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MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXIV.

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PR1MTIED BT ft* CLAT, SONS, AND TATLOB|

LONDON*

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MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE.

MAY, 1876.

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B8TABLI8HBD 61 YBAR8.

ferred to the two intellectual orders of early times, the magicians and the priests. Each advised after the manner of his own profession. The magician said. With my symbols and charms I will try the accused, and bind the witness and the promiser. The priest said, I will call upon my spirits, and they shall find out Uie hidden thing, and punish the lie and the broken yow. Now magic and religion are separate in their nature and origin. Magic is based on a delusiTe tendency arising out of the No. 199. — \oL, XXXIV.

some old magical process.

In the series of instances to be brought into view, this blending of the religious with the magical element will be re- peatedly observable. It will be seen also that the ordeal and the oath are not only aUied in their fundamental principles, but that they continuaUy run into one another in their use Oaths, we shall see, may be made to act as ordeals, and ordeals are brought in as tests of oaths. While recognizing this close connection, it will be convenient

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MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE.

MAY, 1876.

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Bailway Carriage Paid.

FELTOE AND SONS,

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f Facing the Royal Institution of Great Britain.)

City Offices:— 8. UNION COURT. OLD BROAD STREET, >«p

AND 80, BISHOPSGATE STREET. J^'^

Branch Offices t-MANCHESTER, BRIGHTON, BRISTOL, & PLYMOUTH.

B8TABLI8HBD 61 YBAR8.

femd to the two intellectual orderd of early times, the magicians and the priests. Each advised after the manner of his own profession. The magician said, With my symbols and charms I will try the accused, and bind the witness and the promiser. The priest said, I will call upon my spirits, and they shall find out tlie hidden thing, and punish the Ue and the broken yow. Now magic and religion are separate in their nature and origin. Moffic is based on a deluBiTe tendency arising out of the

No. 199. — \QfL, XXXIV.

U1M3U uiuy uiKiijg up ana consecraimg some old magical process.

In the series of instances to be brought into view, this blending of the religious with the magical element will be re- peatedly observable. It will be seen also that the ordeal and the oath are not only aUied in their fundamental principles, but that they continuaUy run into one another in their use Oaths, we shall see, may be made to act as ordeals, and ordeals are brought in as tests of oaths. While recognizing this close connection, it will be convenient

MACMILLAN'S MAG^AZINE.

VOL. XXXIV.

Ordeals wnd Oaths,

do, and as I have done myself, the layer of yaponr in a spheroidal state prevent- ing any chemicid contact with the skin. As for the walking over red-hot plough- shares, or carrying a red-hot iron har three paces in the palm of the hand, its fraudulent nature fits with the fact that the ecclesiastics who admimstered it took their precautions against dose approach of spectators much more care- f^olly than the jugglers do who handle the red-hot hars and walk over the ploughshares nowadays; and, moreover, any list of cases will show how inevi- tably the friend of the Church got ofif, while the man on the wrong side was sure to '' lose his cause and bum his fingers." Eemembering how Queen Emma in the story, wi& uplifted eyes walked over the ploughshares without knowing it, and then asked when the trial was to begin, and how, after this triumphant issue, one-and-twenty manors were settled on the bishopric and church of Winchester, it may be inferred with some probability that in such cases the glowing ploughshares glowed with no- thing more dangerous than daubs of red paint.

Almost the only effect of ordeals which can be looked upon as beneficial to society, is that the beb'ef in their efficacy has done something to deter the credulous from crime, and still more often has led the guilty to betray him- self by his own terrified imagination. Visitors to Eome know the great round marble mask called the Bocca della YeritsL It is but the sink of an old drain; but many a frightened knave ^ has shrunk from the test of putting his hand into its open ''mouth of truth'' and taking oath of his innocence, lest it should really close on him as tradition says it does on the forsworn. The ordeal by the mouthful of food is still popu- lar in Southern Asia for its practical effectiveness : the thief in the house- hold, his mouth dry with nervous ter- ror, fails to masticate or swallow fairly the grains of rice. So in old England, the culprit may have failed to swallow the consecrated cor-snaed, or trial-slice of bread or cheese ; it stuck in his throat, as in Earl Godwin's in the story. To this

day the formula, '' May this mouthful choke me if I am not speaking truth ! " keeps up the memory of the official ordeal. Kot less effective is the ordeal by curse still used in Eussia to detect a thief. Tbe hahushJca, or local witch, stands with a vessel of water before her in the midst of the assembled household, and makes bread pills to drop in, saying to each in order, " Ivan Ivanoff, if you are guilty, as this ball falls to the bottom, so your soul will ffidl into hell." But this is more than any common Eussian will fistce, and the rule is that the culprit confesses at sight This is the best that can be said for ordeals. Under their most favourable aspect, they are useful delu- sions or pious frauds. At worst they are those wickedest of human deeds, crimes disguised behind the mask of justice. Shall we wonder that the world, slowly trying its institutions by the experience of ages, has at last come to the stage of casting out the judicial ordeal ; or shall we rather wonder at the constitution of the human mind,, which for so many ages has set up the creations of delusive fancy to hold sway over a world of facts 1

From the Ordeal we pass to the Oath. The oath, for purposes of classifi- cation,^may be best defined as an asseve- ration made under superhuman penalty, such penalty being (as in the ordeal), either magical or religious in its nature, or both combined. Here, then, we dis- tinguish the oath from the mere declara- tion, or promise, or covenant, however formal. For example, the covenant by grasping hands is not in itself an oath, nor is even that widespread ancient ceremony of entering into a bond of brotherhood by the two parties mixing drops of their blood, or tasting each other's. This latter rite, though often called an oath, can under this definition be only reckoned as a solemn compact But when a Galla of Abyssinia sits down over a pit covered over with a hide, imprecating that he may fall into a pit if he breaks his word, or when in our police-courts we make a Chinaman swear by taking an earthen saucer and break- ing it on the rail in front of the witness-

Ordeals and Oaths,

box, fiignif^ing, as the interpieter then puts it in words, ''if you do not tell the truth, your soiil will be cracked like this saucer/' we have here two full oaiha, of which the penalty, magical or religious, is shown in pantomime before us. By the way, the English judges who authorised this last sensational ceremony must have believed that they were caUing on a Chinaman to take a judicial oatih after the manner of his own country ; but they acted under a mistake, for in fact the Chinese use no oaths at all in their law-courts. Now we have to distinguish these real oaths from mere asseverations, in which em- phatic terms, or descriptive gestures are introdaced merely for the purpose of showing the strength of resolve in the declarer's mind. Where, then, does the difference lie between the two ? It is to be found in the incurring of ffiipematural penalty. There would be no difficulty at all in clearing up the question, were it not that theologians have set up a distinction between oaths of imprecation and oaths of witness. Soch subtleties, however, looked at firom a practical point of view, are 'seen to be casuistic cobwebs which a touch of the rough broom of common sense will sweep away. The practical question is this: does the swearer mean that by going through the ceremony, he brings on himself, if he breaks futh, some special magic harm, or divine displeasure and punishment] If so, the oath is practically imprecatory ; if not^ it is futile^ wanting the very sanction which giyes it legal value. It does not matter whether tihe imprecation is stated, or <mly implied. When a Bedouin picks up a straw, and swears by Him who made it grow and wither, there is no need to accompany this with a homily on the &te of the perjured. This re- ticence is so usual in the world, that as often as not we have to go outside the actual formula and ceremony to learn what their fall intention is.

Let us now examine some typical forms of oath. The rude natives of New Guinea swear by the sun, or by a certain mountain, or by a weapon, that the sun may bum them, or the mountain

crush them, or the weapon wound them, if they lie. The even ruder savages of the Brazilian forestEf, to confirm their words, raise the hand over the head or thrust it into their hair, or they will touch the points of their weapons. These two accounts of savage ceremony introduce us to customs well-known to nations of higher culture. The raising of the hand toward the sky seems to mean here what it does elsewhere. It is in gesture calling on the Heaven-god to smite the perjurer with his thunder- bolt. The touching of the head, again, carries its meaning among these Brazilians, almost as plainly as in Africa, where we find men swearing by their heads or limbs, in the belief that they would wither if forsworn ; or as when among the Old Prussians a man would lay his right hand on his own neck, and his left on the holy oak, saying : '^ May Perkun (the thunder- god) destroy me ! " As to swearing by weapons, another graphic instance of its original meaning comes from Aracan, where the witness swearing to speak the truth takes in his hand a musket, a sword, a spear, a tiger's tusk, a croco- dile's tooth, and a thunderbolt (that is, of course, a stone celt). The oath by the weapon not only lasted on through classic ages, but remained so common in Christendom, that it was expressly for- bidden by a Synod ; even in the seven- teenth century, to swear on the sword (like Hamlet's friends in the ghost scene) was still a legal oath in Holstein. As for the holding up the hand to invoke the personal divine sky, the successor of this primitive gesture remains to this day among the chief acts in the solemn oaths of European nations.

It could scarcely be shown more clearly with what childlike imagination the savage conceives that a symbolic action, such as touching his head or his spear, will somehow pass into reality. In connection with this group of oaths, we can carry yet a step further the illus- tration of the way men's minds work in this primitive stage of association of ideas. One of the accounts from New Guinea is that the swearer, holding up an arrow, calls on Heaven to punish

6

Ordeals and Oaths.

him if lie lies; but by turning the arrow the other way, the oath can be neutralized. This is magic all over. What one symbol can do, the reverse symbol can undo. True to the laws of primitive magical reasoning, uncultured iien elsewhere still carry on the sym- bolic reversal of their oaths. An Abys- sinian chief, who had sworn an oath he disliked, has been seen to scrape it off his tongue and spit it out. There are still places in Germany where the false witness reckons to escape the spiritual consequences of perjury by crooking one finger, to make it^ I suppose, not a straight but a crooked oath, or he puts his left hand to his side to neutralise what the right hand is doing. Here is the idea of our "over the left;** but so far as I know this has come down with us to mere schoolboy's shuffling.

It has just been noticed that the arsenal of deadly weapons by which the natives of Aracan swear, includes a tiger's tusk and a crocodile's tooth. This leads us to a group of instructive rites belonging to Central and Korth Asia. Probably to this day, there may be seen in Russian law-courts in Siberia the oath on the bear's head. When an Ostyak is to be sworn, a bear's head is brought into court, and the man makes believe to bite at it, calling on the bear to devour him in like manner if he does not tell the truth. Now the meaning of this act goes beyond magic and into religion, for we are here in the region of bear worship, among people who believe that this wise and divine beast knows what goes on, and Vill come and punish them. Nor need one wonder at this, for the idea that the bear will hear and come if called on is familiar to German mythology. I was interested to find it still in survival in Switzerland a few years ago, when a peasant woman, whom a mischievous little English boy had irritated beyond endurance, pronounced the ancient awfal imprecation on him, "The bear take thee ! " (der Bar nimm dich !) Among the hill tribes of India a tiger's-skin is sworn on in the same ^nse as the bear's head among the ^aks. Bivers, again^ which to the

savage and barbarian are intelligent and personal divinities, are sworn by in strong belief that their waters will punidi him who takes their name in vain. We can understand why Ho- meric heroes swore by the rivers, when we hear still among Hindus how the sacred Ganges will take vengeance sure and terrible on the children of the per- jurer. It is with the same personifica- tion, the same fear of impending chas- tisement horn the outraged deity that savage and barbaric men have sworn by sky or sun. Thus the Huron Indian would say in making solemn promise : " Heaven hears what we do this day! " and the Tunguz, brandishing a knife before the sun, would say : " If I lie> may the sun plunge sickness into my entrails like this knife." We have but to rise one stage higher in re- ligious ideas to reach the type of the famous Eoman oaths by Jupiter, the Heaven-god. He who swore held in his hand a stone, praying that, if he know- ingly deceived, others might be safe in their countries and laws, their holy places and their tombs, but he alone might be cast out, as this stone now — and be flung it irom him. Even more impres- sive was the great treaty-oath where the pater patratus, holding the sacred flint that symbolizi d the thunderbolt, called on Jove that if by public counsel or wicked fraud the Eomans should break the treaty first — " in that day, O Jove, smite thou the Eoman people as I here to-day shall smite this swine, and smite the heavier as thou art the stronger ! " So saying, he slew the victim with the sacred stone.

These various examples may be taken as showing the nature and meaning of such oaths as belong to the lower stages of civilization. Their binding power is that of curses, that the perjurer may be visited by mishap, disease, death. But at a higher stage of culture, where the gods are ceasing to be divine natural objects like the Tiber or Ganges, or the Sun or Sky, but are passing into the glorified human or heroic stage, like Apollo or Venus, there comes into view a milder kind of oath, where the man enters into fealty with the god, whom he asks to

Ordeals and Oaths,

fiYonr or preserve him on condition of his keeping troth. Thus, while the pro- ceeding is still an oath with a pendty, this penalty now lies in the perjurer's forfeiting the divine favour. To this milder form, which we may conveniently call the "oath of conditional favour," belong such classic phrases as " So may tiie gods love me ! " \lta me Dii ament I) ''As I wish the gods to he propitious to me!" {Ita miki Deos velim propitios), I call attention to this class of oaths, of which we shall presently meet with a lemaikahle example nearer home. We have now to take into consideration a morement of far larger scope.

Betuming to the great first mentioned class of savage and harharic oaths, sworn hy gestures or weapons, or hy in- Tocation of divine heasts, or rivers, or greater nature-deities — the question now to be asked is, what is the nature of the penalties ? They are that the perjurer may be withered by disease, wounded, drowned, smitten by the thunderbolt, and so forth, all these being temporal, Tisible punishments. The state of be- lief to which the whole class belong is that explicitly described among the natives of the Tonga Islands, where oaths were received on the declared groimd that the gods would punish the false-swearer here on earth. A name is wanted to denote this class of oaths, be- longing especially to the lower culture ; let us call them ''mundane oaths.'' Now it is at a point above the savage level in culture that the thought first comes in of the perjurer being punished in a world beyond the grave. This was a conception familiar to the Egyptians in their remotely ancient civilization. It was at home among the old Homeric Greeks, as when Agamemnon, swearing his mighty oaths, calls to witness not only Father Zeus^ and the all-seeing Son, and the Elvers, and Earth, but also the Erinnys who down below chastise the souls of the dead, whoso- ever shall have been forsworn. Kot less plainly is it written in the ancient Hindu Laws of Manu — "A man of under- standing shall swear no false oath even in a trifling matter, for he who swears a fJEdfie oath goes hereafter and here

to destruction." To this higher stage of culture then belongs the introduction of the new " postmundane " element into oaths. For ages afterward, nations might still use either kind, or combine them by adding the penalty after death to that in life. But in the later course of history there comes plainly into view a tendency to subordinate the old mun- dane oath, and at last to suppress it altogether. How this came to pass is plain on the face of the matter. It was simply the result of accumulated ex- perience. The continual comparison of opinions with facts could not but force observant minds to admit that a man might swear falsely on sword's edge or spear's point, and yet die with a whole skin ; that bears and tigers were not to be depended on to chooee per- jurers for their victims, and that in fact the correspondence between the impre- cation and the event was not real, but only ideal. How judgment by real re- sults thus shaped itself in men^ minds we may see by the way it came to pub- lic utterance in classic times, nowhere put more cogently than in the famous dialogue in the Clouds of Aristoph- anes. The old farmer Strepsiades asks. Whence comes the blazing thunderbolt that Zeus hurls at the perjured 1 " You fool," replies the Sokrates of the play, '^you smack of old Kronos' times — if Zeus smote perjurers, wouldn't he have been down on those awful fellows Simon, and Kleonymos, and Theoros? Why, what Zeus does with his bolt is to smite his own temple, and the heights of Sunium, and the tall oaks ! Do you mean to say that an oak-tree can commit perjury 1 " What is said here in chaff full many a reasonable man in the old days must have said to himself in the soberest earnest, and once said or thought, but one result could come of it — the result which history shows us did come. The venue of the judicial oath was gradually changed, till the later kind, with its penalties transferred from earth to the region of departed souls, remained practically in possession of the field.

As a point in the science of culture which has hitherto been scarcely if at all

8

Ordeals a/nd Oaths.

obflerved, I am anxious to call attention to the historical stratification of ju- dicial oaths, from the lowest stratum of mundane oaths belonging to savage or barbaric times, to the highest stra- tum of post-mundane oaths such as obtain among modem civilized nations. Boughly, the development in the course of ages may be expressed in the follow- ing two classifications —

Mundaae.

Mixed.

Post-Mundane.

SGurae. Conditional Favour. Judgment

Though these two series only partly coincide in history, they so far fit that the judicial oaths of the lower culture belong to the class of mundane curse, while those of the higher culture in general belong to that of post-mundane judgment Anthropologically, this is the most special new view I have here to bring forward. It forms part of a wider generalization, belongingat once to 4ihe science of morals and the science of •reUgion. But rather than open out the subject into this too wide field, we -may do well to fix it in our minds by tracing a curious historical point in the legal customs of our own country. £very one knows that the modes of administering a judicial oath in Scotland and in England are not the same. In '■Scotland, where the witness holds up his hand toward heaven, and swears to tell the truth as he shall answer to God at the Day of Judgment^ we have before as the most explicit possible example of a post-mundane oath framed on Christian lines. In contrasting this with the English judicial oath, we first notice that our acted ceremony consists com- monly in taking a New Testament in the hand and kissing it Thus, unlike the Scotch oath, the English oath is sworn on a halidoTne (Anglo-Saxon hdligdom, German heiligthum), a holy or sacred object. Many writers have fallen into confusion about this word, mystifying it into sacred judgment or " holy doom ; " but it is a perfectly straightforward term for a sanctuary or relic, as " On tham haligdome swerian *'-^to swear by the relic. Now this custom of swearing on

a halidome belongs to far pr»-Christian antiquity, one famous example being when Hannibal, then a lad of nine years old, was brought by his father to the altar and made to swear by touching the sacred things (tactis sacris) that when he grew up he would be the enemy of Rome. In classical antiquity the sacred objects were especially the images and altars of the gods, as it is put in a scene in Plautus — "Touch this altar of Venus!" The man an- swers, "I touch it," and then he is sworn. When this ancient rite came into use in early Christian England, the object touched might be the altar itself, or a relic-shrine like that which Harold is touching with his right forefinger in the famous scene in the Bayeux tapestry, or it might be a Missal, or a book of the Gospels. In modem England, a copy of the Kew Testament has become the re- cognized halidome on which oaths are taken, and the practice of kissing it has almost supplanted the older and more general custom of touching it with the hand.

Next, our attention must be called to the remarkable formula in which (in England, not in Scotland) the invoca- tion of the Deity is made, *' So help me God!" or "So help you God!" Many a modern Englishman puzzles over this obscure form of words. When the question is asked what the meaning of the oath is, the ofiicial interpretation practically comes to saying that it means the same as the Scotch oath. But nei- ther by act nor word does it convey this meaning. So obvious is the discrepancy between what is considered to be meant^ and what is actually done and said, that Paley, remarking on the different forms of swearing in different countries, does not scruple to say that they are " in no country in the world, I believe, worse contrived either to convey the meaning, or impress the obligation of an oath, than in our own."

This remark of Paley's aptly illus- trates a principle of the science of cul- ture which cannot be too strongly im- pressed on the minds of all who study the institutions of their own or any other age. People often talk of mystic

Ordeals and Oaths.

£>nna]a8 and mystic ceremonies. Bat the more we study civilization in its earlier stages, the more we shall find that formulas and ceremonies, both in law and in religion, are as purposeful and business-like as can be, if only we get at them anywhere near their origin. What happens afterwards is this, that while men's thoughts and wants gradually change, the old phrases and ceremonies are kept up by natural ^onserratism, so that they become less and less appropriate, and then as their meaning fidls away, its place is apt to be filled up with mystery. Applying this principle to the English oath- fonncQa, we ask what and where it originally was. It was Teutonic- Seandinavian, for though corresponding formulas are known in Latin ( Ita me adjuvet Deus) and in Old French (Ce m'ait Diex, &c.), these are shown by their comparatively recent dates to be mere translations of the Germanic originals. Now although ancient Eng- lish and German records fail to give the early history of the phrase, this want is fortunately supplied by a document preserved in Iceland. Some while after t>he settlement of the island by the NorUimen, but long before their conversion to Christianity, the settlers feh the uigent need of a code of laws, .and accordingly UJfliot went to Norway for three years to Thorleif the Wise, who imparted to him his legal lore. TJlfliot went to Norway ad. 925, so that the form of judicial oath he auUiorised, and which was at a later time put on record in the Icelandic Landn&mabdk, xnay be taken as good and old in Norse law. Its praB Christian character is indeed obvious from its tenor. The halidome on which it was sworn was a jnetal arm-ring, which was kept by the godhi or priest^ who reddened it with the blood of the ox sacrificed, and the swearer touching it said, in words that are still half English, ''Name I to witness that I take oath by the ring, law-oath, so help me Frey, and Nidrdh, and almighty Thor (hialpi mer Bvk Freyr, ok Niordhr, ok hmn almittki Ass) as I shall this suit follow or defend, ^r witness bear or verdict or doom, as I

wit rightest and soothest and most law- fully," &c. Here, then, we have the full and intelligible formula which must very nearly represent that of which we keep a mutilated fragment in our Eng- lish oath. So close is the connection, that two of the gods referred to, Frey and Thor (who is described as the Al- mighty God) are the old English gods whose names we commemorate in Friday and Thursday. The formula belongs, with the classic ones lately spoken of, to the class of oaths of conditional favour, **8o help me cls 1 shall do rightly," while Frey and Niordh are gods whom a Norse warrior would ask for earthly help, but who would scarcely concern themselves with his soul after death. It is likely that the swearer was not indeed unmindful of what the skalds sang of N&strdnd, the strand of corpses, that loathly house arched of the bodies of huge serpents, whose heads, turned inward, dripped venom on the perjurers and murderers within. But the primary formula is, as I have said, that of the oath of conditional favour, not of judgment. With the constituents of the modem English oath now fairly before us, we see that its incoherence, as usual in such cases, has a historical interpretation. What English law has done is to transplant from archaic fetish- worship the ceremony of the halidome or consecrated object, and to combine with this one-half of a prse-Christian formula of conditional favour, without the second half which made sense of it Considering that to this combina- tion is attached a theological inter- pretation which is neither implied in act nor word, we cannot wonder if in the popular mind a certain amount of obscurity, not to say mystery, surrounds the whole transaction. Nevertheless we may well deprecate any attempt to patch up into Scotch distinctness and consistency the old formula, which will probably last untouched so long as judicial oaths shall remain in use in England.

Being in the midst of this subject, it may not be amiss to say a few words upon old and new ideas as to the admi-

10

Ordeals and Oaths.

nistration of oaths to little children. The Canon Law expressly forbade the exacting of an oath from children nnder fourteen — pueri ante annos XIV non cogantur jurare. This prohibition is derived from yet earlier law. The rough old Norsemen would not take oaths from children, as comes out so quaintly in the saga of Baldur, where the goddess made all the beasts and birds and trees swear they would not harm him, but the little mistletoe only she craved no oath from, for she thought it was too young. Admitting the necessity of taking chil- dren's evidence somehow, the question is how best to do it. In England it must bd done on oath, and for this end there has arisen a custom in our courts of putting the child through an inqui- sition as to the theological consequences of perjury, so as usually to extract from it a well-known definition which the stiffest theologian will not stand to for a moment if put straight to him, but which is looked upon as a proper means for binding the conscience of a little child.^ Moreover, children in decent families learn to answer plain questions some years before they learn to Rwear, and material evidence is often lost by the child not having been taught before- hand the proper answers to make when questioned as to the nature of an oath. I heard of a case only lately, which was expected to lead to a committal on a charge of murder, and where an im- portant point rested on the evidence of a young lad who was, to all appearance, truthful, but who did not satisfy the

^ Two illastrative cases are given me by a friend learned in the law. In court lately, a little girl was asked the usual preliminary question as to the consequence of swearing falsely, and answered in due form, "Please, Sir, 1 should go to burning Hell ! " Unluck- ily, however, the unusual question was then put, how she knew that ? which brought the reply, "Oh, please, another girl outside told me 1 was to say so 1 " It is Bar tradition, though there may be no record in print, that years ago the most sarcastic of English judges put the whole matter in a nutshell. The ques- tion having been asked of a child-witness, if she knew wliat would become of her when she died, she answered simply, "Don't know. Sir!" whereupon the judge said, "Well gentlemen, no more do 1 know — but the child's evidence cannot be taken."

bench that he understood the nature of an oath. Those in whom the ceremony of swearing a child arouses the feeling of physical repugnance that it does in myself, may learn with interest a fact as yet little known in England, and which sufficiently justifies my bringing forward the subject. Hearing that there was something to be learnt from Ger- many, I applied to the eminent jurist, Dr. Gneist, of Berlin, and hear from him that under the new German rules of procedure, whi3h are expected shortly to come into force, the evidence of chil- dren under sixteen may be received without oath, at the discretion of the judge. In these days there is a simple rule which an Englishman will do well to act up to, and that is, "Don't be beaten by a German 1 " Let us live in the heartiest fellowship with the Ger- mans, and never let them get ahead of us if we can help it In this matter of children's legal evidence, they are fairly leaving us behind, by introducing a plan which is at once more humane and more efiPective than ours.

If now, looking at the subject as one of practical sociology, we consider what place the legal oath has filled in savage, barbaric, and civilized life, we must ad- judge to it altogether higher value than to the ordeaL At certain stages of cul- ture it has been one of the great forces of society. There was a time when Lycurgus could tell the men of Athens that the oath was the very bond that held the democracy together. There was a time when, as Montesquieu insists, an oath was so binding on the minds of the Romans, that for its observance they would do more than even patriotism or love of glory could draw them to. In our own day, its practical binding power is unmistakable over the consciences of a numerous intermediate class of witnesses, those who are neither truthful nor quite reckless, who are without the honesty which makes a good man's oath super- fluous, who will indeed lie solemnly and circumstantially, but are somewhat re- strained from perjury by the fear of being, as the old English saying has it^ " once forsworn, ever forlorn." Though the hold thus given is far weaker than

Ordeals and Oaths,

11

ifi popniarly fancied, it has from time to time led legislators to use oaths, not merely in special and solemn matters, bat as means of securing honesty in the details of public business. When this has been done, the consequences to public morals have been disastrous. There is no need to hunt up ancient or foreign proofs of this, seeing how oonspicuoos an instance is the state of England early in the present century, while it was still, as a contemporary writer called it, ^'a land of oaths,'' and the professional perjurer plied & thriyiiig trada A single illustration will suffice, taken from the valuable treatise on Oaths, published in 1834 by the Bey. Jas. iidell Tyler : — " During the continuance of the former system of Custom-house oaths, there were houses of resort where persons were always to be found ready at a moment's warning to take any oath required ; the signal of the business for which they were needed was this inquiry, ' Any damned soul here 1 ' " Nowadays this enormous excess of public oaths has been much cut down, and with the best results. Yet it must be evident to students of sociology that the world will not stop short at this point The wider question is coming into view — What effect is produced on the everyday standard of truthfulness by the doctrine that fraudu- lent lying is in itself a minor offence, but is converted into an awful crime by the addition of a ceremony and a for- mula f It is an easily- stated problem in moral arithmetic ; on the credit side, Government is able to tighten with an extra screw the consciences of a shaky class of witnesses and public officers ; on the debit side, the current value of a man's word is correspond- ingly depreciated through the whole range of public and private business. Ab a mere sober student of social causes and effects, following along history the tendencies of opinion, I cannot doubt fSoir a moment how the public mind must act on this problem. I simply predict that where the judicial ordeal is already gone, there the judicial oath will sooner or later follow. Not only do symptoms of the coming change ap-

pear from year to year, but its greatest determining cause is unfolding itself day by day before observant eyes, a sight such as neither we nor our fathers ever saw before.

How has it come to pass that the sense of the sanctity of intellectual truth, and the craving after its full and free possession, are so mastering the modem educated mind % This is not a mystery hard to unravel. Can any fail to see how in these latter years the methods of scientific thought have come forth from the laboratory and the museum to claim their powers over the whole range of history and philosophy, of politics and morals) Truth in thought is fast spreading its wide waves through the outside world. Of intellectual truth- fulness, truthfulness in word and act is the outward manifestation. In all modem philosophy there is no prin- ciple more fertile than the doctrine so plainly set forth by Herbert Spencer — that truth means bringing our minds into accurate matching with the reali- ties in and around us j so that both intellectual and moral truth are bound up together in that vast process of evo- lution whereby man is gradually brought into fuller harmony with the universe he inhabits. There need, then, be no fear that the falling away of such artificial crutches as those whose history I have here been tracing should leave public truth maimed and halting. Upheld by the perfect fitting of the inner mind to the outer world, the progress of truth will be firmer and more majes- tic than in the ancient days. If, in time to come, the grand old disputation before King Darius were to be re- enacted, to decide again the question " What is the strongest of all things 1 " it would be said, as then, that *' Truth abides, and is strong for evermore, living and conquering from age to age." And the people as of old would say again with one voice, "Truth is great, and prevails ! " ^

E. B. Tylor.

^ 1 Esdras iv. 41 : fxcyd\ri 7, u\'t',0€ta, Kal i^tpiax^fi — Magna est vcritaSf et prc^valet.

12

MADCAP VIOLET.

CHAPTER XVII.

FROM NORTH TO SOUTH.

The pronanciation of the word allegro is not a matter of yeiy grave moment. A man may make a mistake about it, and nevertheless be a good Christian and a loyal subject. All the same it was this trifling affair of a wrong accent that suddenly and unexpectedly changed the whole course of Miss Violet North's life.

The girl had an impatience of pretence of all kinds which she carried to an ex- treme. While she was at Miss Main's school not one of the girls dared to wear a bit of sham jewellery. Now Lady North was not a highly accomplished woman, and, like most persons of im- perfect education, she had the habit of adorning her talk with scraps of lan- guages with which she was but scantily acquainted. The resentment of Violet North against this species of affectation was implacable. It was no use telling ber that human nature had developed more deadly crimes than that. It was no use urging that the difference be- tween dllfgro and allegro was not a matter to keep one awake o* nights.

*' Why should she use the word at alii Why should she pretend to know a Ian- ^piage that she doesn't know 1 I hate the meanness of that perpetual sham- ming !

And of course Lady North, again like most imperfectly educated persons, was deeply incensed when she was cor- rected ; and out of this small matter — a long tf or a short e — sprang up a quarrel which pointed to but one conclusion. The hollow truce was broken. Step- mother and stepdaughter could not re- main in the same house. Neither wished it, so it remained for Sir Acton North to say what was to be done.

Sir Acton was, as usual, quite sub- missive. He could not understand why two women should quarrel over an Italian word ; but then he had long ago given up the hope of understanding anything about women. He asked bia wife what she wanted him to do about Violet; Lady North refused to inter- meddle in that young lady's affairs in any way whatsoever. He went to Violet herself, who told Kim that she did not care what happened to bf r so long as she got out of the house. She also hinted that she was quite able to earn her own living, at which Sir Acton laughed and went away not much enlightened.

In this extremity he betbougbt him- self of that small household on Uie south of the river, in which Violet had often - taken refuge, as if it were her natural home; and it occurred to him that as Mrs. Warrener and her brother had been good enough to offer to take Violet with them for their autumn holidays, they might perhaps be inclined to extend their hospitality further, provided that some proper recompense were made them. Violet, he knew, would be amply satis- fied with that arrangement ; and it was an arrangement, moreover, which could only be but temporary, for, of course, the girl was sure to marry.

Sir Acton found Mr. Drummond busily engi^;ed in greasing a pair of enormously thick shooting boots, while a pair of very old leather leggings lay beside him on the table of the small dining-roouL

" I can't shake hands with you, sir," said he, laying down his wooden pipe. " You see, we are just preparing for our plunge into an absolutely savage life, and you never can trust anybody to grease your boots but yourself. I hope Miss Violet quite understands the sort of life she will lead when she comes with us 1 "

Madcap Violet.

13

'' It was about her I wanted to speak to yon, Mr. Drummond/' said Miss Yiolet's father, and then he sat down and told Mr. Dmmmond the whole stoiyy as well as he could make it out

This was a delicate mission on which Sir Acton had come, and several times he seemed rather embarrassed, but the quick, direct speech of Mr, Drummond helped him on.

''Do I understand you, then, that Violet is without a home 1 "

**• She has none in prospect — that is to say, of course we could arrange about her staying with some one "

^ She can always haye a home here, and a hearty welcome — ^my sister will aasure her of that."

" I expected you would say as much — ^ihe girl is indeed fortunate in having such Mends," said Sir Acton, who was really touched with the frank, un- hesitating way in which the ofifer was made ; " and I will confess that I had some notion of this when I came over to see you. Still, it is an awkward thing for one man to ask another man to take his daughter ofif his ha^ds ^'

" Don't speak about thai If Violet win come and live with us we shall be glad to have her. Of course she knows what she must expect We are very plain-hying folk, and we are not rich enough to alter our ways in entertaining a guest, although we should like to do that"

''I don't think she has found your ways unsuited to her,** her £stther said, with a smile, '' to judge by the readiness with which she always comes here. Ko, she has more sense than that ; there is nothing of the petted child about her. But on the other hand, Mr. Drummond," continued Violet's fetthei', with obvious embarrassment, " you will forgive me if I suggest that — ^that the obligation you put me under would be too great if you did not allow me to make you — some recompense — a sum might be stated "

He was in great dread of offending this shy, capricious, strange man, and he was greatly rdieved to find Mr.

Drummond, instead of drawing himself up and looking hurt, breaking out into a hearty laugh.

" No, no. Sir Acton, we don't take in boarders — and to think of our being paid for having Violet North come to live with us — But I must tell Sarah about it — excuse me for one second, Sir Acton."

Ofif he went, leaving the worthy and practical-minded baronet very much puzzled. It was true, he knew, that Mr. Drummond was a gentleman ; but was he not, also, very poor ; and had not the ofifer been made with great delicacy; and surely it was most un- reasonable that this family should bear the expense of supporting a rich man's daughter) His sister returned with him. They were both of theni appar- ently greatly delighted over this pro- bable addition to their household. When would she come over ) Would he re- member to remind her of her music 1 Ought Mrs. Warrener to come and help her to move her small belongings ? And would he make her promise before she left not to do all Amy Warrener's lessons for her, seeing that that yoimg lady had now got out of her child-period ?

Sir Acton North began to wonder less over his daughter's liking for this quiet little house and its occupants. There was a wonderful sense of homeliness about the place, and a bright humorous firankness about this tall lounging man and his gentle sister. But, before Sir Acton left, Mr. Drummond took him aside, and said to him, with more seriousness —

^* There is one point, sir, about which we ought to have a clear understanding before your daughter comes over to live with us. I believe that that yoimg fellow Miller is in a fashion paying his addresses to her ; that is with your sanc- tion, I presume ) "

" Why, yes," said Sir Acton, rather staggered by the directness of the question, and also by the calm observant look of those singularly bright and in- telligent eyes. ''The young man saw me — ^that nonsense was all explained away — and indeed it was a thoughtless frolic that may be forgotten now. If the

14

Madcap Violet.

girl likes him I see no reason why they should not marry. Do you 1 "

'^I?" repeated Drummond, almost with a start '* What have I to do with it ? It i3 her fiather who must give his consent."

^' Do you know anything against the young man?"

"Nothing in the world," was the hearty answer.

" Well, then, he is a fairly shrewd, practical-headed young fellow; he will have quite enough money ; his family is respectahle — I really don't see any oh- jection."

" That is very well,, Sir Acton ; I merely wished to be entirely clear from all responsibility "

" Mind you, my dear sir," broke in Sir Acton, as if he had suddenly re- membered something, '^ don't imagine that I am anxious to get rid of my daughter — ^by marriage or otherwise, merely because she and her stepmother don't agree. I^o, no; rather than see her uncomfortable I'd — I'd — confound it, I'd send the whole pack of 'em flying. Violet's a good girl — she's worth twenty dozen "

£ut here Sir Acton thought he had said enough.

^' I understand you, then, sir," said Mr. Drummond, quite calmly, '^ that you have no objection to !N&. Miller meeting your daughter while she is under my care ; and if they should engage to marry each other, good and well ? "

" I see no objection ; but why do you speak of that as if it were something to be feared 1 "

" Pardon me ; I am sure I had no such intention."

"Good-bye, Mr. Drummond," said Sir Acton, at the door, " you have done me a great kindness ; I will try to re- pay you some day. Oh, by the way, I suppose I may get a saloon-carriage re- served for you when you go If orth % "

"No, thank you," said Mr. Drum- mond, quietly. ** We always go second- class, and I don't think Miss Violet will expect us to alter our ordinary habits."

Next day a young lady burst into the

room where Mrs. Warrener was sitting sewing, and threw herself down on her knees, and put her hands in her friend's lap.

" And oh ! is it quite true ? and am I to live with you tdways ? " she cried, and the fine, frank, handsome face and the dark and eloquent eyes were full of joy and gratitude.

" You are to stay with us as long as you please," said Mrs. Warrener> much more gravely, as she kissed the girl.

Violet looked up quickly, and scanned her friend's face.

" Are you displeased with me 1 "

There was a gentle hand laid on her head.

" Violet, you are no longer a girl. You ought not to give way to your temper, under whatever provocation. And it does not look well to see any girl so glad to leave her home."

" I have not left my home," said the girl, in a low voice, with her head bent down ; " I have come to the only home that I ever have had."

No woman could resist that speech ; there was an arm round her neck in a moment, and she was listening to many a protestation that that home at least should never be wanting to her as long as she lived.

But the girl freed herself, and looked up again.

"And Mr. Drummond," she said, " what does he think ? Does he think I have done wrong ? "

" Well, he regrets what has happened, of course, although it has brought you to us. He thought you had resolved to be a little more patient, and gentle, and obedient "

The girl rose quickly, turning her head aside ; but all the same her friend had caught sight of the sudden tears that had sprung to those long black lashes.

« Violet I "

" I can go back."

" You shall not go back, Violet ; listen to reason "

" Oh ! you don't know — you don't know the life I had to lead in that

Madcap VioUt,

15

hoose/' the giil cried passionately, with the tears running down her face ; '' and jou think that I am proud and un- gratefol, and perhaps jou are afraid to take me] Bat I am not angrateftil to those I can love and respect — no — jOD. will not find me that — ^and there is nothing I. would not suffer for my real 'friends, as you may find out some day. But I have had no friends — ^you know I have had no friends — ^hut the friends in this house j and what would I not do for them? Only to he in the house with you I would he a kitchen drudge for you — indeed I would — I would work my eyes hlind for you — there is no patience and obedience joji would not have. But I must re- spect and love the people whom I serve, and then I am ready to become their filave from morning till night ^"

Mrs. Warrener strove to hush the wild, piteous words.

*'You must not take so much to heart what I said, Violet," she remon- strated, gently. '^ And you won't have to do all these things in order to please youp friends. Only he true to your own better nature, and you will be a constant delight to them.'*

The girl took up her friend's hand and kissed it : then she left the room. Mrs. Warrener understood the mute promise of obedience.

CHAPTER XYIII. 0A8TLB BANDBOX, N.B.

The great white mists of the rain had lifted ; and all the world behind stood revealed — a strange, new, dream-like world, colourless, still, its various tints of grey shining with a suffused and mystic light. The grey sea was like glass ; the grey islands had but a faint glimmer of green along their shores ; the grey mountains were pale and dis- tant ; and in all this vague and phantom- like picture that had been so suddenly disclosed, there was but one sharp and definite object — a coasting-vessel lying motionless out there on the shining grey sea, its hull as black as jet; its brown

sails throwing perfect shadows on the mirror beneath. It was as yet early morning ; no one could say whether that luminous glow throughout the grey would turn to clear sunlight, or whether the slow, soft fingers of the rain-clouds, would again pass over the world-picture, obliterating successively island, and mountaia, and sea. '

Early as it was, a young lady had managed to write the following letter, which she was just putting into an envelope : —

"Castle Bandbox, in the Western Highlands, Vlth August,

*.* My dear Papa, — You have known for many a year that I am the most dutiful of daaghters; so here is the account I promised you of our explora- tions in this wild country. It was on the evening of the 10th of August, in the present year, that we effected our dis- embarkation, and were most hospitably received by the inhabitants of this coast, two of whom willingly agreed (after much talk among themselves in a language we did not understand) to carry our luggage and accoutrements for us (on wheelbarrows). Throwing out a scout or two, in the shape of bare- headed children, with very brown faces, bare legs and feet^ and tattered kilts (a peculiar species of costume, very unlike that worn by Englishmen under the same name), we struck a trail which eventuaUy led us away from the coast into the mountains. By and by we ascended, until behind us we could be- hold the open waters of the Atlantic, with various long and beautiful islands, and the lofty mountains of Morven and Mull ; while in our front, crowning a small knoll that stands in the midst of an amphitheatre of heather-clad hills, we beheld a small, peaked, white build- ing, which we made bold to call Castle Bandbox. By whom, or when, this solitary place, in the midst of the moors, was built, I do not know. We have already discovered it to be the most delightful of toy-houses, once you have got accustomed to knocking your head against the sloping roof of your bed- room.

16

Madcap Violet.

" Scarcely bad we arrived when the youBgest member of the party and my- self, leaving to our elders the business of unpacking, started off on an explora- tion of the adjoining mountains, the nearest of which is separated from the garden by a wire fence to keep out rabbits. The garden, I should have saidy goes all round the side of the knoll ; the borders of the various plots are adorned with tree-fuchsias, rose- bushes, sweet-williams, and marigolds ; but the plots themselves contain such more useful plants as carrots, turnips, beans, and potatoes — the last in flower. The first mountain on the other side of the wire fence we named Mount Glorioso. Its chief peculiarity is its tangle of furze, brambles, meadow- sweet, and ferns round its lower slopes ; then you come to a forest of young larches, trees which tear your hair to pieces, and leave tufts of sticky white all over your clothes. Passing across the summit of this mountain, the ad- venturers reached another peak, which they named Mount Magniticoso. The chief peculiarity of this eminence is its immensely high heather — beautiful to look at, but desperately difficult to walk through. The third and last of this chain of mountains we ventured to call Mount Extremitosoj the chief peculi- arity of which is an abundance of steep grey rocks, up which you must scramble to find yourself on a high and windy summit of close and slippery grass. We got no further than that

" But, oh, papa^ if you could see what we saw then — what we can see now from the windows of this place — ^the long stretches of sea, and the distant mountains that appear to rise right out of the water, and that change in colour eveiy minute of the day. I remember, just as we were getting to the station, Mr. Drummond saying to me, 'You will find a difference between Euston Square and Morven,' but I had no idea of what a difference. I^ot that he ever speaksdisrespectfiilly of Euston Square ; on the contrary, he says one ought to grow very wise living there — ^looking on at themutability of life — the coming and

going of cabs and carriages, some people with dogs and guns, and others with coffins. And did you ever notice simple country-people asking the way to Holbom or London Bridge, and then setting out to walk there with all their luggage, just as if they were going round a comer in a village) Mr. Drummond says he has seen Uiem ; but he is a very imaginative man. Oh, by the way, did you ever notice, papa, the architecture of St. Pancras Church — the steeple and the stone women, especially 1 I have found out that is the only way of enraging him — to talk about St Pancras Church, and say yon rather like it

** We have the most delightful even- ings— so cheerful and homely ; and although Mr. Drummond professes to have become a thorough savage, and to have forsworn all books and writing, and to be interested only in cartridges, and setters, and so forth, in the even- ing he talks about everything you can think of, and it is worth a thousand lectures to hear him, besides being much more amusing than a lecture. I never knew a man so bright-spirited ; it is quite delightful to hear him laugh ; and you would scarcely think there was so much wisdom in what he says, if you were not accustomed to his joking way. He is a great favourite here ; already various gentlemen in the neighbourhood (in the neighbourhood means twenty miles of mountains) have offered him shooting ; and one, who is going to China, has placed his yacht at his dis- posal for the whole of September, if he chooses to have it. Kow I must say good-bye ; for Amy and I are going out to see some of the shooting ; and it is time we started.

*' Your affectionate daughter, "Violet North.

" P.S. — Mr. Drummond is quite de- lighted with the gun you sent him ; and yesterday he tried it by getting old Peter to throw empty bottles into the air. Mr. Drummond did not hit any of the bottles, however. I could see that it must be a very difficult thing to do.**

Madcap Violet.

17

'• Violet ! Amy ! Come along now, snd bring all your waterproofs, cloaks, wrappers, and umbrellas ! "

A tally gaunt figure was standing in the doorway, clad in a rough shooting- jacket, leggings, and thick boots. A much smaller, and older man — ^a curious, little^ weather-beaten man — was standi ing outaide, holding in leash a very ragged-looking setter.

^ It'll no rain the day," the old man said, abruptly.

"But it is raining," responded Mr. Drummond.

The wiiy little man cast a glance around, at the grey skies and the still grey sea.

"Na, na," he said, " it'll no rain the day.**

" But, confound you, it is raining ! " ~ Drummond. ** What do you call thatt"

He pointed to the rain-drops formed by the driizle that had fallen on the well-oOed barrels of his breechloader.

^ Well, and ef the gun Ibs to come to barm with that,"* said old Peter, testily, ''yoa will better be for leafing it at home. It isa the gentlemen now they will tek aich care of their guns ass if the guns wass no for shooting at all. Ton should hef brought a gun that wass good for this country."

** Ton will haye to clean this gun very carefhllj, I can tell you, Peter; and ereiy nighty too."

^ I will not," said the old man, sturdily. "There iss no man will know more apout guns as me; and effery Saturday nighty that will do &zry well. It wass Mr. Maclean of Cam-Sloe, be used to say to the gentle- men at the house, ' Kott, what would we do widiout ta Sunday eflery week ; onr guns would nefier be cleaned at all.* But the Sunday it wass made for other things as the cleaning of guns ; and the Saturday night that wUl do better for jba/*

" Then yon won't clean my gun every night 1"

"There iss no use of it."

" Then I must do it myself, I sup- poeel''

Ho. 199. — ^voi». xzznr.

" Ferry well."

The two girls now came down stairs, fully equipped for the expedition ; and the oddly-assorted party now set out.

" Is that dog of yours any better- behaved, Peter ? "

" He's a gran' good dog, a ferry good dog," said the old Highlandman. " There iss just nothing that will pass the nose of him. Ay, I will say this, that sometimes he is a something too eager in the rinnin' in — ay, just a wee thing too eager."

" Yes," said Mr. Drummond, " he has no fault at all — beyond a fancy for eating every bird you shoot."

The old man was nettled ; but there was a humorous twinkle in his eyes all the same.

" Ay, sir ; but even then he will not get too fat when he iss out with you,

j>

sir.

" Confound you, Peter, you are more impertinent than ever."

" Na, na, sir ; I will only speak the truth to you, ass you will speak it to me ; and there iss no harm in that."

" I think, Mr. Peter," said a certain tall young lady, with great asperity and dignity ; " I think you might speak the truth a little more respectfully."

The old keeper gave her aside glance as he trudged along.

"Ay, I am no in the use of heffing leddies come out to the shooting."

" Peter and I understand each other very well, Violet^" Mr. Drummond said. " You will soon learn not to mind what he says — especially when he reports about the game. I suppose you are <}uite prepared, Peter, to find the forms of thirty or forty wholly imaginary hares at a moment's notice?"

Peter but half understood the sar- casuL

"There iss plenty of game if there wass any one to shoot it»" said he, coolly ; and then he added, with another twinkle in his eye, " Did you offer hear, mem, of John MacFarlane, that wass sent out by Mr. Maclean of Cam-Sloe with the two FngUsh gentlemen ? "

" No, I never did," said Violet

" Ay, it iss ferry cleffer some of the

o

18

Madcap Violet

Englisli gentlemen are ; and they wass coming to see a piece of shooting that Cam-Sloe had to let; and John Mac- Farlane he went with them ; and Cam- Sloe he had told John to glf a good account of the ground. And they wass asking him ^ John, iss there any phea- sants here ? ' and he will say ' They're jnst in soosands/^ for he would get Cam- Sloe a good price. And they wass asking him 'John, is there any parr- tritches here ? ' and he will say ' They're just in soosands.' And one of the English gentlemen he wass a cleifer young man ; and for the joke of it he will ask 'John, iss there many gorillas too 1 ' and John, he will see him wink- ing, and he will say 'No, there iss no many gorillas here ; they comes and goes in twos and threes, just like your- sels.' And it wass a ferry good answer to the young man."

By this time they had reached the margin of the shooting, and the tall sportsman was transferring to his pockets some of the cartridges which Peter carried, when suddenly the whole world seemed to grow ^ black around them. They had passed the last signs of cultivation ; and the only possible shelter from the impending storm was a wall of rough stones that ran up the valley between two hills. As the first heavy drops were already splashing down, they had to make a race for this dyke; Peter following up the retreat with ill-concealed disgost. Here was the mischief of taking ladies out shoot- ing— and on the 12th, too.

The small group successfully crouched under the w^ the driving wind carry- ing the fierce torrents of rain well over them; while Peter stood out in the open, unconcernedly looking out towards the sea.

''Why, Mull has disappeared alto- gether!" cried Violet, who was also looking that way.

"Oh, yes, tiiey sometimes have a drop of rain in Mull,*' said Mr. Drum- mond, contentedly doubled up like a tmssed fowL "I asked a Mull man last year, in August, what he thought ^ "SooBa&ds"— thouMDds,

of the Mull weather ; and he said quite complacently, ' It uz verra good weather — ay, verra good weather ; there waz a whole week in June we hadna a single drop o' rain ; but the weather it uz a little bit broken after the twentieth of August.' Eut do you see Mull now I Isn't that wonderful? And look at Morven ! "

What strange apparition of a world was this — far behind the rain, and shining in pale yellows and greens? The intermediate veil of a rainy cloud served ^to show the distant sunlit sea and the hills as something pale, magical, and remote ; while the island of Lismore, nearer at hand, began to gleam through a mass of rainbow colours that seemed to lie along the sea for a space of fifteen or twenty miles. This strange and spectral world was full of motion, too — its aspect changing every minute — as the black clouds broke overhead to show bold dashes of white and blue ; as the distant sunlight drank up therain-douda, and then the great hills came out dis- tinct and clear, and all round the splen- did coasts of Morven, Mull, and Lome the rushing blue seas of the Atlantic shone in the light.

This warm burst of sunlight roused the crouching party; and when they stood up they found the beautifol bright day showing the colours of the hiUa around at their very richest — ^the clear, shining greys of the rocks, the pink patches of heather, the yellow- greens of the bracken, and the curious bluo^eens of the furze, with every- where to each point of light a sharp black shadow.

" Are ye ready now, sir ? " said Peter, impatiently.

" You needn't be in a hurry, Peter ; there's nothing to shoot, you know."

I^ow these words had scarcely been uttered when an extraordinary circum- stance occurred. The party were pass- ing by the side of a small inclosure of young larches planted along the side of the hill ; and just at this moment a hare ran out right in front of them.

"Shoot, sir, shoot!" yelled Peter, seeing that the sportsman calmly con-

Madca'p Violet

1»

templated the bare, without putting up

hlB gUZL

The ammal had been so startled by coming unexpectedly on its foes, that^ for a second, it had remained motionless, staring with large paralysed grey eyes at them ; then the next moment it was off and up the hill like lightning. Peter could not restrain the rage and disap- pointment that possessed lum ; he uttered a whole series of ejaculations in Gae- lic; and then flung up his hands in despair.

" Did yon see her beautiful eyes 1 " asked Mr. Drummond of Violet*

" Yes, only for a moment"

''Who could put up a gun and bang the head off an animal that was looking at you like that ; " he said, absently.

"TJncle, mamma will laugh at you again/' said Miss Amy. ** Peter is sure to tell her."

''Did you see how she ranT' he asked again, quite unconcernedly. " What a wonderful piece of mechanism — ^if you could think of speed as an ab- stnction, and put it in a coat of brown for, that would be a hare — ^well, come, on!"

" Will I tek home the dog ? " asked Peter, in bitter sarcasm.

"What on earth do you mean ? "

" I thought you wass maybe going up to the loch with the leddies. Or would you rather try the shooting ? "

''Try the shooting? If I tickled you under the fifth rib with a charge of number six shot — and it would serve you right — you wouldn*t be so desper- ately faceiiouBj Peter. Let loose that precious dog of yours. Well see if we can g^t him something to eat."

They had now reached a series of heathery and rocky knolls forming a lidge along the side of the mountain ; and here the ragged brown setter was set at liberty, to the no small alarm of many small birds which he industriously hunted up as he plunged madly about.

" Have a care, Jade ! " Peter called out, in a muttered whisper. " Now, sir, now!"

Mr. Drummond hurried forward, though with a dark suspicion that Jack

was drawing him on to a chaffinch or a thrush. The suspicion was wrong, how- ever, for just as Jack, yielding to tempta- tion, suddenly darted his nose into a tuft of heather, there was a wild whirr of wings and a rapid discharge of two barrels.

" Down charge, confound you ! " ware the last words heard by Jack, as the gallant animal forthwith darted off in joyous pursuit of the bird, which had down oS unharmed.

"That's a nice dog of youxs, Peter," remarked Mr. Drummond, when his ancient came up.

" The poor beast thinks the bird xaaun be got somehow/' retorted Peter, with composure.

"How could you miss him ! " exclaimed Violet.

" Uncle, he got up under your feet 1 "

" And he seemed to me to be as big as a peacock."

" You might have hit him with your cap, Mr. Drummond."

The sportsman was not affected by these taunts and jeers.

"Ay, that was just it," he said^ seriously. " I fired too soon."

" 'Deed, that iss ferry true, sir," inter- posed Peter. " You fired eight days too soon."

"What do you meanl" said the victim of all this sarcasm, with a stave.

" Did you not see it wass a grey hen t "

" Good gracious ! "

There was a shout of merciless laugh- ter from the two young ladies, whioh drew down upon them the remai^ that if they treated so grave a matter as the 12 th of August with levity and ridi- cule, they had better go on at once to the fresh-water loch and gather lilies. And indeed they resolved to accept this advice; for struggling through the heather was somewhat fatiguing work ; and now the sun was shining down with a scorching heat. So, with Amy as a guide, the two young ladies set off up the hill towards a small and lonely mere which was to be the trysting-place for luncheon; while Mr. Drummond and his faithful com|Mdiion went on theit way through the thick heather.

0 2

ao

Madcap Violet

"Ay, we will do ferry mucli better now," said Peter, with an air of relief. " There iss no shooting at all when the leddies will come out — and the talking — and the talking "

Oat of a bunch of sedges growing iu one of the hollows started, with a sudden whirr and cry of alarm, a strange grey animal that seemed to fill the air' with fire- works and impossible angles ; there was a loud bang from one of the barrels; then a confused tumbling of wings as the snipe fell dead on a bit of rock.

*' Did I not tell you, sir," said Peter, indignantly, as he rescued the bird from the jaws of Jack, '* that there would be no shooting when the leddies wass here with their talking "

" Confound you, you talk more than any dozen ladies '*

^ And you will shoot as well ass any one when you will not mek a joke of It ; and it iss not every one will shoot a snipe "

** What a fool the bird must have been to run against the shot like that," re- marked the sportsman, apparently to himself; ''if it had only flown straight like another bird it would be alive now."

On they went again, with the blazing sun scorching face and hands, and not a^ieath of wind coming in from that wide expanse of blue sea. Jack moderat- ing his first transports at finding him- eeU free, was working a little better, and the garrulous ancient was for once hold- ing his tongue. But there were no birds.

" Here, sir, here ! " shouted Peter, in an excited whisper — " a rabbit I "

"Where?"

He pointed to a tuft of bracken Just at his foot, in which the rabbit had taken refuge.

"Be ready, sir."

"Stop a bit," remarked the sportsman,

•calmly, seeing that the rabbit was

determined to remain there until it was

kicked out, " I cannot take advantage of

this poor creature's confidence "

" Will ye no shoot her t " said the ex- asperated Peter. " Tarn her, I will iBfoing her neck then and tek her home!"

" Hold hard, you merciles3 old scoun- drel ! I am mapping out a radius of forty yards — she shall have that chance for her life — forty-one yards, indeed, for I will shoot a yard ahead of her — and if she gets beyond that she can do what she likes — call a hansom, or turn round and have a look at us "

Peter's impatience was too much for him— he would not wait for his master to finish ; he kicked out the rabbit. The frightened animal bolted out from the other side of the breckans, ran tilt against Mr. Drummond's feet, and then went straight up the side of the knoll which was here almost perpendicular. The sportsman looked on in astomsh- ment. He had not thought it worth while to map out the radius in this direction.

" Shoot her, sir; shoot her ! " called out Peter, in rage and despair, as the rabbit disappeared over the edge of the rock above their heads.

" I don't like firing at rabbits in the air," observed Mr. Drummond, with much composure. "That rabbit was last seen in Covent Garden — ^in the opera of Der FreischiUz — ^the preserva- tion of my soul is of more importance than a rabbit-pie — and what would be- come of you, Peter, if you ate a witch- rabbit, a demoniacal pie, a slice of hideous enchantment "

"Kott pless me, sir, are we to hef any shooting the day, sir]" exclaimed Peter, observing that the sportsman was quite absently staring out at the sea while he talked — ^and while Jack, by the way, had got about a quarter of a mile ahead.

" Not much, not much," was the re- ply. " Where are the birds, Peter 1 "

Indeed there were no birds to be found along these lower ridges of the hills, but Peter would have every inch of the ground gone over before going up to the heights. At last, however, after two hours' fruitless work in the blazing sunlight, they began to ascend, and finally found themselves on the crest of a mountain which seemed to place the whole world at their feet Even if he had been less fatigued with the dimb.

Madcap Violet.

2L

the gallant sportsman would have paused in the chajse to look at the wonder- fiil panorama now spread out around him.

Which was the more lovelv, then — the sea-ward view, or the land- ward? The &r-8tretching arms of the still hlae water lay around the soft green islands ; the sunlight shone on the white tower of a light- house some dozen miles away ; one or two ships, looking like toys, lay becalmed ; and away beyond these, over the dazzling brightness of the sea, rose the majestic shoulders and peaks of the MoTven hills, grown pale and ethereal in their summer hues. Inland, again, the eye rested on an endless series of moantain - ranges — mountain - billows they almost seemed to be — decreasing in intensity of colour until they ap- peared as mere clouds at the horizon. Thoee nearer at hand were mostly of an olive-green colour where the sunlight caught their slopes, with here and there a patch of pale purple, telling of a mo- tionless cloud overhead. Which was the more lovely — the blue summer sea, with itB low, long islands, its white ships, and its faintly- coloured hills, or this vast and silent world of mountains, doae up to the sky t

" Are ye no goin' on, sir 1 "

Mr. Drummond started, for the sound of a hnman voice sounded strangely in the great stillness.

" All right, Peter."

Again they pushed forward, and it almost seemed as if their bad luck was following them up here also, when Jack suddenly ceased his wild plunges over the moor. He had got into a gentle hollow between a mass of rocks, and ap- peared convinced that the rusty tufts of Leather and the green masses of bracken concealed something mysterious and awfoL

Suddenly the absolute silence of the mountain-top was broken by what was nothing less than a wild and general scrimmage. From all parts of the heather, one after another, rose a suc- cession of huge brown masses, that flew this way and that with a noise like the throbbing of a paddle-steamer

infinitely quickened; and bang after bang came from the re-loaded gun. The dog seemed to be rushing every- where, with Peter howling oaths in Gaelic at him ; the air was filled with sulphurous smoke ; the hills were echo- ing the heavy mu^etiy-fire.

Then there was a pause — an awful silence, and a look of bewilderment on the face of the sportsman. Had he shot anything ) he seemed to ask, after all this terrible commotion.

There was a loud howl from Jack ; for Peter — assured that the firing was over, and his life no longer in danger — had rushed at the dog to admonish him with a whip, at the same time getting hold of a bird that was doubtless on the point of being devoured.

'* That M a nice dog of yours, Peter. ^

^' He iss a ferra good dog whateffcr,''' contended Peter, sturdily, as he went to pick up two more birds. " Ass I wass saying afore, there will be nothing will pass the* nose of him, and if he iss a little too eager in the rinnin', we can cure him of that. And we will not cure him of that unless you will shoot the birds."

" Are you grumbling still 1 Haven't I just shot some birds ) "

"Three, sir; ay, sir, you hef shot three. But ass for the number of them- that you hef missed, ay, Kott only knows that."

" By heavens, I have a great mind to shoot yoUf Peter."

" You would miss me, sir," said* Peter, imperturbably.

" I don't mean to rob the hangman,, anyhow," said his master. ** Now put the birds in your bag, and we will go down to the loch."

" Already, sir ? " said Peter ; but the remonstrance was of no avail, the sportsman proceeding to cross the ridge of the hill until he came in sight of a fresh-water loch lying in a small bel- low far below him.

It was a picturesque little lake thai lay there in the cup of the mountains. One half of its surface was hidden by water-lilies, the white stars of the flowers gleaming here and there among the

22

Madcap VioUL

bioad green leaves ; the other half of the lake showing a peifeot mirror of the OYerhanging hills and akj, with this diffoience that, wheimis the hrilliant colours of the sky were &ithfally re- flected, the spectral moimfcains that went away down into those hlaes and whites, were of a uniform rich, shining brown, as deep in colour as a newly- cut peat , That, indeed, was the colour of the clear dark water iteelf, come £rom the mountain rills.

There was a small boat on the lake, lying motionless ; and there were two figures in the boat^ one distinguished by a white feather that gleamed in the sun. When the sportsman, high on the mountain-top, sent down his yiew- halloo, he was answered by the flutter- ing of two handkerchiefs; and presently, as he proceeded to descend the lull, he saw two tiny oars put out, and the boat begin to creep slowly to the shore.

"Now, girls, set to work to get luncheon ready,'' was the command. <' Why, you might have had the ham- per opened, and the cloth spread on the grass, and eyerything ready, instead of idling out there in a boat Is tlus a fit reception for a weary hunter return- ing from the fatigue of the chase 1 "

" What spoils has the weary hunter brought back with him?** demanded the elder of the two girls, whereupon she was admonished not to indulge a yain curiosity, but instead to put the bottles of beer into the lake to cool. The weary hunter contentedly sate and beheld these and other preparations being made for his comfort

It was a sufficiently picturesque and enjoyable little meal, up here by the side of the solitary lake, amid the silence of the hills, in the breathless warmth and brilliancy of a summer day. The discontented Peter and his erratic companion Jack were both seated at some distance ofl", on a bank of green breckans ; and with them was the boy who had brought the basket all the way from Castle Bandbox. In front of the mighty hunter lay the four birds that had been taken forth from the bag for purposes of display. The luncheon

itself was distributed in a promiscuous manner over such bits of rock, tufts of heather, and clumps of breckan as were most convenient

And when a soothing pipe followed the frugal meal, and introduced a new perfume into the warm air, the hunter, with a great look of contentment on his face, began to discourse ; and his discourse was of all things in the earth, and the air, and the sea. First of all, if the report of a faithful listener is to be credited, it treated of the dying-oat of metaphoric speech in literature. It pointed out that the whole of Shake- speare is written in that now unknown tongue ; it dealt with the substitution of similes for metaphors ; it traced the degeneracy of similes into the "allu- sions ** of newspaper articles. And then, harking back upon Shakespeare, it as- serted that the greatest good fortune which could befall a certain young lady, then present, was that she might never lose her sense of wonder; that she should never get into the habit of taking the facts and phenomena of the world as matters of course ; that always the mystery of life should be before her eyes. What happiness it would be, continued this indolent orator, if one could come fresh to the reading of Shakespeare ; if one's familiarity in youth with the existence of Juliet, and Bosalind, and KiDg Lear, and Auto- lycus, could be absolutely wiped out; if one were introduced, with all the sense of novelty and wonder, to the magic world of Puck and Ariel, to the mysterious horrors of Macbeth, and the idyllic quiet ol Arden Forest. By and by, remarked the master to his at- tentive pupil, ^ou will understand better what I mean when we take you to the lonely shores of Mull and the solitary coasts of Skye ; and there you will leam how the ways and doings of ha- manity, which are the whole world to a dweller in cities, are really but a trifling and temporary ascident in the history of that awful world that existed through innumerable ages without a sign of life in its empty seas and ita silent lands.

Madcap Violet.

29

''You ask me sometimes," said he, apparently addressing Violet, but with, his eyes fixed idly ou the still waters of the lake, ** why I laugh at very seri- ous people who are desperately in earn- est about their affairs. Well, I think it was those lonely hills in the west Highlands did that for me. If you only think of it^ it seems strange enough this intense preoccupation dar- ing the brief moment that one calls life — this forgetfulness of why and wherefore, and to what end. The man who has made his eighty thousand is miserable until he makes it ninety thousand ; and he works away as if he had a whole series of lifetimes to fall back upon, instead of one, and that one the most puzzling of all mysteries. Those mountains of Skye, in their awful age, and silence, and desolation — I wonder if they take any notice of the race of little creatures temporarily oc- cupying the surface of the earth — children who take no heed of yester- day or to-morrow — they don't know where they came from; they don't know where they are going; but the present hour is enough for them, and they must be desperately in earnest oyer their pastimes and occupations; some strumming on drums and making a great noise in the world ; others wear- ing wigs and looking wise ; others pick- ing up bits of metal and anxious only to say *My hoard is bigger than yours.' And then, at the end of the day, sleep comes down on the children — the gentle moUier Death hushes all that strife of drums and tongues, the quarrelling, and striving, and anxiety — and the mystery of that strange day and its doings re- mains nnsolyed. Perhaps the new day will bring more light," he added, after a pause.

" Are ye goin' on, sir 1 " said Peter, coming up with evident impatience in his face.

** Gracious goodness, this man is as intent on killing birds as if he hadn't a soul to be saved ! " exclaimed the indo- teit sportsman. "Peter, do you know you have a soul to be saved t "

^* I ken we hef been here for an hour

and more as an hour," said Peter, gloomily.

•' You see, he won't answer. He is like that countryman of his who wouldn't tell a cross-examining counsel whether he was a Protestant or a Ro- man Catholic for fear of committing himself. All that could be got out of him was, ' I tell you, sir, I hef no bias.* And yet it is very curious," he con- tinued, just as if there was no hiatus in his train of thought, " what rich people could do if only they were less in earnest and tried to amuse themselves. I have often thought that, if I were a rich man, I should like to stand at Temple Bar with a thousand sovereigns in a bag, and give on^ to each person who passed, irrespective of his appear- ance. Mind you, you could confer a great deal of happiness that way ; for even those who were themselves rich would feel a comfortable sensation in getting an unexpected sovereign — they would get a little glow of satisfaction just as if they had drunk a glass of dry sherry before sitting down to dinner "

" Are ye goin' on, sir ? " again asked the impatient Peter.

" Yes, I am goin* on, Peter, but not with the shooting — ^not at present. Why, your head is as full of the shooting — you remind me of the Highland boat- man who took out a celebrated traveller in his boat for an evening's fishing ; and when he was asked afterwards what he thought of the great man, he said, with great bitterness, * Ay, hass he trafelled much I Well, there iss no appearance of it ; for I wass thinking he would speak of killing and fighting the lions and teegera ; but it wass nothing but the feslicn and the feshen he will speak of, and there wass nothing in his head but the feshen and the feshen, and any one knows about the feshen.* But if we must go we must. You girls must put back those things in the basket, and give it to the boy. Amy, when you have reported yourself at home, go down to John Maclean and tell him we shall want his boat to night. Take a brace of birds apiece. Good-bye ! "

24

Madcap Violet.

"Any more orders, please, eirf" asked Violet, meekly.

" Go away, and don't be impertinent to people older than yonrself/' said the sportsman, as he shouldered his gun, and set off.

Kow that afternoon, whether it was that he considered something due to the 12th, or whether it was that he wished to provide the small household with game sufficient to give him two or three days' idleness, Mr. Drummond went seriously and diligently to work ; and by dint of firing a great many times, whether the birds rose wild or not, he managed to make a bag which even satis- fied Peter. As they walked home, in- deed, in the evening, Peter was quite cheerfcd and loquacious— in his grim fashion, that is to say, for in his most mirthM moments he spoke in a discon- tented, querulous tone, as if he dared not admit to himself that he had nothing to grumble about. And on this occa- sion his unwonted levity took the form of telling stories about a relative of his, one John MacFarlane, who was keeper to Mr. Maclean of Cam-Sloe ; and the aim of those stories, so &r as could be made out, was to show that John MacFarlane was a stupid man who said and did ridiculous things, but that all the same John MacFarlane was more than a match for the English, who were more stupid stilL

"Ay," said Peter, "there wass a ferry cleffer Englishman, and he will know all about the stones and the rocks, and he will say to John, 'John, you belief in your Bible, and you belief that aU the people that hef lived in the world will rise again on the last day ; ' and John, he will say, * Yes, sir, I belief that' And the Englishman, he will say, * Now, John, I will teU you some- thing ; and it is this, that if the whole world wass made of phosphates, there would not be enough of phosphates to make bones for all those people ; and what do you say to that, John T And John, he will not wait long for his answer, *Well, sir,' this wass what John will eay, ' the Bible will tell us that them that are dead in the Lord

will rise first; and I am sure therer will be plenty of phosphates for them ; and as for the wicked people, I do not care if they hef not a leg to stand on.' And it wass a ferry good answer to gif to the Englishman."

" It was a very good answer, but it is a very wicked story, Peter."

"There wass another story," con- tinued Peter, with a twinkle in his eye» but the same grumbling tone in his voice, " ferry wicked ; but many's the time I will hef a laugh at that story. That wass about two men in a boat, and the night it was so black they could not find their way into the harbour at all, and the wind it wass blowing ferry hard. And the one he says to the other, ' Duncan, you must gif a prayer now, or we will nefferget into the harbour at all.' And Duncan, he says, ' I cauna do it ; you maun do it yourself, Donald.' And Donald, he will say, *Tam yon, Duncan, if you do not gif a prayer, we will be trooned as sure as death, for I can see nothing but blackness.' And so it wass that Dancan will stay in the stem of the boat, and he will kneel down, and he will say, ' 0 Lord, it iss fifteen years since I hef asked you for any- thing; but it will be another fifteen years before I will ask you for anything more, if you will tek the boat into the harbour.' And then, sure enough, at this moment there wass a great sound of the boat going on the beach, and Donald, that wass up at the bow, he will cry out, ' Stop, Duncan, do not pray any more ; do not be beholden to anybody, bekass the boat's ashore already.'"

"It seems to me, Peter," said his companion, slowly, "that there is a great deal of latent villainy about you."

" What, sir ? "

"You are a jiber and a jeerer at solemn things." '^^

" Indeed I am not, sir," said Peter, indignantly. " A story iss only a story, and you will get a laugh from it; and tiie man who iss afrait of a story iss a foolish man, whether he iss an Englishman or whether he iss not an Englishman."

Madcap Violet.

25

''In my country they don't under- stand jokiog about such things, Peter.''

'^ £ott pless me, sir, iu your country I am not sure that they will understand anything," said Peter, coolly.

This general proposition Peter pro- ceeded to justify by quoting instances of extraordinary ignorance on the part of English people whom he had met — people who did not know the difference between a sea-trout and a grilse, who called a loch a lock, and wore kid gloves when they went out shooting. Mr. Drummond listened with great patience and in silence, apparently deeply ashamed of his country and countrymen.

And now, as they trudged along the solitary road, they got down into the Tsllays ; and though there was a wooded hill on their left that shut off the sea, they saw by the great blaze of cmnson over the dark line of the trees that the sun was setting in the west; while in the wide and silent hollow before them, over the cold greens of the marsh, a pale white mist was beginning to gather. Suddenly, however, they got out of this pale and cold valley, and were confronted by all the bewildering colours of the sunset over the sea. Along the western skies lay a sultry and dusky redness — a con- fused mist of coloured light ; and the mountains of Mull and of Morven, rising into it, were of a beautiful red- dish-purple, and seemingly transparent. Out there the long green islands were growing dark over the silver-grey of the aea — a silver-grey broken by olive-green splashes as the water lapped round the it)cks ; but further out still the sea was a smooth plain of crimson, bewildering to the eye, and causing one long neck of land to look as black as jet. They were in the land of gorgeous sunsets ; and the stranger had not as yet become familiar with such splendid exhibitions of colour. It was with a dumb regret that he had to turn away from the shore again, and take to the hills, though now the warm red light was shining across the slopes of heather and biscken. The small white house on

the high knoll gave him a kindly wel- come. A pair of swallows were flying about the gables. A tiny terrier wagged her tail as he approached. There was a scent of meadow-sweet in the evening air.

Three brace of grouse, three hares, a rabbit, a brace of snipe, a black-cock (shot by misadventure, and carefully hidden away at the foot of the game- bag by the unscrupulous Peter), and a^ land-rail : this was the spoil which the mighty hunter had brought home, and- which he stoutly contended was all that a man could get off that piece of ground in a single day. Nevertheless there was a fierce war of words during that evening meal at Castle Bandbox ; and proposals to call in Peter to give testimony as to the number of misses. The hunter treated these suspicions with scorn.

Greater peace prevailed when tiio small household came out again into- the cool evening — indeed, they were struck silent by the transformation that had come over the world. All round- the horizon the great mountains were black as night; over them was the- smooth and lambent expanse of the sky, with the full orb of the moon glowing in its mellow light ; far away, in the east, over the black range of the hills, a planet burned clear in the blue. Then the moonlight fell on the furze, and brackens near them touching them with a soft grey ; while along the slopes of the mountains behind them, where there were strips of cultivated land, it lit up those small patches of corn al- most to a silver whiteness among the ebony-black shadows of the overhanging, rocks. There was not a cloud in the clear dark heavens, nor a murmur from the far expanse of the sea.

They went away down to the shore, and got out a small rowing-boat, and rowed away from the land. It was the two girls who pulled ; and the sound of the oars was the only sound to be heard in the stillness of the night ; for even a certain loquacious philosopher did not choose to break the mystic silence that reigned over the world. The rocky shores they had left behind became blacker and blacker; the points of

26

Madcap Violet,

orange fire that told of (listant cottages became smaller and smaller ; the white moonlight glittered on the wet blades of the oars. Mull and Morren were awfal in their gloom, where the great moantainB seemed to be alone with the stars.

''What a dreadful thing it wonld be/' Violet said, letting her oar rest for a minute, '' to go up one of those moun- tains at night, all by yourself — ^you would imagine every sound was some- thing horrible "

'' Now, Violet, that is all founded on a common mistake," said another yoice. " Just think what you would do if you ymre a ghost You wouldn't go away into lonely places, where you could see nothing, of a cold night, and prowl about there. Wouldn't you rather take a nice warm forenoon, and sit invisible on a stile, and see the country-folks drive by to market in the brisk sun- shine? I do believe that ghosts are friendly fellows, and wouldn't frighten you for the world. Often, when I am passing a wood, I wonder whether any of them are sitting on the fence, having a quiet hob-nob among themselves^ and perhaps laughing at the way you walk. Of course, if ghosts could plague people by i^pearing at night, they ought always to plague rich people. The night is the day of the poor -, then they have every- thing redressed and made right in their dreams. A rich man in actual life can't enjoy himself half so much as a poor man who dreams he is rich, or a neglected man who dreams he is famous, cir a sickly man who dreams he is an athlete. But do you know who must have the happiest dreams in the world 1 "

Nobody did know. "A dog. They are full of life and action, without remorse. And were you ever asked a conundrum in a dream, the answer to which it cost you a desperate effort to make out; although of course the one side of your brain that made the conundrum must have known the answer all along ? In going to sleep, too, haven't you had a clear and delightful consciousness that your perceptions and fancies were growing

quite the reverse of clear — the confusion meaning the approach of the sleep yon are waiting for ^ Then there is another Gracious goodness ! what's that?"

He had been interrupted by a loud splash, appvrently proceeding from a rock some forty or fefty yards off.

'' It must have been a eeal," said he; and thereupon he began to tell his com- panions an exciting story of an elderly and near-sighted gentleman who came back to his hotel one day complaining that he had fired three bullets at a seal but missed him each time ; and of a negro who came running in to declare^ in wrath and indignation, that, while bathing, he had been fired at three times from the shore and had his ear cut off. Everybody knew that that true legend was about three minutes old.

By and by they set off again for the shore, and when they had put up Mr. Maclean's boat> they proceeded to walk away up into the hills, where the moon- light was shining coldly on the stone walls, the furze-bushes, and the scat- tered patches of com. The voices of two young girls broke the silence of the night, singing an old school-song they had often sung together. Then they bade farewell to tiie magic world of moonlit sea, and mountains, and sky ; and a peaceful, beautiful, and memor- able day came to a welcome end ! If one's life could all be made up of such 1

CHAPTER XIX.

ABRA.

So the brisk, bright days and weeks went by ; and the ceaseless round of activities in the open air — whether the blue seas lay shining in the light, or the fierce south-west winds sent the foam flying high over the rocks — brought glad health and happiness to this little band of strangers, and plenty of sun- brown to their faces. Violet had by this time quite simply and naturally fallen into her position in the house- hold. She felt so thoroughly at home that she never thought of the time when she had been only a visitor ; and to her

Madcap Violet.

27

friends it seemed as thougli slie liad always been with them. She would hsvB been well content — as she frankly told Mrs. Warrener one evening — to q>end the rest of her life with them up here in this Highland cottage.

A woman cannot occapy a place in a hoosehold without haying some sort of occupation; and it was almost insen- sibly that Miss Yiolet, while helping Mrs. Warrener in certain things, man- 1^^ to create a new series of duties for herself. These had for their open and ostensible object the greater care and comfort of that somewhat shy potentate who presided over this household of women; and it is probable that any other man than himself would have been embamssed by these attentions. He accepted them, however, as a matter of course, which greatly pleased the giver of them, who never felt so proud and glad as when he asked her to do something for him — ^not in the language in which one would beg a fieivour from a visitor, bat in a much more curt and fifcwiili<iT> ^ay. So it came about that no one thought of interfering with Miss Yiolet in her self-imposed duties, which were performed with a scrupulous care snd accuracy. When Mr. Drummond came down of a morning, he never noticed that his slippers were invari- ably in the same spot ; that his table- napkin was never missing; that the newspaper which had arrived by post was carefully opened, cut, folded, and placed beside his plate. His shooting- boots and leggings were always at hand tiie moment he ?ranted them ; his gun — which seemed to keep marvellously clean, although Peter absolutely de- clined to polish it every day — awaited him in the comer ; there were always the proper number of cartridges in the bag. !Nay, she had succeeded so far in becoming his henchman that, after hav- ing assisted him on several occasions in measuring out powder and shot for the cartridges, ^e had made bold to make the cartridges herself, out-and-out, and never were cartridges more accurately constracted. She kept a game-book; bat she refused to compare the number

of cartridges she made with the number of entries in that small volume. His pocket-flask was always mysteriously full ; she invariably pcepaied the luncheon bag ; on the fine days she and Amy would walk out to meet him — and he could recognise the proud and graceful carriage of the girl a mile off — and on the wet days, she had dry socks and slippers awaiting him. 'So matter what he wanted, it seemed to be always just by ; and he did not know what pleasure he gave her in falling into the habit of invariably turning to her with a ^' Violet, I wish you would do this;" or "Violet, I wish you would do that"

Mrs. Warrener was amused ; but ventured to remonstrate.

"Violet, do you know that you are becoming- James's slave ) "

The ^r .flushed for a second; but all the same she said, with a smile —

" I don't care, so long as I have so good a master."

As for him, he seemed to take her prosence in the house as a matter of course; and made fun of her, or lec- tured her, or teased her, with an abso- lute freedom of intimacy and Mendli- ness. And yet there were one or two subtle distinctions between his treat- ment of her and his treatment of her companions which she did not fail to notice. In walking about the mountain- paths in the evening, he was in the habit of taking the hand of his com- panion ; but he never took Violet's hand. When he was impressing some profound moral truth, in enigmatical language, upon his sister or his niece, he frequently put his hand on the shoulder of the patient listener to en- force his precepts : he never put his hand on Violet's shoulder. Sometimes, indeed, he seemed to recall to himself that she was a guest in the house, and ought to be treated with a special kind- ness and respect, rather than with an easy familiarity, and thereupon he would make some essay in that direction. He did not know how these efforts, at once perceived by the quick sensitiveness of the girl, wounded her to the heart, so

28

Madcap Violet

that, instead of being pleased by his gentle courtesy, she was like to have gone away to her own room and burst into tears oyer what seemed a rupture of th« old and friendly relations between the master and his slave.

But although she wsjs hurt when he endeavoured to treat her with respectful consideration, she, on the other hand, was fierce enough if any one failed to show sufficient respect for him. If a boatman, encouraged by the jocular fireedom of Drummond's manner and speech, became in the faintest degree familiar, he received a reminder there and then which he was not likely to forget. She had completely overawed old Peter j who was at first sulky, then betrayed a sort of grumbling admiration of her courage ; and finally said she was a fine lass, and must have something better than English blood in her veins. Indeed, she seemed inclined to check over familiarity on the part of Mr. Drummond's own sister and niece. The master of the house was the master of the house.

One evening he had just got home from the shooting, and had been stopped at the door by his sister, who called attention to the singular light shining across the sea. The sky was covered over with thick purple masses of thun- derous cloud — almost black they were, indeed, except where one bold slit showed a glimpse of the high sunny green of the sunset; while underneath this heavy and ominous sky a great flood of yellow light came over from the west, causing the masts of one or two yachts to gleam like silver against the black clouds.

**Why, here comes Violet up the road ; she has been down persuading Mr. Morrison to give us a piece of be^ for to-morrow. He won't liBten to any- body but her. If it wasn't for her, we should have nothing but mutton from one week's end to the other."

The girl was coming along the valley at a good pace.

"Do you know," said Mr. Drum- mond, rather absently, 'Uhat it is a happiness to me — a positive delight —

merely to see that girl walk. The proud gracefulness of her figure — the freedom of her step — it gives one a sense of her having perfect symmetry of form and splendid health "

'* I don't know what we shall do without her, now we have got so well accustomed to her," said his sister, rue- fully.

" Ah, yes, of course," he said, with an effort to look brisk and matter-of- &ct; "of course she will go; that is but natural — the young bird flies from its nest as soon as it has wings. Well, Violet has made our little place brighter since she has been with us."

His sister stood silent for a moment.

"I declare," she said, "I cannot make up my mind about that young man. Sometimes I like him; some- times I hate him. If we could only look ahead a few years, we should know better what to do '*

" You forget, Sarah," said her brother, somewhat stiffly, '' that neither you nor I have anything to do with that matter. Why should you talk as if you were responsible? The girl is old enough to judge for hersel£"

" If you loved Violet as I do, you would be more anxious," said Mrs. Warrener, with a sigh ; for she could not understand how her brother, ordi- narily so solicitous about the welfaxe of everyone around him, should betray an absolute indifference as to such an important question sjs Violet North's marriage.

The conversation was in any case broken up by the girl herself, who came up through the steep little garden with a fine flush of colour in her face, and with gladness in her dark eyes. She was glad to have secured the piece of beef; glad to have escaped the rain; glad to have Mr. Drummond's game> bag to explore. These were sufficient reasons for the bright look on her face ; but indeed Mrs. Warrener had remarked ever since their anival in these High- lands that no especial cause was needed to bring that happy light into Violet North's eyes which now always dwelt there.

Madcap Violet.

29

** Now, Violet," Bhe said, putting the gill's hand within her ann, and taking her off for a little walk round the pla- teau (Mr. Drummond having gone into the house), '' I have a secret to tell you. That is, we thought of keeping it a secret — to give you a surprise ; hut per- haps it is fairer I should tell you. Mr. Miller arrives to-morrow evening."

Violet stopped suddenly; and un- oonsdously withdrew her hand from her friend's arm.

** Why should that he a surprise^-or a secret — for me 1 " she asked, coldly.

Mrs. Warrener smiled in her gentle way : the pretence of indifference on the part of those girls ahout their lovers was charming.

" I thought he was a friend of yours. Violet/' she said, with demure sarcasm.

'< I hope it is as a friend of your own that you have asked him to your house,'' responded the girL ''I should have aid that we were happy enough with- out him."

This was a little too much.

**T>o you mean to say, Violet, you will not be pleased to see him ) " her friend asked — hut the question was hardly a serious one.

" Of course I shall be glad to see him — as I should be to see any other friend," answered Miss Violet, with the same proud indifference. " But — but I thought we were comfortable enough without visitors — ^and I hope it is not on my account that you have asked Mr. Miller to come here."

Her cheeks b^an to turn red; and it was clear that affectation of indiffer- ence was rapidly going.

"I scarcely think it is fair — '* she was beginning to say, in quicker ac- cents, when Mrs. Warrener gently stopped her.

** Don't be vexed, Violet Of course, a girl does not like to have her private feelings known, or even guesed at, where a gentleman is concerned ; and I must tell yon at once that Mr. Miller would hove come to see us whether you had been here or not. He was anked to come a long time ago. He is very fond of shooting and yachting ; but as

there was no shooting worth speaking of, James thought he had better wait till now, and go with us in the Sea- Pyot "

" Oh, he is going, is he ? " said Vio- let, quickly.

" Yes ; 80 I believe. You know there is plenty of room in that big boat"

Nothing more was said at the mo- ment. Violet made some excuse, and went indoors. There she got hold of Amy Warrener, and asked that young lady to come into her room for a minute. She shut the door, and sate down.

" It's all over now," she said.

" What is all over now, Violet ] "

Her hands were folded in her lap; her eyes fixed idly on them.

'' AH the pleasant time we have been spending up here — it seems a long time, and yet it has passed quickly. Good- bye to it: I shall never forget it — never ! "

" What do you mean, Violet 1 "

''A stranger is coming to-morrow; and everything will be different"

''A stranger ! Do you call Mr. Miller a stranger! "

" Oh, you knew about it, too ? " said MIbs Violet, raising her eyes quickly. " Why was it all kept secret from me 1 "

"Why?" said the younger girl, with some embarrassment. *'I sup- pose mamma fancied you would not care to have such things spoken about"

"What things?" she demanded, almost fiercely.

Her young companion was gentle enough ; but even she could be goaded.

"You know quite well you are en- gaged to him, Violet ; and what is the use of making a mystery about iti" she said, sharply.

" I know quite well I am nothing of the sort; I know quite well I shall never be engaged to him — never ! " said the girl, vehemently. " Engaged to him ) I wish he was dead ! "

" Oh, Violet ! "

" Well, I don't exactly wish that," she said, with some compunction, " but I really cannot bear to have it supposed we are engaged, or likely to be ; and

30

Madcap Violet.

what will his coining here do but make discomfort and misery. Haven't we been happy enough by ourselves'? — we don't want anybody else. And then it appears he is to go with us in the SeorPyot, Well, if he goes in the Sea-Pyot, I know somebody who won't ; and the initials of her name, as the Irishman said, are Violet Korth."

This was uttered with considerable decision, l^ow Amy Warrener, young AS she was, had a good deal of her mother's shrewd and quiet common- sense; and instead of fighting this determination by any argument or ap- peal, she only said, simply —

" It won't look very friendly, Violet, if you alone refuse to go with us ; and Mr. Miller, as a stranger and visitor, is entitled to whatever courtesy we can show him. It isn't his fault if you don't like him. Then, you didn't always appear to dislike hun so much. I thought it was quite the other way at one time — ^and now if you treat him badly, he will think you are only acting the coquette, and wanting to show your independence."

''I don't care what he thinks," she said, with her cheeks hot, but looking down.

'* Others will think the same."

'' Who ? " And again she looked up, with a quick surprise and inquiry in her glance.

" AU of us."

<« You— wUl—aU— think— that— I— am — a — coquette," she said, slowly J

" Well," said her friend, doubtfully, ^' you know you encouraged him a great deal."

'*And to save myself from that re- proach," she continued, quite as slowly and thoughtfully, ** to keep your good opinion, I must marry Mr. George Miller?"

There was no answer to that ques- tion.

CHAPTER XX.

SETTING OUT.

Mr. Geoboe Miller arrived in due ^ourse ; and veiy handsome the young

fellow looked as he stepped ashore from the steamer to shake hands with his friends on the quay. Violet had been persuaded to accompany the others; and she could not help greeting him with a pleasant smile — ^indeed, there was something in this sudden meeting that recalled other days. With great prudence, too, he forbore to express any special pleasure in seeing her again. She was only one of the little group of friends. He addressed himself almost exclusively to Mrs. Warrener, as they proceeded to find their way up to Castle Bandbox.

I^or, on this first evening, were any of Violet's predictions fulfilled. All the happy old time had not completely gone. They were quite as joyous and homely as ever ; and a certain disoor- sive orator had as laige a share of that talk which could only by courtesy be called conversation ; that is, nobody else had a share. Mr. Miller laughed and enjoyed himself with the rest ; he did not embarrass Violet with the least specialty of attention ; his whole interest was apparently absorbed in his chanoee of getting a shot or two before starting in the yacht, and in the prospects held out by the Sea-Pyot of a comfortable voyage^ All was so far welL

It was only by degrees, and that almost imperceptibly, that his influence in this small household begun to tell. He was a young man of system, of minute observation, of careful, business- like provision; and could not under- stand at all l^e happy-go-lucky care- lessness which marked most of Mr. Drummond's arrangements. With him a nine o'clock breakfeist meant a nine o'clock breakfast; not a breakfast at ten, or half-past nine, or a quarter-past eight, as chance might dictata For the first time his friends perceived that the pattern of the wall-paper was rather ludicrous, and that a defect in the frame- work of the window produced a draught. They were ashamed to confess i^ey could not tell him whether the local whiskey was under or over proof; in- deed, none of them knew exactly what proof meant. There was now no vague

Madcap Violet.

81

loitering on the hills for the contempla- tum of landscape, nor needless waste of time over luncheon; the ground that had to be got over was got over in a proper fashion. Moreover, there was much less missing now ; the young man showed himself an excellent shot, and there was no amount of fatigue or dis- comfort which he would indolently shirk if he believed there was a chance of getting a single bird. Old Peter had enough of it now ; he was pretty nearly walked off his legs by this new pupil; while his former pupil igno- miniously gave up the chase, lit a pipe, stretched himself on the heather, where he could command a view of Morven, Mull, and lismore, and told his com- panions to come back that way for him when they chose.

Moreover, the incorrigible careless- ness of the head of the house became all the more apparent, for his accou- trements now lacked much of Vio- let's superintendence. She had been accustomed to come down early — be- fore any of the others — to look after his cartridge-bag, his boots, leggings, and what not ; but now she never ap- peared till breakfast was announced, and then she invariably came down- stairs with Amy. They generally found Mr. Miller impatiently pacing np and down in front of the house, and look- ing at his watch every third minute.

They ^lad beautiful moonlight nights at this time ; and they were accustomed to go out for a stroll after dinner, either up into the black hills, where the wan and mystic light was palely shining on the furze and rocks, or down to the shore, where the long, monotonous rush of the waves on the coast alone di&» tnrbed the profound and mysterious silence. Here, too, there was a great difference. The party was broken up somehow. Violet resolutely and in- invariably walked with Amy Warrener, chatting, when they did chat» about achoolgixl themes ; Mrs. Warrener gsnendly stayed with them ; Mr. Drum- mond and his guest led the way, the latter giving all the latest information about big-company swindles, stock

exchange transactions, the cooking at the JudsBum, and so forth.

"Why do you never talk to Mr. ^Miller, Violet 1 " Amy Warrener asked one night.

*' I don't understand politics ; and I don't care about commercial matters," replied the young lady, evasively.

*' I don't mean that at all," her friend said. ''Why do you scarcely ever address a word to him, even at dinner ? "

'* Good little girls should be seen and not heard. I speak when I am spoken to," was the reply.

It was very clear that Violet did not at all care for the presence of Mr. Miller in Castle Bandbox. She seemed restrained and dispirited. A sort of in- definite apprehension appeare4 to hang over her, which Mrs. Warrener did not fail to notice.

Now Mr. Miller, firom the moment of his arrival in the Highlands, had been most considerate to the girl, and, whatever he might judge to-be her feel- ings towards him, he had not sought to intrude himself upon her in the light- est degree. But after all a young man is but a young man ; and he grew to think that, considering their past and present relations, she was dealing very harshly with him in so obviously and systematically avoiding any private con- versation with him. His di£&culty was to find an opportunity of ^speaking with her alone ; and it almost appeared as if she recognised the fact, and was deter- mined to outwit him.

At last he caught her. She had in- considerately ventured down to break- fast without her ordinary companion, under the impression that Mrs. Warrener had preceded her. When she opened the door of the room, and saw Mr. Miller there alone, she would have re- treated, but it was too late.

*' Violet," said he, " I want to speak to you for a second."

She knew what was coming; she advanced into the room, outwardly calm, but inwardly full of dread ; she was vaguely aware that his face was pale.

32

Madcap Violet.

" Have I offended you 1 "

« No."

She spoke in so low a voice that he could hardly hear.

" Why do you avoid me so 1 Why won't you speak to me 1 "

She did not answer.

"I am sure I have not persecuted you, ever since you seemed to wish to he left free ; haven't I done everything you could wish % "

*' Yes, you have," she answered, with a trifle more emphasis.

" Then why do you treat me as if I were an enemy — as if you were afraid of me 1 "

" Oh, I hope I don't do that," she said; hut her eyes were still fixed on the ground.

For a second or two she stood irreso- lute, and then she seemed to summon up her courage to speak frankly.

'^ And if I am afraid of you, in how- ever slight a degree," she said, in clear, low tones, " I have myself to hlame. I am deeply to hlame — I know that. I — I wish I had never seen you, nor you me ; that would have heen better for both of us."

"No, no, Violet," he said, kindly, and he came a step nearer, " that is what every girl says — natural timidity, you know — she doesn't know what is before her, and is afraid. For my part, I am very glad we have met, whatever comes of it ; and if you would only give me a chance, I should soon cure your mind of all that apprehension. But how can I do that if you always avoid me 1 Don't you think, it is hardly fair ? Would you treat any other friend of yours like that f "

" Oh, if I was only sure," she said, with a sort of despairing earnestness, " that we were friends, and only friends, how glad I should be to do all you wish. Believe that of me, any way. If you would only let me think that — if you were satisfied with that — I should be so grateful to you. Will you 1 "

She was looking at him now, with her eyes full of entreaty. He, on the oiher hand, appeared to be wholly astounded.

" Violet," said he, slowly, " you have hinted this once or twice before. Do you really mean it 1 Do you wish me to abandon all hope of our being any- thing to each other 1 "

It was precisely what she did wish ; but there was a reproach in his tone which she felt keenly ; and for the sake of old times she could not bring her- self to wound him too cruelly.

''No, not altogether," she said, quickly. ''We need not become strangers ; we might always remain friends. If I could only persuade you not to think of anything else ! "

He was deeply mortified of course ; and yet he could not quite believe her. Her liking for him had been declared years ago. There was no obstacle that he could see to the marriage. He had not even a rivaL

At this moment steps were heard on the stairs. He seized her hand for a second, and said, rapidly —

" Don't make this final, Violet. There is some misunderstanding. You must let me hope."

She did not answer as she left the room ; but there was that in her face that rendered him somewhat uneasy. Was it true, then, that her aversion from all thought of marriage with him was something more than mere girlish timidity t Was it true that she really wished him to abandon all hope of securing her for his wife ?

He put on his cap, and went out into the fresh morning air ; he wished to be alone for a few minutes ; for there was something about all this that he could not well understand. Again and again, as he walked up and down the bit of gravel, he tried to account for Violef s change of feeling towards him — or, at leasts for her change of intention ; and he could see no reasonable explanation. At this moment he heard Mr. Drum- mond inside calling "Violet! Violet." A wild fiemcy struck him.

Was it true that he had no rival! Could it be poesible that the girl had let her declined admiration — ^her wor- ship, almost-— of this middle-aged man run into a more passionate feeling t The

Madcap Violet.

33

mere suspicion sent a flash of fire tingling throngli lus heart; and he found himself rapidly running over a series of incidents, unnoticed at the tune, which now appeared to give at least plausibility to this random con- jecture.

In the most commonplace of natures there is always enough of imagination to.&n the fires of jealousy ; the relations existing between Mr. Drummond and his girlish pupil now assumed a wholly different complexion ; in his first flush of anger, and surprise, and envy, the young man was ready to accuse his finend of having inveigled Sir Acton North's daughter into his house, that he might marry an heiress.

But after all, Mr. Miller was a sensi- ble and prudent young fellow. He reasoned with himself. Was it likely Uiat this gay-hearted, handsome girl, rejoicing in all the boundless hopes and activities of youth, should give away her life to a moping, dreaming, middle-aged num, who had just enough money to keep a moderately decent coat on his back! She was very fond of him— as his niece was. She had a profound ad- miration for him — as his sister had. Mr. Miller reasoned himself out of his first glow of belief and anger ; but he went into breakfast in a somewhat sullen and suspicious mood.

^ow, indeed, the smallest trifles were magnified in the young man's alarmed imagination. He noticed how she brought the newspaper and placed it beside a certain cup. He felt sure that aihe had been out to bring in the fresh hell-heather, ferns, marigolds, and fochsias for the table. When all had sat down to breakfast, he observed that Mr. Drummond addressed most of his chance remarks to her; and that she inTariably looked up with a bright glance of gratitude when he did so.

A sufficiently trifling incident oc- cnrred. Mr. Drummond, like most rather shy and sensitive folks, had a nervous dislike to being watched by furtive glances, especially at meal-times. He woudd infinitely have preferred to gp without mustard, or butter, or any-

No. 199. — VOL. xxxiv.

thing of that sort, rather than be re- minded that some one was continually observing his plate. Noyr, on this occasion, he happened to look up, and finding his sister's eyes fixed curiously on him, he called out —

" On my solemn word of honour, Sarah, I am only going to eat an egg. Is there anything awful in that ? "

His sister looked shocked and oflended, whereupon he continued, in great good humour —

" I declare that there is in the world only one human being with whom it is comfortable to have breakfast — who leaves you alone to struggle with your fish-bones — who never turns her eyes upon you except when she speaks to you : who is it ] Do you all give it upl"

" It is Violet, of course, uncle," said Amy Warrener, with a laugh. " Violet is always right."

Now surely there was not much in complimenting a girl for minding her own plate at a breakfast-table ; but all the same the young man looked upon the innocent exclamation of Violet's schoolfellow as only confirming some of his gloomiest suspicions. But he would observe still before speaking or act- ing.

Meanwhile there was a great bustle convulsing the ordinary quiet of Castle Bandbox, in the midst of which no one had time to notice how Violet treated her former lover. Everyone was pre- paring for the approaching voyage in the SeorPyot; Mr. Drummond making the wildest suggestions about potted meats, condensed milk, and baskets of soda-water; Mrs. Warrener making more sober calculations about the neces- sary stores for a week's cruise; the girls anxious about waterproofs and thick shoes; and Mr. George Miller, with great care and accuracy of method, get- ting his fishing-tackle into order. They knew they were about to play at keeping house, just like so many children ; and every one pretended to know a vast deal about those very things which, in serious living on land, they histd treated with in- differencep

34

Madcap Violet.

The Sea-Fyot, which they could now distmgoiBh lying at her moorings in the bay, waB a yawl of some thirty-two tons register and about iifty tons yacht measurement; but she was an exceed- ingly roomy and comfortable vessel con- sidering her size. She had a fairly commodious ladies' cabin, a couple of staterooms for single gentlemen, and a spacious saloon, no less than twelve feet six inches in beam. For the rest she was anything but a quick sailer with light winds, but she could stand a thoroughly stiff breeze with absolute safety, and then she could do her nine or ten knots an hour. She was worked by four men and a lad, the latter officiating as cook and steward.

It was universally resolved that, as Miss Violet was the most experienced voyager of the party, she should go on lK)ard and overhaul the table linen, locker accommodation, bedding, perma- nent stores, and the like, and this com- mission she gladly accepted, while sti- pulating that the others should accom- pany her. It was with the eager ex- citement of a party of discovery that they entered the gig which had been sent on shore for them, and were pulled out to the yacht. The skipper — a handsome good-humoured looking man of thirty- nve or so, with a sun-tanned face and a light yellow beard, who was an old friend imd ally of Mr. Drummond's — ^received them with much ceremonious dignity at the gangway, and, in showing them over his ship, seemed particularly anxious to gratify the tall young lady, who was con- tinually asking him abrupt and business- like questions. She was graciously pleased to express her approval of the wluteness

of the decks, the spaciousnees of the saloon, and the painting of the skylights, but she was of opinion that the small state-room next the forecastle ought to have been a pantry, and she gently bat firmly remonstrated with Captain Jimmy for not having a swinging-table in the large cabin.

" That is true, mem," said the yellow- bearded skipper, with just a trace of Highland accent, ^' I hef often said that to Mr. Sinclair, and it will only cost 51, the more."

^' Gome, Yiolet, it isn't fair to look a gift-horse in the mouth. You ought to be sufficiently grateful to Mr. Sinckxr," aftid Mr. Drummond.

"So I am," she said, doubtfully; ^' but suppose she is lying well over from the wind, how are we to get anything to eat and drinki"

*^ Hold on to your glass, and make the plates steady each other."

" Then supposing we are beating up to windward, every time she is put about everything will go flying across to the other side."

" Well, the people on the other side can catch them 1 "

« In their lap 1 "

"Whynoti"

However, there were no great fears on that score, and the party returned home only regretting that a night must intervene before starting. A great joy of expectation, indeed, prevailed through Castle. Bandbox that evening, for the tidk was all of the wonderful places they would see, and of the wonderful ad- ventures they would meet, and no one had any suspicion that they were taking a Jonah on board.

To be eorUinued,

3:

MRS. THEALE : THE EEIEIO OF DR. JOHNSOX.

IN TWO PARTS.

PART II.— 1780— 1821.

Such was the little Welflliwoman*s fiitt reception of her future husband, and her friends and foes remembered it long aftervrards. It was not, however, until ABgust 1870, and then at Brighton, that she made Bignor Fiozzi's acquaint-

Brighton was dull enough for her that •eason. Dr. Johnson was in hot, empty London, diniog at 8ir Joshua's with Mrs. Cholmondeley, busy with his Lives, and writing letters to IkLrs. Thrale. '* I stay at home to work," he tdid her, " and yet do not work diligently ; nor can tell when I shall have done, nor perhaps does anybody but myself wish me to have done ; for what can they hope I shall do better % Yet I wish the work was over and I was at liberty. And what would I do if I was at liberty t Would I go to Mrs. Aston and Mis. Porter, and all the old places, and sigh to £nd that my old friends are gone ? Would I recall plans of life which I never brought into practice, and hopes of excellence which I once presmned and never have attained ) Would I compare what I now am with what I once expected to have been % " And he adds : '^ If you please, madam, we will have an end of this, and con- trive some other wishes. I wish I had you in an evening, and I wish I had yoa in a morning ; and I wish I could baFe a little talk, and see a little frolick. For all this I must stay 3 but life will not stay." Miss Bumey was also in London, drinking tea in Bolt Coui't, calling upon Sophy, and picking up gossip among her high friends about Lord George Gordon, who was now safe in the Tower. The prim little worldling would, in spite of her airs, be fine com- pany now at Brighton. '^ My master,"

Mrs. Thrale writes to her, "is gone out riding, and we are to drink tea with Lady Rothes; after which the Steyne hours begin, and we cluster round Thomas's shop and contend for the attention of Lord John Clinton, a man who could, I think, be of consequence in no other place upon earth, though a very well-informed and modest^man- nered boy. Dr. Pepye is resolutely and profoundly silent; and Lady Shelley, having heard wits commended, has taken up a new character, and says not only the severest^ but the cruellest things you ever heard in your life. Here is a Mrs.

K , too, sister to the Duchess of

M , who is veiy uncompanionable

indeed, and talks of ^'umbridge. These, however, are all the people we ever speak to, — oh, yes, the Drummonds — but they are scarce blest with utter- ance." But, while she complains of mere tedium, her heart is heavy with a sense of coming evil. Another par- liamentary election is pending, while her husband's health causes her hourly anxiety for his life ; her letters to John- son are few and far between, and with but little "frolick" in them. The philosopher grows captious. " I hope," he wrote, " you have no design of steal- ing away to Italy before the election, nor of leaving me behind you, though I am not only seventy, but seventy-one. Could you not let me lose a year in round numbers? Sweetly, sweetly sings Dr. Swift :

' Some dire misfortune to portend, I>Io enemy can match a mend.'

But what if I am seventy-two % I re- member Sulpitius says of Saint Martin (now that's above your reading), Est animus victor aniiorum et senectuti cedere nescius. Match me this among your young folks ! If you try to plague me,

n 2

36

Mrs, ThrcUe : the Friend of Br, Johnson.

I shall tell you that, according to Gralen, life begins to decline from tliirty-Jive." And again, in still more irritable mood : •*You write of late very seldom. I wish you would write upon suljecU; anything to keep me alive. You have your beaux and your flatterers, and here am poor I, forced to flatter myself ; and any good of myself I am not very easy to believe, so that I really live but a sorry life. What shall I do with Lyttelton's life ) I can make a short life and conclude. Why did not you like CSoUins, and Gay, and Blackmore, as well as Akensidef The lady takes up her pen at last^ and can write brilliantly enough when she chooses, and whet his appetite for more. She has been reading his last Lives, and has some piquant criticism for each of them. Then: — "And now, if you call this flattery, I can leave off in a minute with- out bidding ; for, since you ^ton« have no skill in dandling the kid, we hide can expect but rough returns for caresses bestowed upon our haughty monarch. So be diligent, dear sir, and have done with these men that have been buried these hundred years, and don't sit mak- ing verses that never will be written ; but sit down steadily and finish their lives who did do something. And then, think a little about mine, which has not been a happy one, for all you tease me so concerning the pleasures I enjoy, and the flattery I receive, all which has nothing to do with comfort for the present distress ; and sometimes I am angry when I read such stuff."

It was about the time when these letters were travelling to and fro between Johnson and Mrs. Thrale that, walking with Queeney early one morning on the cliff at Brighton, Mrs. Thrale saw Piozid standing at the library door, and accosted him in Italian. Her impromptu pro- posal that he should give Miss Thrale a lesson or two was on that occasion coldly declined. He had come to Brighton for his health, was composing some music, and lived in great retire- ment. He did not remember her, in feict ; and the ladies continued their walk, disappointedly. On their way

home, passing again the library door, Piozzi, no doubt instructed in the mean- time by the gossiping librarian, started out of the shop, apologised for not knowing Mrs. Thrale before, and pro- tested his readiness to obey her com- mands. And so their acquaintance began. In her diary occur the follow- ing jottings: — "Brighton, July 1780. I have picked up Piozzi here, the great Italian singer. He is amazingly like my father: he shall teach Hester." And again:— "13th August, 1780. Piozzi is become a prodigious favourite with me. He is so intelligent a creature, so discerning, one can't help wishing for his good opinion; his singing sur- passes everybody's for taste, tenderness, and true elegance; his hand on the /orf« pianOf too, is so soft, so sweet, so delicate, every tone goes to the heart, I think, and fills the mind with emotions one would not be without, though incoi^- yenient enough sometimes. He wants nothing from us; he comes for his health, he says ; I see nothing ail the man but pride."

Towards the close of this eventful August, soon after their return to Lon- don, Mr. Thrale was attacked with apoplexy. Sir Lucas Pepys, being with them at Brighton, had observed symptoms of danger in his patient^ and had sent him home, not to Streatham, but to a famished house in Grosvenor Square, to be within easy reach of him- self. It was too late, however; the crisis came, and the brewer's life wassaved only by bleeding him till he fainted. Once more Mrs. Thrale's energy for business is called into play. She is at the counting-house daily, chases a clerk who has absconded wiUi money, dis- covers new ruinous speculations of her husband, and does her best to straighten matters around him. The election too is not far off. In March 1781 she writes to Johnson : — " I am willing to show myself in Southwark or in any place for my master^s pleasure or advan- tage, but have no present conviction that to be re-elected would be advan- tageous, so shattered a state as his nerves are in just now. Do not you, however.

Mrs. Thrale : the Ftiend of Br. Johnson.

37

&nc7 for a moment that I sliiink from fitigue, or desire to escape from doing my duty. Spiting one's antagonist is a reason that never ought to operate, and never does operate with me. I care nothing about a rival candidate's innu- endoes ; I care only about my husband's health and fame ; and, if we find that he earnestly wishes to be once more mem- ber for the Borough, — ^he shall be mem- ber, if anything done or suffered by me will help to make him sa" The dying man, heavy half his time with apoplectic sleep, still made love to Sophy, and was intent on enjoying his life. Gros- venor Square was gayer than ever Streatham had been. ''Yesterday," writes Mn. Thrale, '' I had a conversa- sioiu. Mrs. Montagu was brilliant in diamonds, solid in judgment, critical in talk. Sophy smiled, Piozzi sung, Pepys panted with admiration, Johnson was good-humoured. Lord John Clinton at- tentive. Dr. Bowdler lame, and my master not asleep. Mrs. Ord looked el^ant, Lady Eothea dainty, Mrs. Davenant dapper, and Sir Philip's CQzU were all blown about by the wind. Mra. Byron rejoices that her Admiral and I agree so well The way to his heart is oonnoiaseurship, it seems ; and ibr a background and contour — who oomas up to Mrs. Thrale, you know !"

On Sunday, April Ist^ there were at dinner, at Groeveuor Square, Boswell, Johnson, Sir Philip Jennings Clark, M.P., and Mr. Perkins, the head clerk at the brewery. The talk was of the American war; and Johnson's "bois- terous vivacity," says Boswell, '' enter- tained us. Presently Mrs. Thrale chanced to praise highly a witty friend of her own. 'Nay, my dear lady,' replied Johnson, 'don't talk so,' and proceeded to turn her friend into ridi- cule, and to scold her for her habit of Hasting by praise. 'Kow there is Pepys ' (Mr. Thrale's physician) ; * you praised that man with such dispropor- tion that I was incited to lessen him, perhaps more than he deserved. His blood is upon your head. By the same principle your malice defeats itself ; for your censure is too violent And yet/

looking to her," says Boswell, " with a leering smile, ' she is the first woman in the world could she but restrain that wicked tongue of hers ; she would be the only woman could she but command that litUe whirligig.' " Mr. Perkins must have felt himself much editied by this discriminating censure of his master's wife, while Boswell, no doubt, strained every nerve to ^ the delicious words upon his memory. But the end of it all was near. On April 4th, 1781, in the midst of preparations for a magnificent concert and supper, another sudden stroke of apoplexy ended poor Thrale's life, and ended too, in Dr. Johnson's life, its happiest episode.

When Uie brewer's will was read it was found that Mrs. Thrale had the interest of 50,000^. for her life, with Streathem Park and the town-house in the Borough — the Brighton house fall- ing to the share of the daughters. The business might be carried on conjointly by Mrs. Thrale and the executors, among whom was Dr. Johnson, or sold for what it would bring. Dr. Johnson is said to have wished to keep on the brewery ; but Mrs. Thrale was the better man of business of the two, and it was sold, in June 1781, for 136,000^. to Mr. Bar- clay the Quaker, and her old friend Mr. Perkjns, the head clerk; the dwell- ing-house in the Borough being thrown in at the last as a gift from Mrs. Thrale to Mrs. Perkins.

For fifteen years Johnson had called Streatham his home. The white house on the common had come to be dear and familiar to the old man beyond what he or the world knew; and he woxdd willingly have continued a fixture there to his life's end. Any change was for him simple loss. His dear '* mistress," saddened but not quite broken-hearted, with the pretty Queeney growing into womanhood at her side, and himself in her cosiest easy-chair, or presiding among the wits and notables at her sumptuous board: — this was the pleasant picture he had drawn for himself of what might still be. " Let us pray for one another," he had written to her in the early days of her widowhood;

1

38

Mrs, Thrak : the Friend of Dr. Johnson.

**wlieii we meet, we may try what fidelity and tenderness will do for us." The sale of the brewery and subsequent retrenchments disturbed to a consider- able degree the magnanimity of John- son's sorrow. His dream-fabric tottered visibly. " The diminution of the estate, though unpleasing and unexpected, must^" he said, ** be borne, because it cannot be helped." He and she were to make good resolutions before they met^ whi(^ on his side he hoped to keep; but such hopes are yery|deceitful, and *' I would not willingly think the same of all hopes," he added, very am- biguously. From Lichfield, with poor dying Lucy Porter at his side, palsied Mrs. Aston, and other aged and ailing ftiends, he wrote to her : — " There is little of the sunshine of life, and my own health does not gladden me. But, to scatter the gloom, I went last night to the ball, where, you know, I can be happy even without you. On the ball, which was very gay, I looked a while, and went away." What dreams of the preposterously happy, what visions of far off sunny Streatham, filled the old man's mind as he stood watching the dancers through dim half-closed eyes on that last night of October 1781, are not now to be recorded. The little widow's replies to his constant letters are sprightly and trim, with here and there a touch of filial tenderness^ or of half-concealed pain, as when she says, " Come home, however, for 'tis dull living without you .... You are not happy away, and I fear I shall never be happy again in this world between one thing and another." Their re-union at the close of the year lid not bring to either the comfort they expected. Signor Piozzi the singer, sent for by the Queen of France, had also been absent, and was now also returned, '^ loaded with presents, honours, and emoluments." " When lie comes, and / come," Johnson had said in one of his letters, "you will have two about you that love you ; and I question if either of us heao^ily care how few more you have." The philosopher was already jealous; and still more so when Mrs. Thrale's pleasure in Piozzi's society in-

creased day by day. To make mattera more difficult, Johnson, now in his seventy-third year, was already sinking into an unhealthy old age. The huge frame was tortured by symptoms of asthma, dropsy, and other painful diseases, partly inherited, partly the re- sult of unwholesome habits of living. His rich, full mind and big heart bad as much of vitality^ as ever, or more ; but the temper, never a gentle one, had become, to those who loved him most, captious^ fretful, and extortionate. He had reached a period in his life when the most unfit companion for him in the world was a lady, herself weighed down with suffering and domestic anxiety, but with a spirit of joy in her that re- belled at the prospect of sorrow. By a pro- cess too natural to require explanation, Johnson's residence at Streatham became less habitual than formerly. But he continued to write from thie dusky re- treat of Bolt Court, dunning f as she ex- pressed it, his old friend for kindness, wishing himself back with her at Streat- ham, detailing his complaints and medi- cines, and peevishly repining at his own old age. The tie of many years was hard to break ; and, when Streatham Park was let on lease, in 1782, to Lord Shelbume, afterwards Marquis of Lans- downe, Dr. Johnson accompanied Mr& Thrale and her family to Brighton, re- turning with them in the winter to Argyle Street, London, where Boswell found him, very ill but kindly tended, in the following March.

Between this last date, however, and June 17th, 1783, an irremediable break had occurred in the friendship of John- son and Mrs. Thrale. Ko sooner had her husband been laid at rest beside his little son in Streatham Church than the gossips had set themselves to map out his widow's future. She was angry enough at them for fancying her '' such an amorous idiot" Lord Loughborough^ Sir Bichard Jebb, Mr. Piozzi, Mr. Sel- wyn, Dr. Johnson, every man that came to the house, she complained, was put in the papers for her to marry. She wrote to the Morning Berald, beg- ging it to say no more about her, good

Mrs, Thrale : the Friend of Br, Johnson,

39

OT bad, took ref age in the country, and had more than half a mind to leave England altogether. ''One day/' she writes in her diary, ''the paper rings with my marriage to Johnson, one day to Gratchley, one day to Seward. I give no reason for such impertinence, Imt cannot deliver myself &om it. Whitbread, the rich brewer, is in love with me too: oh, I would rather, as Anne Page says, be set breast deep in the earth and be bowled to death with tumipSi" Still, though incensed at this random gossip, Mra. Thrale had a fair coDSciouaness of her own eligibility and power. She remembered her wealth, her andent lineage, her reputation for wit and learning, and triumphed to her- self between the pages of her diary, that to many for love would be ratioiial in her, who wanted no advancement of boryi or fortune; and, "till I am in love," ahe added, "I will not marry, nor perhaps then." That she did even- tually promise her hand to the singer Piozzi has puzzled her biographers as it at first puzzled, nay, astounded, her family and friends. They regarded the act as little less than a crime against society, her children, and hersel£ What could a woman with three thousand a year, half a dozen daughters, and a con- fliderable reputation for talent, care for a man who was known only for his music % True it was, the singer had long since lost his voice, that he was neither poor, nor very handsome, nor in any sense an adventurer. He was in fftct eminently respectable and harmless; and — she loved him. This fact consti- tuted his greatest virtue and her most unpardonable folly. Johnson and Eur- ney bemoaned together with wet eyes the weakness of their former hostess and their own loosened hold of her affec- tion. The two drove into London from Streatham on one occasion together — Bumey in the secret of the love affair, and very grave and sad ; Johnson either innocent of it or pretending to be so. But the heart of the old man was none the leas heavy. " His look,'' says the lady, ^ was stem, though dejected, as he followed her into the vehicle ; '^ and he

was overcome with emotion as, with a shaking hand and pointiag finger, he directed her looks to the mansion from which they were driving, and, when they faced it from the coach window as they turned into Streatham Common, tre- mulously exclaimed, " That house . . . is lost to ine — ^for ever!" Too long indeed had the " Streathamites " dreamt that Mrs. Thrale and all that was hers belonged to them; and now it was a bitter thing to find that she was strictly and whoUy free, and knew it. Could some- one among that crowd of Uterary men and women, who had feasted and para- ded all those years in the gardens and gay rooms of Streatham, have been suificiently heroic to think and say that she was in the right ! And, still more, could that single-handed champion have been the great and revered Dr. John- son ! A word &om him at that time would have silenced the whole midge swarm of discontents, with Bumey at their head. And might it not have been ) Might he not, sitting over his fire on his two-legged stool in Bolt Court, have called to mind her long and spirited service to her "master," her tears over her dying babies, her bright and innocent wit, which had so often dispelled for him the gathering clouds of gloom and sickness? And might not he, the wise old man, have given due weight to the fact that all her ten- derness, all her devotion, all her vanity, had hitiierto been called into play only by old men, by children, by strangeis I But other and less kind thoughts rank- led in the heart of the old lexicographer. He joined, alas, the midge swarm ; hated Fiozzi, with his plain face and broken English, despised Mrs. Thrale, and let the inquisitive world know that he did so. There are few more ugly stories on record than that of Johnson's quarrel with the little widow.

Early in 1783, Mrs. Thrale was in- duced by the persecution of her children and the public to bid good-bye to her lover, who at her request at once gave up her letters to her eldest daughter, and prepared to leave England. The poor lady's health appeared at this time com-

40

Mrs, Thralc : the Friend of D'r, Johnson,

pletely broken, and she was moreoyer much harassed by debts, the heaviest of w^ch had been incurred by her father, and fell now upon her as his heir. Placing her younger children at school in Streatham, she left Argyle Street, and went with the elder ones to Bath, where she hoped to live in retirement, out of reach of her " friends," and to pay her debts. The little Streatham school-girls, however, fell ill in the spring of measles and whooping-cough, and one of them died. The poor mother, herself seriously ill, started £rom Bath to visit them. She lodged in Streatham, avoiding *' hateful London," " for fear of encountering Fiozzi's eyes somewhere." Nor did she know, untU Piozzi told her long after, when all their troubles were over, that he had been sitting at a front window of a public house on the road "all that dreadful Saturday," to see her carriage pass backwards and forwards to where the children resided. She had maintained her resolution not to see him again, and returned to Bath with a heavier heart than ever. When her child died, she had written to Dr. Johnson to inform him of her trouble ; but the old friends did not meet whilst she was at Streatham ; and his reply to her letter beginning, ^' I am glad that you went to Streatham, though you could not save the dear pretty little girl," went on at once to relate how he had been dining at the opening of the Exhibition, with a splendid company, and other irrelevant gossip. A few more letters passed between them ; he telling her the news of the day, and praising her " placid acquiescence " in her present mode of life ; she writing back in a softened, broken-hearted strain, " very sick," she says, ** and a little sullen, and disposed now and then to say like King David, My lovers and my friends have been put away from me, and my acquaintance hid out of my sight" These words were probably on their way from Bath to Bolt Court when Johnson was struck dumb by paralysis on the early morning of June 17th, 1783. It was a strange impulse which made him, within a few hours of

his visitation, write an elaborate and eloquent account of it to Mrs. Thrale ; and this was followed up for some time by a regular diary of his disease ad- dressed to her. Her replies amused him, and she, in her bitter solitude, accepted his lectures in a humbled spirit, and was ^' obliged, consoled, and delighted " by them. "You are now retired," Johnson tells her, " and have nothing to impede self-examination or self-im- provement. Endeavour to reform that instability of attention which your last letter has happened to betray." Oh, soul of Quintilian ! Here was stuff for your copy-book headings, with a ven- geance !

Mrs. Thrale's nuserable life during the year 1783, at Bath, was varied by a visit to Weymouth in the autumn, iUnesses of her children in the winter, and corre- spondences with Dr. Johnson and Miss Bumey. The last was in some sort her confidante ; to her she could speak of her sufferings and their cause, and the two ladies regretted that they lived so far apart. Mrs. Thrale's daughters were now growing up about her, a bevy of proud, handsome girls, with fortunes of their own, and no little ambition of a small kind. "I have read to them," she tells Miss Bumey in March 1784, " the Bible £rom beginning to end ; the Roman and English histories ; Milton, Shakespeare, Pope, and Young's works, from head to heel ; Warton and John- son's criticisms on the poets ; besides a complete system of dramatic writing; and the classics — I mean English classics — they are most perfectly acquainted with. Such works of Voltaire, too, as were not dangerous, we have worked at ; Rollin des Belles Lettres^ and a hundred more. But my best powers are past ; and I think I must look out a lady to supply my deficiency to attend them, if they should like a jaunt next summer or so ; for I will not quit Bath." Here at least she had her physicians about her, who knew how ill she was, and would do their best not to let her die ; but of what other friends could she say as much ] Her children's utter lack of sympathy with her, and Dr. Johnson's

•^

Mrs. Thrale : the Friend of 2>r. Johns(m.

41

flagrant egotism, at length exasperated the poor lady into something like vigour of speech. "You tell one of my daoghteis," she wrote to Johnson, " that you know not with distinctness the cause of my complaints. I believe she, who lives with me, knows it no better.*' The lady then scolds him lonndlj, and in English as eloquent as his own. " It is kind in you to quarrel no more^" she says, ''about expressions which were not meant to offend ; but unjust to suppose I have not lately thought myself dying. Let us, how- ever, take the Prince of Abyssinia's advice, and not add to the other evils of life the bitterness of controversy. . . . All Uiis," she continues, relenting again, "is not written by a person in high health and happiness, but by a fellow- sufferer, who has more to endure than she can tell or you can guess ; and now let us talk of the Severn salmons, which vnll be commg in soon : I shall send you one of the finest, and shall be glad to hear that your appetite is good." The lady did not forget her Iffomise, and three weeks later Dr. John- son wrote : "The Hooles, Miss Burney, and Mrs. Hull (Wesley's sister), feasted yesterday with me very cheeifally on your noble salmon. Mr. Allen could not come, but I sent him a piece, and a great tail is still left.''

While Dr. Johnson was enjoying an interval of comparative good health among his London friends, Mrs. Thrale was becoming each day more ill and more unhappy ; imtil at length her good phydcian, taking the matter *into his own hands, informed her daughters that he must write to Signor Piozzi concern- ing their mother's health. Piozzi, who was Uving in Milan, received Dr. Dob- son's welcome episUe; and in eleven days he was at her side. In the mean- time Mrs. Thrale had made up her mind to be broken-hearted no more. The guardians whom Mr. Thrale had placed over her children were formally ftcquainted with the fact ; and that the three eldest, having heard that Mr. Pbzzi was coming ^k from Italy, had left Bath for their own house at "Bright-

helmstone." But Dr. Johnson received, in addition to the " circular," the fol- lowing letter : —

** Bath, June 30.

"My dear Sib,— The inclosed is a circular letter ivhich I have sent to all the guardians, but our friendship demands somewhat more ; it requires that I should b^ your pardon for concealing from you a connexion which you must have heard of by many, but I suppose never believed. Indeed, my dear sir, it was concealed only to save us both needless pain ; I could not have borne to reject that counsel it would have killed me to take, and I only tell it you now because all is irrevocably settled and out of your power to pevent I will say, however, that the dread of your disapprobation has given me some anxious moments ; and, though perhaps I am become by many priva- tions the most independent woman in the world, I feel as if acting without a parent's consent till you write kindly to

" Your futhful servant."

This was Dr. Johnson's reply : —

" Madam, — If I interpret your letter right, you are ignominiously married : if it is yet undone, let us once more talk together. If you have abandoned your children and your religion, God forgive your wickedness ; if you have forfeited your &me and your country, may your folly do no further mischief. If the last act is yet to do, I who have loved you, esteemed you, reverenced you, and served you, I who long thought you the first of woman- kind, entreat ttuit, before your fiite is irre- vocable, I may once more see you. I was, I once was, madam, most truly yours,

**July% 1784. Sam. Johnson.

' * I will come down if you permit it. "

Mrs. Thrale lost no time, but de- spatched a letter by the coach, 'Hhe more speedily and effectually to prevent " the Doctor's visit She was very angry now, and hid him rather a fiery farewell. The next post brought to her a softer missive, '* one more sigh of tenderness, perhaps useless, hut at least sincere." Her old irascible friend did not forget, he told her, in this moment of final separation, 'Hhe kindness which had soothed twenty years of a life radically wretched." His last advice was, how- ever, that she should induce Mr. Piozzi to settle in England, " where her for- tune would be more under her own eye ; " his last peroration, enforcing that advice, was an eloquent allusion to the story of Queen Maiy, who had

42

Mrs. Thrale: tlic Friend of Dr. Johnson.

crossed the feital Solway in spite of a similar warning, and — suffered for it

The marriage which all the world was execrating was solemnised at Bath on July 25, 1784, and in a few weeks the Piozzis were on their way to Italy. Here, among her husband's own people and friends, Ijdjra. Piozzi found him popular and respected, while the proud Lombardians were at first disposed to doubt whether his wife whom he had brought to visit them could be a gentle- woman by birth, since her first husband was a brewer ! The travellers were feasted and honoured wherever they went. When dukes, duchesses, mar- quises d'Araciel, and princes of Sistema, showered kindness on her for Piozzi's sake, Mrs. Piozzi took good care to let her English friends hear of it. "Here's honour and glory for you ! " she wrote home, in the joy of her heart. But it was not long before she had forgiven her enemies. To her children she lost no opportunity of sending presents and letters ; and on December 7th, 1784, she wrote to a young law student, Samuel Lysons, afterwards Keeper of the Tower Becords: "Do not neglect Dr. Johnson; you will never see any other mortal so wise or so good. I keep his picture in my chamber, and his works on my chimney.'' A week later, and her old friend had breathed his last in his dingy home in Fleet Street, London. Ko sooner was the event known, and the old philo- sopher at rest under the stones erf Westminster Abbey, than the printers were busy issuing " Anecdotes." Every- body who had a story of the dead lion was in a hurry to tell it ; and of course Boswell and Mrs. Piozzi were looked to by all the world for the largest and most interesting collections. Her Anec- dotes of the late Samuel Johnson^ daring the Last Twenty Years of his Life, were written in Italy immediately after the news of his death reached her, shipped off to England from Leghorn, and published in London in 1786, young Samuel Lysons making her bar- gain for her with Mr. Cadell the pub- lisher. ** Judge my transport and my

husband's," she wrote nearly thirty years afterwards, '* when at Borne we received letters saying the book was bought with such avidity that Cadell had not one copy left when the King sent for it at ten o'clock at night, and he was forced to beg one from a friend to supply his Majesty's impatience, who sate up all night reading it" Boswell, who was preparing his " pyramid," as he called his Life of Johnson^ was out- raged at this sudden fiare of feminine popularity, and strove to undermine his rival's position by accusing her of in- accuracy and untruth. His efforts were in vain. The whole of the first impres- sion of her little book was sold on the first day it was published ; 300Z. were lyiQg ready for her in her publisher's hands ; and her '' Anecdotes " were the gossip of the whole town, although Walpole sneered at them, Hannah. More yawned, and Peter Pindar grew funny.

Daring their residence in Italy, the Piozzis visited Salzburg in Bavaria, the ancient seat of the little Welshwoman's race ; and the heralds there, examining her " schedule," acknowledged her, " to the triumphant delight of dear Piozzi," a true descendant of their own Prince Adam. Mrs. Piozzi, though this was per- haps nogreatfeatherinher cap, shone with some idat among the stars of the DeUa Crusea Academy in Florence, and wrote a preface to Uieir ^'Miscellany" of verses, which Walpole called '* short, sensible^ and genteel." On their return to London in 1787, Mr. and Mrs. Piozzi lived first in Hanover Square^ and afterwards at her old home at Streatham Park. In the meantime her children had become partially reconciled to their Italian stepfather ; and Cecilia, the youngest, afterwards Mrs. Mostyn, remained constantly resident with her mother. Mrs. Piozzi's old friends dis- covered by degrees that her marriage was after all no very dire misfortune to her or to them. Her dinners were as good as formerly, and her drawing-room was as much as ever the resort of notables and eccentrics. After a few years, Piozzi, having become enraptured during

Mrs. Thrale : ilie Friend of Dr. Johnson.

43

a tool with . the scenery of Xorth Wiles, built an Italian villa on the knks of the Clwydd, near to his wife's mined mansion of Bachygraig, to which tkej gaye the pretty hybrid name of BiynbeUa ; and to this spot he and his wife retired in 1795. The French war inltalyin 1799 having involved Piozzi's lektions in great difficulties, Mrs. Piozzi lesened ftdm the general wreck a ne- phew of her husband, whom his pa- rents had christened John Salnsbury, after henelf. The little Lombardian, vith recollections in his baby head of bloody scenes in fighting cities, was brought to England ; and Mrs. Piozzi adopted him as her heir. When he was old enougby she placed him at the sehool where her own son Henry Thrale bad conned his Latin grammar some thirfy years before; and the young Salnsboiy-Piozzi was reared by Henry's mother with exceptional tenderness and care.

Mr. Piozzi died at Erjnbella in 1809, and vras buried at the little church there. Legends of the courteous Italian linger in the neighbourhood — of his boken English, and gentle, kindly manners. A portrait of him is pre- aenred among the family pictures at Brynbella, which represents him as goodrlookhig, about forty years old, in a straight-cut brown coat, with frill and rofflea, and some leaves of music in Ina hand ; and one wing of tbe Italian rifla which ho built is still said to be hannted by the sounds of his violin. Bnring his life Mr. Piozzi had attended ▼ith much prudence and economy to the somewhat confused money- matters of his little wife. He had steered her safely through her debts ; and at his death he left her mistress of everything th^ possessed, except a few thousands ▼bieh he had saved before their mar- liage, and which he bequeathed to his lelatives in Italy.

The loss of her husband left Mrs. PioKzi once more solitaiy in the world ; Int no sorrow, not even the greatest BORow of remembering happier things, ooidd quench now the sunshine which fiUfld her life. During the twelve years

which remained for her, we see her, in her letters, and in the records of her friends, still happy, still triumphant, still supremely satisfied. For her, old age was no uglier, no sadder, than a plucked flower that lies doomed and sweet in the sunlight. She had had her full share of earthly joy, and the brightest day in her calendar was ever the anniversary of her second marriage. "No, my dear sir," she wrote to a friend from Bath in 1817, « I will not stir from home till after the 25 th of July, which day made me happy thirty-three years ago, after the suffering so many sorrows ; and here will I keep its be- loved anniversary, always remembering

*' St. James's Church and St. James's Day, And good ^Ir. James that gave me away."

Until 1814 she had continued to live at Brynbella, visiting occasionally both Bath and Streatham. But at this date young Salusbury left the university and married, and Mrs. Piozzi very ge- nerously relinquished to him and his young wife her little Welsh estate and its revenue. To compensate her daugh- ters for their loss of it, she set to work to improve Streatham Park, which they would inherit at her death, and landed herself by this means in new and se- rious money difficulties. Nevertheless she jogged on, as light-hearted as ever, in her Bath lodging, with her two maids, and with a drawing of Brynbella over her chimney-piece — often, in spite of her 2,000^. a year, without hi, of ready money to spend on herself. She almost rejoiced in her self-imposed poverty. When bills were thronging in upon her every hour, she told a friend that a certain heavy account for expenses concerning her nephew's mar- riage had just been sent in from a solicitor, and added, ^^ I call that the felicity bill." Her devotion to Piozzi's nephew was not ill rewarded. He was made sheriff of his county, and knighted in 1817 ; and he and his wife were uniformly datiful and kind to their benefactress, and at least added no one pang to those she had previously suffered.

44

Mrs. Thrale : the Friend of Dr. Johnsoiu

In 1819 Tom Mooie visited Mrs. Piozzi, and found her '*a wonderful old lady." "Faces of other times," he wrote, '' seemed to crowd oyer her as she sat, — ^the Johnsons, Eeynoldses, &c. &c. Though turned eighty, she has all the quickness and intelligence of a gay young woman." It was about this time that she became acquainted with the young actor Conway, and interested herself so enthusiastically in his for- tunes that people laughed at her, and said she was in love again. Her eightieth birthday, Jan. 27, 1820, was made the occp«ion of a brilliant fiU at Bath, to wl.^L.ii the Salusburys from Wales, and friends from all parts of the island, gladly flocked. A concert and supper to between six and seven hundred guests, in the public rooms of Bath, commenced the proceedings; and she led ofif the ball herself at two in the morning with her adopted son Sir John Salusbury, dancing, said those who were present, with astonishing elasticity and true dignity.

The autumn and winter of that year were spent quietly at Penzance, where she had been told the blasts of winter never came. There she whiled away what she called *' six months of exile,*' looking out over the sea, observing ComifiO^ human nature, with its adjuncts vegetable and mineral, writing witty anecdotic letters to her absent friends, and longing to return with the swallows to her own beloved Bath. But that ComiBh winter of 1820-1 was excep- tionally severe, and the poor little lady found it hard to maintain her cheerful mood. " Conway," she wrote to a friend, ''is in high favour at Bath, the papers say ; so indeed do private letters. That young man's value will be one day pro- perly appreciated ; and then you and I will be found to have been quite right all along."

On her way homewards to Bath in the spring of 1821, Mrs. Piozzi met with an accident Eecovered fix)m this, she reached Clifton, where an attack of illness overtook her ; and she died there, after very little suffering, on May 2nd, 1821. To her nephew, Sir

John Salusbury-Piozzi Salusbury, she left her Welsh estates, and all that she possessed, with the request to her executors that they would be careful to transmit her body, where- soever she might die, to the vault constructed for their remains by her second husband, Gabriel Piozzi, in Dymerchion Church, Flintshire. And accordingly this last act completed the story of a long and not too happy life. Her three daughters. Lady Keith, Mra. Hoare, and Miss Thrale, summoned at the last, were round her dying bed. By her written wish the portrait of her mother by Zoffimy was given to Lady Keith, who alone of her family could remember her ; and that of Mr. Thrale was given to the one daughter who still bore his name. Two days before her death, she had sent the actor Conway a draught for 100^. ; which he, like an honest man, returned to her executors. The act speaks warmly in his favour, and one is sorry that he was not quite so great a genius as his warm- hearted patroness believed him to be. He drowned himself in 1828. Among his books was found a copy of the folio edition of Young's Night Thoughts^ in which he had made a note that it was presented to him by his " dearly attached friend, the celebrated Mrs. Piozzi"

Of Dr. Johnson it may be said that his personality and talk were more me- morable than anything he ever wrote, and the same is true of his friend Mrs. Piozzi. Her "Anecdotes " were popular, but they scarcely deserve to be men- tioned in the same category with Bos- well's splendidly full and compactly arranged **Life." Her British Synonymy; ory An Attempt at RegrdaZing ike Choice of Words in Familiar Convenaiion, published in 1794, was a compendium of bright table-talk and anecdote ; but its pretentious name put the critics and Gifford out of temper. The Retrospection; or, A Review of the most Striking and Important Events, Charaeters, SitiuUions and tlieir Consequences, which the last Eighteen Hundred Years have Presented to the View of Mankind, was pub-

Mrs. Thrcde : the Friend of Dr. Johnson.

45

fished, in two quarto yolames, in 1801, and consists of rather more than a thou- sand pages. " It would," says Mr. Hay- ward, in his interesting account of her life and writings, " have required the united powers and » acquirements of Raleigh, Burke, Gihhon, and Yoltaire, to fill so vast a canvas with appropriate groups and figures." She was indeed too ambitious ; and we have to fall back on her letters and what we know of her life, that we may once more under- stand and believe in her genius and good sense.

Mrs. Fiozzi's verdict concerning her own personal appearance was a severe one. " No," she used to say, ** I never was handsome ; I had always too many strong points in my face for beauty." And she would boast that she owed her ''vigorous, black manuscript" to her large and too muscularly huilt hand. BosweU called her " short, plump, and bfisk f but Dr. Bumey was more polite when in 1782 he included among his lady " wits,"

** Thrale, in whose expressive eyes Sits a soul above disguise."

The little half-length miniature of her painted in Bath in 1817, in a closely fit- ting dress and hat very nearly resembling the present fashion, represents her as small, well built, with features finely cat, and a dear brave glance in the eyes. It was impossible that she should have lived for so many of her best years in the society of Dr. Johnson without retaining through life many of the results of that companionship. Few women annrmg her younger contemporaries could vie with her in extensive reading and retentive memory, or in readiness of wit Dr. Johnson had taught her to hate cant ; and her honesty both in speech and action was among her most characteristics. But he failed

utterly to hem her mind round with the prejudices and perversities which beset his own. Her " piety " was less sententious, less methodical ; but her charity was undoubtedly of a better sort

Her sweet temper also, her vivacity and unselfishness, increased as she grew old ; and her last years contrasted most remarkably in this particular with Dr. Johnson's gloomy and hypochondriacal decay. Some of our contemporaries can remember her as far back as 1813, — ^a kind little old lady, who used to walk in her garden on Streatham Com- mon and hand cakes through her park palings to fair- haired little boys. When the oft-recurring birthday reminded her how old she and the world were growing, she welcomed it with a good grace. " My jour de pmssance is com- ing round in a few days now," she wrote in 1816, and quoted some pretty lines of Pope, adding, " Yet I will not, like Dr. Johnson, quarrel with my birth- day." On the seventy-sixth anniversary, she wrote gaily to her kind friend Sir James Fellowes about the new fashions that were deforming the world, and added, **Do not sufier yourself to be too sorry that I am so near out of it." Three years before her death she was quoting in a letter to the same friend some verses of Cowley upon the old sad subject ; and this was her brave comment : — " Meanwhile, let us die but once, and not double the pang by cow- ardice, or poison the dart by wilful sin, but meet the hour with at least as much deference to God's will as every Turk shows to that of the Grand Signior. ' It is the Sultan's pleasure,' says he, 'and so ends the matter, — here's my head.' "

ROSALINK ORME ^IaPSOX.

4G

APRIL DAYS.

* O Primavera — Giovcntii dell' anno ! 0 Gioventii — ^j.rimavera della Vita ! "

Metastasio.

It is the Spring ! prepare the seeds, And tender plsuats, new hloom to show, Turn the rich earth ; pull up the weeds ; And clear each cumhered garden row !

Waste not the wealth of April showers, Nor sunshine, which our need befriends ; Think ! on these evanescent hours The harvest of the year depends.

Ali-eady, necklaces of buds Adorn the sapling's tender stem ; And firs^ bedewed with diamond studs, Bear up a greener diadem.

Already, gleams of colour break Where all was black with thorns before; And gentle waves sweet murmur make, Slow rippling to the silent shore !

Nor only dumb, quiescent things,

The spell that broods amongst them, own ;

The beaten air is full of wings,

Earth thrDls with many an insect tone :

God's woodland innocents prepare, For gladder days and fresher life ; Close sits the timorous brooding hare. With wooing birds the boughs are rife.

All nature wakes from wintry sleep, Throws off her veil of frosty rime. And calls from mead and mountain steep, " Now is the time ; now is the time, Now is the Hour of Golden Prime ! "

April Days. 47

Oh, Youth ! Sweet Spring of human birth, Shalt Thou not claim our equal carel Shall all the gladness be for earth — Kor sentient souls the guerdon share?

Shall not a goodlier grain be brought, Than ripens 'neath the orb of day, Shall we not prune the shoots of Thought, And bind the Passions where they stray 1

Shall we not yearn, with ceaseless watch. To win Grod's blessing on our toil. Hoping those beams of grace to catch, Which warm a far more priceless soil :

A soil, whose garden is the heart, Where flowers of Paradise ih&j bloom, If grafting skill true growth impart And leave the worthless weeds no room?

Yea! though at times mysterious blight Prustiate the joy we thought to earn, Still let us heal the Lord of Light And look for harvest in return,

With the poor Labourer's simple trust. Who in the book of Kature reads How glory climbs £rom mouldering dust. And plenty from the smallest seeds^

And so, through pliant April days, Of childhood weak and immature — Train, towards the light, the tender sprays. And make their Heavenward growth secure.

Nor, in the barren after years,

Live to lament the vemid hours,

Which might have kept our eyes from tears

And crowned our path of life with flowers ;

While, haunted by the past, we mark An echo like a funeral chime. Toll through the ever-deepening dark, — '* Then was the time ; then was the time. Then was the Hour of Golden Prime ! "

Caroline Norton.

48

SOCIAL, REPEESENTATIYE, AND RAMBLING PLANTS.

That ambiguous animal the Arctic dog, with his cut's head and fox's tail and mixed yelp, is the miserable witness in the high latitudes beyond Alton (N. lat. 70°), the limit of Finnish cul- tivation, that there is vegetation some- where, even if the snow hides it ; since the prey of that carnivorous prowler could not exist without vegetation, how- ever scanty it may be. The reindeer moss {Cenomyce rangiferina) is the weak link, if the term may be used, between the animal and the earth; and if the reindeer's provender failed him in Fin- mark, he would have to cease digging there in the snow and move further from North Cape, rattling his broad, loose hoofs like a deer in pattens, ex- cept when his foot fell softly on that white carpet which is spread so widely over the remdeei^s native land. The turnip and potato could never have climbed to 70° north latitude, and the cabbage, carrot, parsnip and barley to from 64° to 66°, if the industrious sun did not sit up all night at Midsummer, in that region, so that a few quick plants have time to smile among the hills round Tomea before winter locks up the glens with ice for nine months. The reindeer finds meadows in Lap- land, but not green pastures; for the reindeer's lichen, which forms the pas- turage of Lapland, is bright yellow in summer and snow white in winter. The bear's moss {Muscus polytricha) also covers large tracts and makes excellent pasture, and soft stuffing for mattresses that are reported by travellers to be most comfortable. Searching for re- presentative plants we find the Alpine saxifrages and the white cotton grass (£riophorum)f which is not a grass but a sedge, an occasional bog plant in England, and one which covers hun- dreds of acres in the peats of Orkney and Shetland. Nearer St. Petersburg

(60° N. lat.) are found the first of the grasses which cover half the cultivated land of England and pass through Europe into Siberia, in a belt whose greenest end lies on Holland while its eastern limit may be compared to a brown overcoat, much the worse for the drought that prevails in the in- terior of Asia. The first grass is a fox- tail {Ahpecurus cUpimis), which strays into the northern districts of Britain, and is allied to the A, pratensis and A . agrestis of our Euglish pastures and arable fields.

The first flowers of the north are beautiful, and many of them are familiar. The yellow and white water lily are wild flowers of Lapland ; the little Daphne mezereum, which breaks into flower here in February before its leaves appear, i& common there. Many of our early flowers, which blossom here with the first smile of spring, bloom more beautifully, if possible, on the shores of the Gulf of Bothnia and of the Baltic, such as the wood anemone, hepatica and cowslip. Our early shrubs, the dog rose, guelder rose, hawthorn and hazel, are found on the same shores, and the sloe reaches as far north as the Swedish river Dal-Elf. The trees that venture nearest the line of perpetual snow are the dwarf birch and willow, the latter being so small that several specimens of the full-grown tree, with roots, stems and branches, might be laid on a sheet of note paper. Glancing at a corresponding region in the western hemisphere, we find that timber trees and textile plants are wantiag on the shores of Baffin's Bay, and, on the arrival of Captain Sir James Boss and the Arctic Expedition, the Esquimaux were equally puzzled by his shirts and the materials of his ships. Wood was something quite new to them, and a linen shirt they looked

Social, Bejpresentative, and Rambling Plants.

49

upon as a very beaatiful skin, though not particularly warm without the fur ! Returning to Europe and continuing to trayel towards the south, we find our- selves among the plants which form groups subsidiary to the natural zones of vegetation, tribes that may be de- scribed as being sociable, from their habit of living in close society. The heath is one of the sociable plants that once covered Blackheath and still shelter the blackcock on the sand hills of Surrey. Large tracts of fir, with heath as a carpet, encircle the sand flats of Northern Germany, and a broad tract of heath blackens great part of the land- scape in Mecklenburg, Heide-Hanover, the north of Prussia, and to the extremity of Jutland, stained here and there with livelier patches of the whortleberry and cranbeny which, with the gorse, are among the sociable tribes that occur in wild and inhospitable places as if \a smooth the asperities of existence amongst rugged scenes, soften the rude featares of poor and barren spots, iron out the wrinkles on the f&ce of Mature, dothe her in suitable attire, and make her more cheerful than she could have been in such retreats if they were un- adorned by the sociable plants.

The trees and shrubs nearest the dwarfs of high latitudes are the birch of northern Europe and Asia, the mountain ash, the Scotch fir, and after it the spruce, the cold alder, bird cherry, aspen, gooeebeny and raspberry. After- wards we reach the northern limit of the ash, the oak and the beech at Drontheim, in !N"orway (N. lat. 63°), on the Atlantic coast, 800 miles farther from the equator than they are found in the colder shores of the Pacific in Asiatic Bussia. Forests cover great part oi northern Bussia, and are to the peasantry what the sea is to the fisher- men. They plait their shoes from the rind of the young lime shoots, and use the wood of the all-prevailing birch for every imaginable purpose, induding the distiilation of a fermented liquor and of the tar used in preparing Bussian leather.

The oak, beech, yew and holly of our

No. 199. — ^voL. XXXIV.

English landscapes, and of the apple and pear countries which lie between the needle-leaved conifers and the vine, mulberry and maize, lead us on to Italian slopes, whence we may ascend the Alps, passing through successive belts of oak and beech {i.e., at 2,500 feet and at 3,000 feet), to the higher levels of the spruce, larch and Scotch fir. The birch stage commences at 4,500 feet and ends at 6,000 feet where a stunted, dark, and wiry-looking coni-