptions are very usual in war; the eye, in the moment of alert, is\nhardly to be trusted, and when the smoke blows away you see the man you\nfired at, taking aim, it may be, at yourself.  You should observe, too,\nthat you were in the dark night, and somewhat dazzled by the lamps, and\nthat the sudden stopping of the mail had jolted you.  In such\ncircumstances a man may miss, ay, even with a blunder-buss, and no blame\nattach to his marksmanship.\u2019 . . .\n\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG CHEVALIER\n\n\nPROLOGUE\u2014THE WINE-SELLER\u2019S WIFE\n\n\nThere was a wine-seller\u2019s shop, as you went down to the river in the city\nof the Anti-popes.  There a man was served with good wine of the country\nand plain country fare; and the place being clean and quiet, with a\nprospect on the river, certain gentlemen who dwelt in that city in\nattendance on a great personage made it a practice (when they had any\nsilver in their purses) to come and eat there and be private.\n\nThey called the wine-seller Paradou.  He was built more like a bullock\nthan a man, huge in bone and brawn, high in colour, and with a hand like\na baby for size.  Marie-Madeleine was the name of his wife; she was of\nMarseilles, a city of entrancing women, nor was any fairer than herself.\nShe was tall, being almost of a height with Paradou; full-girdled,\npoint-device in every form, with an exquisite delicacy in the face; her\nnose and nostrils a delight to look at from the fineness of the\nsculpture, her eyes inclined a hair\u2019s-breadth inward, her colour between\ndark and fair, and laid on even like a flower\u2019s.  A faint rose dwelt in\nit, as though she had been found unawares bathing, and had blushed from\nhead to foot.  She was of a grave countenance, rarely smiling; yet it\nseemed to be written upon every part of her that she rejoiced in life.\nHer husband loved the heels of her feet and the knuckles of her fingers;\nhe loved her like a glutton and a brute; his love hung about her like an\natmosphere; one that came by chance into the wine-shop was aware of that\npassion; and it might be said that by the strength of it the woman had\nbeen drugged or spell-bound.  She knew not if she loved or loathed him;\nhe was always in her eyes like something monstrous\u2014monstrous in his love,\nmonstrous in his person, horrific but imposing in his violence; and her\nsentiment swung back and forward from desire to sickness.  But the mean,\nwhere it dwelt chiefly, was an apathetic fascination, partly of horror;\nas of Europa in mid ocean with her bull.\n\nOn the 10th November 1749 there sat two of the foreign gentlemen in the\nwine-seller\u2019s shop.  They were both handsome men of a good presence,\nrichly dressed.  The first was swarthy and long and lean, with an alert,\nblack look, and a mole upon his cheek.  The other was more fair.  He\nseemed very easy and sedate, and a little melancholy for so young a man,\nbut his smile was charming.  In his grey eyes there was much abstraction,\nas of one recalling fondly that which was past and lost.  Yet there was\nstrength and swiftness in his limbs; and his mouth set straight across\nhis face, the under lip a thought upon side, like that of a man\naccustomed to resolve.  These two talked together in a rude outlandish\nspeech that no frequenter of that wine-shop understood.  The swarthy man\nanswered to the name of _Ballantrae_; he of the dreamy eyes was sometimes\ncalled _Balmile_, and sometimes _my Lord_, or _my Lord Gladsmuir_; but\nwhen the title was given him, he seemed to put it by as if in jesting,\nnot without bitterness.\n\nThe mistral blew in the city.  The first day of that wind, they say in\nthe countries where its voice is heard, it blows away all the dust, the\nsecond all the stones, and the third it blows back others from the\nmountains.  It was now come to the third day; outside the pebbles flew\nlike hail, and the face of the river was puckered, and the very\nbuilding-stones in the walls of houses seemed to be curdled with the\nsavage cold and fury of that continuous blast.  It could be heard to hoot\nin all the chimneys of the city; it swept about the wine-shop, filling\nthe room with eddies; the chill and gritty touch of it passed between the\nnearest clothes and the bare flesh; and the two gentlemen at the far\ntable kept their mantles loose about their shoulders.  The roughness of\nthese outer hulls, for they were plain travellers\u2019 cloaks that had seen\nservice, set the greater mark of richness on what showed below of their\nlaced clothes; for the one was in scarlet and the other in violet and\nwhite, like men come from a scene of ceremony; as indeed they were.\n\nIt chanced that these fine clothes were not without their influence on\nthe scene which followed, and which makes the prologue of our tale.  For\na long time Balmile was in the habit to come to the wine-shop and eat a\nmeal or drink a measure of wine; sometimes with a comrade; more often\nalone, when he would sit and dream and drum upon the table, and the\nthoughts would show in the man\u2019s face in little glooms and lightenings,\nlike the sun and the clouds upon a water.  For a long time\nMarie-Madeleine had observed him apart.  His sadness, the beauty of his\nsmile when by any chance he remembered her existence and addressed her,\nthe changes of his mind signalled forth by an abstruse play of feature,\nthe mere fact that he was foreign and a thing detached from the local and\nthe accustomed, insensibly attracted and affected her.  Kindness was\nready in her mind; it but lacked the touch of an occasion to effervesce\nand crystallise.  Now Balmile had come hitherto in a very poor plain\nhabit; and this day of the mistral, when his mantle was just open, and\nshe saw beneath it the glancing of the violet and the velvet and the\nsilver, and the clustering fineness of the lace, it seemed to set the man\nin a new light, with which he shone resplendent to her fancy.\n\nThe high inhuman note of the wind, the violence and continuity of its\noutpouring, and the fierce touch of it upon man\u2019s whole periphery,\naccelerated the functions of the mind.  It set thoughts whirling, as it\nwhirled the trees of the forest; it stirred them up in flights, as it\nstirred up the dust in chambers.  As brief as sparks, the fancies\nglittered and succeeded each other in the mind of Marie-Madeleine; and\nthe grave man with the smile, and the bright clothes under the plain\nmantle, haunted her with incongruous explanations.  She considered him,\nthe unknown, the speaker of an unknown tongue, the hero (as she placed\nhim) of an unknown romance, the dweller upon unknown memories.  She\nrecalled him sitting there alone, so immersed, so stupefied; yet she was\nsure he was not stupid.  She recalled one day when he had remained a long\ntime motionless, with parted lips, like one in the act of starting up,\nhis eyes fixed on vacancy.  Any one else must have looked foolish; but\nnot he.  She tried to conceive what manner of memory had thus entranced\nhim; she forged for him a past; she showed him to herself in every light\nof heroism and greatness and misfortune; she brooded with petulant\nintensity on all she knew and guessed of him.  Yet, though she was\nalready gone so deep, she was still unashamed, still unalarmed; her\nthoughts were still disinterested; she had still to reach the stage at\nwhich\u2014beside the image of that other whom we love to contemplate and to\nadorn\u2014we place the image of ourself and behold them together with\ndelight.\n\nShe stood within the counter, her hands clasped behind her back, her\nshoulders pressed against the wall, her feet braced out.  Her face was\nbright with the wind and her own thoughts; as a fire in a similar day of\ntempest glows and brightens on a hearth, so she seemed to glow, standing\nthere, and to breathe out energy.  It was the first time Ballantrae had\nvisited that wine-seller\u2019s, the first time he had seen the wife; and his\neyes were true to her.\n\n\u2018I perceive your reason for carrying me to this very draughty tavern,\u2019 he\nsaid at last.\n\n\u2018I believe it is propinquity,\u2019 returned Balmile.\n\n\u2018You play dark,\u2019 said Ballantrae, \u2018but have a care!  Be more frank with\nme, or I will cut you out.  I go through no form of qualifying my threat,\nwhich would be commonplace and not conscientious.  There is only one\npoint in these campaigns: that is the degree of admiration offered by the\nman; and to our hostess I am in a posture to make victorious love.\u2019\n\n\u2018If you think you have the time, or the game worth the candle,\u2019 replied\nthe other with a shrug.\n\n\u2018One would suppose you were never at the pains to observe her,\u2019 said\nBallantrae.\n\n\u2018I am not very observant,\u2019 said Balmile.  \u2018She seems comely.\u2019\n\n\u2018You very dear and dull dog!\u2019 cried Ballantrae; \u2018chastity is the most\nbesotting of the virtues.  Why, she has a look in her face beyond\nsinging!  I believe, if you was to push me hard, I might trace it home to\na trifle of a squint.  What matters?  The height of beauty is in the\ntouch that\u2019s wrong, that\u2019s the modulation in a tune.  \u2019Tis the devil we\nall love; I owe many a conquest to my mole\u2019\u2014he touched it as he spoke\nwith a smile, and his eyes glittered;\u2014\u2018we are all hunchbacks, and beauty\nis only that kind of deformity that I happen to admire.  But come!\nBecause you are chaste, for which I am sure I pay you my respects, that\nis no reason why you should be blind.  Look at her, look at the delicious\nnose of her, look at her cheek, look at her ear, look at her hand and\nwrist\u2014look at the whole baggage from heels to crown, and tell me if she\nwouldn\u2019t melt on a man\u2019s tongue.\u2019\n\nAs Ballantrae spoke, half jesting, half enthusiastic, Balmile was\nconstrained to do as he was bidden.  He looked at the woman, admired her\nexcellences, and was at the same time ashamed for himself and his\ncompanion.  So it befell that when Marie-Madeleine raised her eyes, she\nmet those of the subject of her contemplations fixed directly on herself\nwith a look that is unmistakable, the look of a person measuring and\nvaluing another\u2014and, to clench the false impression, that his glance was\ninstantly and guiltily withdrawn.  The blood beat back upon her heart and\nleaped again; her obscure thoughts flashed clear before her; she flew in\nfancy straight to his arms like a wanton, and fled again on the instant\nlike a nymph.  And at that moment there chanced an interruption, which\nnot only spared her embarrassment, but set the last consecration on her\nnow articulate love.\n\nInto the wine-shop there came a French gentleman, arrayed in the last\nrefinement of the fashion, though a little tumbled by his passage in the\nwind.  It was to be judged he had come from the same formal gathering at\nwhich the others had preceded him; and perhaps that he had gone there in\nthe hope to meet with them, for he came up to Ballantrae with\nunceremonious eagerness.\n\n\u2018At last, here you are!\u2019 he cried in French.  \u2018I thought I was to miss\nyou altogether.\u2019\n\nThe Scotsmen rose, and Ballantrae, after the first greetings, laid his\nhand on his companion\u2019s shoulder.\n\n\u2018My lord,\u2019 said he, \u2018allow me to present to you one of my best friends\nand one of our best soldiers, the Lord Viscount Gladsmuir.\u2019\n\nThe two bowed with the elaborate elegance of the period.\n\n\u2018_Monseigneur_,\u2019 said Balmile, \u2018_je n\u2019ai pas la pr\u00e9tention de m\u2019affubler\nd\u2019un titre que la mauvaise fortune de mon roi ne me permet pas de porter\ncomma il sied_.  _Je m\u2019appelle_, _pour vous servir_, _Blair de Balmile\ntout court_.\u2019  [My lord, I have not the effrontery to cumber myself with\na title which the ill fortunes of my king will not suffer me to bear the\nway it should be.  I call myself, at your service, plain Blair of\nBalmile.]\n\n\u2018_Monsieur le Vicomte ou monsieur Bl\u00e8r\u2019 de Balma\u00efl_,\u2019 replied the\nnewcomer, \u2018_le nom n\u2019y fait rien_, _et l\u2019on conna\u00eet vos beaux faits_.\u2019\n[The name matters nothing, your gallant actions are known.]\n\nA few more ceremonies, and these three, sitting down together to the\ntable, called for wine.  It was the happiness of Marie-Madeleine to wait\nunobserved upon the prince of her desires.  She poured the wine, he drank\nof it; and that link between them seemed to her, for the moment, close as\na caress.  Though they lowered their tones, she surprised great names\npassing in their conversation, names of kings, the names of de Gesvre and\nBelle-Isle; and the man who dealt in these high matters, and she who was\nnow coupled with him in her own thoughts, seemed to swim in mid air in a\ntransfiguration.  Love is a crude core, but it has singular and\nfar-reaching fringes; in that passionate attraction for the stranger that\nnow swayed and mastered her, his harsh incomprehensible language, and\nthese names of grandees in his talk, were each an element.\n\nThe Frenchman stayed not long, but it was plain he left behind him matter\nof much interest to his companions; they spoke together earnestly, their\nheads down, the woman of the wine-shop totally forgotten; and they were\nstill so occupied when Paradou returned.\n\nThis man\u2019s love was unsleeping.  The even bluster of the mistral, with\nwhich he had been combating some hours, had not suspended, though it had\nembittered, that predominant passion.  His first look was for his wife, a\nlook of hope and suspicion, menace and humility and love, that made the\nover-blooming brute appear for the moment almost beautiful.  She returned\nhis glance, at first as though she knew him not, then with a swiftly\nwaxing coldness of intent; and at last, without changing their direction,\nshe had closed her eyes.\n\nThere passed across her mind during that period much that Paradou could\nnot have understood had it been told to him in words: chiefly the sense\nof an enlightening contrast betwixt the man who talked of kings and the\nman who kept a wine-shop, betwixt the love she yearned for and that to\nwhich she had been long exposed like a victim bound upon the altar.\nThere swelled upon her, swifter than the Rhone, a tide of abhorrence and\ndisgust.  She had succumbed to the monster, humbling herself below\nanimals; and now she loved a hero, aspiring to the semi-divine.  It was\nin the pang of that humiliating thought that she had closed her eyes.\n\nParadou\u2014quick as beasts are quick, to translate silence\u2014felt the insult\nthrough his blood; his inarticulate soul bellowed within him for revenge.\nHe glanced about the shop.  He saw the two indifferent gentlemen deep in\ntalk, and passed them over: his fancy flying not so high.  There was but\none other present, a country lout who stood swallowing his wine, equally\nunobserved by all and unobserving\u2014to him he dealt a glance of murderous\nsuspicion, and turned direct upon his wife.  The wine-shop had lain\nhitherto, a space of shelter, the scene of a few ceremonial passages and\nsome whispered conversation, in the howling river of the wind; the clock\nhad not yet ticked a score of times since Paradou\u2019s appearance; and now,\nas he suddenly gave tongue, it seemed as though the mistral had entered\nat his heels.\n\n\u2018What ails you, woman?\u2019 he cried, smiting on the counter.\n\n\u2018Nothing ails me,\u2019 she replied.  It was strange; but she spoke and stood\nat that moment like a lady of degree, drawn upward by her aspirations.\n\n\u2018You speak to me, by God, as though you scorned me!\u2019 cried the husband.\n\nThe man\u2019s passion was always formidable; she had often looked on upon its\nviolence with a thrill, it had been one ingredient in her fascination;\nand she was now surprised to behold him, as from afar off, gesticulating\nbut impotent.  His fury might be dangerous like a torrent or a gust of\nwind, but it was inhuman; it might be feared or braved, it should never\nbe respected.  And with that there came in her a sudden glow of courage\nand that readiness to die which attends so closely upon all strong\npassions.\n\n\u2018I do scorn you,\u2019 she said.\n\n\u2018What is that?\u2019 he cried.\n\n\u2018I scorn you,\u2019 she repeated, smiling.\n\n\u2018You love another man!\u2019 said he.\n\n\u2018With all my soul,\u2019 was her reply.\n\nThe wine-seller roared aloud so that the house rang and shook with it.\n\n\u2018Is this the\u2014?\u2019 he cried, using a foul word, common in the South; and he\nseized the young countryman and dashed him to the ground.  There he lay\nfor the least interval of time insensible; thence fled from the house,\nthe most terrified person in the county.  The heavy measure had escaped\nfrom his hands, splashing the wine high upon the wall.  Paradou caught\nit.  \u2018And you?\u2019 he roared to his wife, giving her the same name in the\nfeminine, and he aimed at her the deadly missile.  She expected it,\nmotionless, with radiant eyes.\n\nBut before it sped, Paradou was met by another adversary, and the\nunconscious rivals stood confronted.  It was hard to say at that moment\nwhich appeared the more formidable.  In Paradou, the whole muddy and\ntruculent depths of the half-man were stirred to frenzy; the lust of\ndestruction raged in him; there was not a feature in his face but it\ntalked murder.  Balmile had dropped his cloak: he shone out at once in\nhis finery, and stood to his full stature; girt in mind and body all his\nresources, all his temper, perfectly in command in his face the light of\nbattle.  Neither spoke; there was no blow nor threat of one; it was war\nreduced to its last element, the spiritual; and the huge wine-seller\nslowly lowered his weapon.  Balmile was a noble, he a commoner; Balmile\nexulted in an honourable cause.  Paradou already perhaps began to be\nashamed of his violence.  Of a sudden, at least, the tortured brute\nturned and fled from the shop in the footsteps of his former victim, to\nwhose continued flight his reappearance added wings.\n\nSo soon as Balmile appeared between her husband and herself,\nMarie-Madeleine transferred to him her eyes.  It might be her last\nmoment, and she fed upon that face; reading there inimitable courage and\nillimitable valour to protect.  And when the momentary peril was gone by,\nand the champion turned a little awkwardly towards her whom he had\nrescued, it was to meet, and quail before, a gaze of admiration more\ndistinct than words.  He bowed, he stammered, his words failed him; he\nwho had crossed the floor a moment ago, like a young god, to smite,\nreturned like one discomfited; got somehow to his place by the table,\nmuffled himself again in his discarded cloak, and for a last touch of the\nridiculous, seeking for anything to restore his countenance, drank of the\nwine before him, deep as a porter after a heavy lift.  It was little\nwonder if Ballantrae, reading the scene with malevolent eyes, laughed out\nloud and brief, and drank with raised glass, \u2018To the champion of the\nFair.\u2019\n\nMarie-Madeleine stood in her old place within the counter; she disdained\nthe mocking laughter; it fell on her ears, but it did not reach her\nspirit.  For her, the world of living persons was all resumed again into\none pair, as in the days of Eden; there was but the one end in life, the\none hope before her, the one thing needful, the one thing possible\u2014to be\nhis.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\u2014THE PRINCE\n\n\nThat same night there was in the city of Avignon a young man in distress\nof mind.  Now he sat, now walked in a high apartment, full of draughts\nand shadows.  A single candle made the darkness visible; and the light\nscarce sufficed to show upon the wall, where they had been recently and\nrudely nailed, a few miniatures and a copper medal of the young man\u2019s\nhead.  The same was being sold that year in London, to admiring\nthousands.  The original was fair; he had beautiful brown eyes, a\nbeautiful bright open face; a little feminine, a little hard, a little\nweak; still full of the light of youth, but already beginning to be\nvulgarised; a sordid bloom come upon it, the lines coarsened with a touch\nof puffiness.  He was dressed, as for a gala, in peach-colour and silver;\nhis breast sparkled with stars and was bright with ribbons; for he had\nheld a levee in the afternoon and received a distinguished personage\nincognito.  Now he sat with a bowed head, now walked precipitately to and\nfro, now went and gazed from the uncurtained window, where the wind was\nstill blowing, and the lights winked in the darkness.\n\nThe bells of Avignon rose into song as he was gazing; and the high notes\nand the deep tossed and drowned, boomed suddenly near or were suddenly\nswallowed up, in the current of the mistral.  Tears sprang in the pale\nblue eyes; the expression of his face was changed to that of a more\nactive misery, it seemed as if the voices of the bells reached, and\ntouched and pained him, in a waste of vacancy where even pain was\nwelcome.  Outside in the night they continued to sound on, swelling and\nfainting; and the listener heard in his memory, as it were their\nharmonies, joy-bells clashing in a northern city, and the acclamations of\na multitude, the cries of battle, the gross voices of cannon, the stridor\nof an animated life.  And then all died away, and he stood face to face\nwith himself in the waste of vacancy, and a horror came upon his mind,\nand a faintness on his brain, such as seizes men upon the brink of\ncliffs.\n\nOn the table, by the side of the candle, stood a tray of glasses, a\nbottle, and a silver bell.  He went thither swiftly, then his hand\nlowered first above the bell, then settled on the bottle.  Slowly he\nfilled a glass, slowly drank it out; and, as a tide of animal warmth\nrecomforted the recesses of his nature, stood there smiling at himself.\nHe remembered he was young; the funeral curtains rose, and he saw his\nlife shine and broaden and flow out majestically, like a river sunward.\nThe smile still on his lips, he lit a second candle and a third; a fire\nstood ready built in a chimney, he lit that also; and the fir-cones and\nthe gnarled olive billets were swift to break in flame and to crackle on\nthe hearth, and the room brightened and enlarged about him like his\nhopes.  To and fro, to and fro, he went, his hands lightly clasped, his\nbreath deeply and pleasurably taken.  Victory walked with him; he marched\nto crowns and empires among shouting followers; glory was his dress.  And\npresently again the shadows closed upon the solitary.  Under the gilt of\nflame and candle-light, the stone walls of the apartment showed down bare\nand cold; behind the depicted triumph loomed up the actual failure:\ndefeat, the long distress of the flight, exile, despair, broken\nfollowers, mourning faces, empty pockets, friends estranged.  The memory\nof his father rose in his mind: he, too, estranged and defied; despair\nsharpened into wrath.  There was one who had led armies in the field, who\nhad staked his life upon the family enterprise, a man of action and\nexperience, of the open air, the camp, the court, the council-room; and\nhe was to accept direction from an old, pompous gentleman in a home in\nItaly, and buzzed about by priests?  A pretty king, if he had not a\nmartial son to lean upon!  A king at all?\n\n\u2018There was a weaver (of all people) joined me at St. Ninians; he was more\nof a man than my papa!\u2019 he thought.  \u2018I saw him lie doubled in his blood\nand a grenadier below him\u2014and he died for my papa!  All died for him, or\nrisked the dying, and I lay for him all those months in the rain and\nskulked in heather like a fox; and now he writes me his advice! calls me\nCarluccio\u2014me, the man of the house, the only king in that king\u2019s race.\u2019\nHe ground his teeth.  \u2018The only king in Europe!\u2019  Who else?  Who has done\nand suffered except me? who has lain and run and hidden with his faithful\nsubjects, like a second Bruce?  Not my accursed cousin, Louis of France,\nat least, the lewd effeminate traitor!\u2019  And filling the glass to the\nbrim, he drank a king\u2019s damnation.  Ah, if he had the power of Louis,\nwhat a king were here!\n\nThe minutes followed each other into the past, and still he persevered in\nthis debilitating cycle of emotions, still fed the fire of his excitement\nwith driblets of Rhine wine: a boy at odds with life, a boy with a spark\nof the heroic, which he was now burning out and drowning down in futile\nreverie and solitary excess.\n\nFrom two rooms beyond, the sudden sound of a raised voice attracted him.\n\n\u2018By . . .\n\n\n\n\nHEATHERCAT\n\n\nCHAPTER I\u2014TRAQUAIRS OF MONTROYMONT\n\n\nThe period of this tale is in the heat of the _killing-time_; the scene\nlaid for the most part in solitary hills and morasses, haunted only by\nthe so-called Mountain Wanderers, the dragoons that came in chase of\nthem, the women that wept on their dead bodies, and the wild birds of the\nmoorland that have cried there since the beginning.  It is a land of many\nrain-clouds; a land of much mute history, written there in prehistoric\nsymbols.  Strange green raths are to be seen commonly in the country,\nabove all by the kirkyards; barrows of the dead, standing stones; beside\nthese, the faint, durable footprints and handmarks of the Roman; and an\nantiquity older perhaps than any, and still living and active\u2014a complete\nCeltic nomenclature and a scarce-mingled Celtic population.  These rugged\nand grey hills were once included in the boundaries of the Caledonian\nForest.  Merlin sat here below his apple-tree and lamented Gwendolen;\nhere spoke with Kentigern; here fell into his enchanted trance.  And the\nlegend of his slumber seems to body forth the story of that Celtic race,\ndeprived for so many centuries of their authentic speech, surviving with\ntheir ancestral inheritance of melancholy perversity and patient,\nunfortunate courage.\n\nThe Traquairs of Montroymont (_Mons Romanus_, as the erudite expound it)\nhad long held their seat about the head-waters of the Dule and in the\nback parts of the moorland parish of Balweary.  For two hundred years\nthey had enjoyed in these upland quarters a certain decency (almost to be\nnamed distinction) of repute; and the annals of their house, or what is\nremembered of them, were obscure and bloody.  Ninian Traquair was\n\u2018cruallie slochtered\u2019 by the Crozers at the kirk-door of Balweary, anno\n1482.  Francis killed Simon Ruthven of Drumshoreland, anno 1540; bought\nletters of slayers at the widow and heir, and, by a barbarous form of\ncompounding, married (without tocher) Simon\u2019s daughter Grizzel, which is\nthe way the Traquairs and Ruthvens came first to an intermarriage.  About\nthe last Traquair and Ruthven marriage, it is the business of this book,\namong many other things, to tell.\n\nThe Traquairs were always strong for the Covenant; for the King also, but\nthe Covenant first; and it began to be ill days for Montroymont when the\nBishops came in and the dragoons at the heels of them.  Ninian (then\nlaird) was an anxious husband of himself and the property, as the times\nrequired, and it may be said of him, that he lost both.  He was heavily\nsuspected of the Pentland Hills rebellion.  When it came the length of\nBothwell Brig, he stood his trial before the Secret Council, and was\nconvicted of talking with some insurgents by the wayside, the subject of\nthe conversation not very clearly appearing, and of the reset and\nmaintenance of one Gale, a gardener man, who was seen before Bothwell\nwith a musket, and afterwards, for a continuance of months, delved the\ngarden at Montroymont.  Matters went very ill with Ninian at the Council;\nsome of the lords were clear for treason; and even the boot was talked\nof.  But he was spared that torture; and at last, having pretty good\nfriendship among great men, he came off with a fine of seven thousand\nmarks, that caused the estate to groan.  In this case, as in so many\nothers, it was the wife that made the trouble.  She was a great keeper of\nconventicles; would ride ten miles to one, and when she was fined,\nrejoiced greatly to suffer for the Kirk; but it was rather her husband\nthat suffered.  She had their only son, Francis, baptized privately by\nthe hands of Mr. Kidd; there was that much the more to pay for!  She\ncould neither be driven nor wiled into the parish kirk; as for taking the\nsacrament at the hands of any Episcopalian curate, and tenfold more at\nthose of Curate Haddo, there was nothing further from her purposes; and\nMontroymont had to put his hand in his pocket month by month and year by\nyear.  Once, indeed, the little lady was cast in prison, and the laird,\nworthy, heavy, uninterested man, had to ride up and take her place; from\nwhich he was not discharged under nine months and a sharp fine.  It\nscarce seemed she had any gratitude to him; she came out of gaol herself,\nand plunged immediately deeper in conventicles, resetting recusants, and\nall her old, expensive folly, only with greater vigour and openness,\nbecause Montroymont was safe in the Tolbooth and she had no witness to\nconsider.  When he was liberated and came back, with his fingers singed,\nin December 1680, and late in the black night, my lady was from home.  He\ncame into the house at his alighting, with a riding-rod yet in his hand;\nand, on the servant-maid telling him, caught her by the scruff of the\nneck, beat her violently, flung her down in the passageway, and went\nupstairs to his bed fasting and without a light.  It was three in the\nmorning when my lady returned from that conventicle, and, hearing of the\nassault (because the maid had sat up for her, weeping), went to their\ncommon chamber with a lantern in hand and stamping with her shoes so as\nto wake the dead; it was supposed, by those that heard her, from a design\nto have it out with the good man at once.  The house-servants gathered on\nthe stair, because it was a main interest with them to know which of\nthese two was the better horse; and for the space of two hours they were\nheard to go at the matter, hammer and tongs.  Montroymont alleged he was\nat the end of possibilities; it was no longer within his power to pay the\nannual rents; she had served him basely by keeping conventicles while he\nlay in prison for her sake; his friends were weary, and there was nothing\nelse before him but the entire loss of the family lands, and to begin\nlife again by the wayside as a common beggar.  She took him up very sharp\nand high: called upon him, if he were a Christian? and which he most\nconsidered, the loss of a few dirty, miry glebes, or of his soul?\nPresently he was heard to weep, and my lady\u2019s voice to go on continually\nlike a running burn, only the words indistinguishable; whereupon it was\nsupposed a victory for her ladyship, and the domestics took themselves to\nbed.  The next day Traquair appeared like a man who had gone under the\nharrows; and his lady wife thenceforward continued in her old course\nwithout the least deflection.\n\nThenceforward Ninian went on his way without complaint, and suffered his\nwife to go on hers without remonstrance.  He still minded his estate, of\nwhich it might be said he took daily a fresh farewell, and counted it\nalready lost; looking ruefully on the acres and the graves of his\nfathers, on the moorlands where the wild-fowl consorted, the low,\ngurgling pool of the trout, and the high, windy place of the calling\ncurlews\u2014things that were yet his for the day and would be another\u2019s\nto-morrow; coming back again, and sitting ciphering till the dusk at his\napproaching ruin, which no device of arithmetic could postpone beyond a\nyear or two.  He was essentially the simple ancient man, the farmer and\nlandholder; he would have been content to watch the seasons come and go,\nand his cattle increase, until the limit of age; he would have been\ncontent at any time to die, if he could have left the estates\nundiminished to an heir-male of his ancestors, that duty standing first\nin his instinctive calendar.  And now he saw everywhere the image of the\nnew proprietor come to meet him, and go sowing and reaping, or fowling\nfor his pleasure on the red moors, or eating the very gooseberries in the\nPlace garden; and saw always, on the other hand, the figure of Francis go\nforth, a beggar, into the broad world.\n\nIt was in vain the poor gentleman sought to moderate; took every test and\ntook advantage of every indulgence; went and drank with the dragoons in\nBalweary; attended the communion and came regularly to the church to\nCurate Haddo, with his son beside him.  The mad, raging, Presbyterian\nzealot of a wife at home made all of no avail; and indeed the house must\nhave fallen years before if it had not been for the secret indulgence of\nthe curate, who had a great sympathy with the laird, and winked hard at\nthe doings in Montroymont.  This curate was a man very ill reputed in the\ncountryside, and indeed in all Scotland.  \u2018Infamous Haddo\u2019 is Shield\u2019s\nexpression.  But Patrick Walker is more copious.  \u2018Curate Hall Haddo,\u2019\nsays he, _sub voce_ Peden, \u2018or _Hell_ Haddo, as he was more justly to be\ncalled, a pokeful of old condemned errors and the filthy vile lusts of\nthe flesh, a published whore-monger, a common gross drunkard, continually\nand godlessly scraping and skirling on a fiddle, continually breathing\nflames against the remnant of Israel.  But the Lord put an end to his\npiping, and all these offences were composed into one bloody grave.\u2019  No\ndoubt this was written to excuse his slaughter; and I have never heard it\nclaimed for Walker that he was either a just witness or an indulgent\njudge.  At least, in a merely human character, Haddo comes off not wholly\namiss in the matter of these Traquairs: not that he showed any graces of\nthe Christian, but had a sort of Pagan decency, which might almost tempt\none to be concerned about his sudden, violent, and unprepared fate.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\u2014FRANCIE\n\n\nFrancie was eleven years old, shy, secret, and rather childish of his\nage, though not backward in schooling, which had been pushed on far by a\nprivate governor, one M\u2018Brair, a forfeited minister harboured in that\ncapacity at Montroymont.  The boy, already much employed in secret by his\nmother, was the most apt hand conceivable to run upon a message, to carry\nfood to lurking fugitives, or to stand sentry on the skyline above a\nconventicle.  It seemed no place on the moorlands was so naked but what\nhe would find cover there; and as he knew every hag, boulder, and\nheather-bush in a circuit of seven miles about Montroymont, there was\nscarce any spot but what he could leave or approach it unseen.  This\ndexterity had won him a reputation in that part of the country; and among\nthe many children employed in these dangerous affairs, he passed under\nthe by-name of Heathercat.\n\nHow much his father knew of this employment might be doubted.  He took\nmuch forethought for the boy\u2019s future, seeing he was like to be left so\npoorly, and would sometimes assist at his lessons, sighing heavily,\nyawning deep, and now and again patting Francie on the shoulder if he\nseemed to be doing ill, by way of a private, kind encouragement.  But a\ngreat part of the day was passed in aimless wanderings with his eyes\nsealed, or in his cabinet sitting bemused over the particulars of the\ncoming bankruptcy; and the boy would be absent a dozen times for once\nthat his father would observe it.\n\nOn 2nd of July 1682 the boy had an errand from his mother, which must be\nkept private from all, the father included in the first of them.\nCrossing the braes, he hears the clatter of a horse\u2019s shoes, and claps\ndown incontinent in a hag by the wayside.  And presently he spied his\nfather come riding from one direction, and Curate Haddo walking from\nanother; and Montroymont leaning down from the saddle, and Haddo getting\non his toes (for he was a little, ruddy, bald-pated man, more like a\ndwarf), they greeted kindly, and came to a halt within two fathoms of the\nchild.\n\n\u2018Montroymont,\u2019 the curate said, \u2018the deil\u2019s in \u2019t but I\u2019ll have to\ndenunciate your leddy again.\u2019\n\n\u2018Deil\u2019s in \u2019t indeed!\u2019 says the laird.\n\n\u2018Man! can ye no induce her to come to the kirk?\u2019 pursues Haddo; \u2018or to a\ncommunion at the least of it?  For the conventicles, let be! and the same\nfor yon solemn fule, M\u2018Brair: I can blink at them.  But she\u2019s got to come\nto the kirk, Montroymont.\u2019\n\n\u2018Dinna speak of it,\u2019 says the laird.  \u2018I can do nothing with her.\u2019\n\n\u2018Couldn\u2019t ye try the stick to her? it works wonders whiles,\u2019 suggested\nHaddo.  \u2018No?  I\u2019m wae to hear it.  And I suppose ye ken where you\u2019re\ngoing?\u2019\n\n\u2018Fine!\u2019 said Montroymont.  \u2018Fine do I ken where: bankrup\u2019cy and the Bass\nRock!\u2019\n\n\u2018Praise to my bones that I never married!\u2019 cried the curate.  \u2018Well, it\u2019s\na grievous thing to me to see an auld house dung down that was here\nbefore Flodden Field.  But naebody can say it was with my wish.\u2019\n\n\u2018No more they can, Haddo!\u2019 says the laird.  \u2018A good friend ye\u2019ve been to\nme, first and last.  I can give you that character with a clear\nconscience.\u2019\n\nWhereupon they separated, and Montroymont rode briskly down into the Dule\nValley.  But of the curate Francis was not to be quit so easily.  He went\non with his little, brisk steps to the corner of a dyke, and stopped and\nwhistled and waved upon a lassie that was herding cattle there.  This\nJanet M\u2018Clour was a big lass, being taller than the curate; and what made\nher look the more so, she was kilted very high.  It seemed for a while\nshe would not come, and Francie heard her calling Haddo a \u2018daft auld\nfule,\u2019 and saw her running and dodging him among the whins and hags till\nhe was fairly blown.  But at the last he gets a bottle from his\nplaid-neuk and holds it up to her; whereupon she came at once into a\ncomposition, and the pair sat, drinking of the bottle, and daffing and\nlaughing together, on a mound of heather.  The boy had scarce heard of\nthese vanities, or he might have been minded of a nymph and satyr, if\nanybody could have taken long-leggit Janet for a nymph.  But they seemed\nto be huge friends, he thought; and was the more surprised, when the\ncurate had taken his leave, to see the lassie fling stones after him with\nscreeches of laughter, and Haddo turn about and caper, and shake his\nstaff at her, and laugh louder than herself.  A wonderful merry pair,\nthey seemed; and when Francie had crawled out of the hag, he had a great\ndeal to consider in his mind.  It was possible they were all fallen in\nerror about Mr. Haddo, he reflected\u2014having seen him so tender with\nMontroymont, and so kind and playful with the lass Janet; and he had a\ntemptation to go out of his road and question her herself upon the\nmatter.  But he had a strong spirit of duty on him; and plodded on\ninstead over the braes till he came near the House of Cairngorm.  There,\nin a hollow place by the burnside that was shaded by some birks, he was\naware of a barefoot boy, perhaps a matter of three years older than\nhimself.  The two approached with the precautions of a pair of strange\ndogs, looking at each other queerly.\n\n\u2018It\u2019s ill weather on the hills,\u2019 said the stranger, giving the watchword.\n\n\u2018For a season,\u2019 said Francie, \u2018but the Lord will appear.\u2019\n\n\u2018Richt,\u2019 said the barefoot boy; \u2018wha\u2019re ye frae?\u2019\n\n\u2018The Leddy Montroymont,\u2019 says Francie.\n\n\u2018Ha\u2019e, then!\u2019 says the stranger, and handed him a folded paper, and they\nstood and looked at each other again.  \u2018It\u2019s unco het,\u2019 said the boy.\n\n\u2018Dooms het,\u2019 says Francie.\n\n\u2018What do they ca\u2019 ye?\u2019 says the other.\n\n\u2018Francie,\u2019 says he.  \u2018I\u2019m young Montroymont.  They ca\u2019 me Heathercat.\u2019\n\n\u2018I\u2019m Jock Crozer,\u2019 said the boy.  And there was another pause, while each\nrolled a stone under his foot.\n\n\u2018Cast your jaiket and I\u2019ll fecht ye for a bawbee,\u2019 cried the elder boy\nwith sudden violence, and dramatically throwing back his jacket.\n\n\u2018Na, I\u2019ve nae time the now,\u2019 said Francie, with a sharp thrill of alarm,\nbecause Crozer was much the heavier boy.\n\n\u2018Ye\u2019re feared.  Heathercat indeed!\u2019 said Crozer, for among this infantile\narmy of spies and messengers, the fame of Crozer had gone forth and was\nresented by his rivals.  And with that they separated.\n\nOn his way home Francie was a good deal occupied with the recollection of\nthis untoward incident.  The challenge had been fairly offered and basely\nrefused: the tale would be carried all over the country, and the lustre\nof the name of Heathercat be dimmed.  But the scene between Curate Haddo\nand Janet M\u2018Clour had also given him much to think of: and he was still\npuzzling over the case of the curate, and why such ill words were said of\nhim, and why, if he were so merry-spirited, he should yet preach so dry,\nwhen coming over a knowe, whom should he see but Janet, sitting with her\nback to him, minding her cattle!  He was always a great child for secret,\nstealthy ways, having been employed by his mother on errands when the\nsame was necessary; and he came behind the lass without her hearing.\n\n\u2018Jennet,\u2019 says he.\n\n\u2018Keep me,\u2019 cries Janet, springing up.  \u2018O, it\u2019s you, Maister Francie!\nSave us, what a fricht ye gied me.\u2019\n\n\u2018Ay, it\u2019s me,\u2019 said Francie.  \u2018I\u2019ve been thinking, Jennet; I saw you and\nthe curate a while back\u2014\u2019\n\n\u2018Brat!\u2019 cried Janet, and coloured up crimson; and the one moment made as\nif she would have stricken him with a ragged stick she had to chase her\nbestial with, and the next was begging and praying that he would mention\nit to none.  It was \u2018naebody\u2019s business, whatever,\u2019 she said; \u2018it would\njust start a clash in the country\u2019; and there would be nothing left for\nher but to drown herself in Dule Water.\n\n\u2018Why?\u2019 says Francie.\n\nThe girl looked at him and grew scarlet again.\n\n\u2018And it isna that, anyway,\u2019 continued Francie.  \u2018It was just that he\nseemed so good to ye\u2014like our Father in heaven, I thought; and I thought\nthat mebbe, perhaps, we had all been wrong about him from the first.  But\nI\u2019ll have to tell Mr. M\u2018Brair; I\u2019m under a kind of a bargain to him to\ntell him all.\u2019\n\n\u2018Tell it to the divil if ye like for me!\u2019 cried the lass.  \u2018I\u2019ve naething\nto be ashamed of.  Tell M\u2018Brair to mind his ain affairs,\u2019 she cried\nagain: \u2018they\u2019ll be hot eneugh for him, if Haddie likes!\u2019  And so strode\noff, shoving her beasts before her, and ever and again looking back and\ncrying angry words to the boy, where he stood mystified.\n\nBy the time he had got home his mind was made up that he would say\nnothing to his mother.  My Lady Montroymont was in the keeping-room,\nreading a godly book; she was a wonderful frail little wife to make so\nmuch noise in the world and be able to steer about that patient sheep her\nhusband; her eyes were like sloes, the fingers of her hands were like\ntobacco-pipe shanks, her mouth shut tight like a trap; and even when she\nwas the most serious, and still more when she was angry, there hung about\nher face the terrifying semblance of a smile.\n\n\u2018Have ye gotten the billet, Francie said she; and when he had handed it\nover, and she had read and burned it, \u2018Did you see anybody?\u2019 she asked.\n\n\u2018I saw the laird,\u2019 said Francie.\n\n\u2018He didna see you, though?\u2019 asked his mother.\n\n\u2018Deil a fear,\u2019 from Francie.\n\n\u2018Francie!\u2019 she cried.  \u2018What\u2019s that I hear? an aith?  The Lord forgive\nme, have I broughten forth a brand for the burning, a fagot for\nhell-fire?\u2019\n\n\u2018I\u2019m very sorry, ma\u2019am,\u2019 said Francie.  \u2018I humbly beg the Lord\u2019s pardon,\nand yours, for my wickedness.\u2019\n\n\u2018H\u2019m,\u2019 grunted the lady.  \u2018Did ye see nobody else?\u2019\n\n\u2018No, ma\u2019am,\u2019 said Francie, with the face of an angel, \u2018except Jock\nCrozer, that gied me the billet.\u2019\n\n\u2018Jock Crozer!\u2019 cried the lady.  \u2018I\u2019ll Crozer them!  Crozers indeed!  What\nnext?  Are we to repose the lives of a suffering remnant in Crozers?  The\nwhole clan of them wants hanging, and if I had my way of it, they wouldna\nwant it long.  Are you aware, sir, that these Crozers killed your\nforebear at the kirk-door?\u2019\n\n\u2018You see, he was bigger \u2019n me,\u2019 said Francie.\n\n\u2018Jock Crozer!\u2019 continued the lady.  \u2018That\u2019ll be Clement\u2019s son, the\nbiggest thief and reiver in the country-side.  To trust a note to him!\nBut I\u2019ll give the benefit of my opinions to Lady Whitecross when we two\nforgather.  Let her look to herself!  I have no patience with\nhalf-hearted carlines, that complies on the Lord\u2019s day morning with the\nkirk, and comes taigling the same night to the conventicle.  The one or\nthe other! is what I say: hell or heaven\u2014Haddie\u2019s abominations or the\npure word of God dreeping from the lips of Mr. Arnot,\n\n    \u2018\u201cLike honey from the honeycomb\n       That dreepeth, sweeter far.\u201d\u2019\n\nMy lady was now fairly launched, and that upon two congenial subjects:\nthe deficiencies of the Lady Whitecross and the turpitudes of the whole\nCrozer race\u2014which, indeed, had never been conspicuous for respectability.\nShe pursued the pair of them for twenty minutes on the clock with\nwonderful animation and detail, something of the pulpit manner, and the\nspirit of one possessed.  \u2018O hellish compliance!\u2019 she exclaimed.  \u2018I\nwould not suffer a complier to break bread with Christian folk.  Of all\nthe sins of this day there is not one so God-defying, so\nChrist-humiliating, as damnable compliance\u2019: the boy standing before her\nmeanwhile, and brokenly pursuing other thoughts, mainly of Haddo and\nJanet, and Jock Crozer stripping off his jacket.  And yet, with all his\ndistraction, it might be argued that he heard too much: his father and\nhimself being \u2018compliers\u2019\u2014that is to say, attending the church of the\nparish as the law required.\n\nPresently, the lady\u2019s passion beginning to decline, or her flux of ill\nwords to be exhausted, she dismissed her audience.  Francie bowed low,\nleft the room, closed the door behind him: and then turned him about in\nthe passage-way, and with a low voice, but a prodigious deal of\nsentiment, repeated the name of the evil one twenty times over, to the\nend of which, for the greater efficacy, he tacked on \u2018damnable\u2019 and\n\u2018hellish.\u2019  _Fas est ab hoste doceri_\u2014disrespect is made more pungent by\nquotation; and there is no doubt but he felt relieved, and went upstairs\ninto his tutor\u2019s chamber with a quiet mind.  M\u2018Brair sat by the cheek of\nthe peat-fire and shivered, for he had a quartan ague and this was his\nday.  The great night-cap and plaid, the dark unshaven cheeks of the man,\nand the white, thin hands that held the plaid about his chittering body,\nmade a sorrowful picture.  But Francie knew and loved him; came straight\nin, nestled close to the refugee, and told his story.  M\u2018Brair had been\nat the College with Haddo; the Presbytery had licensed both on the same\nday; and at this tale, told with so much innocency by the boy, the heart\nof the tutor was commoved.\n\n\u2018Woe upon him!  Woe upon that man!\u2019 he cried.  \u2018O the unfaithful\nshepherd!  O the hireling and apostate minister!  Make my matters hot for\nme? quo\u2019 she! the shameless limmer!  And true it is, that he could repose\nme in that nasty, stinking hole, the Canongate Tolbooth, from which your\nmother drew me out\u2014the Lord reward her for it!\u2014or to that cold, unbieldy,\nmarine place of the Bass Rock, which, with my delicate kist, would be\nfair ruin to me.  But I will be valiant in my Master\u2019s service.  I have a\nduty here: a duty to my God, to myself, and to Haddo: in His strength, I\nwill perform it.\u2019\n\nThen he straitly discharged Francie to repeat the tale, and bade him in\nthe future to avert his very eyes from the doings of the curate.  \u2018You\nmust go to his place of idolatry; look upon him there!\u2019 says he, \u2018but\nnowhere else.  Avert your eyes, close your ears, pass him by like a three\ndays\u2019 corp.  He is like that damnable monster Basiliscus, which\ndefiles\u2014yea, poisons!\u2014by the sight.\u2019\u2014All which was hardly claratory to\nthe boy\u2019s mind.\n\nPresently Montroymont came home, and called up the stairs to Francie.\nTraquair was a good shot and swordsman: and it was his pleasure to walk\nwith his son over the braes of the moorfowl, or to teach him arms in the\nback court, when they made a mighty comely pair, the child being so lean,\nand light, and active, and the laird himself a man of a manly, pretty\nstature, his hair (the periwig being laid aside) showing already white\nwith many anxieties, and his face of an even, flaccid red.  But this day\nFrancie\u2019s heart was not in the fencing.\n\n\u2018Sir,\u2019 says he, suddenly lowering his point, \u2018will ye tell me a thing if\nI was to ask it?\u2019\n\n\u2018Ask away,\u2019 says the father.\n\n\u2018Well, it\u2019s this,\u2019 said Francie: \u2018Why do you and me comply if it\u2019s so\nwicked?\u2019\n\n\u2018Ay, ye have the cant of it too!\u2019 cries Montroymont.  \u2018But I\u2019ll tell ye\nfor all that.  It\u2019s to try and see if we can keep the rigging on this\nhouse, Francie.  If she had her way, we would be beggar-folk, and hold\nour hands out by the wayside.  When ye hear her\u2014when ye hear folk,\u2019 he\ncorrected himself briskly, \u2018call me a coward, and one that betrayed the\nLord, and I kenna what else, just mind it was to keep a bed to ye to\nsleep in and a bite for ye to eat.\u2014On guard!\u2019 he cried, and the lesson\nproceeded again till they were called to supper.\n\n\u2018There\u2019s another thing yet,\u2019 said Francie, stopping his father.  \u2018There\u2019s\nanother thing that I am not sure that I am very caring for.  She\u2014she\nsends me errands.\u2019\n\n\u2018Obey her, then, as is your bounden duty,\u2019 said Traquair.\n\n\u2018Ay, but wait till I tell ye,\u2019 says the boy.  \u2018If I was to see you I was\nto hide.\u2019\n\nMontroymont sighed.  \u2018Well, and that\u2019s good of her too,\u2019 said he.  \u2018The\nless that I ken of thir doings the better for me; and the best thing you\ncan do is just to obey her, and see and be a good son to her, the same as\nye are to me, Francie.\u2019\n\nAt the tenderness of this expression the heart of Francie swelled within\nhis bosom, and his remorse was poured out.  \u2018Faither!\u2019 he cried, \u2018I said\n\u201cdeil\u201d to-day; many\u2019s the time I said it, and _damnable_ too, and\n_hellitsh_.  I ken they\u2019re all right; they\u2019re beeblical.  But I didna say\nthem beeblically; I said them for sweir words\u2014that\u2019s the truth of it.\u2019\n\n\u2018Hout, ye silly bairn!\u2019 said the father, \u2018dinna do it nae mair, and come\nin by to your supper.\u2019  And he took the boy, and drew him close to him a\nmoment, as they went through the door, with something very fond and\nsecret, like a caress between a pair of lovers.\n\nThe next day M\u2018Brair was abroad in the afternoon, and had a long advising\nwith Janet on the braes where she herded cattle.  What passed was never\nwholly known; but the lass wept bitterly, and fell on her knees to him\namong the whins.  The same night, as soon as it was dark, he took the\nroad again for Balweary.  In the Kirkton, where the dragoons quartered,\nhe saw many lights, and heard the noise of a ranting song and people\nlaughing grossly, which was highly offensive to his mind.  He gave it the\nwider berth, keeping among fields; and came down at last by the\nwater-side, where the manse stands solitary between the river and the\nroad.  He tapped at the back door, and the old woman called upon him to\ncome in, and guided him through the house to the study, as they still\ncalled it, though there was little enough study there in Haddo\u2019s days,\nand more song-books than theology.\n\n\u2018Here\u2019s yin to speak wi\u2019 ye, Mr. Haddie!\u2019 cries the old wife.\n\nAnd M\u2018Brair, opening the door and entering, found the little, round, red\nman seated in one chair and his feet upon another.  A clear fire and a\ntallow dip lighted him barely.  He was taking tobacco in a pipe, and\nsmiling to himself; and a brandy-bottle and glass, and his fiddle and\nbow, were beside him on the table.\n\n\u2018Hech, Patey M\u2018Briar, is this you?\u2019 said he, a trifle tipsily.  \u2018Step in\nby, man, and have a drop brandy: for the stomach\u2019s sake!  Even the deil\ncan quote Scripture\u2014eh, Patey?\u2019\n\n\u2018I will neither eat nor drink with you,\u2019 replied M\u2018Brair.  \u2018I am come\nupon my Master\u2019s errand: woe be upon me if I should anyways mince the\nsame.  Hall Haddo, I summon you to quit this kirk which you encumber.\u2019\n\n\u2018Muckle obleeged!\u2019 says Haddo, winking.\n\n\u2018You and me have been to kirk and market together,\u2019 pursued M\u2018Brair; \u2018we\nhave had blessed seasons in the kirk, we have sat in the same\nteaching-rooms and read in the same book; and I know you still retain for\nme some carnal kindness.  It would be my shame if I denied it; I live\nhere at your mercy and by your favour, and glory to acknowledge it.  You\nhave pity on my wretched body, which is but grass, and must soon be\ntrodden under: but O, Haddo! how much greater is the yearning with which\nI yearn after and pity your immortal soul!  Come now, let us reason\ntogether!  I drop all points of controversy, weighty though these be; I\ntake your defaced and damnified kirk on your own terms; and I ask you,\nAre you a worthy minister?  The communion season approaches; how can you\npronounce thir solemn words, \u201cThe elders will now bring forrit the\nelements,\u201d and not quail?  A parishioner may be summoned to-night; you\nmay have to rise from your miserable orgies; and I ask you, Haddo, what\ndoes your conscience tell you?  Are you fit?  Are you fit to smooth the\npillow of a parting Christian?  And if the summons should be for\nyourself, how then?\u2019\n\nHaddo was startled out of all composure and the better part of his\ntemper.  \u2018What\u2019s this of it?\u2019 he cried.  \u2018I\u2019m no waur than my neebours.\nI never set up to be speeritual; I never did.  I\u2019m a plain, canty\ncreature; godliness is cheerfulness, says I; give me my fiddle and a\ndram, and I wouldna hairm a flee.\u2019\n\n\u2018And I repeat my question,\u2019 said M\u2018Brair: \u2018Are you fit\u2014fit for this great\ncharge? fit to carry and save souls?\u2019\n\n\u2018Fit?  Blethers!  As fit\u2019s yoursel\u2019,\u2019 cried Haddo.\n\n\u2018Are you so great a self-deceiver?\u2019 said M\u2018Brair.  \u2018Wretched man,\ntrampler upon God\u2019s covenants, crucifier of your Lord afresh.  I will\nding you to the earth with one word: How about the young woman, Janet\nM\u2018Clour?\u2019\n\n\u2018Weel, what about her? what do I ken?\u2019 cries Haddo.  \u2018M\u2019Brair, ye daft\nauld wife, I tell ye as true\u2019s truth, I never meddled her.  It was just\ndaffing, I tell ye: daffing, and nae mair: a piece of fun, like!  I\u2019m no\ndenying but what I\u2019m fond of fun, sma\u2019 blame to me!  But for onything\nsarious\u2014hout, man, it might come to a deposeetion!  I\u2019ll sweir it to ye.\nWhere\u2019s a Bible, till you hear me sweir?\u2019\n\n\u2018There is nae Bible in your study,\u2019 said M\u2018Brair severely.\n\nAnd Haddo, after a few distracted turns, was constrained to accept the\nfact.\n\n\u2018Weel, and suppose there isna?\u2019 he cried, stamping.  \u2018What mair can ye\nsay of us, but just that I\u2019m fond of my joke, and so\u2019s she?  I declare to\nGod, by what I ken, she might be the Virgin Mary\u2014if she would just keep\nclear of the dragoons.  But me! na, deil haet o\u2019 me!\u2019\n\n\u2018She is penitent at least,\u2019 says M\u2018Brair.\n\n\u2018Do you mean to actually up and tell me to my face that she accused me?\u2019\ncried the curate.\n\n\u2018I canna just say that,\u2019 replied M\u2018Brair.  \u2018But I rebuked her in the name\nof God, and she repented before me on her bended knees.\u2019\n\n\u2018Weel, I daursay she\u2019s been ower far wi\u2019 the dragoons,\u2019 said Haddo.  \u2018I\nnever denied that.  I ken naething by it.\u2019\n\n\u2018Man, you but show your nakedness the more plainly,\u2019 said M\u2018Brair.\n\u2018Poor, blind, besotted creature\u2014and I see you stoytering on the brink of\ndissolution: your light out, and your hours numbered.  Awake, man!\u2019 he\nshouted with a formidable voice, \u2018awake, or it be ower late.\u2019\n\n\u2018Be damned if I stand this!\u2019 exclaimed Haddo, casting his tobacco-pipe\nviolently on the table, where it was smashed in pieces.  \u2018Out of my house\nwith ye, or I\u2019ll call for the dragoons.\u2019\n\n\u2018The speerit of the Lord is upon me,\u2019 said M\u2018Brair with solemn ecstasy.\n\u2018I sist you to compear before the Great White Throne, and I warn you the\nsummons shall be bloody and sudden.\u2019\n\nAnd at this, with more agility than could have been expected, he got\nclear of the room and slammed the door behind him in the face of the\npursuing curate.  The next Lord\u2019s day the curate was ill, and the kirk\nclosed, but for all his ill words, Mr. M\u2018Brair abode unmolested in the\nhouse of Montroymont.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\u2014THE HILL-END OF DRUMLOWE\n\n\nThis was a bit of a steep broken hill that overlooked upon the west a\nmoorish valley, full of ink-black pools.  These presently drained into a\nburn that made off, with little noise and no celerity of pace, about the\ncorner of the hill.  On the far side the ground swelled into a bare\nheath, black with junipers, and spotted with the presence of the standing\nstones for which the place was famous.  They were many in that part,\nshapeless, white with lichen\u2014you would have said with age: and had made\ntheir abode there for untold centuries, since first the heathens shouted\nfor their installation.  The ancients had hallowed them to some ill\nreligion, and their neighbourhood had long been avoided by the prudent\nbefore the fall of day; but of late, on the upspringing of new\nrequirements, these lonely stones on the moor had again become a place of\nassembly.  A watchful picket on the Hill-end commanded all the northern\nand eastern approaches; and such was the disposition of the ground, that\nby certain cunningly posted sentries the west also could be made secure\nagainst surprise: there was no place in the country where a conventicle\ncould meet with more quiet of mind or a more certain retreat open, in the\ncase of interference from the dragoons.  The minister spoke from a knowe\nclose to the edge of the ring, and poured out the words God gave him on\nthe very threshold of the devils of yore.  When they pitched a tent\n(which was often in wet weather, upon a communion occasion) it was rigged\nover the huge isolated pillar that had the name of Anes-Errand, none knew\nwhy.  And the congregation sat partly clustered on the slope below, and\npartly among the idolatrous monoliths and on the turfy soil of the Ring\nitself.  In truth the situation was well qualified to give a zest to\nChristian doctrines, had there been any wanted.  But these congregations\nassembled under conditions at once so formidable and romantic as made a\nzealot of the most cold.  They were the last of the faithful; God, who\nhad averted His face from all other countries of the world, still leaned\nfrom heaven to observe, with swelling sympathy, the doings of His\nmoorland remnant; Christ was by them with His eternal wounds, with\ndropping tears; the Holy Ghost (never perfectly realised nor firmly\nadopted by Protestant imaginations) was dimly supposed to be in the heart\nof each and on the lips of the minister.  And over against them was the\narmy of the hierarchies, from the men Charles and James Stuart, on to\nKing Lewie and the Emperor; and the scarlet Pope, and the muckle black\ndevil himself, peering out the red mouth of hell in an ecstasy of hate\nand hope.  \u2018One pull more!\u2019 he seemed to cry; \u2018one pull more, and it\u2019s\ndone.  There\u2019s only Clydesdale and the Stewartry, and the three\nBailiaries of Ayr, left for God.\u2019  And with such an august assistance of\npowers and principalities looking on at the last conflict of good and\nevil, it was scarce possible to spare a thought to those old, infirm,\ndebile, _ab agendo_ devils whose holy place they were now violating.\n\nThere might have been three hundred to four hundred present.  At least\nthere were three hundred horses tethered for the most part in the ring;\nthough some of the hearers on the outskirts of the crowd stood with their\nbridles in their hand, ready to mount at the first signal.  The circle of\nfaces was strangely characteristic; long, serious, strongly marked, the\ntackle standing out in the lean brown cheeks, the mouth set and the eyes\nshining with a fierce enthusiasm; the shepherd, the labouring man, and\nthe rarer laird, stood there in their broad blue bonnets or laced hats,\nand presenting an essential identity of type.  From time to time a\nlong-drawn groan of adhesion rose in this audience, and was propagated\nlike a wave to the outskirts, and died away among the keepers of the\nhorses.  It had a name; it was called \u2018a holy groan.\u2019\n\nA squall came up; a great volley of flying mist went out before it and\nwhelmed the scene; the wind stormed with a sudden fierceness that carried\naway the minister\u2019s voice and twitched his tails and made him stagger,\nand turned the congregation for a moment into a mere pother of blowing\nplaid-ends and prancing horses; and the rain followed and was dashed\nstraight into their faces.  Men and women panted aloud in the shock of\nthat violent shower-bath; the teeth were bared along all the line in an\ninvoluntary grimace; plaids, mantles, and riding-coats were proved vain,\nand the worshippers felt the water stream on their naked flesh.  The\nminister, reinforcing his great and shrill voice, continued to contend\nagainst and triumph over the rising of the squall and the dashing of the\nrain.\n\n\u2018In that day ye may go thirty mile and not hear a crawing cock,\u2019 he said;\n\u2018and fifty mile and not get a light to your pipe; and an hundred mile and\nnot see a smoking house.  For there\u2019ll be naething in all Scotland but\ndeid men\u2019s banes and blackness, and the living anger of the Lord.  O,\nwhere to find a bield\u2014O sirs, where to find a bield from the wind of the\nLord\u2019s anger?  Do ye call _this_ a wind?  Bethankit!  Sirs, this is but a\ntemporary dispensation; this is but a puff of wind, this is but a spit of\nrain and by with it.  Already there\u2019s a blue bow in the west, and the sun\nwill take the crown of the causeway again, and your things\u2019ll be dried\nupon ye, and your flesh will be warm upon your bones.  But O, sirs, sirs!\nfor the day of the Lord\u2019s anger!\u2019\n\nHis rhetoric was set forth with an ear-piercing elocution, and a voice\nthat sometimes crashed like cannon.  Such as it was, it was the gift of\nall hill-preachers, to a singular degree of likeness or identity.  Their\nimages scarce ranged beyond the red horizon of the moor and the rainy\nhill-top, the shepherd and his sheep, a fowling-piece, a spade, a pipe, a\ndunghill, a crowing cock, the shining and the withdrawal of the sun.  An\noccasional pathos of simple humanity, and frequent patches of big\nBiblical words, relieved the homely tissue.  It was a poetry apart;\nbleak, austere, but genuine, and redolent of the soil.\n\nA little before the coming of the squall there was a different scene\nenacting at the outposts.  For the most part, the sentinels were faithful\nto their important duty; the Hill-end of Drumlowe was known to be a safe\nmeeting-place; and the out-pickets on this particular day had been\nsomewhat lax from the beginning, and grew laxer during the inordinate\nlength of the discourse.  Francie lay there in his appointed hiding-hole,\nlooking abroad between two whin-bushes.  His view was across the course\nof the burn, then over a piece of plain moorland, to a gap between two\nhills; nothing moved but grouse, and some cattle who slowly traversed his\nfield of view, heading northward: he heard the psalms, and sang words of\nhis own to the savage and melancholy music; for he had his own design in\nhand, and terror and cowardice prevailed in his bosom alternately, like\nthe hot and the cold fit of an ague.  Courage was uppermost during the\nsinging, which he accompanied through all its length with this impromptu\nstrain:\n\n    \u2018And I will ding Jock Crozer down\n       No later than the day.\u2019\n\nPresently the voice of the preacher came to him in wafts, at the wind\u2019s\nwill, as by the opening and shutting of a door; wild spasms of screaming,\nas of some undiscerned gigantic hill-bird stirred with inordinate\npassion, succeeded to intervals of silence; and Francie heard them with a\ncritical ear.  \u2018Ay,\u2019 he thought at last, \u2018he\u2019ll do; he has the bit in his\nmou\u2019 fairly.\u2019\n\nHe had observed that his friend, or rather his enemy, Jock Crozer, had\nbeen established at a very critical part of the line of outposts; namely,\nwhere the burn issues by an abrupt gorge from the semicircle of high\nmoors.  If anything was calculated to nerve him to battle it was this.\nThe post was important; next to the Hill-end itself, it might be called\nthe key to the position; and it was where the cover was bad, and in which\nit was most natural to place a child.  It should have been Heathercat\u2019s;\nwhy had it been given to Crozer?  An exquisite fear of what should be the\nanswer passed through his marrow every time he faced the question.  Was\nit possible that Crozer could have boasted? that there were rumours\nabroad to his\u2014Heathercat\u2019s\u2014discredit? that his honour was publicly\nsullied?  All the world went dark about him at the thought; he sank\nwithout a struggle into the midnight pool of despair; and every time he\nso sank, he brought back with him\u2014not drowned heroism indeed, but\nhalf-drowned courage by the locks.  His heart beat very slowly as he\ndeserted his station, and began to crawl towards that of Crozer.\nSomething pulled him back, and it was not the sense of duty, but a\nremembrance of Crozer\u2019s build and hateful readiness of fist.  Duty, as he\nconceived it, pointed him forward on the rueful path that he was\ntravelling.  Duty bade him redeem his name if he were able, at the risk\nof broken bones; and his bones and every tooth in his head ached by\nanticipation.  An awful subsidiary fear whispered him that if he were\nhurt, he should disgrace himself by weeping.  He consoled himself,\nboy-like, with the consideration that he was not yet committed; he could\neasily steal over unseen to Crozer\u2019s post, and he had a continuous\nprivate idea that he would very probably steal back again.  His course\ntook him so near the minister that he could hear some of his words: \u2018What\nnews, minister, of Claver\u2019se?  He\u2019s going round like a roaring rampaging\nlion. . . .\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n                                * * * * *\n\n         Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty\n                    at the Edinburgh University Press.\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes:\n\n\n{0}  With special reference to _Father Damien_, pp. 63\u201381.\n\n{65}  From the Sydney _Presbyterian_, October 26, 1889.\n\n{85}  _Theater of Mortality_, p. 10; Edin. 1713.\n\n{86}  _History of My Own Times_, beginning 1660, by Bishop Gilbert\nBurnet, p. 158.\n\n{87a}  Wodrow\u2019s _Church History_, Book II. chap. i. sect. I.\n\n{87b}  Crookshank\u2019s _Church History_, 1751, second ed. p. 202.\n\n{88}  Burnet, p. 348.\n\n{89}  _Fuller\u2019s Historie of the Holy Warre_, fourth ed. 1651.\n\n{90}  Wodrow, vol. ii. p. 17.\n\n{92}  Sir J. Turner\u2019s _Memoirs_, pp. 148\u201350.\n\n{93}  _A Cloud of Witnesses_, p. 376.\n\n{94a}  Wodrow, pp. 19, 20.\n\n{94b}  _A Hind Let Loose_, p. 123.\n\n{95}  Turner, p. 163.\n\n{96a}  Turner, p. 198.\n\n{96b}  _Ibid._ p. 167.\n\n{97}  Wodrow, p. 29.\n\n{98}  Turner, Wodrow, and _Church History_ by James Kirkton, an outed\nminister of the period.\n\n{99}  Kirkton, p. 244.\n\n{101a}  Kirkton.\n\n{101b}  Turner.\n\n{102}  Kirkton.\n\n{103}  Kirkton.\n\n{104}  _Cloud of Witnesses_, p. 389; Edin. 1765.\n\n{105a}  Kirkton, p. 247.\n\n{105b}  Ibid. p. 254.\n\n{105c}  _Ibid._ p. 247.\n\n{105d}  _Ibid._ pp. 247, 248.\n\n{106}  Kirkton, p. 248.\n\n{107a}  Kirkton, p. 249.\n\n{107b}  _Naphtali_, p. 205; Glasgow, 1721.\n\n{107c}  Wodrow, p. 59.\n\n{108a}  Kirkton, p. 246.\n\n{108b}  Defoe\u2019s _History of the Church of Scotland_.\n\n{151}  \u2018This paper was written in collaboration with James Waiter\nFerrier, and if reprinted this is to be stated, though his principal\ncollaboration was to lie back in an easy-chair and laugh.\u2019\u2014[R.L.S., Oct.\n25, 1894.]\n\n{183}  The illustrator was, in fact, a lady, Miss Eunice Bagster, eldest\ndaughter of the publisher, Samuel Bagster; except in the case of the cuts\ndepicting the fight with Apollyon, which were designed by her brother,\nMr. Jonathan Bagster.  The edition was published in 1845.  I am indebted\nfor this information to the kindness of Mr. Robert Bagster, the present\nmanaging director of the firm.\u2014[SIR SIDNEY COLVIN\u2019S NOTE.]\n\n{205}  See a short essay of De Quincey\u2019s.\n\n{206a}  _Religio Medici_, Part ii.\n\n{206b}  _Duchess of Malfi_.","title":"Lay Morals, and Other Papers","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":83362}