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THE ATTEMPT

A LITERARY MAGAZINE

CONDUCTED BY THE MEMBEIIS OF THF.

EDINBURGH ESSAY SOCIETY.

VOLUME IV.

"AUSPICIUM MELIORTS MN l:

PRINTED FOR THE EDINBURGH ESSAY SOCIETY.

COLSTON & SON, EDINBURGH.

MDCCCLXVIII.

CONTENTS.

(.-■^'^ PAGE A Few Thoughts about Newspapers, by Zoe, ..... 107 A Little Learning, by M. L., . 25 An Hour's Musings in an Old Library, by Lutea Reseda, 185 A Royalist, by Mas Alta, .... 134 A Slight Sketch of Ulrich von Hutten, by Zoe, . 282 A Song of the Forest, by Mas Alta, 184 A Thousand Miles, by Mas Alta, 257 A Visit from the Frog, by Frucaxa, 30 Cloris and Daphne, an Idyll, by Lutea Reseda, 13 Claymore, by Mae Alta, .... 109 Contemporary Poets, by des Eaux, 121 Don Pedro's Bride, by Mas Alta, 153 Forgotten Friends, by Agnella, 64 Fragments of a Life, by Enai, 98 From Malta to Aden, by Elsie Strivelyne, 155 Giving Back, by 0. M., .... 113 Hector's Departure, from the German of Schiller, by Dido, . 128 Hope and Memory, by E. H. S., . . . 209 Hubert's Letters, being MSS. Tempore Caroli Primi, now first published , by Mas J ata, 20, 14, 67, 92 In an Orchard, by Mas Alta, .... 226 In Memoriam, by Alma, .... 71 Islands, by Enai,, . 214 ii CONTENTS.

PAGE

Knowledge of Ignorance, by des Eaux, .... 118

Lines, by Veronica, ... , 117 Longings, by R. M., ..... 119

" Love me Little, Love me Long," by Dido, 247 Monument to Two Children, by Chantrey, by E. H. S., 48 Musical Education, by Einna, ..... 9 Net-Mending on the Beach, by Mas Alta, 200

Notes upon the History of Music, .... 145, 169, 217, 257 On a Forget-me-not brought from Switzerland, by E. H. S., . 89 On lU Luck, by Dido, ..... 59 On the First View of Switzerland, by E. H. S., . 140 On the Uses of the Study of Science, by R. N., 129 On SeK Cultme, by R, N., . 241 Origin of the Blush Rose, by Agnella, .... ,5 Our Moor, by 0. M., . . . . 137 163, 178, 203, 227, 248 Outremer, by Mas Alta, ..... 56 Personal Advantages, by Dido, .... 174 Phenomena Attendant on the Eruption of Mount Vesuvius, by Excelsior, 115 Red Letter Days in Norway, by Alma, .... 83 Reminiscences, by Dido, ..... 210 Sappho's Death Song, by Meigeag Bheag, 82 Similes, by Lutea Reseda, ..... 43, 264 Something about Everything, by Elsie Strivelyne, . 1, 222, 251 Spring Cleanings, by Dido, ..... 78 Stanzas for Music, by E. H. S., 63 The Blessing of the Meek, by Veronica, 12

The Church Congress in Dublin, by Ahiia, 275 The Death of the Bruce's Foster-Brother, by Meigeag Bheag, 97 The Fu-e-Light, by Etna, ..... 29 The Furnace-Watcher's Soliloquy, by Lutea Reseda, 274 The Hunter's Wife, from the German of WUhelm Muller, . 284 1 The Influence of Rhyme on the Poet's Mind, by Lutea Reseda, 193 ! CONTENTS. iii

PAGE The Leaf, from the French of Amhault, by Echo, . 187 The Mari-Stem, by Alma, 101 The New Year, by K. M., . 8 The Reason Why, by Clarence, 72 The Rocking-Stone, by Agatha, 166 The Rose Tree, from the French of De Legre, by Echo, 168 The Seasons and their Plants, by K. H. D., 41,89,110, 140, 188 232, 272 The Turn of the Wheel, by Dido, 150 The 23d of April, by Lutea Reseda, 73 The Wisdom of Passiveness, by Enai, 37 Thoughts on " The Cliristian Year," by Enai, 49 To ——, by E. H. S., . 235 To the Famous Taj at Agra, by Dauphin^, 177 Tourists, by Dido, .... 236 Violets, from the German, by Dido, 37 Waiting behind the Veil, by Lutea Reseda, 104 VVhat Christmas brought to Hfllne Grant, by Enai, 265 Why should We Two Love each Other, by Lutea Reseda, 149 Winter, by Meigeag Bheag, 19 Acrostics and Answers, . 24, 48, 144, 168 191, 216 Enigma and Answer, 216, 240

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THE ATTEMPT.

Som^t^ing about ^ir^rgt^ing.

(MILESTONES.)

LIFE is full of milestones, quoth a friend of mine, whose grey hairs shewed he had travelled many leagvies on the gi'eat highway, and though a trite remark, it furnished some food for thought. We know the look of them so well, these milestones that are memorial stones, and that thicken so ominously on the path as we go ; they are of strange sorts : some were tombstones to mark where another year had died, some overshadowed with the gloom of loss and grief, some, and there are fewest of these, with a gleam of everlasting sunshine about them to show where, with the unexpectedness that adds intensity to joy, our steps turned suddenly into a shady dell of rest and beauty. They are not equidistant seemingly, for years may roll on monotonously while we toil along the unmarked road between one and another of them, while elsewhere we shall find places where each hour appears to add ages to our existence, and each minute deserves its chronicle by the wayside. Each stone as it is erected is photographed into the panoramic picture of the past that we carry in our memories : the child's mind is a pure white scroll, on which the impressions are at first wavering and uncei-tain, but they soon deepen, and cover the fair sheet more rapidly, till the last line is filled in, and the long document is ready for^, the final unrolling ; ere that comes, a man must be inclined to meditate somewhat seriously on the notable spots where these memorials claim his attention. They each record the existence of some thing whose influence no power can wholly oblitei-ate from our own, or other lives ; and one cannot but think that were this fact rightly comprehended, it would surely be accounted of more weight in the regulation of our conduct; it is not merely the positive deed, the actual good or 2 THE ATTEMPT. evil committed that is of consequence, but the negation, the thing not done, should, in many cases, be marked by a milestone, as a minute of chief importance, the neglect of which shall in some way cause suffering. Every good influence, every kindly word, every opportunity of usefulness which we have let slip or passed wilfully by, is matter of moment, and the weight of these alone might crush most of us; often enough we try to hide behind the shield of cir- cumstance, throwing off", on the alleged guidance of a blind chance, the responsibility we fear to assume, but such an argument bespeaks the sybarite if not the coward; there is an intentional, or at least a permitted blindness which clouds most men's eyes on some subject or other, and woe be to them if, in the broad light of day, they call such films of theii- own creating the work of fate. There are milestones for nations as well as for individuals, and one of such this country appears to have reached. How long it may be before we find ourselves beside another none can say, nor can we, for nations or individuals, do more than guess vaguely at the events that lie between one crisis and another in a history. It were but rejieating the words^of the wiser among us to say that the auguries are dark and strange, and that it behoves men to look to their arms and keep watch ; the words of one of England's bravest fighting men apply to more than mere bodily warfare ; and did we " trust Providence and keep our powder dry " in every kind of battle, it would be well for our country and ourselves. Unliappily such advice can hardly commend itself to those who doubt its efiicacy, and if we look around (with eyes cleared from self-made films), we shall see little enough of the faith, which, in rougher and simpler days, went far to bring about the events that are the milestones of foregone ages. This is no mere womanish preaching; it is a conviction that must inevitably force itself on those who can observe the commonest indexes of thought calmly and impartially, and if we, so watching, know perchance some steadfast soul who does trust Providence, and does mle his life by a worthy standard, such knowledge will only deepen the contrasted darkness. Life as it is, almost makes us think that life as history depicts it is indeed a mere picture, beautiful but deceptive. We seem so far away from the great men and women of the past, so far in spirit from the time when Britain's gentlemen were patriots in the noblest sense ; patriotic, as a matter of course, following their professions heartily for the honour of old England. As " Noblesse oblige " was supposed to be sufficient incentive to all nobleness by our French neighbours, so here, the fact of being an Englishman laid a THE ATTEMPT. 3 proud obligation on every man to be honourable and brave, whence it followed that many a milestone was raised, recording some fresh leaf added to the heavy wreaths of English laurels. Then, too, it was the glory of English wi-iters that their literature was pure and worthy of discriminating readers, as at the other end of the social scale, it was the pride of English workmen that their work was faithful and thorough, like none other in the world. This, at least, is the painting already completed for us : that now in progress is somewhat different. Here and there we find conscience and principle valued above place or power, but with the average of mankind the ruling motives are a desire for mere selfish aggrandisement, popularity, wealth, or whatever object is deemed precious for the time, and a devotedness to idle pleasure literally marvellous to lookers on, who see the possibilities of good that surround the idlers, and the meanness of the pursuits for which they are neglected. Then come from lower levels bitter voices telling of men ranked against each other with fierce hatred, and crimes that startle England for a while, and make her ask what manner of beings her honest subjects have become, that they assassinate in the dark. The spirit of fair play seems to have died from among them, and as might be expected, the workman who is no longer the single-heai-ted man he was, shows by his very work that he deteriorates; we have testimony from abroad that English goods are avoided for their badness as they vised to be chosen for their perfection. "We have sham on all hands, even a township, that with a last touch of honest shame will harbour no stranger in its precincts, because its sole manufacture is a fraud; well maj^ our great Apostle of tnith hurl his invective at the delusions and hypocrisy tliat make the seething life about us so full of gloomy prognostications.* We have left to the last the mention of literature, because this branch of the subject touches women more nearly, and their history too has reached a turning-point. There can be no question that the feminine mind is gi-eatly influenced by books ; and considering the amount of light reading that fills a woman's time, it must be of consequence that the tone of the volumes she peruses should be at least not bad, good if it were possible. People affect to consider many of the earlier English authors " improper," who would allow their daughters to peruse modern sensation novels, and thus these mines of beauty are left unexplored, because of a careless stigma attached to them. There is in them undoubtedly a roughness of expression

* Vide Shooting Niagara and After, by Carlyle. THE ATTEMPT. to which we are unaccustomed, but which can be jjassed over, or is probably not understood, while beside it there are diamonds of thought and phraseology gleaming thickly for those who will pick them up; in the modem sensational novel, on the contrary, there may be outward regard paid to propriety of speech, but there is in the place of the diamond a poison, all the more noxious because it is guarded ; neither beauty of style nor delicacy of idea is there to reward the reader, but a heaping up of sensuous description, overstrained action, and too often desperate complaining against the Providence who orders life otherwise than misguided heroes and heroines wovild have it. Can this literature, daily subject to the severest criticism of the better class of reviewers, be otherwise than pernicious to the excitable imaginations of those who feed on it. There should be a black milestone in the path of English authorship to mark the first outbreak of the.sensational school. As we have said, there are turning points now-a-days in woman's history, and therefore all influences that are brought to bear upon her should be carefully watched. We hear so much of fresh fields for her energies, so much of her rights and cajiacities, that it is perhaps only a natural consequence if her reticence and pride appear to be less thought of than formerly, but if a necessary consequence, it is a necessary evil, and one that hardly any good could counterbalance. A woman may be called on to fill some position of unexpected publicity, and may do it without losing a jot of her womanly qualities, but on one condition only, that she is follow- ing the strict path of duty ; heaven has gifted her with a wonderful power of finding her pleasure in that which she ought to do, and this adaptability, fit endowment for a helpmeet, aids her in taking rightly any new place or task. Far difierent is the restless desire for notice, we had almost said notoriety, which tempts so many to thnist themselves beyond their immediate sphere, or foolishly to aflect the " fast" manners and tastes of the opposite sex ; if they once cross the fine line of demarca- tion without a consciousness of duty to steady them, the result must be the loss more or less of their own self-respect, and the deference due to them from men. There have been hard things said of late of English ladies ; and something must be far wrong when men can speak of them in the slighting tone so often heard, and even j)ublic reviews can discuss them in no measured terms. It is not for them to answer, that the burden of blame lies in j)art on the shoiilders of those who, being of the stronger sex, ought to be the nobler leaders ; the balance will be rightly struck in the end,—meantime there are many who would give half a lifetime for power to persuade, nay, to compel their fellow-women, in tlie name of their common womanhood, to live worthily, as those who know that one of their chief duties is to preserve their THE ATTEMPT. 5 native refinement and delicacy untarnished. We all know how much less a woman's influence is in reality than in theory, and no doubt the manners of the age, which leave little time for the old chivalrous companionship, account for this in some degree, but not entirely. Much of it springs from the existence of such a tone of mind as lowers them from theii" right standard. Each one may think her personal influence a mere drop in the ocean, but no condemnation is too strong for her, if, in the face of warn- ing, she persists in any line of conduct that can be stigmatised as unfitting. That such a protest as this is needed, shews the presence of evil; and we would ask our sisters to think earnestly what manner of record shall be written for them on the milestone in their lives that marks the ending of another year. ELSIE STRIVELYNE.

ONCE, very long ago, so long since that the time cannot be computed with any satisfactory degree of correctness, all the roses were white. And it came to pass, that in the pride of their hearts the roses began to desjiise all other flowers. " Look at the poppy," they said, "how flaunting, how garish,"—and the poppy, albeit a sturdy enough fellow, blushed more scarlet than before, and drooped his vulgar head. Then the roses laughed aloud, and looking around, abused their comrades still further. Their rude taunts banished many a homely blossom from the garden ; the modest violet withdrew, and in lonely nooks and beneath tall hedgerows scented the air unseen ; the mild daisy, sheltered by the long green grass, turned its honest eye ever upwards. Not so the sensitive snowdrop,—it hung its gentle head and mourned continually in old woods or on verdant graves in the churchyard. The lily, too, conscious of its height, and ill at ease without its little friend the snowdi-op, drooped its slender neck. The primrose, protected by its gi-eat, rough leaves, dared the roses; but becoming tired of strife, retired also from the garden, and joined its friend, the violet. The gaudy tulip, the insiped uninteresting dahlia, the proud ger- anium,—these held their place against the roses, but peace had left the garden, and warfare and foolish boastings alone were heai'd. These murmurs at length reached the ears of the queen of the fairies, then hold- ing her court iii fairy-land, and many were the debates, and endless the suggestions raised by the account of these strange doings. At length the queen spoke, and every sound was hushed. 6 THE ATTEMPT. " And do they, indeed, these haughty roses," said the queen, " by reason of theii" spotless purity and outward beauty, our own kind gift,—do they assume to themselves a superiority over our no less beloved subjects 1 Know, oh, proud and foolish roses, that your days are numbered, and henceforth there shall be no roses for ever." The queen ceased speaking, and a faint murmur of applause (for etiquette per- mitted it not to be louder) arose among the faii-ies. And now an important dis- cussion arose. Who was to be the ambassador sent to apprise the rebellious roses of their doom? After debates of great length, the loveliest fairy of all the court, yet by reason of her high birth uniting dignity with beauty, the stately Lilian was chosen. Yes, smile not, reader, as if dignity were not to be found as well as beauty in a fairy not over four inches high, Lilian was chosen. The queen's stern decree was written with red ink, obtained from the poppy's brilliant leaves. A hawthorn bush supplied a pen, and on a broad white water-lily the terrible decision was carefully in- scribed. Four skillful faries then, with united strength, rolled the stiff fairy vellum into a formal roll, four others, inserting stout blades of grass beneath the document, tied the ends tightly. Then others hied them to a neighbouring hive, and returned with stores of wax, on which the royal seal was stamped. These seals, confirming her Majesty's command, were solemnly affixed to the deed in various places, and then Lilian, on bended knee, received her instructions. Mounted on a powerful butter- fly, whose scarlet and black wings struck awe into the heart of the beholder, amid the plaudits of the whole court, and, armed with the authoritative document, the beau- tiful Lilian started on her journey. Behind her, less proudly mounted on humble bees, rode four little pages. Many were the brave knights of fairy-land who, for love of fair Lilian, entreated to accompany her, but Lilian refused all such offers, and went un- attended, save by these four young pages, each dressed alike, with a peaked cap plucked from the sweet blue-bell, a breastplate made from a cloven nut, and green oak leaf tunics. Thus accompanied, Lilian accomplished her journey, and entering the garden, read aloud, according to the queen's command, the stern and irrevocable order. But little attention paid the roses. The attention of all was ri\-ited by the ambasadress. Never before had they realised the existence of anything more lovely than their own cold, spotless beauty. In their pride they had owned no superior, and now before them stood a creature so exquisite, so surpassingly fair, that each haughty rose could not but acknowledge her own inferiority. And in truth Lilian was lovely. She wore the court-dress of a high-born fairy, a dress woven of the THE ATTEMPT. 7 finest and purest cob-web, gathered early with the dew-drojis upon it. These spark- ling gems were skillfully interwoven with the cob-web, so that the whole had the ap- pearance of one brilliant flexible jewel. To the foot of this gorgeous robe fell Lilian's golden tresses, entwined with dew-drops, which are the fairies' diamonds. Her eyes, of course, were blue, and her cheek can be compared to nothing, as at that time the blush rose had no existence. The sight of this lovely and hitherto unknown tint caused each rose's heart to die within her. Each loathed her own unmeaning purity, her star- ing whiteness. But this self abasement did not last long. Behold a wonderous change! The uniform tint disappears. Racked with cankering jealousy, a sickly yellow hue o'erspreads the pale cheek of yonder envious rose. Shame, keen and stinging, clothes another full-blown beauty with a red as bright as ever decked a despised and hated poppy, while the rose which blooms above turned a deep angry crimson through wild, mad fury. Another less coleric, but gifted somewhat with a silly vanity, attempts to produce on her own wan cheeks the lovely colour of the fair Lilian, but the i-ed, hastUy stolen from a neighbouring cai-nation, runs in streaks, and wins but laughter from her mocking companions. Some, indeed, wrapped in self- complacency, retain, in cold indifference or haughty pride, their original snowy hue ; but among these many blossoms, one, and one alone repents; and filled with sudden humility and shame without a sting, blushes softly, gently, sorrowfully. The eye of the fairy, LUian, fell upon this repentant rose, and, filled with jiity for her droop- ing confusion, and admiration of her unconscious lowly beauty, plucked a leaf, and remounting her butterfly, hastened back to the fairy palace. Here, on bended knee, she produced the leaf, and sweetly jirayed the queen, for the sake of this one sorrowful rose, to forgive the rest. " I do so, fair Lilian," replied her Majesty, " for the sake of this rose, which me- thinks hath imitated well the colour of thine own sweet cheek, as well as for thine own earnest pleading ; but henceforth let the roses be no more of one colour, but let each keep the tint she hath assumed. As for this sweet rose, it shall be called Lilian's rose." And so it continued to be called for many ages, and this name the fairies whis- pered to mortals in their dreams, or to lovers who scattered the petals in their happy thoughtlessness. But one fond lover, growing bold, christened it the maiden's blush, in sportive retort upon his lady love. And at this, the queen of the faries laughed, and said, "Well, be it so." So Lilian's rose, or the maiden's blush, or the blush rose, remaineth unto this day—but few know the origin thereof. AGNELLA. THE ATTEMPT.

^t leto fear—1868.

Slowly the dawn is creeping Bxit glowing, mystic visions Over the waiting hills ; In others beckon there ; Bleak wastes, where shadows floated. 'Neath wintry skies foretelling. The spectral morning fills. The scents of summer air.

Some wake in sudden trembling They murmur, " Joys will follow. To know the old life gone ; For soon the young birds sing. In hopeless desolation. And sweet the thoughts that cluster Beneath the New Year's sun. About the robes of spring." * * * * The skies are changeful ever, All ! whirling forward wildly The golden hours have flown. Time pauseth never more— Chilled by the north wind's whisper— Pitiless steering onward The leaves are dead and gone. To the eternal shore. Last eve, above the moorland. One pathway still directeth, The clouds were amber-fringed. (Though oft 'neath weeping rain). But twilight deepened raj^idly, The wanderer's footsteps homeward, The light with darkness tinged. Ere yet the day-star wane. The New Year's morn is breaking, * * * * Scarce gone the hoary head ; The dawn may softly glimmer. Perchance his smiles be sweeter. The pale clouds gather light. Yet many weep the dead ! But the Old Year hath vanished For ever in the night. One gazing 'midst the dai'kness. Watching his dying breath, All earth-born things we grasp at. Hears with a bitter yearning Quickly with shadows play,— The tolling of his death. The time-girt land prepareth us, For the undying day. Her joys live but in memories, And chill winds sweep them o'er, The vast sea of eternity. Stirring her tresses rudely, Waves closer on our ears, Within the open door ! Ere long its billows pierce the mist, The endless morn appears ! E. M. THE ATTEMPT. v

usicul (!5'butntion.

THERE is probably no branch of female education which is more frequently studied than music, and probably none from which the beneficial results are less obvious. Every girl in a family is " taught music," as it is called—that is, they are taught to play the piano gracefully, whether they have any taste for it or not, and the only appreciable result from all the time and money spent in this manner is, that in society our ears are assailed by a series of remarkable sounds proceeding from voices and pianos. No doubt, these sounds have a definite social value in rendering the voices of speakers in the same room less audible, and thus promoting conversation ; but it may be doubted whether this result could not be as easily, and perhaps more pleas- antly attained by the introduction of a drum or a barrel-organ. It is uncompliment- ary, at least, to consider social music as chiefly serviceable for ijiducing people to employ themselves otherwise than in listening to it. Surely the musical education, which produces such a result must have something faulty in it. At the present day manual dexterity seems to be the only test of the proficiency of a pianiste, and loud and rapid execution of florid passages that of a singer. But music does not consist in these florid and noisy productions. They are very weaii- some after the first feeling of astonishment has worn off. Music, considered apart from the art of music, is harmony of idea, expressed by harmony of sound. "Would it not conduce to the production of harmonious sounds if some of the labour now ex- pended in acquiring dexterity of voice or hand were spent in learning to distinguish true sounds from false ones 1 How many bravuras do we hear executed a semitone sharp, or more often flat, throughout, without the performer having the faintest idea that there is anything wrong 1 Frequently, indeed, the piano itself is out of tune, and no one seems to mind it. If such people could only feel the torture which they inflict upon the sensibilities of others, surely these faults would be amended. A musical ear, as it is commonly, though erroneously termed, is more easily ac- quired than is usually supposed. We know that all the senses are " exercised by reason of use." The eye, for example, is educated to a degree of precision in judging of distances, which is, to the untrained, perfectly amazing; we see this constantly in the case of soldiers, who are thus enabled to become thorough marksmen. Were children at an early age trained to give attention to minute distinctions of sound, they would insensibly acquire what is called a correct ear, and when regular musical instruction commences, much labour would be saved both to teacher and pupil. It 10 THE ATTEMPT. is not difficult to teach children to listen to sounds, and by simply listening they will learn to distinguish between those which are agreeable and the reverse. This brings to mind the fact of William Crotch, at three years of age, picking out harmonious intervals on his father's organ. It would be useless to expect every child to become a musical prodigy by any amount of training; but what is here intended is, to point out a simple way of teach- ing children to distinguish true from false sounds—viz., by inducing them to recog- nise concordant and discordant intervals when sounded. Without any musical instrument, this result can be as well, if not better attained, by inducing them to listen to the harmonies of nature. At lirst they will hear nothing; but let them listen long enough, and they will feel the pleasure arising from the beautiful mingling of the sounds, proceeding from every tree and plant and bird, and thus every breeze will bring them fresh delight. What a pity it is for people to walk among the rustling trees, in a wood, for example, and say they hear nothing ! To listen to the thunder storm, the grandest oratorio of nature, and simply feel frightened ! They lose all the exquisite enjoyment to be derived from these simple sources, solely because they have not been taught to listen. Without going so far as to believe in the actual " music of the spheres," we may surely expect to find harmonious sounds proceeding from natural objects, because we see they are all constructed in harmonious and perfect proportion; and objects vibrating in true proportions must produce harmony. Perhaps the best way of acquii-ing what is called a correct ear, is to learn to tune a piano. This art is easily acquired, and is very economical and convenient; for the instrument may be always kept correct. After reading some elementary work on Acoustics, to get an idea of the ratios of sounds, any one can tune a piano, even without instruction, by simply keeping in mind the rule " make the fifths as flat, and the major thirds as sharp as the ear will bear them." Now that the natural imper- fection of the scale is remedied by dividing the octave into twelve equal semitones, the task is easy. The only difficulty consists in di\dding the first octave, as the others are, of course, tuned from it. Musical educ9,tion seems to be conducted upon a mere mechanical idea of music. We ai-e to be " Artistes" now-a-days, and not " Musicians." Indeed, the meaning of this word seems to be lost; for a musician is popularly supj)osed to mean one who can play upon some instrument. But real musical education is an intellectual as well as a mechanical process; and it should embrace the outlines at least of the science, as well as the art of music. How can any one interpret music who does not THE ATTEMPJ. 11 comprehend even the order and symmetry of the parts, any more than he could paint without knowing how to blend colours, or play croquet without knowing even the rules ? We are told, that in Queen Elizabeth's days, no one was considered a pro- perly qualified member of society, unless he or she could take part in the difficult music of that period. If a person were unable to join, his education was thought to have been neglected. Why has this notion passed out of date 1 We all flatter ourselves that we have been " taught music," and yet, when even the simplest part music is proposed, few are able to join in it; and notwithstanding, the very people who are unable to do so have the conscience to go through most wonderful exhibitions of dexterity of voice or finger in the form of a solo. It seems to be forgotten that music is essentially harmony ; and no single voice, however melodious, can produce harmony, because harmony is the result of the simultaneous production of two or more concordant sounds. Not that a solo well executed is to be despised, but how many execute them well 1 Part music is really easier to perform, and is more pleasing to the hearers. Reading music at sight is also an accomplishment sadly neglected, even among professionals of high standing. Why should this be 1 We are all taught, at our earliest singing lessons, to intonate the intervals correctly; and surely a little practise would enable us to retain the memory of every interval, so as to produce it at will, as soon as we see what interval is to be sounded. We learn to associate a sound with a written character in ordinary reading, then why not do the same when the sounds are expressed in musical characters ? It would be needless to remark upon the great convenience of this accomplishment in ordinary society. Supposing that some people are so unhappily organized as not to be capable of being taught correct intonation (which is doubtful, although so uniformly asserted), why should these people be encouraged to inflict upon society tuneless sounds 1 What is the necessity for every one being taught music 1 It is scarcely possible to imagine any pleasure arising from tuneless sounds, to either listener or performer, and probably the time spent in acquiring a mechanical knowledge of music might, in these cases, be better employed. In Germany, indeed, every child is taught to sing, just as it is taught to read ; but the system of teaching is veiy different from ours. The training begins very early, and part singing is chiefly practised. Thus every one is tavight to sing in tune and time. While in Great Britian, where the very climate would ruin the voice of St Cecilia herself, and is justly chargeable with causing much of our harshness of voice, we are simply taught to perform solos! As for time, it is so commonly neglected, that 12 THE ATTEMPT. it seems almost hopeless to expect improvement. The truth is, that we are taught musie because it is fashionable, and not because it is a source of the highest jileasure. We do not look upon it as a thing to be loved, but as an ornamental branch of study to look well in society. Indeed, as a musically disposed German phrased it, " In England you do not study; you take lessons for a year, and think you know all about it; and then you do not play, you only tease the piano." It has been said, that the almost universal use of the piano in England is one cause of our mediocrity. Piano playing requires a certain amount of mechanical work, during which the mind wanders away from the music which is being jjlayed. When the instrument itself requires attention, as does a violin, or guitar, or flute, (fcc, constant mental application is necessary ; and the general result of the increased amount of time and thought bestowed is a great increase in musical knowledge. Before pianos were made so cheaply, musical education was the privilege of the few, and they seem to have reached a high standard; while, at present, it is more generally diffused, and the standard of excellence is proportionally lower. But it seems a great pity that such an elevating and beautifying art as music should not be thoroughly, as well as universally, studied. EINNA.

YE lowly, faithful ones, who meekly bear Your heavy cross of earthly woe and care. Complaining not, but bravely toiling on. Waiting with patient hearts till light shall dawn. Knowing, that though the way be dark and dim. The darkness is in us and not in Him, That every hour that passes of earth's night Brings us more near to Him who is the Light; More blest ye are than those whose sky is fair, Whose path is smooth, who scorn the cross to bear ; Who know not what it is to wait or pray, Or see, with quiet minds, joys pass away : A higher, deeper peace your hearts doth fill, The peace of those who do the Master's will. VERONICA. THE ATTEMPT. 13

"WHEREFORE art thou downcast, Cloris, son of Menalcas? Why rejoicest thou not in thy youth f asked the aged mentor of the noblest shepherd in his valley. " Alas ! father, youth hath not always reason to rejoice in itself alone !" " Wisdom is the breath of the gods, a king and a servant unto men and all their actions. Can he not help thee, son 1" " Nay, father, wisdom and I are at war !" " I know thou hast lost thy brother, friend Amyntas, in the whirlpool of the outer world. Dost thou vex thy soul with unavailing grief for him ?" " Father, I did love the youth !" " Can this be all thy woe ? He will return again—perhaps enriched, to thee. Thy father's father was my friend, let me be thine ! Open thy heart unto the eye and the ear that hold no communion with the lips, that they should e'er disclose thy secret. Ti-ust me, Cloris, I was once young, and now am doubly rich in age." " Alas ! father, then, I love a maiden !" " Even so, I thought, in hearing thy most piteous strains. Thou shouldst not feed thy grief with songs that make it thrive !" " Ah, father ! If thou didst but love the maid. Thou couldst not know her and not love her. Star-eyed, Diana-browed and coral-lipped, is my fair maiden's face— graceful and slender as an osier wand her form—crystal of soul, and tender aye in heart to all but me. No tale of woe unmoistened leaves her eye, unhelping finds her hand !" " Then, why thus mourn if thou hast found so much V " She loves me not, and will have none of me ! A shepherd should not love ! All things in nature speak to me of her, forbidding to forget. The hours when thought can fly most free are ministers of aching agony." " A shepherd should love, as all other men, and yet thereby become more man, not less ! Love doth ennoble our hearts, puiify our desires, enlarge our minds, strengthen our souls, unroll secrets unto us, and transform mean things to noble. Love is the greatest prophet on the earth. And I, the old, speak thus unto the young !" " But if it be not well-returned ?" " It is not love received, but (jiven, that blesseth us. All that I said is wrought by thine ov^n love; anotlisr^s only comforts thee, and warms, though it is greatly 14 THE ATTEMPT. to be well-desired. Be still a man, ti-ust in the power of love, and in thyself. Let the gods share thy heart, which they will raise through strength unto success; for I have never seen a strong heart strongly love a worthy soul, and bend its undi- vided powers to that one end, and not attain it. Let thine aim be true, thine inten- tion simple, thine endeavour constant, and thou must be successful." " Ah, father, yet it is not so with me. My love has ever been for her; it grew up with my growth, and strengthened with my strength ! My eyes might watch my flocks upon these hills in silent solitude, but every thought and memory strayed to her—yet I was happy once. But on the morning that Amyntas left, when I had gazed my soul out through my eyes, and saw no more of him, she and the neigh- bours also watched him go. I saw her marble fingers arch a shade to let her star-eyes bear the blazing sun ; but, as I turned, she turned, and her dark eyes fell burning upon miae but for one moment, yet it stamped my life, the gaze so thrilled me, and then froze on me, and yet bound every sense. Since then she has been all to me—life has no other. Tlie more I love the more she shuns my love. The garlands that I weave she wears not. If I pour my soul in song beneath her lattice in the night, more winterly the morning riseth on me. If I ajiproach, she flees ; speak—she is gone ! Ah ! father, art thou wise enough for this ? It seems as hojDcless changing hatred into love, as black night to bright day." " Yet doth the very night grow into day, and darkest seem the hours the near- est light. Wait till the sun takes courage to himself and clear unveils his bvu'ning heart and soul. So plainly open to her thy full heart—speak in no riddles—through no songs or flowers, but in the simple truth. It may bo that behind the veil that glooms between you, may stretch out a whole Elysium for thee. May she not love thee, though even thou wouldst not have her fling herself first at thy feet 1" " Nay, father—but I fear—my words may fix my doom. I would then sufler more !" " Nay, verily ! Doubt and anxiety are lingering tortures that gnaw the heart, unstring the sinews of thy soul and body. The longer thou endurest, the weaker art thou to endure ; the stronger tJuit ivhich tortures. Up—be a man, whether beloved or not ! The soul is higher than a thing of time—so fear not timely sorrow ! But hast thou nought to do on earth save to woo her ? Did not thy friend Amyntas love thee, and thou him ! And yet his aged parents, having now no son, dwell in a cot where the cold wind intrudes. Their garden is a wilderness of weeds, their few poor sheep unshorn ! Sickness hath weakened more their aged limbs. Hast thou no thought or feeling left for them ? . Dost thou deserve rich love as thine own share?" THE ATTEMPT. 15 " Ah ! father, thou hast touched me to the quick !" " Weave willow-work for tliose who will accept, and thank thee meanwhile, more than garlands scorned, as is the weaver. Wield thou another tool than lyres ; at other casements than thy frozen fair. Labour for thy Amyntas—yea, for all who need thy help. Thus shalt thou soon restore thy self-respect; and that shall end the fear that now unnerves thy tongue, forbidding it to ask the truth, and makes thine ear shiver at thought of hearing it, as doth a sick man shiver at the sharp north wind. Child of the son of my friend, strive to be like him whom I loved in the days when we were young together." " I will, father ! I will give up soft di-eams and wreathed flowers—and break my lazy lyre ! I will restore the cottage of Amyntas—and labour for his parents as my own ! And others, too, I know. I will harden myself by all; I will live far from the haunts of young men and maidens. I will grow into a solitary sage." " Nay, nay, friend Cloris, be not rash ! Break not the lyre whence thou may'st draw sweet sounds for idle hoiirs, nor withdraw thyself from the society of thy kind, for human nature needs all friendship, as flowers do the sun. Study what thou knowest not yet—to hold the balance fair between extremes—to weigh the good and bad—thy duties and thy joys—then shalt thou find thy ■WT.sdom is the true beam of the scales and sti-ength in either balance. But these things thou mnst learn for thine own self! Adieu, awhile !" " Father, thanks, and farewell!" And Cloris sat silent, pondering on his words, until the sun set, and he gathered his flocks to their evening rest. Then he walked to the cottage of Amyntas, forgetting for awhile, in plans of good, the scorn of much- loved Daphne.

Fair was the maiden Cloris loved, and her sovd was pure and young. She too was sad and listless in her labours day by day—and sought for omens and for spells, from all things sent by fate—-yet would not hope, though they auspicious were. Oft had her mother sought to ease the wound her mother's feelings guessed; but the maiden closed her heart upon it, hugging the sting that pierced it, and in a lonely covert now she wept and wailed. " Ah, misery of life, to love and not be loved ! Gods above, hearken to a maiden's prayer, and send her help !" " They hearken, and they send help, even through me. Tell me, my daughter, why l^ese bitter tears," said her fond mother, laying the gold-tressed head upon her 16 THE ATTEMPT, knee, and her kind hands upon it. " Nay, speak not, for I know thy grief. Have I not seen my darling's heart upon her face 1 Have I not known " " Say not so, mother ; have I written thus that all might read 1" " Nay, daughter, none but a mother's heart! Fear not, my child, but trust me!" " Ah, mother ;" and the maiden's voice broke out in sobs. " Wliat have I done, I should be punished thus 1 I never sought the shepherds on the hills; nor smiled the smile that draws men to our feet; nor stayed their glances as they passed my face. I sought for friendship at the hands of none, but one would ever seek me, haunting my steps, and acted love until I leai-ned the part! Alas, changed now." " I see not quite the depth of all thy sadness." " I was a child till love made me bloom forth in womanhood, and taught me how to mark its signs. When black-eyed Anna came to dwell in the cottage next to ours, I feared her not. But soon I found he looked on her more kindly than on me. How shy he is to cross the threshold of our door, but I have heard him laughing long within her home, when he and Amyntas sought to win her love. Alas, his looks of yore deceived me, or else he is now grown too fickle and too folse for any maiden's love ! Yet cannot I find strength to cast him out of mine." " But, daughter, what proof hast thou he loves her?" " Love writ on air floats off on the fii-st breeze ! He plays his lute within our garden-bounds :—is it for her or me ? He bringeth wreathes and posies :—are they for her or me ? The shepherds say he pines with deeper love than for Amyntas:—is it for her or me 1 Wlien / approach, ne seems distressed ; I see that I intrude, and fly. Sometimes he tries to sjieak, as if to tell the truth,—my maiden-pride flings a chill mask over my face. I try to seem to scorn him, but failing therein scorn my- self, and fly to hide my feelings. Would I had never seen him, or had seen to hate him ! or would that laughter-loving beauty had never come so near. I fain would change lives with my silly lambs, or even be stifiened to a laurel-tree ! Nay, would that T were dead !" " All, daughter, now thou truly grievest me. In this thing dost thou sin against the gods, and how canst thou e'er hope a blessing if thou dost vex their souls 1 As a woman's strength is trust, so is her wisdom patience. Trust in the gods, be patient till they will thy will, meanwhile obey them. Dost thou trust in patience when thou criest thus for death 1 Up and be doing; mourn not here for self, when all the world of sorrow needs thy hand. Wilt thou shun all the draught of life, be- THE ATTEMPT. 17 cause one little bitter drop, poured in the goblet, waits to work thee strength 1 One drop, and aU the rest is good. Hast thou not youth and strength, sunshine and beauty, house and friends, thy father and myself; thy food, thy clothing, yea, thy daily work 1 And can one bitter turn these sweets to gall. Out on thee, girl ! Hast thou no work to occupy thy hands that thou dost weary thee in fruitless toil, making thy troubles grow by nursing them 1 Our heap of wool is high that should be spun, the weeds are rank amid thy garden plots, neglect is seen wherever thou hast power." " Ah, mother, spare me, and forgive, yea, tJiou dost love me still." " And many more than I ! But there is much to do. I may not sit here idle nursing the whims of a poor love-sick girl. Thy father cometh soon, home from the fields." " But thou shalt tend him ; what have / to do 1" "Hast thou no pity in thy maiden-heart for those that need a daughter"? Amyntas is away. He was the one child of their age, to his old parents. Sickness has laid them low. They have no help, no nurse. Their cottage walls are tottering at each blast, and through the chinks the wind doth pierce to make them shiver, half-covered as they lie. Their little heap of wool, unwoven and unspun, lies in the dew, their garden stores decay, untended and ungathered. Hadst thou but loved those that need love, thy soul would then have found dear occupation for its wasted hours ; thy labours and thy blessing would have twice returned unto thyself in strength. Ah, prove thy father's daughter, be more brave. Prove mine, by loving widely, bearing patiently." The maiden dried her tears, and went over the well-known fields, to the cottage she once knew so well. Truly its face was desolate. The door creaked on its hinges as she passed, and a bleak wind blew in upon the sick. " Has my dear daughter Anna come at last, to nurse us for Amyntas ! Nay, it is Daphne ! Oh, for a cup of water, cool and clear, to quench my thirst!" exclaimed the aged matron. Nimbly the maiden flew to draw cool water from the purling stream ; and bathed their brows, and gave them drink, and made them food, and smoothed their hard, worn couch. She stopped the crannies with the refuse wool, and spun the best to make it ready for the weaving-time. She heard then steps without, and labouring hands, but heeded not, and spun on faithfully in closest work, singing in low-hummed aii-s that lulled the sick to sleep. And as they slept, and as she sung, the song grew to herself, and took shape from the troubles of her heart. 18 THE ATTEMPT. Cloris ! if thou didst know All that thou art to me, Wouldst thou thus wandering go 1 Wouldst thou thus careless be ? Memory nor I can tell When first thou wi-oughtst thy spell In my heart's hidden cell. As doth the chaliced bell Unto the mountain bee That careless roaming flies, All in its heart that lies, Unclosing, tempts his eyes, Trusting a friend to see. So, all that best I prize, Gave I to thee !

Cloris ! if thou didst know Half of the bitter pain Left in hearts rifled so Where joy ne'er comes again, Wouldst thou thus leave thy sting As in a lifeless thing, Where it no death could bring ? Wouldst thou tlnis coldly wing, Fearing no tears from me, Ofi" through more sunny bowers. Seeking more honied flowers. Loving no vanished hours t Cold though I seem to thee. Narrow and mean the powers Given to a bee ! And longer had she sung, had not an upward glance disclosed her Cloris on the threshold fixed. His love-lit eyes kindled to joy her fear. " Forgive me that I listened to words I longed to hear ! Love doth unroll strange secrets to us both ! Blessed be the sage that sent the day that saw me seek my Daphne in the home of grief, and win her love for mine. Thine have I ever been !" LUTEA RESEDA. THE ATTEMPT. 19

mmhx.

WHERE are the summer's beauties 1 Her flower-wrought crown hath faded, Her robe of living green ? Dark clouds sweep o'er the sky ; Her coronet of blossoms 1 And where summer breezes whispered Her azure skies serene 1 Tlie wild winds howl and sigh.

Where are the soft wing'd breezes The birds have left the greenwood. That played among the flowers, They fled with falling leaves ; That blessed with grateful coolness And the morn, that hath lost her minstrels. The sultry summer hours ? In silence wakes and grieves.

Where are the summer's songsters. Only the robin-redbreast, That with their tales of glee Hopping from spray to spray, Bathed every grove in music. Cheers with heart-gladdening music Made vocal every tree ? The brief dark winter day.

Fled hath the glorious summer. Welcome ! thou bright-eyed songster, Defied is the robe of green ; Cheering the hearts that mourn, And a gloomy mantle drooping O'er summer's by-gone glories, Rests on the dreary scene ! With promise of spring's return.

Bidding the hearts that sorrow Look past earth's chilling snows To the everlasting spring land. Where joy immortal grows. MEIGEAG BHEAG. 20 THE ATTEMPT.

BEING MSS. TEMPORE CAROLI PRIMI. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

When ye hoste entered, Patrick and George did both appeare to be veii-ie muche muddled with drink ; and Patrick babbled foolishlie of his master's being bound ye next morning to ride untoe Longforde, ye which place they purposed to reach verrie quicklie. I at once perceeved what he did meane; and turning rounde, did sharplie rebuke him for a drunken goode-for-naughte, who did ever blab of his master's intentions, when they woiilde rather he kept his tongue within his owne head. " If we are a-going untoe Longforde," I sayd, " there is no neede for youe to be a-saying soe to all ye Avorlde ?" for I thoughte that possiblie it mighte sette ye other on a wi-ong track. Soe then ye hoste gave us our lightes, and sayd he woulde shewe us untoe ye chamber he had for us two gentlemen ; and oure servants shoulde have a loft above ye stable. Then Arthur sayd—" No ; but by my faith, we muste keepe oure servants with us—drunken fellowes, they will sette ye whole house a-fire—have youe anic straw or hay lyeing in that loft?" To which the other sayd—" Yea, he had a plentie of it." " Then, an they goe there with a lighte, we may all be burned in oure beds —they have done greate mischiefe afore nowe ; on mine honour, they shall not goe—they can welle enow sleepe at oure bed's foote on ye floore ; Master Wil- loughbie, tayke youe that fellowe there," pointing me M'Donnell—" you hounde, Samjison, come youe with me." And, whiles ye man looked on in amazement, and wist not what to say, we did dragge oure supposed drunkards uppe ye stairs ; and call- ing to oure hoste to awaken us modei-ately early, we did goe into ye chamber, and bolted fast oure doore behind us. Then, to followe uppe what we had begun, we did soundlie and loudlie rate oure fellowes ; and at last disposed ourselves as if for sleep ; but in verrie deede, to watche by ye dooi-e, with oure pistols loaded, and swordes loose in scabbard, and to waite for dearest lyfe, leste we shoulde be surprised. We did pur- pose to steale forthe of ye windowe, and flee as fast as we coulde untoe a littel sea-port towne, yclept Kilcashel, which we knewe did lie some fifteen or twentie miles untoe ye easte. We waited until an hour after midnight; then, with greate and infinite ])ains, we noyselesslie did open ye windowe, it being eighte feet off ye grounde, and one by one did droppe downe untoe ye grounde belowe, I myselfe being ye laste in ye roome. Then, cache gripjiing a pistol, we stole toward ye stable, where we hearde oure steedes snorting and pawing. Egerton and M'Donnell did enter to saddle THE ATTEMPT. 21 them, and Sampson and I kept guard without. Ye moone was darke behind cloudes; but suddenlie I saw a shadow steale round ye gable-end of the stable, and approache nighe untoe George Sampson, who stoode by ye doore-poste, then there was a sudden scuffle, a sounde of oathes, a flashing of sworde-blades, and gleaming of a j)istol-barrel, and a groan—some one fell heavilie to ye earthe; and George came hastilie to me, his rapier in his hande trickling with bloode. " I have slayne ye iun-keejjer," he sayd, hurriedly, " it was to save ourselves, and he woulde have shot me; we muste fly; the others will be neare." " Do youe knowe if there are more than two others 1" " Nay, not nowe, they expect more before morning." " Carrie away his bodie where it will not be scene ; then come backe." I ran into ye stable ; Patrick was buckling my saddle girths, and ye other horses were welle-nighe readie. I told them what had happed; and bidding them leave ye horses, and see if Samp- son had hidden the dead man, we all went forthe of ye stable, and, by my lyfe, onlie to stand face to face with ye two strangers of ye evening. There was no neede of quiet 7ioive,~we drew, and rushed on them. It was three to two, for Sampson was not yet come; and a harde fighte it was. A deepe broad scar thou wilt see on my forehead, I shall ever keepe to minde me of that night. To be brief—Patrick stretched one of them for dead, shot through ye cheste; himselfe getting his sworde- hapde welle slashed ; ye other lad's legge broke by a pistol-bullet from Arthur's barrel, and him we lefte groaning desperatlie—ye poore wretch. Arthur got but small hurte ; Sampson, a deepe wounde in's left leg ; and I had my bridle-hande welle mauled by one of ye fellowes ; yet we all made shift to mounte, and ride away as rapidly as we coulde towards Kilcashel, committing ourselves untoe ye care of God. Though our hurtes bled sorelie, we did ride fast, and hoped to reache ye sea before oure doings shoulde be found out by ye people passing ye "O'Neil's Golden Stirrup-Cup." But Ballymorish a piece of water called lough Portlea dri"vdng them untoe ye water at ye sworde's point wildlie shrieking for helpe it struck terror (Here a piece is torn out, and partly obliterated • it would be bootless to give you the few disjointed sentences I can make out; so I shall begin transcribing again where the writing is distinct. The mutilation is greatly to be regretted, as a consi- derable part of the doings of our party is thereby lost.) Here, then, we lay in hiding for some weeke or more, welle-nighe stai-ved, and our woundes giving us greate paine. Poor Sampson coulde not beare ujipe, and one nighte he died. As welle as we coulde, we made him a grave, and laid him therein ; 22 THE ATTEMPT, all by nighte, for we durst not move in ye daye. Ye colde was verrie greate, ye frost lying sharpe and hard o' nightes ; and all rounde us hearing suche continual cries and groans of mortal anguish as welle-nighe troie oure bloode with hoiTor. There was a small crack, through ye which I coulde sometymes discern what was passing; and, Eliot, I have scene thinges that I woulde give my righte hande if I coulde forget—suche awfulle, devilish, abominable doings of bloode-shedde and mui"der, and of fearefuUe torture suche as can never have entered intoe ye hearte of man before to execute, that I cannot write them untoe youe,—for ye worke of bloode was going on all over ye countrie—none was spared, tender child, maiden, or woman—nor man nor boy— higlie and lowe—all alike perished—and thryce happie they who onlie die at once, and were not tortured so fiercelie as Satan himselfe may torture those in hell. Oure horses and all our baggage were gone, we knewe not whether—we had but our armes, and some gold pieces concealed about us; if we coulde but reache KUcashel, we mighte yet escape; we were living almoste a dailie deathe : and soe neare untoe oure place of refuge, for Kilcashel was but two miles off. We did once or twice essay to mayke oure escape ; but were obliged to come back agayne untoe oure hiding- place. Once or twice we were verrie nearly discovered, in ye which case this letter to thee woulde have beene never written. Had M'Donnell proven false, and betrayed us, we muste all have beene lost; but being a Protestant, as welle as an Irishman, we were safe ; for if we fell, he fell. But one nighte Patrick brought us intelligence that there lay a small Scots craft off Garthmore Breake—a point of land about three mUes from Kilcashel, and that if we coulde by anie means he woulde undertayke to beare messages though cost him's lyfe felt I woulde almoste rather lie doune and be lefte to my deathe they sayd me nay, I niuste try (Here is another break, this letter has met with some mishaps, it is true; I had almost rather that it had been any other, as this is so important. But a considerable piece is half obliterated by the action of water, or some acid spilt over it, so that only words and portions of sentences show here and there. From all that I can make out, it would appear that the three—Egerton, Willoughbie, and M'Donnell, con- trived, in some miraculous way, to get to the little Scotch vessel that had unwarily come so near the land ; though happily for them, as we can well imagine. I wisli we had the particulars of this adventure; but we must leave these to imagination. It would appear, though, that a most desperate struggle took place between the small crew of the Scotch lugger and our friends, against a party of Irish, who nearly succeeded in taking them prisoners; and, in the fray, Hubert was most severely wounded, as we THE ATTEMPT. 23 shall further hear. The letter goes on from the time when they set sail for Scotland, their foes stUl in chase after them.) As I lay, fainting and half-dead in the littel cabin, I coulde heare ye shouts of ye men as they trampled to and fro on deck, and ye shots fired at intervals on ye boate that still helde her waye on our wayke. Egerton, in spite of his woundes, was still amongste ye men, inciting them by his braverie to doe or die. M'Donnell remayn- ed with me, and had harde worke to keepe ye lyfe from a-going out of me. My broken arme and ribs did cause me most woefuUe paine; and I almost prayed for deathe to come. Greate parte of ye tyme I lay unconscious ; and when, after several dayes of stormie and tempestuous weather, that sometymes almoste swamped oure poore littel bark, we reached ye thryce welcome harbour of Port-Patrick. I knewe not we were safe, but was in ye greate agonies of raving fever. Ye goode people of Port-Patrick made greate stir aboute us; and soone, Arthur, who desjiite he was verrie sicke coulde still move aboute, founde an honest man, whose name was Andrew Johnstone, who agreed to receeve us into his house, " that youre friend," say'd he, " may die in peace, and may have Christian burial;" so having still some monie left to pay him, as welle as ye skipper of ye littel vessel, we were both brought untoe his house at Kirkfannochar, where have we beene ever since. We have both greatlie suffered ; my arme is yet of but smalle use imtoe me—yet may I be glad I bad not altogether lost it. I thynke, Eliot, that thou mightest per- chance finde some difficultie in telling thy friende agayne juste nowe—for long sick- nesse and greate paine, and awfulle anxieties of minde, and ye fearfuUe scenes I have beene amongst that I will telle thee of when we meet—have made me verrie different from ye Oxforde Hubert; but God be thanked I am yet alive. No wordes of mine can telle thee of ye kindnesse of Arthur Egerton untoe me ; an it had been thyselfe, thou could'st not have done more—nay, mine owne mother, about whom I doe soe constantKe dreame, and more nowe I am sicke—mine owne mother coulde not have more entirelie given herself uppe for my comforte. Eliot, thoix muste see my friende Arthur to knowe him—juste as he muste see thee to knowe thee. I once coulde counte but two friendes—thyself and Bertram—now I have three. An I can, I propose to come untoe Chester whene'er I shall be welle enow— though that may be long—and to stay with thee for some while; but I will let thee knowe of it ere I come. My lord Saxford hath beene veiy goode ; he hath himselfe written a letter to knowe how I sped, and hath sent me uppe abundance of monie for all my present necessities. As for Andrew Johnstone, he is a goode man—to his 24 THE ATTEMPT. kindnesse I owe my lyfe; I will telle thee more of him when we meete. Patrick M'Donnell I shall keepe as my follower; he hath no wish to goe over agayne untoe Ireland, where he hath fewe or no friendes. And nowe, deare friende, I have not written thee the one-tenth part of what I woulde saye, but I maye not have agayne opportunitie to sende a letter for a long tyme an I sende it not nowe. It may be still that I shall not live—I wot not—some- tymes I doe feele as if I had not strengthe lefte me to live; but it is as God wills. At ye leaste, I shall die at peace in England, and not tortured by those Irish devils— it is a strong worde, but, Eliot, it was Satan himselfe worked by them. Oh ! my friende, God be thanked that youe were not there. I doe feele sicke and fainte; this letter hath taken me manie dayes to write, for I can doe but a littel nowe and then. Deare Eliot, thy Hubert prayeth for thine ever goode keeping by ye God who hath kept him, and who will keepe all those who doe trulie putte their truste in him. Thy true friende, given thee backe from ye dead, HUBERT WILLOUGBIE, This 17 th daye of Februarie, Anno, 1642.

^owWt %txoBixc,

1. Use and wont. 2. " Diamonds sparkled in her eyes, sunbeams in every smile; a coquette, and yet so heavenly." 3. The fairest flowers that grow. 4. A tool in another's hand. 5. A fragrant wood. 6. A place of amusement. 7. An Eastern Prophet. 8. A movement in music. 9. The greatest English Dramatist.

The initials represent a season, and the Jinals the plant dedicated to it. THE ATTEMPT. 25

CONCLUSION.

WHEN a useful tool is put into our hands to work with, we can generally see at a glance how it is suited to the purpose for which we want it. But when we enter a fresh atmosphere, we may simply feel the elasticity it gives our steps, and enjoy the new, healthy life imparted to us, without ever thinkiag of tracing it to its cause, far less of analysing the peculiar combinations which produce such pleasant effects. Just so we can estimate, in some degree, the service which a certain amount of practical knowledge is likely to render, while we may be constantly drinking in far larger benefits from the mental atmosphere which we breathe, and of whose influence we are almost unconscious. It is this subtle influence over our minds and characters which makes knowledge the precious boon it is, which would render it pi'iceless still, though all its external advantages should from this moment cease to exist. We often crave intellectual food, we know not why. We have no definite idea of any good it is to do us, and yet we are confident in the assurance that somehow it will nourish and strengthen us. When children love learning at all, they generally follow some blind, but tnie, instinct of this sort. It is not very common to meet with such children, yet, some- where, surely, I must have seen the original of the one I have in my mind. A little girl,—perhaps growing up in the midst of a large family of brothers and sisters, as gay and mii-thful as they, not a prodigy, not grave or wise beyond her years in the least—yet there is a marked difiference between her and the other children. Her lessons are not, like theirs, necessary evils, but (at least, when she is in the humour for them) pleasant outlets for her energy. She runs ofl" with a new idea as triumphantly as with a new game, and finds stories in what other children call dull books, as enchanting and marvellous as those of the Sleeping Beauty, or the Giant with the Seven-League Boots. Now and then she is lost, and a general search being instituted for her, she is discovered below the study table, or in an old box in the attic, or hidden among the long grass near the honey-suckle hedge,—oblivious of everything the world contains, except the new treasure she has found in the book- case that morning. Of course her brothers laugh at her, call her little dreamer, little goose, and wonder what makes her so odd, till she begins to wonder too. Older people say she reads what she can't understand, what will only mystify her; and she cannot answer them, nor tell the beauty of that mysterious dreamland into which she 26 THE ATTEMPT. wanders. She can't explain why the well-thumbed leaves of her favourite books draw her so strangely to them. She knows no reason why she should read. She cares for no after advantage to flow from it. She only flies to her book as the bee does to its flowers, because her nature will not be satisfied in any other way. Years bring the gradual change from the child into the woman. Vague imaginings shape themselves into earnest thoughts. She begins to know herself and all things around her in a truer sense than ever before. Her whole nature is waking up. At last she recognises the meaning of her childish pursuits. It is no treasure of glittering dust she has been hoarding, no pathway to name and fame she has been paving for herself; she has been shaping a golden portal, beyond which vistas of ever increasing glory are revealed to her, that she may grow purer, more humble, more large-minded, by gazing outward on them. Dreams of ambition grow pale in the strong light, and self seems dwarfed by contrast with the new world she now sees; but what of that, as long as she tastes the delight of looking upwards to what is infinitely higher than herself, and more glorious than all she has ever dreamed of? Pride cries out against such a consummation; but deeper than ^iride within us is the craving for contact with something much firmer and greater than ourselves, and the intuitive consciousness, that to find this contact in some shape or other is the very life which our spirits cannot do without. 'Tis only the wisdom that comes down from heaven that can fully satisfy our yearnings, and perfectly elevate at the same moment that it humbles, but still, all true knowledge acts the same part in its 1 measure. There is, indeed, a vain sort of cleverness which sometimes passes for knowledge, which keeps her sharp eyes ever running to and fro along the ground, lest, perchance, in looking upwards she should discover some object nobler than her much admired self. But true knowledge is not forced against her will to kneel to what is high, and to confess herself limited and feeble. She would not wish to do otherwise. No more terrible tidings could come to her ears, than were she to be told that the path on which she was entering had, somewhere, an end, and that a few years, or a lifetime of toil, would bring her within sight of its farthest bound. Ah ! where would there be scope for her glad enthusiasm were the wide creation puny enough to be in the hollow of lier hand, and to be meted out with a measure of her construction 1 "Were it so, would not the contracted universe close in on her like a horrid prison, where no breath of free, pure air could ever reach her! Small consolation would it be to her then, that she might gloat over her own dignity, and finding herself the noblest object of contemplation, might henceforth live in, and for herself alone ! But well is she assured that such a calamity will never overtake THE ATTEMPT. 27 her. It is her joy to wake each morning, to feel that there are marvellous and beautiful things in store for her, half of which she cannot search out; to find questions starting to her lips, which she can partly solve, but whose other half remains for ever a grand riddle, and to be sure, that although she were ten thousand times more clear-sighted than she is, creation would only the more amaze her by its infinitude. It seems trite to repeat that we never gain real knowledge till we become aware of our ignorance. But beneath the familiar shell of the saying, a most wonderful thought is hidden. How is it that we are thrilled so mightily by the power of what is infinitely too gi-eat for us to grasp ? How is it that we are able to conceive the vastness of things of which we really know almost nothing ; and that we are influenced more by what we so dimly discern and feebly comprehend, than by objects which lie distinctly and palpably by our side 1 This is a strange and glorious faculty which can only belong to an immortal being. Its possession draws one of the most marked lines we can think of between man and the lower creatures. We all love the wise, faithfid dog. He forgets no favour and surrenders no trust, and will now and then outwit his master in some clever expedient, which betrays a higher power of reason than most are willing to accord to him. But though he knows a few things with surprising accuracy, the things which he does not and cannot know are an utter blank. The world of the known has an abrupt boundary : the world of the half-known, the wonderful, is, for him, nowhere. No whisper of its existence has ever reached him, no search for its meaning disquieted him ! No Infinite has ever flashed out its glories upon him, flooding him with thoughts unutterable ! He never stood, awe-struck, at the confluence of the two eternities where we stand, in reality always, and consciously, sometimes! Ah, how diflerent it is with us! Our positive information so restricted, our conception of what we might know so vast! Our feet standing on a nan'ow spot of earth, our thoughts darting outward through all time and all space ! I need not say, that to open our minds to comprehend more of such great things is the best aim our learning can have. With meaner ends in view, success might make us boast, or failure despond. But this humble yet aspiring spirit will keep us from either extreme. It will render mere superficial work impossible, by granting to us a deeper insight into the heart's core of things. It will give us nobler objects of contemplation than the obtrusive " Shadow of ourselves." It will mould, not our intellect alone, but our entire being. And although I dare not say that it will necessarily raise us up from nature unto nature's God, yet it is infinitely more 28 THE ATTEMPT. likely to do so than the opposite spirit of intellectual pride, which is to many as an impenetrable screen through which no ray of heavenly light can straggle. It may enhance our value for a little learning to view it for an instant in another light—as a stepping stone to more, or a nucleus to attract kindred matter which may lie in our way, and which we might otherwise pass by unheeded. It is like the little handful of snow, which the school-boy knows cannot be rolled along without adding to its bulk. I have no doubt I am not alone in remarking how when one's curiosity has been greatly excited upon any special subject, it is sure to turn up at every steji. In the course of conversation we meet with allusions to it, and unintentional illustrations which seem to us precisely to the point. Magazines and newspapers seem full of it. The book we are reading seems far away from ifc, yet it cannot close without at least touching upon our favourite theme. "We are almost ready to fancy that the whole literary world, like ourselves, has just heard of it for the first time. Or, perhaps, a new word has struck us. We don't remember ever to have heard it, or to have seen it in book or dictionary. Yet, in the course of a few days we are sui-e to hear it again, perhaps so frequently that the strange sound soon becomes quite familiar in our ears. Sometimes the ways in which information we are seeking is brought to us are so unaccountable that we are inclined to attribute the coincidences to some sort of luck, and congratulate ourselves that misfortunes are not the only things which never come single. But, after all, there is nothing very mysterious in the expla- nation, that, when we do not care a straw for a subject, references to it should make no impression ; while, let our interest be only aroused to the same subject, and we become quick to interpret the slightest allusion to it. We may be sure that the amount of knowledge we gain incidentally, when our minds are thoroughly awake, is a pretty accurate measure of what we might have gained while we were comfortably asleep in our wi-appings of ignorance or indifference. Perhaps we are now drinking in, with eager delight, what we might have heard a dozen times before, at times when we only yawned, counted the stars on the carpet and panes in the window, and ex- hausted all our self-control in mere efforts to endure patiently to the end of the tedious discussion. It is not only the wisdom of the learned we lose in this way, on those rare occasions when we are drawn within hearing of their circle, and feel deeply mortified to find that much of their animated conversation is passing over us as if the words were in an unknown tongue. We lose the daily increase of wisdom we might glean from oui" intercourse with all whom we meet. It is said that the wisest man may learn something from the dullest, if he will but take pains THE ATTEMPT. 29 to draw him out on the subjects he is conversant with. But few of us, I fear, are really wise enough to seek knowledge from those whom we may fancy our inferiors. In reviewing the whole ground over which we have gone in these essays, we cannot help being ojipressed by the wideness of the field of knowledge. Though we were to give the freest play to all our faculties, and the widest range to our interests, it would be hopeless to attempt even to taste a little of each branch of learning. The problem which presses on us for a solution is, how to choose the worthiest objects of pursuit from amidst all others, so that the best may always have the first place, and the rest may follow in the due proportion which their intrinsic value, or their apphcation to our circumstances, may give them. Conscience is the best counsellor in this perplexity, as in all others. If we must turn rapidly from one study to another, as with the limited time at our disposal we are often forced to do, let the change not be the result of a restless desire for novelty, nor of an indolent wish to break loose from a troublesome task, but of an honest purpose to do what seems to us really best at every moment. In that case, however fragmentary our know- ledge may be, it can hardly be unfruitful. And, as so very little knowledge comes within our reach, surely false shame ought never to lead us to reject a crumb that falls to our share because it is little, or because it is not exactly of the kind we think we need. We cannot afford to despise the smallest fact, seeing that each may prove a help to us in the practical work of life, a foundation on which to build up larger stones, and an open lattice through which we may look heavenward. M. L.

^^t Jfiwligl^l. I WOULD I were the firelight. If she knelt sad before me. Free to flicker at my ease, I would fold in my embrace On bright eyes and tinted lips ; All her bending face and figure, Touch them when and how I please. Till no shadow left a trace.

I would gleam upon a face. She would flush a crimson bright, I would linger on a lip. My love-lit gaze to see, I would dance in two brown eyes. If close as to the firelight, I would warm each finger tip. She'd turn her face to me. ETNA. 30 THE ATTEMPT.

% Bmi ixom i\^t Jfrog.* " Will he no come back again ? "

ONE fine morning, in the beginning of this winter, whilst I was studying one of Schumann's beautiful pieces, I thought I heard an unusual sound behind me, and looking round, I beheld my small friend, the Frog, croakiag forth a salutation. I was glad to see him again, hoping to hear something more about that most wonderful Palace, but, at first, forgetting the rules of politeness, I merely asked him how he got there. " The music attracted me," said he; " and as the sill of your window is so con- veniently low, I took the liberty of hopping upon it, a second hop brought me into the room, and two more to this ottoman." " Most welcome, Froggie," said I; " what have you got now to tell me ? A recital as wonderful as the last, or more so ?" " Nay," said the Frog; " I'm afraid I have not got a tale to tell you, but I thought you might like to hear some particulars about the Palace of Attemptation, and about our—will you permit the expression ?—our mutual friends." I laughed, and so did the Frog, but why we did so I cannot tell. " Well," said I, " will you let me ask a few questions ? First, is the Palace making progress ? " " Indeed, it is," replied he ; "I admire many parts of it, but oh ! dear " " Well, what now ?" " Oh, nothing particular ; 1 was just remembering what a quantity of the Blue Vapour there was, not long ago, in the Entrance Hall. Sometimes it nearly over- powered me, and then I hopped out again to get a little fresh air before continuing my investigation. But I saw much skill and taste displayed in that Hall. It was adorned with i^ortraits of the most celebrated builders, in a fair country far from here." " Wlio have built Palaces like yours 1" " Yes, I suppose so," replied my friend; " at least, they have constructed build- ings of some sort or other, but not exactly like ours, I fancy. And now I wish to ask your opinion on an important subject. There is a certain motto inscribed above the Palace door, the meaning of which I cannot exactly understand. The words are in a tongue unknown to me (though, I presume, not so to most of our mutual friends), this is the translation of them—"The auspices of a better age."

* See April Number, 1867. THE ATTEMPT. 31 " Pardon me," said I, " but I cannot see any great difficulty there." " But have you no idea of what will take place in that good time coming 1" " I am afraid I must confess I have not; but stay, can you not ask one of the noble company, surely they will have brilliant ideas on the subject 1" " No," replied the frog, " I am afraid to ask them ; for they would either laugh at my ignorance, or—give an offeiisive interpretation." " Ah, well! since you are so full of fears, you had better leave the subject alone." " To be sure," said the Frog. " And now, pray tell me," I said, " Have the Palace builders been playing again at that strange game, what did you call it ?—Debating, I think." " Oh ! yes. They have indulged in it more than once since I last saw you." " And you, of course, took part in it ?" said I, repressing a laugh at the idea. "I did nothing of the sort." " And why not, pray V " I might not have found the grass long enough for concealment /" replied he. " But," said I, " if your position as a member of the noble association of Palace builders, entitle you to take a share in such proceedings, you ought to do it! Will you really willingly deprive yourself of such a privilege ? " " Ah !" said the little creature, with sudden gravity, " you do not know with what enormous balls they sometimes play. Some time ago they had a game with a very curious one, called ' suffrage,' I think. Such a very weighty matter, I wonder much they ventured to lift it up. The Stag and the Horse are very strong, to be sure, but all have not their strength." "Doubtless, then, they distinguished themselves on that occasion?" " I was told the Stag did, at least. He drew a decided circle, and he was ' seconded' (for that is the term applied to making a similar mark) by Puss." " Then it wasn't played in the same way as the other game you told me of?" " No, not quite ; nor were the colours the same. You remember the ball I saw was called a character, and was marked black and white, but the ball I now speak of had to be marked with blue and yellow colours." "But was there any signification in these colours?" " Ah ! yes ; they had a deep, important meaning. Those who drew the yellow circle, thereby testified their desire that the ' animals inferior' should be granted a certain privilege ; the blue meant that they should not." " And, pray, what may that privilege be?" " Well, really," said the Frog, with a sigh, " such matters are almost beyond my 32 THE ATTEMPT, comprehension. I think it would allow some of them to take a share in a very great game, which ' sujyerior animals' only have hitherto indulged in." " And the Stag, what colour did he " " Oh !" interrupted the Frog, " can you doubt that he, with his high sense of what is due to the dignity and position of the so called 'inferior animals,' he, the founder of the Palace, would hesitate to adopt the yellow 1" " But he would have opposers 1" said I, smiling (though the Frog was grave.) " Yes, the Bat rose and made his blue mark. Oh, I can fancy," continued my friend, with a sudden burst of his croaking laughter, "how he would^ap defiance with his large wings in the faces of his enemies, and thereby he might have injured their eyes, but not the Stag's,—no, he would not even wink, would he 1" Not knowing how to answer this question, I took no notice of it, but asked the Frog if the Bat were really such a vehement antagonist ? " "Well, really, I don't know much about him, except that he is fond of the £lue Vapour, and delights to have it encircling him; and as it is an invigorating thing, doubtless it strengthens his wings, and braces his nerves for all encounters." " It must have been a veiy interesting game," said I ; " but tell me this, Froggie, Suppose you had been present, and had been called upon to produce your ' opinion,' (for, I presume, it is possible for you to possess such a thing), would it have been on the side of the Stag or the Bat?" " I am surprised to hear you ask such a question," said my friend ; " have I not already said enough to shew you that the Stag was taking an honourable part, and defending an undeniable right; and, perhaps," continued the Frog, dropping his voice to make his words more effective, " perhaps, when the cii'cle of animals had formed around him, he turned his eyes in the direction of the Palace walls, and with a heart swelling with proud emotion as he viewed its size and majestic appearance, he thought of the noble builders, of their ever-increasing number, of the dignity belonging to them, and of " " The 'Better Age,'" I intei-rupted. " Ah ! Froggie, I am inclined to think you have some ideas concerning that ' better time' coming." " You think so," said the Frog, wonderingly; " well, if I have, they are erro- neous ; but you have put me out. I was going to say, that even such as I am, a humble, little Frog, ought to have been proud to take part with the Stag. Alas ! our mutual friend, the Bat, was sadly and sti-angely mistaken." " Froggie, Froggie, be truthful," said I; for I had suspicions, I can hardly tell why, that my friend was trying to deceive me. THE ATTEMPT. 33 " Yes, when it suits me," was the moral reply. " But, pray tell me, have you ever studied etymology ?" Wondering what was coming next, I answered " Yes." "Then, do you fully comprehend the meaning of the word ' attemptatio7i' ?" " I think I do." " Then, I suppose it has struck you ere now how unsuitable and unworthy a name it is for the Palace ?" I hesitated, as such a thought had not occurred to me ; but the Frog continued, " Whatever our opinion may be, some wise heads amongst the animals did recently consider the matter seriously, and came to the conclusion that the name ought to be replaced by a better. But some (shall I say wiser heads?) thought not, and so—a battle was the consequence." " Indeed, Froggie, how very terrible ! !" " Oh ! no, only a strife of tongues, you know. They had very skilful leaders on both sides. The Spaniel headed the reformers, and the Stag the opposite party. The former found excellent assistants in the Cat, the Gazelle, and the Squiirel; but I think they could hardly equal those of the Stag, namely, the powerful Bat, the Grey- hound, the Bulldog, and the Terrier." " Oh, have they got a terrier also amongst the noble company?" " Yes; and I daresay you are well aware with what quahties that species of animal is said to be endowed ; and I am told this one in particular forms no excep- tion to the rule." " Did the Horse not take a 2)art on this momentous occasion 1" " Ah, no ; he was unfortunately maimed at the time. It was a great pity, for no doubt his services would have been invaluable to whichever party was favoured with them. But I must tell you about the banners which were borne on either side. They were of a peculiar nature, and had certain trees and flowers traced on them. On that of the Stag there was the Jield lily (that's what a beautiful banner must possess), and the mountain ash. As for the other side, I am not quite sure what they had, I believe there was amaryllis, and perhaps columhine, for I rather think they have an affinity for each other." But the Frog was getting into too deep water for me. " Perhaps," I said, " you would be so good as explain what these emblems meant." " I am sorry to appear disobliging," replied the Frog, " but / daren't tell you ; however, you'll find all you want to know in some comer of the Island of Litera- ture ; and in case you should think that the Spaniel and his followers made a 34 THE ATTEMPT. strange choice, I'll tell you this singular fact, that the trees or flowers on these ban- ners often appear to their owners quite different from what they really are; indeed, it is a hard matter for any one to discern them accurately. Isn't it odd?" " Very," said I; but I was getting accustomed to marvels. " And oh !" exclaimed the Frog, burstiag into laughter, " wasn't it funny, both leaders declared they had the mulberry tree, whereas only one could have had it?" " Well, but Froggie," I asked, " how did the battle get on ?" " Oh, I don't doubt there was great eloquence on both sides ; I almost wish I had been present; but perhaps it was too hot for a frog." "And how did it end?" " Ah !" said the Frog, " since I have told you that the Stag was a leader, how can you doubt which party was eventually victorious ? But the battle could not de- cide the question. It was necessary that the wishes of all the animals should be made known, and for this reason they were compelled to produce ' opinions.'" " What! all of them, even you ?" I exclaimed. " Yes, even me, and without any assistance," replied the Frog, in a tone that be- sought commiseration; " and before I could produce one, I had to search for a certain jewel in the Island of Thought, called ' decision,' which frogs cannot find without help ; and just think of the Bulldog (who had so often before pressed me to receive this stone from him whether I would or not), refusing to stir a step on my behalf! wasn't it cruel V " Yes; but perhaps he had a good reason for it." " Oh ! he said he had a ' clmin of honour ' on, which he dared not break," and the Frog laughed. " But, my small friend," said I, " as I happen to know something about the value of that stone you have mentioned, I can tell you that if you do not possess it I shall not be able to rely much upon your words, in short, I am prepared to hear, the next time we meet, that the ' £lue Yaponr' is not at all offensive, that the Palace is very badly built, and so on." " You are as severe as Truth itself," muttered the Frog; then he quickly added aloud—" Ah ! well, it doesn't matter, since you are prepared for it." Concluding that it was useless to reason further, I said—" Well, I trust you got happily out of your difficulty ?" " I did," replied the Frog, but he seemed inclined to say no more on the subject, so I changed it by asking him if he had been successful in his labours. "My labours!" THE ATTEMPT. 35 " Yes, in the Palace, I mean. Of course you have been working; though, to be sure, you don't look as if you had been toUing very hard." " Well," said the Frog; " I don't see why I should when I have not been toiling." " You ought to be ashamed to confess it, then; but," I continued laughing, " with all respect to the Bulldog, I wonder if he was quite in his senses when he urged you to take a part in the noble enterprise ?" " I never saw him out of them," was my friend's reply; " but, in justice to my- self, I must tell you that I have not been altogether idle. I have occasionally spoken to my friends about the Palace (with all the eloquence in my power.) I have bid them inspect it, and I have tried to persuade them to unite in working with us." " And that's the limit of your work, is it ?" I said, laughing; " now, my friend, I wish to be candid, and tell you my real opinion with regard to you. I suppose you have no objection ?" " None wliatever; indeed, nothing could give me more pleasure," replied the ever courteous Frog. " Agreed then," said I; " but perhaps you'll not be so pleased when you hear it, I have come to the conclusion that the part you have chosen to take with regard to our mutual friends is that of a spy and (excuse the vulgar term) tell-tale. If not the former, you get some one to do it for you, and then, of course, you can do the latter." I was not prepared for the effect my words had upon "my small auditor." His mirth and evident delight knew no bounds. He laughed and croaked, croaked and laughed, in such an extraordinary manner, that I began to doubt whether it were really a Frog I saw before me, or an evil spirit in the shape of one. " Excuse me," he said at last, " bvit it so true—so Y&vy true ! " " And they know it is so ? " " They are not ignorant of it," was the reply. " And they have never reproved you ?" " No," said the Frog. " Admirable, incomparable forbearance!" I exclaimed. " I think that is leniency in the extreme." " Do you ?" said the Frog. " But what would you have,—collective or individual vengeance 1 If the former—Ah ! that would be appalling ! Try to imagine the ac- cumulated and just wrath of these noble animals upon a focus, and that focus a Frog! Imagine the many brilliant pairs of orbs (rendered a thousand times more so by the illuminating fire of righteous indignation) resting upon the trembling criminal ! No, it is beyond imagination !! And then the sentence. Of course, you would have it 36 THE ATTEMPT. be a traitor's doom. Yet how would they acccomplish that 1 Execution ?—too good for a Frog! Shoot me?—unfortunately that's hardly in their line as yet." " Let us suppose it to be the other kind of vengeance, then," said I. " Individual, you mean 1 "Well, I think we shall find difiiculties here too. Would you have the Stag lower his majestic head to pierce me with his antlers t Nay, I think most of the animals would deem it beneath their dignity to injure such as I am. I don't believe the Squirrel or the gentle-toned Hare would do so." " But the Bulldog," I began. " Ah ! he is muzzled," said the Frog, with a sly look; " then the Spaniel is too gentle, the Newfoundland too dignified." "And the Peacock, too, I suppose?" " Well, I have generally found him amiably disposed towards me ; but I know what he might do, he might mount a wall, spread his glorious feathers in the sun- light, and preach to me moral excellence." " It would be a good deed," said I; " but he would hardly requii-e to elevate his position to preach to you." " Ah ! perhaps he couldn't; for you must know he once showed a strange and unaccountable disposition to leave his work at the Palace, by flying over the wall that surrounds it, and I suspect the Stag, and some other of our mutual friends, have dipt his wings,—indeed, he hinted the same to me, but not a feather was ruffled I And now, my dear friend," continued the Frog, " it is time for me to bid you adieu ; but, to set your mind at ease with regard to the possibility of my meeting the fate I deserve, I'll tell you of something the animals might easily accomplish, they might serve me up in a dish !! Oh ! that would be ' a dainty dish ' You might ' set before' our Queen." So saying, the Frog hopped towards the window, evidently highly pleased with this bright idea. Seeing him about to deparb, I asked if I might hope to have the pleasure of another visit. " That will depend on the leniency shown to me ; you must be reasonable, and not expect to see me again if I am made a meal of." " Can't you keep yourself in safety 1" " By no means ! " was the audacious reply. " Go, tell our mutual friends I am at their service !" And so we parted. FRUCAKA. THE ATTEMPT. 37

I FROM THE GERMAN. t A WREATH of bluest violets was twined in Annie's hair, The night that first amidst the dance I pressed her fingers fair ; What wonder if in field and bower, I prize above each other flower, Blue violets 1

A bunch of bluest violets was placed on Annie's breast. The night that first my little home with her, my bride, was blest ; These happy hours come back to me When, nestling 'mid their leaves, I see Blue violets.

Wlien death took Annie from my side, and wrecked that home of mine. In bitter woe I tried that night her funeral wreath to twine; No sad rosemary leaves were there— Weeping, I placed upon her hair Blue violets. DIDO.

CIj« Misbxjm of fassib^ncss.

" Kor less I deem, that there are powers Which of themselves our miiids impress, That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness."—W. Wordsworth.

A state of inaction is not of necessity a state of idleness, as there is an activity which is but waste of energy. Not to undervalue the gi-eat world motto, " Work," there is yet a work which consists in waiting. " They also serve who only stand and wait," as there is a learning, which is but wise listening. " Speech is silvern, but sUence is golden," so goes the saying; but, nevertheless, silence does not necessarily imply attention, for to listen well is a study in itself. There must be no numb- 38 THE ATTEMPT. ness or drowsiness of faculties; not only must the hinges of the miud be kept free of rust, but every door and window must be ojpened wide, so that no half-impression may enter in, and become a false impression. This listening well, this silent con- templation, is as necessary for the education of the mind as the keenest search after knowledge, and not only must the ear be open, but the eye too must be ready to see, though not always seeking to see, for our loveliest visions are those that come to us in our dreams, even as the greatest truths are borne unsought into the soul. A too active mind cannot receive just impressions, as one who forms part in a picture has not such a correct view as a spectator. For example, how many people there are who travel over the world, and yet retain as narrow ideas, as bigoted egotism, as when they first set out, from a foolish blindness, from a want of that wise passiveness of which the poet speaks. They have a fore-ordained theory in their minds, and will only look on eifects through pi'e-supposed causes. This want of openness to conviction results from the-same over-strained mental activity which alienates them from the truth, and makes their own reason, as it were, a veil to hide it. Passiveness is not always repose, even as there is a rest which is compatible with a certain kind of activity. One can imagine a man, accustomed aU his life to a cer- tain routine of mental or manual labour, finding more rest in his accustomed work than he could in an idleness foreign to his nature, and there is also the rest of per- petual motion, the " sleep of a spinning top," (vide Herr Teufelsdrockh's eyes.) The mind too, in a passive state, may be keenly aUve to the objects which present them- selves before it, may be the arena of conflicting emotions, though the will lies dormant; and the wisdom of the mind is displayed in choosing the right moment for action ; in not allowing impressions to become convictions without rousing itself to analyse them, and yet, in not rushing into battle till its forces are all mustered. A poet must have a passive mind, that is to say, he must have the capability of pas- siveness, before he can abandon himself to that still contemplation of nature, that thoroughly objective admiration, which is necessary to the receiving of a true reflec- tion of her beauty. As there may be an extreme in the best condition, so, no doubt, there is a sensuous luxury in allowing feeling to take the place of thought, which, if too much indulged in, may be injurious to the cultivation of the mental faculties, as when Lancelot, in Charles Kingsley's Yeast, "Forgot everything, in the mere ani- mal enjoyment of sight and sound," This inclination is the less dangerous, as the natural tendency of the mind is to activity, and in such times of silence voices speak to us, and teach us that the doors of the soul are not all opened by the key of will, as in the same passage, Kingsley says :— THE ATTEMPT. 39

"The complex harmony of sights and sounds slid softly over his soul, and he sank away into a stni day-dream, too passive for imagination, too deep for meditation ; and ' Beauty bom of murmuring sound. Did pass into his face.' Blame him not. There are more things in a man's heart than ever got in through his thoughts."

In education it is the same; if the reins of wiU are too tightly held over the mind, it is apt to produce an egotistical subjectiveness of thought; and though to yield completely to passive reflection would be to give one's self too entirely to the control of feeling, yet it is necessary to beware of that calculating self culture which be- lieves in nothing that is not wrought by force of will, and puts itself against those outer influences which imperceptibly breathe knowledge into the soul. There is a certain meanness, as Mrs Browning reminds'us, in weighing in our minds the advan- tage to be derived from a book before abandoning oneself to the pleasure of its perusal:— " Mark there. We get no good By being ungenerous even to a book, And calculating profits—so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth, 'Tis then we get the right good of a book."

A true artist wUl forget his brush and palette in rapt admiration of a lovely landscape; he will not be considering how best to represent the picture before him, he will rather be drinking in all its beauty to give it forth again from a vivid mem- ory ; and a true poet will not search for images to portray his thoughts, he will rather accept such as ofier themselves naturally to his mind. Pride and vanity are inimical to passiveness, for it requires a certain humility and meekness to suiTender mental will, and acknowledge those beautiful thoughts and feelings are not of me; they are the echoes of other voices ; I have not reasoned them out, they have come to me. In time of sickness or sorrow, when the will be- comes weakened, the tendency of the mind is to be passive; but from this it must not be concluded that it is a sign of weakness of mind. A mind ever passive, swept over and moulded by every gust of passion, feeling, or outward circumstance, would certainly be weak, but this wise passiveness is the occasional passiveness of an active mind, the moments in which it pauses, when active thought suspends its course, and 40 THE ATTEMPT. allows the resounding voices of the outer world, and the still voice of nature, to break on the soul. " Sound needed none, Nor any voice of joy : his spirit drank The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form All melted into him ; they swallowed up His animal being ; in them did he live, And by them did he live ; they were his life. In such access of mmd, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not, in enjoyment it expired."

In such moments many voices break in upon us, startling voices, some sadly re- proachful, some eagerly questioning, and others again full of a strange thrilling melancholy, but all startling, because so true. Not tmths that we have discovered and are forcing on ourselves, but truths which are making themselves evident to us, now that we have time to hear them, truths which no searching would have taught us, which the greatest self-culture would not make us feel, bearing with them the great passive doctrine of submission ; and surely if power of will is strength, power of sub- mission is greater strength. A sudden burst of music breaking on the ear is more delicious and soothing than the finest performance executed by a person's own skill, even as a pleasure eagerly sought for loses relish when obtained, and dwindles into less than the least gush of joy bursting sj^ontaneously on the unexpectant heart. And memory, too, blessed memory, bringing with it long gone days, long lost tears and smiles, comes to us, for the most part, uncalled for. Does not one great poet tell us, that in vain his fancy strove to paint the face of his departed friend,

" TUl all at once, beyond the wUl, I hear a wizard music roll, And thro' a lattice on the soul. Looks thy fair face, and makes it stUl."

ENAI. THE ATTEMPT. 41

C^« Seasons anb ij^^ir plants. How beautiful are the first balmy days of Spring, that season of hope and joyful expectation, when nature seems to rouse herself from her protracted lethargy, and break asunder the icy bonds that have so long held her treasures concealed ! How eagerly do we all watch for the swelling of the brown buds, the first tinges of green on the hedgerows, the first blossoms " of the glad new year !" The love of flowers seems to be present with us from our earliest infancy, from the time when, as sings the poet, " Daisies and buttercups gladdened our sight, Like treasures of silver and gold." And dull indeed would the soul be that could remain insensible to the bright, beau- teous messengers, who sUently, month by month, year by year, bear testimony to the uniform bounty and goodness of nature's God. Each month has its own special floral gems, and, as successive years roll on, we anticipate with confidence the re- appearance of our favourites of preceding springs, summers, and autumns. One of our modern novelists says truly :—" The face of Nature is the only face that, as we advance in years, never changes to us. Friends change and pass away, but the old oak of our youth is the old tree still; the hill has the same shadows, the valley the same musical river, the meadows the same bright flowers; the vexed murmurs of the world touch them not; they praise God day and night." Yet it sometimes, nay, frequently, happens that familiar objects are passed by unheeded ; a general impression of their beauty exists in our minds, but we have never paused to inquire more minutely into the causes whenpe spring their charms. This, I believe, to be peculiarly the case as applied to the flowers, ferns, mosses, &c., which nature has so profusely scattered at our feet; and feeling sure that the examin- ation of the humblest weed by the wayside, or the tiniest leaf that trembles in the breeze, will afford intense gratification to the lovers of nature (and surely we all be- long to this class), I would fain interest every one in the beautiful succession of seasons and plants. The list of flowers to be found during the first two months of the year is neces- sarily a very circumscribed one ; but when the winter has not been exceedingly se- vere, we can, even at the end of Januaiy and beginning of February, discover a few adventurers, pioneers, as it were, in the floral campaign. Foremost amongst these we must name the universal favourite, the Daisy (Bellis Perennis), whose bright, starry 42 THE ATTEMPT. head rears itself on all situations, " on hill, dale, and desert sod." Like a large num- ber of our wild flowers, the " day's eye," as Chaucer poetically styles it, belongs to the composite family; it is one of those flowers whose blossoms consist of a number of small florets enclosed in one green receptacle, or, in botanical language, involucre. On examining the daisy, the dandelion, the chrysanthemum, and similar flowers, by the aid of a magnifying glass, we shall find their yellow centres constituting many dis- tinct flowers, each furnished with its compliment of stamens and pistils. But what need to describe more fully the charms of the " wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower," whose beauties have been sung by innumerable poets ? Another little plant to be looked for successfully at any time, and in almost any locality, is the Chickweed or Stitchwort (Stellaria Media.) It is so small and insigni- ficant that inexperienced collectors might be apt to pass it by; yet, in all respects, the Stitchwort is a perfect flower, with root, stalk, leaves, stem, and white, star-like blos- soms, succeeded by capsules, or seed-vessels, whose contents furnish an inexhaustable supply of food for the tiny songsters of the grove. I doubt not, many of us have returned from a country walk, laden with biinches of our little friend, to cheer the solitude of some pet canary or linnet, for, as old Gerarde, in his quaint style, remarks, " Little birds in cages, especially linnets, are refreshed therewith when they loathe their meat, whereupon it is called by some Passerina." Belonging to the same compound order as the daisy, and like it blossoming by the wayside, from February to November, we find the common Groundsel (Senicio Vulgaris), with its clustered heads of yellow, insignificant flowers, and toothed leaves. If, in our w^alks, we are led to the banks of any streams or ditches, where the soU is of a clayey nature, we are sure to be attracted by the sweet-scented, yellow- starred flowers of the Coltsfoot (Tussilago Farfara.) The leaves of this plant, which are bitter and mucilaginous, are said to be effectual in the cure of coughs; hence the name, from tussis a cough, and ago to expel. Nearly allied to the Coltsfoot, and flowering about the same time—perhaps a little later—and in similar localities, is the Butter-bur (Petastis Vulgare.) It has pale purple blossoms, and very large heart-shaped leaves, the under surface of which is covered with down. Both these plants belong to the composite order, and have the same peculiarity of gi'owth—they push up their flower-stems before unfolding their leaves, so that they are never both seen in perfection at the same time. The mention of two other plants will, I think, exhaust the list of our earliest spring flowers. The Snowdrop (Galanthus Nivalis), or " Fair Maid of February," is generally looked upon as a garden flower, but it is occasionally to be met with THE ATTEMPT. 43 growing wild. Professor Balfour, in his " Flora of Edinburgh," indicates it as having been found at Arniston, Dalkeith, and Colinton. Its beautiful, delicate, white bell, and long, straight, paralleled veined leaves, proclaiming it to be a monocotyledon, are too well-known to require more minute description. Our last wayside plant is the Eed-dead-Xettle (Lamium Purpureudi), belonging to the family of the Labiatse, or lip- shaped flowers. It is to be met with in almost any piece of waste, sandy ground, and, as its name leads us to expect, the blossoms are of a reddish purple colour. The greater part of our aromatic herbs, such as mint, sage, thyme, marjoram, balm, and rosemary, likewise belong to the extensive family of the Labiatse. K. H. D.

-^!r-^-<::Sj::$^:.2::^rs^—

No. I.—A GENIUS.

THOUGH a light may shine from thy soul afar. More bright and more keen than the morning star, O'er the thankless world that sleeps in night: Though comet-like, with thy glowing traU That floats behind, as thy star-gemmed veil On thy pathless way, thou takest flight; Away from the gaze of thoughtless men To the vast,—unknown but by spirit-ken : Yet thy speed must slack, and thy light must cease, Dost thou care to know, as I guess ye wot, Thou art dark to the world, and by it forgot ? Will thy orbit flash thee to rest, in peace ? Will the wandering star come home at last 1 Were they only in seeming thy errors past ?

LUTEA RESEDA. 44 THE ATTEMPT.

BEING MSS. TEMPORE CAROLI PRIMI. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

" FROM Hubert Willoughbie, aforetyme of Willougbbie Manor, in ye countie of Gloucester, late of Whitehall, and nowe of Chester, to John Willoughbie, Esquire, of Willoughbie Manor, in ye countie of Gloucester, gentln."—these :— SIR,—I did safelie receeve, by ye handes of youre servant, Matthew Thompson, ye letter with which you have beene pleased to favour me; and I have hasted to answer it as soone as I coulde, that you mighte be informed of my sentiments and principles before leaving Willoughbie for York, according to youre desire. I am highly sensible, I beg you to beleeve, of youre forbearance in againe ad- dressing me upon a subject which I had judged had for ever separated us ; and I woulde that we were more of one minde upon it. I thanke ye for youre wishes for my welfare, and that I mighte be ye meanes of doing a goode tume for ye honour of Willoughbie ; also for youre offer to procure me a commission in His Majestie's horse, commanded by ye Prince Rupert. But, with all due and possible respect untoe you personallie, I muste againe infoi-m you that, after greate and deepe thynk- ing, I haA'e resolved still to abide by ye actes of ye Parliamente; I cannot in my hearte approve of ye course which His Majestie Kinge Charles is tayking, soe cannot I espouse his cause as you desire me to doe. I shoulde be loathe to drawe sworde againste my lawful! e sovereigne ; but when it is clearlie for ye goode of ye people of Englande, I muste e'en caste in my lot with ye Commons, however badlie it may fare with mine owne selfe in consequence. From this tyme, then, soe longe as ye kinge and ye people are at variance, I am one of ye people; and, my goode uncle (an I may yet call you soe), I shall never change my decision, unlesse ye kinge doth verrie materiallie alter his. Moderate in mine actions and opinions I doe hope ever to be, as God may helpe me ; but no tyme- server or wilde fanatick; and I never can, or shall forget that I am one of ye noble house of Willoughbie ; and shall trye ever to be worthie of ye name I beare, and ye sworde I drawe. An it be ever within ye compasse of my power to ayde or serve you or youres in anie way that I honestlie can, I shall ever doe soe; and shall ever subscribe myselfe, as I doe nowe, Youre duteous nephewe, and humble servant, HUBERT WILLOUGHBIE. This 23d daye of July, Anno 1642. THE ATTEMPT. 45 Written at ye house of Master Clarence Warner, in ye Watergate Street, over againste ye signe of ye Talbot's Head, in ye citie of Chester.

Can this be a letter from our proud, bitter, fiery Hubert, to his hated uncle, the staunch Royalist? Is it possible that this gentle, manly, moderate, and courteous letter can have emanated from the same hand that, in our first sample of our friend's correspondence, penned such scorning, wrathful, and unforgiving words t I am inclined to think that Hubert must, by this time, have been greatly softened by his long illness, and his intercourse with the quiet, loving spirit that seems to have pervaded the household of Clarence Warner. Those fearful scenes of murder and terror, and his own very narrow escape from a horrible death, together with the long silent hours of sickness, and communing with his own heart, must have shown life to him in a very difierent light from that in which he had regarded it, and have exerted an influence over his wayward, chafing, restless spirit, the importance of which we can hardly overrate. I do not think, as it has been sug- gested to me, that this letter is a piece of arch hypocrisy; the nature of the man was too honest and outspoken to have said such words, save of his own good-will, and from his heart. That some self-control was necessary, I can well believe; we have not had preserved to us John Willoughbie's letter to his nephew; but I can hardly imagine that its tone was the same as the gallant straightforward answer that it evoked. Henceforth we must expect to find the two men enemies—at least, on the side of the master of the Manor. Will Hubert's promise hold good, and will he have opportunity of proving it ? Time will show.

" To his welle-beloved nephewe, Edgar Willoughbie, from John Willoughbie of Willoughbie, these :— DEAKE NEPHEWE,—In muche and urgente haste I write you these fewe lines, to tell you of ye greatest misfortune that coulde have happed untoe me and Willoughbie. My sonne, and thy cousine, Eichard, hath lefte ye courte at Versailles, and hath come over here, avowedlie, to joyne ye accursed rebels. I did meete him in London, whither I had gone on an errand for His Most Sacred Majestic ; and my lyfe and soule on it, but we did have a stormie meeting; an others had not beene neare, though he were my eldest sonne, I coulde, aye, and woulde, have struck him doune as he stoode ! I wot not if he hath beene holding communication with that doubly- dyed traitour and villain, thy brother Hubert; but sure it is—he, too, muste 46 THE ATTEMPT. needes joyne ye Parliamente. Oh, Edgar, my hearte, stoute though it be, will surelie breake—that suche sore disgrace shoulde be; and I feare me that Bertram is lyke-minded. Since I did receeve a letter a fewe weekes agone from Hubert his decision Bertram hath beene welle-nighe madde at me though he die for it, and it be by his father's hand, yet loyal ever Some fellowe, Eliot Warren or Warner "

Here the rest of this letter is wanting; but I just give it you, that you may see in the old Royalist's own words the deep and bitter hatred he bore against those even of his own flesh and blood, who felt it a matter of right and duty to forsake the King for the Commons. Affairs seem to have taken an unexpected turn ; one more extract (another fragment only, I am sorry to say), must sufSce us for this time. It is from Arthur Egerton to Hubert Willoughbie. It would appear that Egerton had accompanied Hubert to Chester, and remained for some time at the house of the Warners ; but, as soon as he had quite recovered from the effects of his Irish expedition, and a fitting opportunity occurred, he had joined the Parliamentary forces under the Earl of Essex. Hubert remained at Chester, not taking any active part in anything for some little while. This scrap seems to have been written somewhat in a hurry; a gi"eat portion of it is gone; but I should say it was evidently a long letter originally.

" All of oure forces were nowe gathered together at Northampton ; and, indeede, friende Willoughbie, we did muster to no meane number, for we were more than fifteene thousand men. Oure general, lord Essex, was greatlie pleased to finde soe manie goode men and true, readie to fight for Englande's best and highest interests; and he opined that, for some while at leaste, we coulde welle keepe ye kinge and 's men in wholesome check. Soe did he pmdeutlie retire so farre as Shrewsberrie— but of that, I doubte not, you will welle have hearde. He hath gotten Sir Arthur Aston for his dragoons—pitie but we had not master and men for ourselves." i Here a piece of the page is missing. I should imagine Egerton therein detailed his march to Edgehill, prior to the engagement at that place.

" It was getting untoe duske ; for you knowe that ye dayes late into October THE ATTEMPT. 47 are not verrie longe; and we had reckoned ourselves safe, for that nighte, at leaste ; but at it we went, both parties of us ; and I trow it was a goode harde fighte. But, an you aske me how spedde ye battle, I verilie cannot tell, save as I hearde after- wards ; for I had enough to doe to keepe mine owne heade on my shoulders, and my sworde welle at worke. I knowe it was running redde and wette by ye tyme I did putte it uppe in 's scabbarde; and oh, Hubert, that it shoulde have beene with ye bloode of fellowe-countriemen—of Englishmen. But soe God willeth it—and it muste be. " I wot that Charles' men did fighte bravelie, and did their best to win ye daye; but though they saye that they did gaine it, we will not so allowe it; neither will they beleeve that we have gotten anie advantage. Ye advantage that I myselfe have gotten is sundrie cuts and knockes—here and there and everywhere; yet, on ye whole, I 'scaped muche better than did I at that ever memorable fighte near Kil- cashel. I sawe a goode manie of oure men falle ; and when ye roll was called, there was DO lacke of names that no one did answer untoe. We did not, after ye fighting was over, quitte oure armes all nighte, but mayntayned ourselves in readinesse for anie attack that mighte chance to be made; but ye enemie did keepe aloofe, and did noughte to annoye us, save ye firing of chance shottes, that did but small harme, and lost us but a man or two. My honour on it, Hubert man, but this fighting doth rouse my mettle welle, and wake uppe all ye soldier within me—may I longe be spared to helpe on our goode and true Parliamente. I woulde that you and Eliot were here; but I hope to see you soone among oure rankes. This is written in but a sorrie manner; but you muste pardon my mistakes and crudities; for there is suche perpetual noyse going on about me that I scarce can heare myselfe speake. But I woulde that you shoulde knowe how I spedde, and that I was alive after my first foughten fielde. " How is ye fayre Lilian 1 I wot that you will be mightilie sorrie to quitte Chester, an there were fiftie Hugh Shaws in ye way, but . . . ."

Here our fragment ends. From the last part, our readers may form any con- clusion they like ; perhaps, as affairs go on, and time develops some things, we shall be made better aware of how life went on at the Watergate Street; for the pre- sent we must be content to remain in doubt. God speed our brave Ironsides !

MAS ALTA. 48 THE ATTEMPT.

THEY lay within each other's arms entwined In beautifully deep and still repose, And seemed to smile that they had left behind This troubled world ere they had felt its woes.

And in one infant's hand the snow-drop pale, Fit and fair emblem, broke and withered lay ; First flower of spring as beautiful, as frail As those who in their spring-time passed away.

Spring will return, and to the mourning year Bring back fresh flowers as lovely as the past, But who will dry the sorrowing parent's tear, Stript of her blossoms by affliction's blast 1

Oh ! bid her gaze no longer where they lie, Her loved, her lost ones, on the silent tomb; Those buds of love transplanted to the sky. Will in eternal spring and beauty bloom ! E. H. S.

^nstor to ^onhh %txoBiu.

1. Custom. 6. Theatre. 2. Houri. 7. Mahomet. 3. Roses. 8. Adagio. 4. Instrument. 9. Shakspeare. 5. Sandal. Christmas and Mistletoe THE ATTEMPT. 49

THIS book has, for so long a time, been a cherished and familiar friend ix) many, that it might seem almost like presumption to attempt to discuss it; and it is only in consequence of an urgent desire having been expressed that this Magazine should contain some remarks on Keble's metrical works, that those few thoughts, gathered from a careful reading, are suggested. The E.ev. John Keble was a minister of the Church of England, and " The Chris- tian Year," the collection of poems by which he has become so universally known, is under what might be called a Church form. It is, as he himself calls it, " Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holidays throughout the Year." Although, no doubt, more familiarly known to those belonging to tlie English Church, yet the wide, loving spirit that breathes through them has found its way to hearts in every body of Christians. It must be borne in mind, as Professor Sliairp says, in his sketch of Keble's life and works, that these poems are not so much hymns of praise, as of religious medita- tion. Even that beautiful and well-known Evening Hymn had to be much cut down before it could be adapted to church singing. One particularly beautiful verse is generally, if not always, omitted— " Thou Framer of the light and dark, Steer through the tempest Thine own ark: Amid the howling wintry sea We are in port if we have Thee." He seems to have this constant feeling of all-sufficiency in God's love, as in the hymn for St John's day— " Gales from heaven, if so He will, Sweeter melodies can wake On the lonely mountain riU, Than the meeting waters make. Who hath the Father and the Son, May be left, but not alone." He checks those who would desire to know God's possible dealings with them in the future, and points (sixth Sunday after Epiphany), the lesson of faith which this ignorance is meant to teach them :— " For Thou would'st have us linger still Upon the verge of good and HI, That on Thy guiding hand unseen Our imdivided hearts may lean." 50 THE ATTEMPT. Next to the simple ti-usting piety everywhere displayed, the most striking charac- teristic of these poems is the intense love of nature and of nature's symbolism. He does not fear loving the beauties of God's earth too well, he sees no pantheistic ten- dency in recognising Him in all His works, he rather laments— " Of the bright things in earth and air. How little can the heart embrace." And in the same poem, that for the fourth Sunday in Advent, he mourns the weak- ness and inability of the human eye to see, ear to hear, and mind to grasp and retain, all those lovely sights and sounds which abound around us ; but in the sixth verse he clieers us by the prospect that— " There may come a time When these duU ears shall scan aright Strains, that outring Earth's drowsy chime, As Heaven outshines the taper's light. These eyes, that dazzled now and weak, At glancing motes in sunshine wink, Shall see the King's full glory break, Nor from the blissful vision shrink." This poem may be divided into three parts : the first five verses, regret for pre • sent loss, the next five, the promise of future more than compensating bliss, and the last five, the present application. The first of those last five verses is full of feeling:— " Meanwhile, if over sea or sky Some tender lights unnoticed fleet, Or on loved features dawn and die, Unread to us, their lesson sweet." The next verse is, however, rather unsatisfactory; it seems to suggest a new train of thought, which it does not follow out, and it would be but tame consolation for lack of love, lack of sorrow, even as a blind man would hardly rejoice in the blindness which hid from him so much that was beautiful, because it also hid from him much that was sad. It is pleasanter to take the encouragement in the following verse, that " The soul That upward looks, may stiU descry, Nearer, each day, the brightening goal." He has a keen susceptibility to nature's influence, as in that description of spring —reminding one of what Keats must have felt when he said " My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my senses." THE ATTEMPT. 51 " Yet, as along this violet bank I rove, The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath ; I sit me down beside the hazel grove And sigh, and half could wish my weariness were death." and also an ear, ever open to hear the deeper tones of " Creation's wondrous choir," " There's not a strain to Memory dear, Nor flower in classic grove ; There's not a sweet note warbled here, But minds us of Thy love." It is sin, he tells us, that " Deafens the ear that fain would wake To Nature's simple lay." Lessons from the animals and trees he does not fail to note,—a lesson of trust from the desert pelican (second Sunday after Christmas), who " Securely leaves her young; Reproving thankless man, who fears To journey on a few lone years. Where on the sand Thy step appears, Thy crown in sight is hung." In the song of the redbreast, that messenger of " calm decay," " Singing so thankful to the dreary blast," he finds a lesson of " sweet peace." " Rather, in all to be resigned than blest." Very beautiful images occur now and then, as in the well-known Christmas Hymn, where the angeKc song is likened to " Circles widening round, Upon a clear blue river." Though sometimes awanting in metrical regularity, Keble has a peculiar faculty of suitiug his rhymes to the spirit of the hymn. The first Sunday after Epiphany seems to bring a foretaste of approaching spring in the description of the " sweet lengthen- ing April day," and with what a joyful burst do the Christmas and Easter Hymns open, whilst in that for " All Saints' Day," the drear, dying Autumn day is brought vividly before us,— " Why blow'at thou not, thou wintry wind. Now every leaf is brown and sere. And idly droops, to thee resigned, The fading chaplet of the year ?"

This pause of Nature is looked at as a symbol of God's mercy in holding back 52 THE ATTEMPT. his lightenings,—holding them back in answer to secret prayer, breathed from many a lowly heart, for those who know them not, " But sure, from many a hidden dell, From many a rural nook unthought of, there Rises for that proud world the saint's prevailing prayer."

Looking at the author through his works, we see a humble, trustful mind, at once severe and merciful. He does not shrink from strong words of warning and admonition to those who will not accept Grod's offered grace, he sees the mercy of severity, as in the first Sunday in Lent, where he speaks of " the merciful Avengers," who " Check the wandering eye, severely kind, Nor let the sinner lose his soul at ease."

But yet what a lesson of humble, hojjeful leniency is taught to those who would pre- sume to judge even the greatest sinner, in those words where he tells us to learn from Christ, " Lost souls to love, And view His least and worst, with hope to meet above." He seems to feel deeply the reponsibility of his office as minister of the Gospel: the feeling of seemingly fruitless labour seems to weigh heavily on him, as when he speaks (nineteenth Sunday after Trinity) of " The Chi'istiau Pastor, bowed to earth With thankless toil, and vile esteemed, Still travailing in second birth, Of souls that will not be redeemed— Yet steadfast set to do his part, And fearing most his own vain heart."

He is touchingly humble, fearful, and distrustful of his own heart, even in the midst of hard labour in God's vineyard. He speaks from his heart those words of of the weary fisher on the Sea of Galilee, " The livelong night we've toiled in vain, But at Thy gracious word I will let down the net again— Do Thou Thy wUl, O Lord !"

Scott and Wordsworth were his favourite poets ; but although the influence of Wordsworth is distinctly discernible throughout all these poems, yet they resemble more the hymns of Hebert than any more modern writer. It is very difficult to THE ATTEMPT. 53 treat of them with any degree of method—some of them are very well suited to the day and text which head them—others again, less so. After the Morning and Evening Hymns, come those for Advent. The two first are full of warning, that " to her funeral pile this aged world is borne." The first speaks of all the dangers through which the church has passed ; the second tells that now she begins to lift her head, for, " her redemption draweth nigh." The third Sunday in Advent brings before us, like a picture, the rich luxuriant land, where " Stately Jordan flows by many a palm." The first Sunday after Christmas treats of the Dial of Ahaz, and applies it very beautifully to the longing of the sinful heart to force backward the waves of time. Many poets in many climes have given vent to this bitter, repentant regret for the irrecoverable past, but none have answered it with such divine counsel and comfort as Keble. " By every secret sigh we heave, Whole years of folly we outlive, In his unerring sight, who measures life by love." Though still comparatively a young man, he speaks very feelingly of the sad path from youth to manhood, where he says, " The Man seems following still the funeral of the Boy," but he feels that to grieve for time's ruins is unfit for those travelling to an Eternal City : " Nor by the wayside ruins let us mourn, Who have the eternal towers for our appointed bourne." Childlike trust, he tells us, is the only abiding gain, that which the Christian alone has, who may, " Through the world's sad day of strife, StUl chant his morning song. Ever the richest, tenderest glow Sets round the autumnal sun, But there sight fails : no heart may know The bliss when life is done." To come to those for the Saints' Days. The Conversion of St Paul is power- ful and almost dramatic in the vividness of description. From the question of Saul,—" Who art thou, Lordi" He draws a lesson for every one to beware of failing to recognise our Lord in the jjoor around us, and asking, on the Judgment Day, " When did we see Thee, suffering nigh, And passed Thee with unheeding eye ?" 54 THE ATTEMPT. And ends with the counsel,— " So, as we walk our earthly round, Still may the echo of that sound Be in our memory stored ! Christians ! behold your happy state : Christ is in these, that round you wait: Make much of your dear Lord."

One of the most beautifully simple, and lyrical, is that for St Peter's Day. It flows on smoothly, like a tranquil stream of deep thought, telling of that martyr not yet to be called to wear the martjr's crown, sleeping calmly in his prison cell, " as one who drew celestial breath. " In his dreams, once more with his Master he walks the earth, once more he loves those hours of holy converse, and seems to wait at the very gates of heaven, " The unexpressive notes to hear Of angel song and angel motion, Rising and falling on the ear, Like waves in joy's imbounded ocean." Wliat a wonderfully suggestive verse, bringing a grander vision of heaven before us than any ideal description could do—a heaven where the very angels' song was but " a wave in joy's unbounded ocean." An idea somethiag similar to this is expressed in Mrs Browning's " Cowper's Grave," where, picturing the awakening of his soul in heaven, " Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him breaking, Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted. But felt those eyes alone, and knew My Savioxur! not deserted." But he is roused from his shimber and recalled to earth, and seeiag his hand must for a time forego, " Just as it touched, the martyr's pahn. He turns him to his task below." In the poem for St Bartholmew's Day, a strange, yet forcible, type is shewn of a glass which, held against the sky reflects its rays, but turned downward shows all " the soft gi-een of the vernal earth," even as the Bible, though reflecting the Son of Man in every page, shows not the less " the very life of things below." One is sometimes startled at the want of continuous harmony in some of those hymns, some siidden break or diversion from the general idea of the poem, which even, like a stone in a stream, stops the smooth flow of thought, and makes one pause. THE ATTEMPT. 55 and then steppiug over it, pick up the lost thread at the next verse. Keble himself gives us the explanation of thLs in the Preface, when he says that many of those hymns were rather adapted to " the successive portions of Liturgj^, then originally suggested by them." Professor Shairp tells us, that it was not Keble's intention to publish these poems at the time he did, that it was only at the request of friends that he consented to add what was necessary to publish them under this complete form. In one sense, it seems almost a pity that he allowed himself to be bound down, that he did not remember that a poet can never write truly if shackled by necessity. But although we may regret the slight inconsistencies which might have been recti- fied by more time and leisure, we have to thank the friend whose influence gave to the world so much sooner this mine of deep Christian thought, and earnest spiritual counsel and comfort. The " Lyra Innocentium," published many years later, is a volume of poems prin- cipally addressed, or having reference to children. It lacks the deep thought and poetic language of the " Christian Year," and never will attain to the same fame and popularity. But it is hardly just to compare them,—the one was the work of his youth and prime, by which he desired to be remembered, and no douVjt always will. The other is composed of verses written in the moments of leisure of an active life and mind, which refreshed itself by writing of, and to, little children; in tracing in infant life a type of the divine life of the soul, and again in simple words, in warning, en- couraging, and guiding the youthful minds. The rhyme varies much ; in some pieces it is powerful, as in the song of the " Manna Gatherers," which has a truly martial sound; and in one entitled " The Efiect of Example." But the descriptions of nature form its greatest attraction,—the ever fresh and vivid scenes which, opening the book at r'andom, we are sure to light upon. One of the most beautiful, to conclude with, is the " Gleaners," typical of the Christian's return home. " But see the tall elm shadows reach Athwart the field, the rooks fly home, The light streams gorgeous up the o'er arching beach ; With the calm hour, soft weary fancies come.

In heaven the low red harvest moon, The glowworm on the dewy gromid, WUl light us home, with our glad burden song : Grave be our evening prayers, our slumbers sound." ENAI. 56 THE ATTEMPT.

" ^ntxmtt,"

THE evening light is calm and tender, The evening breeze is cool and sweet; The still sea lies, in gentle splendour, At gi-eat Gibraltar's feet. The dim blue hills, the straits far over. Are pale and vague in the fading light; Over the waves already hover The shadowy plumey wings of night. Low in the west there still is glowing One quivering line of golden red, But ev'n from that the blush is going. The transient brilliancy is fled. The hush of twilight is deep and holy, Brooding o'er ocean, cliff, and plain, A sweet and soothing melancholy. Not pleasure, yet hardly pain, A speechless, yearning, throbbing feeling I Thrills the caged soul through her prison bars; Oh, as an eagle her flight to be wheeling ■ Through yon blue ether, above the stars ! Oh, to escape from mortal fetter. To some far Paradise, bright and free ! Say, is there a land than Spain e'er better— Somewhere—beyond the sea ? Does the broad water roll for ever On to the westward, deep and green ? Or does it break on a coast that never The eye of the mariner hath seen ? Only the white-winged albatross, sailing Far and fleet o'er the flying spray. From Phosphor's dawning to Hesper's paling, Knoweth that lonely way. THE ATTEMPT. " 57 Nor queenly galley, with dark oare sweeping, Nor gallant ships of Sjiain there bo, That have ever, their course toward the sunset keeping, Come to a land beyond the sea.

Daylight is gone—the sliadows are trailing Over the waters—the west is dark ; See ! from the east comes bravely sailing A swift and bounding bark. About her bows the water plashes In tiny wavelets and mimic foam, As onward gaUy the good ship dashes— Whither away is she bound to roam ? Is it some part of France she has chosen, Sunny and brUliant, wealthy and gay ? Or to some shore of the North Sea frozen Tracks she her cheerless way 1 What dream of fame or wealth entices Her crew some perilous voyage to dare ? Goes she to trade for balmy spices. Golden ingots, or pearls so rare 1 Oh, for nothing of this she's speeding On to the westward, fast and free,— One shore she seeks, all others exceeding— The land beyond the sea ! Over her bvdwarks one is leaning. Gazing over the silent tide. As it ripples under the moonbeams' sheening. Or stretches into the darkness wide. And as he gazes more intently. His soul mthiu him throbs and cries. With earnest longing, and purpose saintly, And prayers that reach the skies. Oh, for the aid of Almighty power To lighten up his shadowy way, n 58 THE ATTEMPT. To rij^en to fruit the budding flower He had watched so carefully many a day. Human strengtli would soon be perished If left alone in the arduous fight; Nought would fulfil the hopes he cherished, Saving Eteraal Might! Oh, that the hand the waves that stilled Would guide his bark, so frail and weak, And bring him at last, with heart joy-fill'd, Unto the land he goes to seek. He goes in hope—he must surely find it, Very far off though indeed it be : His ship is leaving Spain behind it— What is beyond the sea ? Wliat is beyond the sunset's glory 1 Beyond the shining of stars 1 he knows ; Beyond the foaming of billows hoary 1 To find that somewhat, Columbus goes !

Oh, day-star thou of a glorious morning ! Pilot-star o'er yon trackless sea ! The sneers and laughs of a cold world's scorning Who would have braved like thee ? Mightiest, best, of Europe's seamen. Pioneer to that golden shore ! Thy name is a watchword to eveiy freeman Who fights 'gainst darkness, for evermore ! To every man who will struggle to dying With wicked ignorance, jealous hate ] Who will stop the mouth of slander's lying. And battle wdth adverse fate : And who, when ended the painful straining, The wearied strivings, the toil so slow. Shall at length, the crown of the mountain gaining. Gaze o'er the world he has conquered below ! MAS ALTA. THE ATTEMPT. 59

en in f uth.

WE all believe in luck, to a certain extent; it is quite impossible to helji doing so. We see, every day, clear enough evidences of its existence. We have all known people, who, figuratively speaking, came into the world with the traditional " silver spoon in their mouths," and who have kept fast hold of it ever since ; and I am sure we have all known many others utterly devoid of any such advantage, who are never out of trouble from one year's end to another, whose most praiseworthy exertions are, to all appearance, utterly fruitless, who are the prey of every variety of misfortune, and are buffeted by all the winds that blow. I once knew a lady—for the sake of facility to myself, and of disguise to her, I shall call her Mrs Brown,—who was a thorough and perfect specimen of the un- fortunate class I have just alluded to. The " hair-breadth 'scapes " by which that extraordinary woman succeeded in eluding destruction during her infancy and child- hood formed some of the most thrilling tales of our nursery days, for she wa,s nearly related to us; and our nurses took advantage of this to hold her up to us as a warning. She had fallen out of bed, and down several flights of stairs;—I don't mean all at once, but upon several different occasions ;—she had swallowed pins, and tin soldiers, and, I think, a slate pencil; she had been burned, and scalded, and bruised in countless ways; and she had taken every ill that infantine flesh is heir to in its most virulent form. She succeeded, in spite of all these diflSculties, in growing up ; she was married, and had children; and then her evil genius, which, for a time had seemed to slumber, awoke like a giant refreshed, to attack her peace with redoubled energy. Since that day, her life has been one continued stmggle with ill luck. Her servants alone caused her more trouble than could be told in a three- volumed novel. If they were honest, their stupidity bafiled all instruction; if they were clever, they invariably made away with the spoons; if, by some extra- ordinary chance, they possessed both intelligence and integrity, they either were taken ill and had to leave, or they married the baker within the first six months, leaving Mrs Brown to her fate. And what a fate it was ! Pitfalls seemed everywhere to open beneath her, dangers lurked on every hand. At places of public amuse- ment her evil genius never left her ; was there a pick-pocket in the crowd, Mrs Brown was his victim ; was there a position from which it was impossible to see or be seen, to hear or be heard, that position was sure to fall to the lot of Mrs Brown; was GO THE ATTEMPT. there a night on which Tietjens was incapacitated by cold, it was invariably the night selected by Mrs Brown to go and hear her; while, in private life, she was never known to give a dinner-party, but its success was marred either by the sudden indisposition of the cook aboiit an hour before dinner-time, or by the absence of the principal guest of the evening, who would send an apology late in the afternoon of the day of entertainment, reducing Mrs Brown's party to the ominous number of thirteen. Her children were an unfailing source of trial; I never knew anything like their capabilities of attracting and commimicating to each other every sort of contagious disease; Mrs Brown's house was generally more like an hospital than a private dwelling ; and when the children had run the gauntlet of every known in- fectious complaint, two or three of them developed a sort of chronic cold, and coiighcd and sneezed for months in defiance of doctors, drugs, black currant jelly, and even the sulphur cure. I leave this painful svibject—but it lias a moral, and that moral I will endeavour to point out. I am sure your hearts must be touched with sympathy for the woes of Mrs Brown ; I wish, if possible, to gain your admii-ation for the manner in which she bears them ; for know, 0 ye despondent and faint-hearted ones, that if there is one thing abovit Mrs Brown more extraordinary than her luck, it is her " pluck "—(forgive the slang expression ; the temptation of the rhyme was too se- ductive to be resisted.) She never, in her darkest hour of perplexity, was known to desjiond. Now, gentle reader, if pex'chance you are one of the luckless class of which Mrs Brown is so distinguished a member, one of those whose path from childhood upwards has been strewed with thorns, whose fate it is to see the cup of joy dashed to the ground just as their eager lips are about to taste it,

" Who never have a slice of bread Particularly large and wide, But it is always sure to fall Upon the buttered side," don't, I entreat you, give way to dejection—don't let " melancholy mark you for her own." Your troiibles are great; why increase them by brooding over them 1 Mrs Brown never did so; that admirable woman would have despised such weakness. If she was disappointed of her object by some casuality, she did not give it up with a sigh; she tried some other expedient, or the same expedient over again, and even her ill luck rarely proved altogether obdurate in the end. Your ill luck, instead of THE ATTEMPT. Gl making you desjiondent and easily cast down, is only an excellent reason why you should be more energetic and elastic than other people; you have more occasion for it. At the same time, if your exjierience has shown you that good luck is seldom on your side, profit by experience (which, as you know, teaches even fools) and don't neglect the warning voice of inward forebodings. Mrs Brown hoped for the best, always ; but she also prepared for the worst. I have seldom known her begin any undertaking, from the education of her children down to a piece of worsted work, without having engineered several expedients, without having two or three spare strings to her bow. " I, of all people, requii'e something to fall back upon," said Mrs Brown. Imitate her caution, my unfortunate friends, as well as her courage, and all may yet be well with you. Remember, too, that ill luck is one thing, and that obstinate folly is another, and a very different one. If a man persisted, in defiance of the arguments and entreaties of his friends, in running his head against a stone wall, would you call him unlucky if he fractured his skuU ? No ; I tliink you would call him mad. Well, if you persist in adhering to some line of conduct which you know to be injudicious and absurd, and if, in the end, your obstinacy bring you to signal misfortune, don't go about bewail- ing your ill luck, and demanding the sympathy of the public ; you don't deserve it; say nothing about the affair at all, or, if you do, confess that you were wholly and solely to blame, and that the Fates were not in fault this time. These unfortunate Fates ! Often, indeed, are they charged with delinquencies with which they have nothing whatever to do. Upon them we throw the blame of far the greater amount of the foolish and rash actions we commit; "an irresistible impulse," " a mysterious power," " an indefinite attraction," led us on, we say; seldom, indeed, do we bring ourselves to acknowledge that the " mysterious power" was nothing more mysterious than obstinacy, and the " indefinite attraction" the love of having our own way. And so we shift the blame off oui- own shoulders and throw it upon the unfortunate Fates. Mrs Brown scorns such a line of conduct. On any occasion, when she her- self, and not her ill luck, has been to blame, she confesses it at once. " How terribly unfortunate !" cry her condoling friends. " How egregiously foolish !" says the peni- tent Mrs Brown. Perhaps the strangest thing about this part of the subject is one which we see as much in cases of good luck as of ill—I mean the extraordinary way in which we persviade ourselves into a firm belief that we are acting under the influence of Fate, when we are only following out our own inclinations. We are lazy and inactive 62 THE ATTEMPT. (suppose), and our laziness and inactivity get us into trouble, and we talk about ill luck until we really firmly believe that we are the unhappy victims of a cruel Fate. Or, suppose we have set our hearts on the accomplishment of some wish, and obtain it by unremitting exertion and ingenuity ; but it does not quite suit us to acknow- ledge all the means by which we reached this end—we are perhaps rather ashamed of some of our expedients, and would willingly forget them ; and so we gradually reason ourselves into a conviction that our desii-e was most unexpectedly and pleasantly fulfilled, that it was all the work of good luck, and that we had never exerted our- selves in the matter. It is just like the man who told a highly-coloured story so often that at last he believed it himself. I have no doubt the young lady in Burns' charming song thought she was expressing a most virtuous sentiment, full of obedi- ence and resignation, when she sang,

" If it's ordained I maim tak' him, O wha will I get but Tarn Glen ? " when in point of fact she was only displaying her determination to " tak'" the said Mr Glen in spite of all opposition. " Resignation" reminds me of another phase of conduct and character too often exhibited by the victims of ill luck ; I mean, that of utter inaction, of inert endur- ance, which they are fond of dignifying by the name of " resignation." I was read- ing a cajiital story the other day about a man who, having fallen into misfortune, and having " resignation" recommended to him as a panacea for his ills, heroically replied—■" Let's put our best foot foremost, and throw resignation overboard." That man was a true philosopher, and his remark breathed the very spirit of Mrs Brown. Often have I heard her say—" I am not going to be satisfied with resignation until I am quite sure that I can't get anything better." Remember that I am not speak- ing of the great sorrows of life, these irremediable griefs Avliich no human power can remove, and which must be borne with submission and humility; I refer to the troubles and distresses, the anxieties and cares of which we can free ourselves by re- solution, energy, and perseverance; and surely, to sit down under a burden of these troubles which we could shake ofi^ if we would, and then to call our weakness and sloth by the name of " resignation," is using a noble word to express a very ignoble thing. You have heard of the sage who was asked to compile a motto that should be suitable alike in prosperity and in adversity, and who, after much thought, sug- gested the words—" And this also shall pass away." And no doubt it was a very good motto, and fulfilled its double purpose marvellously well; warning in pro- THE ATTEMPT. G3 sperity, cheering in adversity ; but nevertheless, when trouble comes, it would be a pity to trust too implicity to that motto. It would be both weak and foolish to remain passive in the midst of our distress, and content ourselves with saying, " And this also shall pass away." There is another old saying that would sei-ve our turn better, in the sort of trouble to which I refer—" Heaven helps those that help them- selves ;" a motto I would most strenuously recommend to all the victims of ill luck. Let them keep it ia their minds, with the bright example of my friend Mrs Brown (whose daily mle it was), and it is probable they will soon find their luck has taken a turn—for, as I have already said, even Mrs Brown's evil genius I'arely proved alto- gether obdurate ia the end. DIDO.

Siamas fax Music.

WHEN the last glimpse of evening in silence is stealing, And darkness descends with its mantle of care; Tliere steals on the heart a soft twilight of feeling, Too mournful for hojie, and too sweet for despair.

In the light of the morning, the gay world before us Shines with joy and with hoj)e for the young and the gay, But dearer the hour when the night wind sighs o'er us. And we muse on the hopes which this life bears away.

Thus though sunshine and hope may beam forth with the morrow, We linger to watch in the shadow of night,— For the loved and the lost come in silence and sorrow. And the twilight of memory steals on the sight. E. H. S. 64 THE ATTEMPT.

^axQotim Jfrieniis.

MOST of the lady readers of The Attemjyt have, like myself, some old, often cher- ished, oftener still abused, friends of childhood, to whom occasionally they look back with a feeling of kindliness. The faces of these old friends, unlike the fast changing countenances of those who have grown up with us, or who are seen no more among us, are easily re- called, for a hundred such are seen every day. We cannot walk from one end of Princes Street to another without seeing many a face identical with that of our long lost favourite. I hero use the singular number for convenience sake, though those youth- ful friends were numerous, I had almost said, as the sand on the sea-shore. Do we never then imagine we behold in these familiar forms our own old friend once more be- fore us ? Strange as it may appear, we never do, and stranger still, did our fancy really so far mislead us—the sight of her who cheered so many hours in childhood, who so patiently endured much ill-usage at our hands, who smiled so meekly upon us in spite of such neglect and even cruelty—the sight of her would cause us little if any pleasure. We often imagine, even while sighing over a lost friendship, that such friendship never existed save in our own fond fancies, and that the pain we now feel is caused less by real sorrow, than by a disappointed imagination forced to admit that its fairest structure has crumbled into dust. Whether such ideas are consolatory or the reverse is doubtful, but it were needless further to discuss them here, for in regard to the friendship I speak of there is no doubt entertained as to the reality, the strength, and the warmth of oiu' early love for our now discarded plajrmates. What yearnings did those yellow curls formerly raise within our hearts. How we longed to press those smiling lips to our OAvn. How often have we shared our choicest cake with them; how often, I regret to say, have we transferred the delicious morsel from these sweet expectant lips to our own. Have we not slept with them, and awakening, have not those gentle blue eyes, somewhat fixed, perhajis, met our lov- ing gaze, wliile yet brothers, sisters, parents, and nurses were wrapped in sleep? Have we not, trembling, carried her (I return to the singular number) herself rigid, perhaps with con-esponding fear, into the cold, curling, and advancing waves 1 Has her presence not nerved us for the awful plunge, and this, alas ! poor creature, at the ex- pense of her own constitution, never at best very robust ? Has she not accompanied us, when ill, to the dread presence of the doctor 1 When brothers and sisters fled, inspired by wholesome fears of bitter drugs, did she flinch ? When rudely THE ATTEMPT. 05 awakened from morning siesta, and drawn forth, perchajice by the leg, did she com- plain ? Did she, like ourselves, give way to foolish tears when the kind doctor felt our fluttering pulse 1 And yet how seldom do we recall those many kindnesses, those patient, unassuming proofs of friendship. It were in vain to ask—do we ever shed a tear or breathe a sigh, however faint, over her memory 1 Do we care where her ashes are laid 1 That were too much to expect. It is a sad thing, and proves the ingratitude of human nature, this entire forget- fulness of early friends. Let each reader summon up from some neglected corner of her memory her old playmate, and consider was there ever such a friend as she was, one so worthy to be loved and held in remembrance for ever 1 People differ as to the effects of personal appearance, but surely there never was a creature more calculated to prepossess than she ■was, when we first knew her, at least. She may have been vain, but then did you not encourage that failing, and is it not a defect closely allied to many good qualities—amongst others a gentle, never-failing good-humour, a disposition to be contented anywhere and with any persons, provided they shew the slightest degree of admiration and kindness, and surely these qualities were hers 1 Recall for a moment that round, unfurrowed face ; was there ever there a look of impatience, crossness, sadness, until, indeed, the latter was at length in- delibly imprinted on her wasted features by your neglect, unkindness, or injudicious affection. To do you justice, you loved her better then than in her first bloom of youth. And when, in wanton cruelty, you tore out half her golden hair by the roots, you repented bitterly, and, with heartfelt tears, tenderly combed the other half, and then, your easy conscience appeased, you declared she was an ugly creature, and pushed her from you. Kecall her now ! Did she upbraid you ? No ; meekly recumbent, she fixed her calm blue eyes upon you and smiled. Does not the thought of that smile haunt you still 1 You took from her the finest clothes of her little wardrobe and bestowed them on younger rivals, still she smiled meekly, and spoke not a word. You punctured her delicate frame with divers sharp instruments, you spared her not in such fierce anatomical moments. She grew perceptibly thinner, her bearing was less erect, but she never complained. At times you chastised her with undue severity, it was more almost than her slender frame could well endure, but your most violent blows and sternest reprimands wrung no impatient word from her lips, now wasted, alas ! but smiling still. You forgot your former love, her former beauty, and left her exposed in the garden to midnight dews, and finding her drenched and miserable next morning, dried her with such injudicious excess and remorseful fondness, that, at length, her over-burdened heart gave way, and big drops 66 THE ATTEMPT. stood upon her cheeks and fell on her tarnished finery. From this excess of grief her complexion suffered, she grew pale and wan, her eyes grew brighter and brighter, but still she smiled with undiminished, though saddened sweetness. You then in vain plied her with kindness. Her former dresses were all too loose for her shrunken figure, her scanty locks were ill concealed by fashionable bonnets; her face surrounded by roses looked ghastly, with its unnaturally large eyes, and thin, pale lips, still, with gentle persistence, resignedly smiling. Then, indeed, you felt remorse and shame and anguish. You tenderly undressed your little friend and put her to bed ; you sang to her, talked to her, spoke of new dresses she was to have, of long walks in the Queen Street Gardens when summer should come—she answered you with the smile of one who should see no summer. But you forgot her again—for days she lay neglected; at night pale moonbeams fell on her lonely pillow, and lit up her thin face with a more patient smile than evei*. Once, indeed, you brought a new friend to see her, a tall slender, black haired beauty, with brilliant eyes. The old favourite cast upon her an earnest gaze, which you heartlessly called " unmeaning ; " did you think of the loneliness, the regret, hidden by that smile, now, alas ! wearing somewhat of a forced look ? A few weeks more, the reigning beauty had unfortun- ately lost an eye, and while on a visit to a skilful person, who was to restore her to full loveliness, yeu were pleased for a time to amuse yourself with your despised old friend. But how different your conduct now. All show of fondness was thrown aside. The fallen favourite figured in a prominent but disgraceful manner at mock executions; her nose was reduced to the level of her pale cheeks by the barbarous application of heated irons. One eye rattled hideously in her empty cranium, the other stared with a sad and unnatural lustre. Her bare scalp was scarred with many a frightful wound, and her slender body seemed in danger every moment of breaking in twain. Still she smiled on with a small, faint stresik of a mouth, forgiving, uncom- plaining as ever. But there is a limit to all endurance. Your little friend was at length pronounced to have expired. I am afraid this writing may be objected to as sensational; but is not truth at times stranger than fiction, and are we not all guilty of much cruelty to our old friends ? Not only this, are we not all singularly free from remorse on this score ? I fear we are. Let us therefore think now and then of our former playmates. Let us look with kind remembrance on their descendants. We cannot mistake them, the family likeness is so great. Above all let us not despise the fondness shoAvn them by our little sisters and cousins, and, if possible, let us protect them from the wanton cruelty of these indiscreet little ladies. AGNELLA. THE ATTEMPT. 67

fuhd's fitters;

BEING MSS. TEMPORE CAROLI PRIMI. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED,

FROM Hubert Willoughbie to Eliot Warner.

DEARE FRIENDE ELIOT,—This muste be but a sadde letter, bearing untoe you not only griefe of mine owne, but newes of that which hath beene to us a greater blowe than if we had beene smitten at once with everie cavalier blade in England. We have loste one of oure greatest men—one of oure strongholdes of wisdome, of good- nesse, of mighte—oure greate Hampden is dead. And dead, too, not in a hard pitched fighte, but in a mere slighte skirmish, that coulde bring noughte of glory or of advan- tage—that hath but made itselfe famous by robbing us of oure beloved leader, and giving oure enemies somewhat in which to e:S:ult over us. I was onlie sente do^\Tie into Oxfordshire with despatches untoe oure goode Master Hampden, from London, some two or three dayes before ye brushe we had on Chal- grove fielde—soe did I happen to be with oure partie, and was one of them, when that most disastrous thing did come to passe. I had by this tyme quite recovered myselfe from ye woundes I had receeved in ye battel at Brcntforde, and was readie for aniething agayne. But littel did I thynke"

Here is a break—the letter goes on again presently, although the greater part of the account of the skirmish is lost.

" Suddenlie, I sawe at a distance a figure I welle knewe—it was oure brave leader—but howe did my hearte faile when I perceeved that his charger's head was turned away from ye fielde ; and that, as fast's he coulde, he was maykyng his way from oute ye fighte. His head hung downe upon his breast, his sworde was gone, and his handes were grasping his horse's mane, and leaning heavilie on his neck. I settled myselfe firmlie on to my saddle, pulled my horse welle together, and then, setting spurs to's syde, did gallop ofi" as quicklie as I coulde in ye direction that oure captain tooke. It was somewhat broken grounde, soe coulde I not gette along soe fast as mine ardent nature woulde have wished me ; but at laste I gained on him, and came uppe with him. Before I reached him, I coulde heare his deepe, thicke sobbing for breath, and a groane that escaped from him nowe and then; and from's shoulder ye bloode was pouring in a darke purple streame. * Master Hampden ! what is it I 68 THE ATTEMPT. Are you wounded ]' I called, as I came uppe. ' To ye deathe, Willoughbie, and am in moste mortal anguish—I am sliotte, and some bone is broken—I wot not which —I am going away to die.' " But I bade him be of goode cheere, and did ayde him as welle as I coulde, until two or three others did come uppe, soe did we safelie see him untoe his quarters, and did give him untoe ye handes of ye chirurgeon; but, so soone's he looked at his wounde, his face grewe grave, though he essayed his best to give him releefe from his horrible pain; yet not all that he coulde doe woulde avayle to give him ease. Then, as we were a-standing wayting verrie sadlie aboute ye doore, he looked uppe, and called to us soe loude as he coulde—' Goe away backe, friendes, you can doe me no goode—goe, and figlite on all ye more that I am not there—we muste not lose hearte—goe, for my sayke.' Soe we wente; and I telle thee, Eliot, that my sworde sente out of this worlde manie who mighte have beene in it still, for my bloode was fullie uppe to thynke of oure captain's liurte; soe did I try to avenge myselfe on oure foes, for his sayke ; and I thynke I did it, too.'

" And nowe he is dead—gone—buried under ye eartlie—we muste never more heare his voyce agayne, nor see his face, nor follow his leading—our goode Hampden is dead ! Who will tayke his place, and be to us what he was 1 " Aye ! King Charles mighte aske his owue chirurgeon to goe to him, and appeare verrie grieved, and greatlie lamented that he shoulde have loste one whom he did soe muclie esteeme. But, an he had not turned traitor himselfe at firste, we shoulde have beene in peace nowe, and Hampden mighte have beene alive. Four dayes, lyke Lazarus, he hath beene deade—oh that ye greate Master himselfe coulde but come, to wayke liim uppe to lyfe and health and worke agayne. But ye tyme for suclie things is gone—and we muste fayne be content to beare oure sorrowes as best we may, and cache of us stryve to worke soe welle, that we shall be as muche missed as he whenever we shall die. " I expecte to goe into Somersetshii'e or Wiltshire in a fewe dayes, to joyne Sir William Waller ; aud I hope to get a regular commission, instead of being bandied aboute, from one to another, as I have hitherto beene. My cousine, E-ichard, is with Lord Essex, and is proving himselfe a goode man and true—as I hardlie coulde have thoughte he woulde. I hope to see Bertram sooue. God send it may be long ere I come across mine uncle or my brother Edgar. Howe ooulde I sliedde ye same bloode that runnes in mine owne veins—yet my duty to my country woulde de- THE ATTEMPT. 69 mande it—and shorte shrifte shoulde I get at ye handes of either of those two. I wonder, shall I ever crosse swordes with Hugh Shaw ? I coulde not—oh, Eliot, this is an awfuUe war, when Englishmen muste fighte with Englishmen, and those of one house, bloode, and name, are opposed as moste deadlie enemies. Oh, Charles, that was once oure Charles, muste have a grievous wronge to answer untoe God for."

This is all of this epistle ; the next bears date some three months later, and is from Bertram Willoughbie to Eliot Warner.

" From Bertram Willoughbie, afore ty me of Willoughbie Manor, in ye conn tie of Gloucester, gentln., to Eliot Warner, of ye Watergate Streete, Chester, Esquire— these :— " Honoured Sir,—By ye desire of my cousine, and youre goode friende, Hubert Willoughbie, I doe you to wit of certayne things ye which he woulde himselfe have made knowne untoe you, but that having gotten a somewhat grievous (although not dangerous) hurt in's righte shoulder, during ye late engagement which was foughten at Newbury, on ye twentieth daye of this present month, he is at this present unable soe to use his handes to be able to write. He desires me to informe you of ye deathe of youre friende Hugh Shaw, and to give you suche particulars as you mighte lyke to be made aware of. " Towards ye latter parte of ye battel, he having himselfe not yet receeved his wounde, he perceeved a royalist officer most desperatelie sette upon by three or four of oure men, and defending himselfe with great braverie. On approaching, to his greate surprise, he sawe it was Hugh Shaw ; who, although nearlie dead, woulde not cry for quarter; yet, when he did see it was Hubert, he cried to him for quarter, saying he surrendered untoe him, but him onlie. Soe did Hubert cause ye others to leave their assault upon liim, and, tayking his sworde, claimed him as his prisoner. Some men of Master Shaw's company, however, seeing tlieir captain in ye handes of ye enemie, did mayke a desperate attempt to rescue him; and in ye encounter with them, Master Willoughbie receeved his wounde Ye chirurgeon coulde doe nothing for him, he sayd, soe he was fayne to go awaye, and leeve him untoe us, after doeing ye best he coulde for Hubert's shoulder. Poore Shaw was fast dying, and coulde say but verrie littel; but he thanked us both heartily for oure kindness to him (though littel enough it was), and sayd that he felt it no disgrace to submit to Master Hubert Willoughbie, though he woulde rather have been cut to 70 THE ATTEMPT. pieces than give his sworde into anie other man's hande. Then he charged us to give his last messages untoe his friendes at Chester—to his father and his young brother, and to Master Clarence Warner, and you, his sonne Eliot; and to youre sister. Mistress Lilian Warner. ' Tell her,' he sayd, ' that I was never one halfe goode enough for her—nor ever deserved a tenth part of ye love that she gave to me. Tell her, that she muste forget me, or only to thynke of the farre past dayes of oure child- hood when we played and laughed together; and God grant that she may finde some one to love her more deeplie and more truelie than I did—and I thynke I knowe where there is suche an one,' he added, turning on Hubert ye eyes that were alreadie glazing in deathe; but my cousine bade him gently to forbear. Soe he lingered some littel while, in sore pain, and great distresse; but just before he dyed, he started uppe suddenlie, and looking rounde him, and on us, sayd in a loud voyce, ' Hubert Willoughbie, beare witnesse, that I die, as I have lived, a true King's Cavalier to ye laste—^God save King Charles'—and then, he felle backe and dyed. " We buried him quietlie and properlie, on a littel hillock, beneathe ye shadowe of some fir trees, and piled uppe an heape of stones to marke where he lies. Master Willoughbie saith that you will knowe welle howe sorrie he is for ye sayke of old Sir William Shaw; and alsoe for yourselfe, and mostlie for youre sister; but on this laste point, let me for myselfe observe, he doth maintayne greate silence. These sadde troublous tymes doe greatlie tiye and grieve him, both in minde and in bodie. I scnde this by Major Percival Wharton, who is to goe nighe untoe Stafforde, where, I am informed, you at this present abide. He is a staunch man to oure cause, a goode soldier to boote, and no fanatic, as are soe manie nowe. " Master Willoughbie saith there is no neede for me to assure you that you are ever in his remembrance, as he hopeth he is in youres. I doe, therefore, with pleasure, subscribe myselfe as Youre humble servant nowe as in all else, BEETRAM WILLOUGHBIE. This 29th daye of September, Anno 1643. " To Master Eliot Warner, at ye house of Colonel Abraham Fielding, harde by ye gaol, in ye Gaol-gate Street, Stafford."

" From Arthur Egerton, of Cotiswoode House, in ye countie of Gloucester, to Hubert Willoughbie, of Willoughbie Manor, in ye same countie, these :— " Deare friende Willoughbie,—I knowe welle you will be righte sorrie for what I have to saye ; but I muste say it, or else you mighte not heare it for some tyme. I THE ATTEMPT. 71 sawe my friende, Captain Philip Lucy, yesternight; he informed me that, in a brushe that he and his men had with a company of Rupert's horse, a certaine officer, named Richard Willoughbie, whom he had as a lieutenant, was mortally wounded, and dyed at nighte. This, then, muste have beene youre cousine, of whom I have hearde you speake,—and I thynke that you two were passable friendes. Captain Lucy spoke welle of him, and seemed sorrie for losing him ; but I did not knowe —"

A small scrap remaining attached to this fragment shows the signature to have been that of Arthur Egerton; but it is too incomplete to be worth transcribing. In my next, I hope to give you one or two more fragments of greater interest; nearly relating to our friend Hubert, and his relations with his Chester friends. Until then, we must leave him and his friends to the fortunes of love and war.

MAS ALTA.

|n U^moriam.

THERE is a voice rings in my ear It seems as though t'were yesterday That now is hushed for aye, We listened to those tones, It sings again in the spirit sphere AS when a soft Eolian harp Of a bright and glorious day. In plaintive murmur moans.

Thy form was all too slight for earth, And ah! it thrilled us through and through Thy cheek too wan and pale. To hear that earnest cry The fire of genius burnt within Of " Watchman, will the night soon pass?" That prison-house so frail. Uttered with deep drawn sigh.

The night departs, the day appears In heaven's resplendent rays, And thou hast joined the angel band Who hymn eternal praise. ALMA. 72 THE ATTEMPT.

FROM the child who breaks his toy dog to see why it barks, to the old man who has just sufficient curiosity remaining to wonder why he is left and others taken, the constantly recurring question is, Why does everything happen 1 Why are some people happy and others miserable 1 Why does the world seem to go on for ever, and yet so much that it contains is always stopping ? But, time passes, the problem of the toy dog is exchanged for more insoluble questions, and the old man exchanges doubt for certainty. But although children are universally told '•' not to be inquisi- tive," do you think it possible that even the most exacting parent does not like to see the law of, what is called, " blind obedience" sometimes violated 1 Some children are quite content with the fact that the wooden dog barks in the most canine, or- thodox fashion, or that the pliant doll has all the appearance of a veritable young lady, but other little eyes anxiously scan the well-feigned muzzle, and as the eye does not discover the reason why, little hands come in to help, and presently a knife is inserted, and knowledge and destiniction come hand in hand ; and as the little girl ruefully beholds the increasing heap of sawdust, she exclaims that " the world is hollow, and she will be a nun." A child's aptitude for destruction is often mistaken for laudable curiosity; and the happy mother of Tommie is much more pleased at the sight of the scattered frag- ments of the toy than if it remained in all its jDristine beauty on the mautleshelf. " The darling has quite a natural taste for mechanics," the fact of the matter being that the small urchin has joined the large company of those who are breaking or mending—diving below or flying above, asking vociferously or plodding quietly, sadly or joyfully, humbly or proudly, for private benefit or public good, but all with the one aim,—to know "the reason why." CLARENCE. THE ATTEMPT. 73

W^t Ctofntg-ll^irb 0f %pxl

ST GEORGE'S DAY was a great day in England in the olden time—a day of romantically chivalrous memories—of grotesquely mirthful associations. For on this day did England's greatest Knight triumph over England's devouring Dragon; and on this day was it commemorated by mirth and mummery—by masque and pageant; all of which symbolised many things needless now to recount. But it was made noteworthy for ever—not by pageants that passed out of mist into shadow— but by lives begun and ended on that day, whose labours will never pass away from our earth. Let us remember the 23d of April is St George's Day. And on that day, in the year 1564, a child was born in England, into the large family of an honest wool-stapler, and general dealer in cattle, of Stratford by the river Avon. He was sent to school to learn his tasks after the manner of other boys ; but upon a reverse of fortune, is said rejoicingly to have left them to assist his father in his daily labours amid the cattle ; is said even to have sometimes killed them for his own and his neighbours' daily food. Long time had passed before he dreamed that he had any vocation, and longer before he distinguished tJiat peculiarly his own. In those old days mechanical apparati for discovering and defining such things were not yet in existence. Much had to be learned and to be suffered then, before men became poets ; and such poets' power lay in their unconscious possession of a jewel they had not crushed in straining after, as our modern poetasters do. Doubtless the youth had early felt the power, but it only seethed and surged explosively within, finding no outlet, seeing no well-directed channel wherein to flow. The wild young lion-soul rebelled against itself and others, spending its impetus on aims foreign to itself. Yet, " Spirits are not finely touched but to fine issues,"—and nature did not touch his soul so finely without finding some hand, though but a Justice Shallow's, to strike the fire therefrom. We know too little of his life. Man-ied at eighteen, he does not seem to have been so happy with his Anne Hathaway, that the separation which necessarily ensued after his affair with Sir Thomas Lucy should have distressed him much. He took refuge then in London, and frequented the stage, at first, it is said, in the mean occupation of a call-boy. K 74 THE ATTE5IPT. " Transported suddenly into the midst of that moving picture of human vicissi- tudes,—which even the paltriest dramatic production then heaped upon the stage,—• the imagination of Shakspeare beheld new fields opening to his view; the matter was before him, waiting foi> spirit and life." We cannot tell when, or how, his imagination first found a voice, or under what form it first appeared to the world. Guizot says finely, " What circumstance revealed to him his mission 1 What sudden light illumined his genius 1 These questions we cannot answer. Just as a beacon shines in the night-time without disclosing to our view the prop by which it is supported, "SO Shakspeare's mind appears to us in his works, in isolation, as it were, from his person." We hear little of his doings. We know that Lord Southampton was his friend and patron ; and Ben Jonson, Beaumont Fletcher, and all the wits and actors of the day, were amidst his chosen companions. Of his thoughts we have an impress in his works, so eternally and universally fresh and true, so entirely his own, that " every word doth almost tell my name "— as he himself said somewhere. Above twenty years he laboured in the inexhaustible mine he had struck upon ; and the songs over, the " Swan of Avon " returned to his birthplace, amid his friends, to die. Fifty and two years had he dwelt in England; and on his birthday, the 23rd of April 1616, he left it, very quietly. The world's thoughts are dull and slow, and so she did not find out for many a-day the full debt of gratitude she owed the father of the English Drama. Her weak, short-sighted eyes did not " see through him," until aided by the magnifying glass of time long past; and then, when it was too late, she did what she ought to have done while time yet was—confess him.

On that same day, in that same year, another mighty genius from another shore entered the realms of the unseen. Seventeen years older than our Shakspeare, but treading upon his footsteps—his contemporary Cervantes is the glory of the Spanish nation. We would not draw a parallel or a contrast between these gifted men, but simply draw them into connection. Shakspeare may have had a more powerful genius, Cervantes a more dignified character. As we read less about Spanish litera- ture than our own, we may here give a more full account of the life of the latter. He nowhere mentions his own native place ; and after a dispute as violent as that of the cities of Asia who claimed Homer, it has'been ajrreed that Don Misruel de Cervantes Saavedra was born at Alcala de Hencares in 1547. His parents, noble and poor, gave him, at least, a good literary education at Madrid. He studied literature and Belles Lettres under his learned tutor, Juan Lopez de Hoyos, who fostered in him THE ATTEMPT. VO his taste for the drama. He never missed an opportunity of witnessing the plays of the ingenious Lope de Rueda. Rude theatricals were these, yet not destitute of genuine poetry, and Cervantes recalled them fondly in after years, when he himself had ex- tended, improved, and, in fact, re-created the Spanish state. But many adventures were to be gone through to prepare him for this. At twenty-two he had written several sonnets and romances, particularly his " Filena;" but he had no prospect of gaining a livelihood by this or any other means, till he travelled to Rome in the train of the Pope's Legate Julio Acquaviva. On this occasion he had an opportunity of seeing, and impressing on his lively memory, the interesting scenery and nationalities by the way. He did not remain long at Rome, but A'olunteered, under Don Juan of Austria, to serve in the wars against the Turks and African corsairs ; and for some years saw active service both on sea and land, winning everywhere a character of the truest bravery and noblest integrity. At the gi-eat battle of Lepanto, in 1572, he lost his left hand and part of the arm ; and was returning disabled to Spain, when the vessel he sailed in was cap- tured by the Moors, and he and his companions taken prisoners, and conveyed to Algiers, after a brave and desperate resistance. Letters found on him of the highest recommendation, from Don Juan of Austria to his brother King Philip, impressed the Moors with the belief that Cervantes was a person of great importance ; and thereby long delayed his deliverance. His friends were poor, and with much diffi- culty collected the usual ransom for him. His captors refused to accept so small a sum for so famous a prisoner : and he therefore employed it in liberating his brother Rodrigo, who had been taken along with him to Algiers. For five years more he remained a slave, but not without many contrivances, the most ingenious and masterly, for the escape of himself and his fellow-prisoners, which, though always frustrated by the treachery of confidants, won him even the respect and admiration of his masters. At last, after nearly eight years of captivity, his large ransom arrived, and he returned thankfully to his native land, to record, it is believed, his own romantic adventures in his novel of " The Captive." After serving some time under the Marquis of Santa Cruz, he married a noble lady, the Donna Catilina de Salazar, and settled down into tlie third period of his life, which is more exclusively devoted to literature. He.Avrote the " Romance of Galatea" somewhat after the model of the " Diana of Montemayor," arranging, in the popular form of a tale, a rich collection of his own poems in the style of the old Spanish and Italian authors, which might not have been so acceptable to the public in a separate form. He then began to write for the 76 THE ATTEMPT. stage with great richness and success. He says, in his own innocent self-satisfac- tion :—" I composed during this period from twenty to thirty dramas, all of which were represented without a single cucumber, or orange, or any other of the missiles usually aimed at bad comedians, being flung at the actors' heads." But time passed on. Lope de Vega and his imitators took possession of the stage and the public taste, and " I could find no manager to ask for my plays, though they knew I had written them. I threw them, therefore, into the corner of a trunk, and condemned them to eternal obscurity. A bookseller then told me he would have bought them from me had he not been told by a celebrated author that much depen- dence might be placed upon my prose, but none upon my poetry. To say the truth, this information mortified me much. I said to myself—-' Cervantes, I am certainly either changed, or the world, contrary to its custom, has become much wiser, for in times past I used to meet with praise.' " The simplicity with which he accepts this change in the world's taste, and the honesty and charity with which he allows the rival merits of Lope de Vega, strike one with admiration. Flinging aside his pen, he was recompensed for all his services to literature, and to his country, by being given a small appointment in the public service at Seville. He was even accused of having misappropriated the public money, and thrown into prison, but liberated after having triumphantly proved his innocence. At the death of Philip II., Cervantes again made his appearance in literature. The indolence of Philip III. brought liberty to those who had been fettered by the gloomy intolerance of his predecessor; and the first satire of Cervantes was on the furious contest that arose in Seville between the Church and the civic powers regard- ing the funeral honours of the late king. At this time he wrote some of the instructive novels (Novelas Exemplares), which he subsequently published; and eight well-known comedies, suiting the taste of the day ; the bondage of which never permitted his genius its full play, but hamjiered and depressed it. What gave rise to the idea of his Don Quixote in his fiftieth year is not known. His having been imprisoned on account of being engaged in some trifling disputes with the mutinous 25easantry of La Mancha when he was travelling through that province, might have led him to make it the scene of the first part of his ro- mance. This was first published at Madrid in 1606, but the enthusiasm with which it was received added little to his fortune or his happiness. Those who fancied it contained satire against themselves persecuted him malignantly, while one Avel- lanado surreptitiously published a counterfeit of the second part of Don Quixote, THE ATTEMPT. 77 filled with invective against the original author, and most detrimental to the success of the real conclusion, not then given to the world. Amid envy, ridicule, and defamation, Cervantes had met one true and faithful friend in the noble Count of Lernos, and to him he dedicated his ensuing works, including the sequel to Don Quixote. This nobleman and his brother, the Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, assisted him in many ways, and never withdrew their friendship. From Don Quixote has Cervantes won his immortal fame. Never has any book spread with such amazing rapidity, or been translated into so many languages (except Bunyan's " Pilgrim's Progi-ess.") The body of the work is truly Spanish, but its spirit is universal and perennial. The Knight of La Mancha is the immortal representa- tive of all men of exalted imagination, who carry the noblest enthusiasm to a pitch of folly. None but a poet and a man of wit could have described him with so much poetic interest, and none but an author who knew how to wield it could have dis- posed even his own noble language into such classical effect. Its originality is as remarkable as its singularity. Montesquieu remarks that " The Spaniards have only one good book—that one which has made all the others ridiculous." Yet it is worthy of notice, that after writing the " Viage al Parnasso," the " Journey to Parnassus," published in 1G14, his next and last work should be " The History of Persiles and Sigismunda," a ro- mance of that very class against which he had set Don Quixote's lance in rest. A few days before his long expected death, he wrote the dedication of this work to Count Lernos, at Madrid, and died there on the 23d of April 1616, in the 69tli year of his age. He was buried privately, without honour, and not even a tomb- stone now marks the place where he lies. M. Viardot says of him—" Having to encounter a public which disdained to be amused, and was too ignorant either to appreciate or comprehend him; insulted by jealous rivals, who ridiculed and defamed him ; betrayed by pretended and envious friends; by many neglected and forgotten, mistaken by all; and at last dying amidst solitude and privation, such, during his life, was the gi-eat Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra." It is possible that he had never heard of his great English rival;—the nations had not much communication in those days of the memory of the Spanish Armada. And we have seen that neither of the nations had realised so thoroughly the great- ness of their greatest men, that they should ring it in each other's ears. But would they not recognise each other in their common birth-day into the spirit land—where souls all learn to know and to be known % LUTEA RESEDA. 78 THE ATTEMPT.

"Sping CliJiiitmijs."

THEY say that cleanliness is next to godliness, and although I am scarcely pre- pared to admit my full concordance with this time-honoured sentiment, yet I would unhesitatingly accord to cleanliness one of the very highest places among human virtues. And yet I confess with shame that there are times when this virtue appears ,to me in the light of a vice, and when the spirit of cleanliness seems transformed to a fury, bringing discord and discomfort in her train. I don't refer to the agonies which I daresay most of us have experienced in the days of our childhood, when our nurses appeared to consider rubbing the soap into our eyes was a necessary part of our matutinal ablutions; and when a dirty pinafore, or a dress spotted with ink, used to draw down on our heads the direst reproofs : (O how I used to hate new frocks and clean stockings in those days !) but these days have long gone by ; and I wonder what makes people ever wish to have them back again 1 I am sure if their wish were granted, they would long to have it recalled; but, as I was saying, childhood and its troubles are past, and the grievances connected with cleanliness, of which I wish to speak, are present;—yes ! at this very moment, I am in the midst of sights and sounds which make me wish I were a Red Indian, a Hottentot, a pelican of the wilderness—anything—anything—which would remove me from the agonies atten- dant upon "Spring Cleanings!" It is pouring rain as though it were the 3rd of November instead of the 3rd of May, so escape from the house is impossible; and instead of enjoying a game of croquet, as I had intended to do this afternoon, I am a prisoner amidst scenes of confusion and misery, and the only feasible way of amusing myself is to sit down and endeavour to awaken symjiathy in some kindred soul by narrating the secrets of my prison-Iiouse. I was awakened at an unearthly hour this morning by sounds which utterly baffle description. I sat up and listened. "Was it thunder ? No ; the noise began and continued inside the house. Perhaps it was an earthquake, and the house was falling down 1 Improbable, very! Then it must be housebreakers,—but if they went on at this rate, the whole street would be roused before they effected an entrance. Suddenly, I remembered—the sweeps ! Yes, it was but too true, the sweei:)S were there, and the spring cleanings had begun. Sleep was out of the question now, for the noise in the house, instead of diminishing, grew greater every moment. I rose and dressed, and then ran down stairs, anxious to find out the precise state of THE ATTEMPT. 79 aflairs, and to realise, if possible, the full amount of the evil. Being very near-sighted, I fall an easy prey to the various snares and pit-falls with which the house is filled on these cheerful occasions. On the first landing, I was nearly annihilated by an enor- mous besom which the housemaid was flourishing round her head with little or no apparent purpose; on the second, I knocked over a pail of hot water which was standing on the lowest step of the stair, and flooded all the passage ; and T had scarcely reached the third, when I was prostrate on the floor, as the waxcloth on the passage had been uewly rubbed up, and was just like a sheet erf ice. These various misfortunes so disturbed my mind, that I had quite forgotten the mysterious sounds which had been the beginning of the day's discomforts, and I made a rush at the din- ing-room door, thinking that there I would be safe from further traps and obstruc- tions, but just inside the doorway I came violently in contact with a sweep, who had returned for some implements he had left behind. The shock was great—both started back—he grinned and apologised—I retired precipitately, covered with con- fusion and soot. As the dining-room was the scene of cleaning operations at this juncture, breakfast was laid in the schoolroom. Breakfast in the schoolroom ! I knew from sad experience what that implied, and experience did not deceive me. The table, brought from some other part of the house, was far too large for the room ; consequently the hind legs of my chair were inside the fender, and my sister, who sat opposite me, was wedged tightly in between the table and the piano. Two of the children breakfasted at a side table, and made a point of spilling at least half of every cupfull or platefuU which they carried from our table to theirs ; and I am sure the sweeps must have had some hand in the preparation of our morning meal, for every- thing on the table was more or less impregnated with soot. But the worst feature of breakfast in the schoolroom only began to manifest itself after breakfast was over; I allude to the unaccountable disappearance of half of the children's school-books, and the dire confusion which prevailed among the other half Harry's Euclid, after a vigorous search, was discovered in Mary's workbasket, where her work was not; his Latin exercise had been taken to light the fire ; and his Yirgil was gone utterly and totally, without a clue as to its whereabouts ; Mary was still worse ofl", for her grammar, history, sjjelling-book, and atlas had been removed at one fell swoop by the demon of house cleaning; her work-basket was minus thimble and scissors, and Harry had spilt his tea over her music portfolio. At last, all possible repairs having been made in their respective outfits, the children were dispatched to school, and then my troubles began to thicken upon me, for the bookshelves had been washed at an early hour that morning, and awful indeed was the confusion which reigned 80 THE ATTEMPT. among the books. I, who rather pride myself upon the neatness of the shelves, drawers and boxes which are my especial property—who, loving order everywhere, admire and require it more especially among my books—stood aghast at the sight of my cherished volumes, arranged by the rude and unfeeling hands of a housemaid. French, Italian, German, English, prose and poetiy, sacred and secular, all were mixed together in one wild promiscuous heap. Lamartine lay on the top of Schiller, and Ariosto's Orlando Furioso rubbed shoulders with Butler's Analogy. My pet copy of Tasso had soot marks all over the cover, and Shakespeare stood upon his head in a corner—if there is one thing in an untidy bookshelf that enrages me more than another, it is to see a book standing on its head. There was nothing for it but to take them all out and put them right from the foundation; but I had scarcely got them down on the floor, when the door flew open, admitting two men, a ladder, and a strong smell of paint. The glaziers ! I rose and fled. I made for the drawing-room, intending to practise ; but there I found all the furniture in the middle of the floor, and I had scarcely realised the state of afl^airs when I was driven from this refuge also, by another band of men, who, I was told, had come to take down the curtains. The house was gradually assuming the appear- ance of a sort of domestic Inferno. By this time it had begun to rain, and the glaziers were dismissed, but not without a stubborn resistance. However, they were at last dislodged from their position, and retired, exchanging a running fire of re- partee and recrimination with the servants, who were highl}^ excited by the skir- mish, and whose shrill rejoinders were distinctly audible " from garret to basement." The stairs, what with ladders, pails, brooms, heaps of carpets,

AH me ! my weary heart is breaking fast; Its spring of hope is dead. My young life's joyous summer-time hath past. Wild winter reigns instead.

Ye mock me, skies serene, and placid seas, Ye mock me with your smile ; Why should ye laugh and murmur at your ease. And my heai-t break the while 1

Were half the tempest in my bosom pent Pour'd out o'er ocean's plain, The waters from their deep foundations rent, Would threaten earth's domain.

Can I be Sappho ? She for whom the earth Was all one flowery way ? Whose heart, o'erburdened with its weight of mirth, Found vent in song-notes gay 1

What care I, that among the sacred nine The world hath ranked my name 1 Far dearer, Phaon, were one smile of thine, Than all this empty fame.

Be still, poor heart ! A place of welcome rest Those kindly waters hide; A path that to the Islands of the Blest Thy weary feet will guide,

O take me to thine arms, thou gentle sea ! Though cold thy first embrace, More cruel far the false world's treachery, Masked 'neath a loving face. THE ATTEMPT. 83 Farewell to thee, my well-loved island-home ! Where oft, unknown to care, With happy footstep I have loved to roam, And life hath seemed all fair.

No more o'er hill and grove, o'er land and sea, The stream of song I'll pour, Or wake my lyre to silvery notes of glee. Along thy jileasant shore.

But yet it may be that in future days. The sight of this vast tomb May move some heart to muse o'er Sappho's lays, To weep o'er Sappho's doom. MEIGEAO BHEAG.

§leb ^tiitt §a^s in l^ortuan.

ONE fine morning in the beginning of June 1866, a party of ladies started in an open carriage for the picturesque district of Ringerike, which is situated about twenty-eight English miles distant from Christiania. The day was bright, the air clear and warm, the ponies brisk, and the general eifect enlivening. These Norwegian ponies are wonderful little animals, and can go through a great amount of fatigue. They cannot go at a very quick pace, but they are able to keep it up for any length of time, and are exceedingly sure-footed. They take you down hills, almost precipices, with a carriage full of people behind them, with no break, nothing but their own sagacity to prevent all from going headlong to destruction, as one false step would in many cases most assuredly do. We passed through a great variety of scenery, some that would have looked rather bleak and desolate on a didl day, bearing a strong resemblance to our Highland moors,—but the glorious sun, making the little purling streams sparkle as they rushed over the loose stones, shining on the red, yellow, and blue cottages, and bringing out the bright green tints of moss and grass, made all beautiful. It was not long before the character of the landscape changed, and we entered dense forests of pine, whose grandeur always impresses the stranger, especially the 84 THE ATTEMPT. English, who have nothing like it in their own country. There is such a sense of loneliness and stillness, and as you gaze into the deep vistas your fancy conjures up strange forms, such as account for the superstition so strongly implanted in the minds of the Norwegian peasantry. Our coachman Anders, an old and faithful servant, whom we surnamed " the good and brave," enjoyed the excursion as much as we did, and volunteered bits of information all along the road, interspersed with encouraging cries to his pets, Frithjof and Ingeborg, our wiry little ponies. Frithjof, the gentleman, was very lazy, and would have left all the hard work to his lady, which she, with the prover- bial good nature of her sex, did not in the least resent, but their master, evidently a believer in the division of labour, gave Mr Frithjof several sharp reminders of his duty. At length we emerged upon the Tyri Fiord, and a magnificent prospect was at once opened up to our view. On our right, and almost ovei'hanging the path, high rocks towered far above our heads, the road on which we were travelling being hewn out of the solid mountain, the precipitous sides of which descended on our left to the very edge of the water. They were densely covered with pine and fir, of a great height. Our only protection consisted in blocks of stone jjlaced at intervals along the road, utterly insufficient had the horses taken fright, in which case, nothing could have saved us from destruction. Fortunately we never think of possible catastrophes at the time ; the fine air raising our spirits, so that we seem to drink in health as we dash along, drives all such thoughts out of our heads. At length we reached Ringerike, our destination, and hoped we might rest at the little village for the night, and leave the ascent of the steep hill, whence we ex- pected to see the fai"-famed view, till the next day. But no, the landlord of the little inn advised us not to put off the whole fatigue to the following morning, but to make a, break half way, at a small chalet erected on purpose. We saw the wisdom of this, so proceeded to mount ponies accustomed to plod up this steep ascent, a mountain pass, indeed, such as is seldom seen. On each side, perpendiciilar rocks hemmed us in, and left us but a narrow path, up which we were carried slowly but surely, and highly amused at the whole proceeding. After what seemed an inter- minable ride, we did at last emerge on level ground, and found the chalet, a rough wooden cottage, neither adapted for use nor ornament. Down came a whole flock of the smallest sheep imaginable upon us, with little tinkling bells round their necks; all Norwegian sheep and cattle are small, and the flesh neither juicy nor tender. The music of their bells had a very pretty effect in the evening air. Having ordei-ed THE ATTEMPT. 85 eggs, bread, and coffee (all we were likely to get at that elevation), we went off to the mountain on our right, which goes by the name of the Queen's View, being far iaferior in height to its opposite neighbour, the King. Inspired with a romantic desire to obtain a sketch from this point, one of our jmrty had brought out her paper and pencils, expectmg a quiet hour amongst the tranquil beauties of nature. But tranquillity was a blessing beyond her reach, for a crowd of admiring spectators kept up an incessant hum all around her, and at length became so personal in their attentions, that she was forced to desist. The musquitos are a perfect jjlague in Norway, and raise large blisters by their bites, whilst their Inimming effectually prevents a stranger from sleeping on his first arrival. At ten o'clock we had our supper, and went to bed, though it was broad daylight, and indeed throughout the night we could have read with ease, so little difference is jierceptible at this season. The effect is very strange, and makes one long for a change ; a little darkness would be a pleasant vai'iety. About twelve o'clock we were awakened by a confused noise of many voices; good hard blows were being directed with such force at'the door, that we expected to hear it give way every minute. After storming the citadel for some time, the garrison, consisting of two women, capitulated, seeing that resistance was vain. We were thankful to find that the distvirbers of our rest were only some young students from the capital, who had, like ourselves, been sent up the hill, and had no mind to retrace their steps. In half an hour all was quiet again, but the heat, and the sun shining on us through the uncurtained windows, roused us by thi'ee o'clock, when we rose, dressed, drank a cup of coffee, and turned our steps in the direction of the King's Hill. A long and weary, though not steep way, it seemed, before we reached the brow of the hill, where a platform is erected, enabling the spectators to view the magnificent panorama in perfect security. Till that moment, I had seen nothing so fine as the exquisite prospect spread out before us; its beauty sunk into our souls, and kept us long silent. The horizon was bounded by a magni- ficent range of snowy mountains for an extent of seventy mUes, constituting part of the Thelemarken range. Nearer were numerous chains of imdulating hills, con- trasting vividly in their dark green hue with theii- dazzling back-ground. Beneath us, the clear waters of the Fiord, covered with innumerable lovely islands, lay like one vast mirror, and we, from the height of our pine covered precipice, gazed down on this fairy scene, and listened to the distant hum of the village far below, so happy in the present, that we felt averse to return to the busy world. The approach of others recalled our thoughts, and slowly we turned away, and began the descent. We were rather tired by the time we reached our chalet, and yet the worst was 86 THE ATTEMPT. to come, for we had to descend the extremely steep path we had ridden up the pre- vious evening. It was hard work, in the cold morning air, and truly thankful were we when we came to level gi-ound once more, quite exhausted with fatigue and hun- ger. A good breakfast, and a couple of hours' rest, set us all right; our little ponies were once more harnessed, and we turned our faces homewards, reaching Christiania in the cool of the evening, tired, it is true, but amply repaid by the memory of the scenes we had left. Another pleasant excursion was to Lillehammer, a town at the head of Lake Miosen, the gi-eat route to Komsdal and Bergen. "We were staying in the neighbour- hood of Eidsvold, a station at the Christiania end of the lake, and therefore were for- tunate enough to miss the tedious railway journey from the capital, which takes nearly three hours for a distance of forty miles. Handsome steamers ply on Lake Miosen, and in summer convey great numbers of our own countrymen on their way northwards. The day we had chosen formed no exception to the rule ; half-a-dozen Englishmen wei-e on the quay when we reached it, all making frantic efforts to be attended to in the disposal of their numer- ous effects. One was a baronet of fame in the literary world, who had come to Nor- way with a friend for the purpose of fishing. Acting on advice received at Christi- ania, he had bought a carriole, with which he would be encumbered thoughout his journey. This plan is rather a mistake, as I believe there is little difficulty in pro- curing vehicles on the ro\ite, and it saves a great deal of trouble, besides the anxiety occasioned by a bad road, lest the conveyance should be left a ruin by the way. Our baronet was armed with a large supply of fishing tackle, intended to astonish the salmon, whilst he himself astonished us by wearing two hats at the same time. They were huge wideawakes, and being perched on the head of a very tall man, gave him a gigantic and rather alarming appearance. The bell rang, and we all went on board, the carriole was hoisted in, and away we steamed. Lake Miosen is much praised by Norwegians, but I must confess to having been greatly disappointed with it, and was puzzled for some time to account for the national enthusiasm ; at last I came to the conclusion that the very tamcness of the landscape constituted its chief charm, as contrasting vividly with the prevail- ing character of the scenery of the country. What seems flat and uninteresting to us, is beautiful to the Norse from its rarity; and therefore the gentle undulations on the shore of this lake have charms for them we cannot understand. Very sweet and placid it looked on this smiling summer's day, and a long dreamy day on the water made a pleasant change. There were some picturesque points on the way, and THE ATTEMPT. 87 at the town of Hamer the scenery was really beautiful. Some fiue ruins of an old cathedral are to be seen at this place. Only one side remains standing, but its columns are perfect, and exceedingly admired. The building was destroyed in the seventeenth century, during the religious wars. As evening wore on, supper was announced, and we found it very amusing to listen to the strictures of the foreigners on the banquet prepared for them. Two young Englishmen, at a loss for something to drink, had called for porter, and found it bad, and they were beginning to revile the barbarous country where they could obtain no beverage except coffee, when our imposing baronet condescended to recom- mend them to try the ale, which is universally drunk in Norway, and is most re- freshing in warm weather. A bottle of this was called for, and declared highly satis- factory. Probably supper made us all feel more friendly, for when we were again seated outside, every one began to talk, and our new friends took advantage of the knowledge some of our party possessed both of English and Norse, to make many inquiries essentially useful to themselves. The learned baronet had secured an interpreter for himself, who was, as is often the case amongst these men, somewhat of a rogue, and was taking advantage of his opportunities to impose greatly on his master. His evil intentions were frustrated for the time, and the proper charges explained as far as possible. It was about ten o'clock when we at length reached Lillehammer, where a great Vjustle began, and the jostling and striving for seats in the omnibusses was almost worthy of an English railway station. We were unable to obtain places, but did not grudge the moonlight walk to our hotel, for the views here are truly lovely, and the evening light prepared us for a feast of beauty on the morrow. On arriving at our destination, we found that two young Yorkshiremen, whom we had found very agreeable companions in the journey, had kindly procured rooms for us, so every one said " God nat," and betook themselves to their comfortable quarters. The next morning looked gloomy, and filled us with apprehension. On entering the salle-a-manger, we found our two friends of the previous evening politely waiting breakfast for us, to which we all sat down in high spirits, and carried on an animated discussion on the merits and demerits of Norway, its constitution, social advantages, cultivation, interspersed with sundry disparaging remarks on the culinary department. Our young friends proposed travelling together to Romsdal and Bergen, and probably into Sweden, but we pursuaded them to remain a few hours at Lillehammer that they might accompany us to the Mesna Foss or waterfall, which is a favourite 88 THE ATTEMPT. resort of visitors to this place. The clouds looked watery, but we thought we had a fair chance of making out our expedition before the rain actually began. We soon got out of the town and on the hills, where our difficulties commenced, and we found it no easy task to leap from stone to stone, cross small rivulets, and force our way through tangled copse and underwood. In that free glorious air one makes light of difficulties that look serious at home, so we struggled on, laughing heartily at the scratches, blows, and tumbles we mtfc with, till at length we found ourselves at the foot of some steep crags, which rose perpendicularly above us, and effectually barred our further progress. "We sat down on a large flat rock, slippery as glass, with the cascade dashing along at our feet. Jlere we gazed on an exquisite scene, sufficient to repay us for any exertion. From our elevated position we surveyed the lovely mountain range, whose grouping reminded us strongly of some of our beautiful Highland views, and which forms so striking a contrast to the rest of the Miosen landscape. From the crags overhead dashed a foaming torrent, forcing its impetuous way over every ob- struction, and rushing onward to join the lake below. Beneath us lay the little village of Lillehammer, lively with its coloured houses, whilst calm and placid the lake reposed far fsxr below, so essential an element in the tableau, that we blamed ourselves for our previous contempt of its attractions. We could not put off much time in feasting our eyes, however, for the ominous clouds were gathering overhead, and threatening us with a deluge. So away we went back on our perilous course, from which we emerged with unbroken bones, in time to get under shelter before the rain descended in torrents, which it shortly afterwards did, and continued to do for the rest of the day. Early the next morning we were on our way to the steamer, to return to Eidsvold. The aspect of affairs had changed, the sun shone out in all his glory, all was life and gaiety, we established ourselves in the best seats, and watched the lovely view of Lillehammer and its back ground of mountains till it faded in the distance. Pleasantly we sailed back to Eidsvold, where, on the quay, we found a group of friends assembled to welcome us,, and listen to the story of our adventures. With this account of two out of my many red-letter days in Norway, I will conclude my sketches of this charming country, with the advice to my readers which I gave them in a former paper, to go and judge for themselves. ALMA. THE ATTEMPT. 89

§n a Jforget-mc-not brou^Ijt from Stoit^erlnnb.

FLOWER of a distant land ! wliy did I bring Thy beauteous leaves from where they loved to dwell. Among their sweet companions blossoming ? Perchance it was to keep thee as a spell. To call back dreams I would not quite forget. With the sweet music of thy heartfelt name. Though memory is mingled with regret, And passing happiness a tear may claim.

Flower of a distant land ! I love thee more In faded beauty and in humbled pride. Now when thy life of loveliness is o'er Than blooming on thy native mountain side. Bright things around a lighter heart may twine And hope and freshness fresher hopes may. prize, But thy departed sweetness speaks to mine. And bids the memory of the past arise. E. H. S.

Clj^ Si^nsons aitb lljwr |JIants.

MAECH AND APRIL.

ALTHOUGH Poets love to designate the month of March as " the merry month of Sj^ring," in our northern clime it is generally so stormy, blustering, and " many- weathered," that the temptation to prolong our walks into the country in search of wild plants will not often prove very great or irresistible. " March flowers," so says the old proverb, " make no summer bowers ;" and as the few delicate blossoms which are venturesome enough to brave the biting winds, continue in flower, the greater number, indeed, only attaining perfection during the succeeding month, I shall include in my list specimens to be met with either in March or April, or in both, according to the mildness of the season. Let us eagerly watch for the first bright day, when the indescribable spring feeling steals over us, forcing us to push books and writing aside, and start for a M 90 THE ATTEMPT. long ramble by the river bank, on the hill side, or to the old castle. Peeping out from among the ivy, that is tenderly " filling up each rent time's canker tooth hath made," in the towers of the latter, we are sure to find "grey ruin's golden crown," the Wall-flower {Cheiranthus clieiri), one of the sweetest scented flowers of the early spring. It delights to enliven, with its bright yellow blossoms, and tufts of light green leaves, the dreary cleft, the crumbling ruin, and the old neglected wall. So much indeed is it associated with barrenness and desolation, that it has become the emblem of faithfulness and fidelity in misfortvme. The Wall-flower is so widely cultivated and so well known that it requires little or no description, but we would do well to examine it as an excellent tyjae of a very large order of plants, the Cruciferse, which includes all blossoms whose calyx and corollas of four petals are arranged in a cruciform or cross-like shape. Almost all the plants belonging to this class are unpleasant to the taste on account of their pungency, but all are perfectly wholesome. Included in it are the varieties of cress, radish, mustards, cabbages, &c. Before leaving the old ruin, we ought to be able to find two other specimens of the Crucifera;,—the Whitlow grass (Draba verna), and the Wall Cress (Arahis thliana), both small plants, growing to the height of two or three inches, and producing bunches of tiny white flowers j the stem of the latter is upright, that of the other branched and slender. Descending now from the lofty height, Wall-flower in hand, and bending our steps to the first moist meadow, we are almost certain to light upon another of the Cruciform tribe,—the Cuckoo-flower or Ladies' Smock (Cardemine fratensis.') It grows to the height of a foot, and when first opening has pale-lilac blossoms. When exposed to the bright sun, however, the " wan-hued " shade disappears, and we have " the ladies' smock all silver white " of our great dramatist. Yet another sjjecimen of this tribe may be found in fields, meadows, and by the roadside, during March and April,—the Shepherd's Purse [Capsella hursa pastoris), with its insignificant white flowers, succeeded by the heart or pouch-shaped capsules, from which it derives its English name. The distinguishing marks of the Composite family we have already exemplified by the Daisy, and the only other plant of this order that I can remember as blossom- ing thus early, is the very familiar and much despised Dandelion {Leontodon Tarax- acum), taking its name of lion-toothed from the curious jagged form of the leaves. Besides being a most useful plant, its leaves being often eaten as salad, and its root ground down and used as a substitute for coffee, the Dandelion is a very handsome flower, and its well-known seed vessel, or " globe of down, the school-boy's clock in THE ATTEMPT. 91 every town," afl'ords an exceedingly beautiful object for examination under a magni- fying glass. But it is time to hasten on in quest of tlie Spring flowers par excellence, the Primrose and the Violet. Nestling among the dead leaves and brown moss of a by-gone season, we are sure to come upon tufts of the pale, sulphur-coloured favourite, well named the Prima Rosa. In it we have an example of what is termed a symmetrical or one petalled flower. The Polyanthus of our garden is a variety of the Primrose, so is the Cowslip, the latter more frequently to be found in England than with us. The velvety Auriculas, too, upon whose culture florists bestow so much time and care, are derived from a species of Primrose (Primula Auricula) a native of the Swiss Mountains. In close proximity on the hedge bank, or peeping out from the tangled root of some old tree, we welcome with ever-renewed delight the sweet-scented Violet (Viola odorata), gleaming, as the poet says, " like amethysts in the dewy moss." It, too, is a monopetalous flower, although very difterent in shape from the Primrose, the lowest of its five divisions being furnished with a peculiar appendage, termed a spur. The Sweet Violet (both purple and white) is distributed throughout Europe and America. Besides it, there are five native species, all flowering later, and all devoid of perfume; the Dog Violet (Violet canine), with its large, clear, blue petals blossoming from May to August, the Haiiy Violet, with rough leaves, the Marsh Violet, growing, as its name indi- cates, in boggy places, the Yellow Violet, and lastly, the Viola tricolor, the progenitor of our garden Pansies. Beautiful as are the Piimrose and the Violet, scarcely less so are the delicately tinted blossoms of the plant we must yet look for before quitting the shady woods, the lovely Anemone or Wind-flower (Anemona N&morosa.) It is seldom in flower before the end of April or beginning of May, but as it is generally associated in our minds with the first Spring bouquet, I mention it now. It is supposed to derive its name of Wind-flower from the extreme delicacy of the petals, which even a gentle breeze will shake, and cause the " frail dew-cuj) " to fall. We have not hitherto met with any specimens of the Ranunculus tribe to which the Anemone belongs, so we must look at it carefully in order to recognise its associates, the most familiar of which is the Butter-Cup (Ranunculus hulbosus), with its five dis- tinct petals enclosing the stamens and seed-vessels, the former fixed below the latter. The root is bulbous and very acrid, a quaUty peculiar to the whole of the Ranunculus or croAvfoot tribe. Still brighter and gayer in tint are the yellow, star-like blossoms of the " Sunny Celandine," or Pilewort (Ranunculus Jicaria), which now glisten in our woods and meadows. Its leaves are heart-shaped, and of a very bright shining 92 THE ATTEMPT. green, while the root consists of long tubers, and the whole plant is so bitter that cattle will not touch it. The young leaves when boiled are not unpalatable, and in times of scarcity are used as vegetables by the Swedish peasantry. A much larger, but equally brilliant, flower, the Marsh Marigold (Caltha palustris), so named from a fancied resemblance in the expanded flower to a basket, may also be found by the margin of ponds and brooks at this season. Of the Labiat;e order, the distinguishing characteristics of which were described in a former paper, we have only two specimens to notice, as being found under hedges and in waste places during the months of March and April, in addition to the Lamium Purpureum of February; these are the White Dead Nettle {Lamium Album), with large lip-shaped flowers; and on more sandy ground, the Henbit Nettle {Lamium Amplexicaule), with downy-crimson blossoms, and slender stem. K. H. D.

futert's fetters;

BEING MSS. TEMPOKE CAROLI PRIMI.—NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

FROM Hubert Willoughbie to Eliot Warner. " Righte deare friende Eliot,—Doubtlesse you will somewhat wonder at agayne receeving a letter from me, since it is not longe that you have hearde from me ; but doing is one thing, soe wayting is another; and both fall to ye lot of a soldier; and juste nowe, I have more of ye wayting than of ye doing ; therefore is it that I can avayle myselfe of another chance to write untoe you. For oure enemies in York are somewhat stubborne ; we cannot unearthe oure fox so easilie 's we woulde ; and soe have ye beseeged juste nowe harder worke than their beseegers. But, Eliot, before I doe you to wit more of ye fortunes of ye warre altogether, I muste needes tell you how I and mine have fared. Eliot! that thing has happened that I did pray from my hearte never mighte. I haA'e met mine uncle and my brother in battle, and have crossed swordes with them ; and, had it not beene for my follower, Patrick M'Donnell (whom I have as a trooper in my companie), Willoughbie bloode woulde have beene spilt by a Willough- bie blade—but it \voulde have beene my bloode, and not theirs. It was aboute a month agone, before I had joined oure army before York ; I re- ceeved orders from Colonel Cromwell to escort a party of prisoners from Nantwiche THE ATTEMPT. 93 to Selby; and had sente to me, as additional helpe, forty men from Sir Henry Hip- pesley's regiment, under ye commande of younge Hany Hippesley, ye Colonel's sonue; and a fine younge fellowe he is, as ever crossed saddle. Soe we made a prettie stronge partie ; and, faithe, we needed it, for we knewe ye enemie were welle on ye looke-oute for us, an they mighte chance to be able to rescue their owne men. It woulde be littel use, and too longe by halfe, to give you an accounte of oure marche ; but I will saye in fewe wordes. It was getting darke—we had marched smartlie, and oure horses were something ye worse for it; we were passing through a darke roade, belted on both sydes by a planting of thicke fir trees, when a sudden sally was made upon us by a bodie of ye enemie, who had layen concealed among ye trees. I neede not to describe to you what a goode hande-to hande fighte is lyke, friende Eliot—that thou welle enough knowest; but it was as sliarpe a skirmish as I have often beene in, and ye roade was a badde place for fighte. I sawe younge Hippesley harde putte to it by two or three welle-mounted men, and wente to his ayde ; ye sunne had sette, but a redde glowe was still in the weste; and ye lighte, what there was, felle on ye face of a horseman who was juste raysing a heavie broadsworde— and that horseman was my brother Edgar ! And in that dying lighte, he looked soe feaifullie lyke my father—oure father—that my hande woulde not rayse ye pistoUe that I had plucked from ye holster. He sawe me, and knewe me, and for an instant his hande stayed; then, he thrvist his spurres into 's horse's flankes, and dashed downe on me—I sawe his sette teethe, and ye awfulle looke in 's eyes ; and I knewe. that I shoulde have but shorte shrifte from him. One looke shewed me M'Donnell pressing harde to reache me—then, I hearde Edgar's shoute of " a Willoughbie for King Charles !" and, in another momente, oure blades were clashing together. Some fewe passes we cache made ; and God knowes I did my beste not to liurte my brother—oh, Eliot, my brother stille, in spite of aU—I knewe I was touched in ye lefte shoulder, but tooke no heede of that; I was fighting for my lyfe, and ten tymes more soe than if it had beene anie common enemie. But presentlie M'Donnell was at my syde ; and, before I welle coulde see how, Edgar had fallen forward on 's horse's necke, greatlie wounded; yet did he not lose his seate. " Surrender, Edgar, and youre lyfe is safe,"-—I coulde not but saye it. " Never, to an accursed rebel." And another voyce, I welle knewe, echoed, " Never, never to a dishonoured Wil- loughbie." It was John Willoughbie—he made at me, but Patrick foughte lyke a lyou, and beate him off. Welle, Eliot, we beate them thoroughlie, and forced them to a hastie retreate ; and ye laste I sawe of those foes of mine owne householde, was mine uncle leading off his nephewe's horse, with Edgar almoste fainting on ye beaste's 94 THE ATTEMPT. necke. And I doe not knowe whether or not he is deade—I cannot learne. Oh, Eliot, my brother ! my brother ! I doe knowe nowe that we can never be friendes agayne; for he hath indeede essayed my lyfe—soe he doth hate me untoe ye verrie deathe." Here is a small portion of the letter missing ; but the part next to hand is some- what interesting, though there is but little of it.

" And nowe, Eliot, what dost thynke of that other matter that I have before spoken untoe thee of? Hugh, poor Hugh, is dead—will she, for ye sayke of that grave under ye fir trees, remayne Mistress Lilian Warner for ever ? Will she quite forbidde me to hope that I may ever be nearer to her than simply her brother's friende ? I will not ask her yet a while—give ye wounde tyme to heale—but in ye ende I doe almost hope it will heale,—but you knowe her better—what saye yovi 1 I am proude, verrie proude, as welle you knowe ; and it hath beeue sometymes sayd untoe me—Why tayke at second-hande that which you coulde not have at firste 1 But my heart's lyfe is too surelie bounde uppe in her, to let my pride come in be- tweene—nothing coulde ever be more strong in me than my Willoughbie pride, sav- ing my love—and nowe, thou knowest all. I doe not aske you, friende Eliot, to use on her anie of that influence which I knowe you doe possess—let all be of her owne free will—but I can tmste to you for youre ayde whenever ye righte tyme shall come—as come it will, I doe hope and beleeve. If not, ye sooner that Hubert Willoughbie falls beneath a cavalier blade, ye sooner will be over his miserie. I cannot write more—good friende, have me ever in thy memorie, as I have thee in mine. God bless thee, and all thine. Thy true friende of olden tyme, HUBERT WILLOUGHBIE." This 14 daye of Maye, Anno 1G44. Written from ye campe before Yorke.

From Eliot Warner to Hubert Willoughbie. " You perceeve, goode my friende, that I am agayne at home ; I was sent by Sir Thomas Fairfax, with letters and despatches untoe his friende. General Mertoun, who lives neare untoe MostjTi, in ye northe of Wales, not so verrie farre off Chester ; soe that in coming back I was able to come here, where I have beene these laste three dayes ; but I doe expect to depart on Monday, this being Saturday. We have thy friende, ATithur Egerton, vnth us ; he is somewhat better, but ye losse of his arine THE ATTEMPT. 95 hath beene a sore trouble to him. He was moste fearfulle at firste, that on that accounte it woulde be impossible for him to espouse my sister Margaret, for, sayd he, she woulde never bind herselfe untoe soe maimed and battered a mate as I am nowe ; but a Warner keepeth troth ever; so she tolde him that she woulde be doublie his wyfe nowe, if that coulde be—and all ye more for his misfortunes, that did onlie ye more excite her love and pitie ; so was he comforted ; and soone as he is welle enow they will be married. And when will it be betweene Lilian and thee 1 Courage, Hubert man; I can give ye strongest hopes that thy wayting hath not beene in vayne; for poignant sorrowe is giving waye to calme regrette; and I hope ere long that ye love of ye living will be greater than ye griefe for ye deade. And then thou wilt be my brother indeede. As to what thoxi sayest about lack of house and laudes, thou knowest verrie welle that that goeth for nought; Clarence Warner would never let golde, or ye wante of it, stande betweene his daughter and her happinesse. But of that anon. Meanwhile, I thynke that an thou wert to fall as did Hugh, there woulde be smalle chance for anie one after thee—there—is that Qomfort to thee, or not ? Deare Hubert, thou knowest welle that I love thee too muche to saye or doe aught that I was persuaded was not for thy goode ; soe mayest thou be welle sure that, an I were not certain of what I saye, it had not beene sayd at all. Soe e'en keepe uppe a goode hearte, an fight bravelie for oure goode Constitution, and oure liberties—and maye God ayde ye righte, both in love and warre."

I have come to the end of my letters at last—there are no more ; this scrap of Eliot's is the last—not another can I find from any one of our correspondents, of any sort whatever. I need not tell you how disappointed I was to find the adven- tures of my Ironsides had come to such an abrupt termination, with only just a hint as to the turn affairs might take : that no more was to be learnt of the Warners, of Bertram, of Edgar Willoughbie, and principally, of our friend Hubert himself Long and deeply did I conjecture as to the ultimate destiny of young Willoughbie; but all was mere guess work, without any solid basis as a foundation for the structure of suppositions that I vainly raised ; and, had it not been for a most fortunate occurrence—I had almost said accident—no more would ever have been known by you or me, good reader, than what I have already told you. I was lamenting one day to my cousin Frank, that my old MSS. had come to such an untimely conclusion ; and begging him to see if he could find any more for me as a sequel to them, among his old stores of antique lumber; and grievously was I disappointed to hear that he had given me all he could find, for 96 THE ATTEMPT. that no more were forthcoming. I was almost wishing that I had never seen them at all, if I were obliged to remain in such ignorance concerning the fate of my fiery young hero, without the slightest chance of ever having my curiosity gratified. But one day, about a month after I had made my unsuccessful application to Frank, that gentleman himself made his appearance, not long after his return from a visit to Gloucester, on legal business. After chatting a while on ordinary matters, he turned—" Well, cousin Marie, and have you forgotten Hubert yet ?" " Forgotten 1 oh no, Frank ; give me credit, I beg, for a better memory than that; I only wish I had more to remember." " Then I suppose you will be pleased to hear that I have a scrap of news for you about that young gentleman. One Sunday, we went to Goldoake Church ; its a pretty little place, very old, with a lot of ancient tombs, and brasses, and all sorts of things of that kind ; and just in front of our pew, let into the wall, was a large metal tablet, upon which 1 thought I saw the word Willoughbie ; so, like a prenx chevalier, I made it a point of duty to look at it after service. Oh, don't look shocked—I didn't make that copy of it until the next day—I don't know enough of the people to say who it is about, but you ought to by this time ; so perhaps you can tell if these Willoughbies have anything to do with your friend." He had drawn from his pocket-book a very neat and accurately drawn sketch of an old tablet, with a rather long inscription upon it; and this is what I read :—

" Here lyeth ye bodie of Hubert Willoughbie, gentleman, of Goldoake, in this Countie, Ssquire, and also of Lilian Warner, his wyfe. He was a distinguished officer in ye Parliamentarie Warres ; and a personal friende of ye Protector Oliver Cromwell. He foughte in ye battles of Newbury, Marston Moor, and Naseby, besides doing goode service to ye Parliament in manie wayes. He had for his wyfe, Lilian, ye daughter of Clarence Warner, of Chester, who bore him six sonnes, namelie :—Hubert, Eliot, Clarence, Francis, John, and Hugh ; and two daughters, Lilian and Isabella. He receeved ye house and manor of Goldoake, from ye Lord Protector and Parliament, as a reward for his services ; and there lived for manie yeares, beloved and respected by all. He dyed on ye 18 daye of October, Anno 16G9, at ye age of 53 yeares, having survived his wyfe but two yeares. This Tablet is to recorde ye deathe of a brave soldier and a goode man ; and is erected by his sonnes as a testimonie of their love and sorrowe for ye beste of fathers, and moste honourable of men."

FINIS. MAS ALTA. THE ATTEMPT. 97

C^^ §tiiih of t;ije §ru:a's Jfostcr-brotljxr.

THE night was mirk, the Avood was deep, Tlie second he laugh'd a scornfu' laugh ; The king had wandered mony a mile ; " I trow 'tis nac guid deed ! " quoth he, An' he was fain to lay him doun, " But we hae nae fair name to tyne. An' rest his weary limbs awhUe. An' I wot we'll gain a kindly fee."

" O brother, for sweet pitie's sake^ The third he spak nae word at a', Do thou keep watch an' ward by me ; But he has up an' drawn his blade, For I wot the wily witch o' sleep An' he has smiled sae black a smile, Hath cast her glamour owre mine e'e." The twa were fain to gie him aid.

" Now, sleep fu' sound, my dear liege lord; Then up has sprung the king in haste ; True is my heart, an' stout my arm, The soldier's wary sleep slept he ! An' I will watch the lee-lang nicht; " O what can mean this noise I hear 1 Nae wicht ehall work thee skaith or harm." I fear 'tis nought but treacherie !

The king has laid him doun to sleep. Wake up, wake up, my brother dear ! His brother sat an' watched his lane; I rede thee draw for mortal strife ! But wily sleep she played him fause, For gin thae fause loons lia'e their will, Or ever half the nicht was gane. I trow this day will end thy life."

" O wae's me for the wearie hour His brother started frae his sleep. I pledged my word true ward to keep; But ere his trusty brand he found, For gin I never waken mair, A coward loon behind him cam, It's I maun lay me doun an' sleei)." An' laid him deid upon the ground.

There were three loons beside them there. 0 then outspak' the gallant Bruce— Had followed them for mony a mile, 1 wote, a wrathfu' man was he !— An' a' to tak their lives awa' " Now cursed be the coward hand Wi' bluidy deed o' craft an' guile. That wrought this deed o' villanie !"

The first he looket on the king; An' he has drawn his guid braid sword. " Now by my saul I swear," quoth he, An' gripped it fast within his han'; " To tak' the lives o' sleeping men, An' there the king himsel' alane. I count it nought but treacherie." Has faced the traitors man by man. 98 THE ATTEMPT. The swords they flashed, the red bluid ran, O, he has sheathed his bliiidy brand. The blows fell thick as winter hail. An' wiped the sweat frae afi' his broo O, ill had fared the Bruce that day, Heaven send as sure a victorie But for his coat o' trusty mail! To ilka noble knight an' true !

The swords they flashed, the red bluid ran. Syne he has ta'en his brother's corse, But e'er an hour had come an' gane, An' lifted it fu' tenderlie. There stood nae living creature there, An' he has borne it on his back. But Scotland's king himsel' alane. An' aye the saut tear filled his e'e-

He digged a grave in the deep mirk wood. An' he laid him there wi' tear an' maen. Syne he has turned an' gane awa', An' left him there to sleep his lane. MEIGEAG BHEAG.

Jfragmtitts of a i^ifc. PART I. " Do you know I am going to India, Minnie?" said Frank Warden, as, leaning against a tree, he looked down at the little valley floating in the hazy glory of sunset. She was sitting on a mossy bank, amusing herself with throwing little stones into the stream trickling at her feet. She looked up half incredulously, " To India ! what would you do there?" " Force my way, make money," he said; " there is no room in this country to get on." " But, Frank, every one said you were getting on so well, that you would be sure to succeed." " As what," he said, bitterly, " to become at best a countiy lawyer 1 No, Minnie, I have more ambition than that." " Try London, then," she suggested timidly. " London !" he echoed ; " Never ! London swallows up more young men than she knows what to do with, the market here is overstocked ; there is nothing for a fellow without capital, who wishes to get rich, but to go abroad." " But why wish to get rich, if you have enough ?" said Minnie. He laughed, a little ironically, " Very pretty and romantic that, Minnie," he THE ATTEMPT. 99 said, " but for all that not quite practical; a man without money is a mere nonentity in the world, especially in England. Money, besides the comfort and luxury-it pro- vides, procures power, influence ; it is, indeed, the password to all the world can give." There was a pause for a few minutes; Minnie was splashing large stones into the water, and then he began again. " I have often thought of going to New Zealand, but as this is a very handsome offer of my uncle's, I don't see I can do better than accept it." " And how long would you stay, Frank 1" she asked, stdl half laughing, as if humouring a child's freak. " Till I make a fortune," he answered. " And come home an old, grey-haired man 1 Oh, Frank, you could never do that." " Yes," he said ; quietly, " I mean to do it, my passage is taken out for the end of the month." All the colour forsook her face, as she raised her startled blue eyes to him, but he did not see her, he was looking straight before him, and she turned away, as he continued, " There was no use putting off, I'm not a boy now, I am twenty-five, and, indeed, the last three years that I have been here, I feel, have been wasted." She did not answer, she was wondering what the last three years would have been like if Frank "Warden had not been there. It sounded unkind, but he did not mean it so, in fact, he was only looking at it, as he had looked at everything from his in- fancy, in a commercial point of view, with an eye to profit and loss. And then he spoke much on the respective merits of coffee and indigo plantations, till suddenly becoming aware that she was not listening to a word, he stopped. She was not throwing stones into the water now, she was gazing far away into the hazy distance. " It is getting chilly, Minnie," he said ; " we must go home ; you forget it is not summer yet." She rose, and they walked down silently. Frank was glad that it was over, and yet vexed with himself; he felt he had told her hardly, coldly ; he would have liked her sympathy, he would have liked to have told her that this parting was not quite such an indifferent matter to him as it appeared, but he had determined to bind himself by no words or promises, they were but fetters in beginning life, as he must do, and also, he thought, very honourably, that it would not be fair to her. Everything seemed very strange and unfamiliar to her as she came home; it seemed as if they had been such a long time away. As they were coming through the garden he spoke, but it was only to remark, " I fear it will be frost to-night, it is a pity, it will check the buds that were coming forward." 100 THE ATTEMPT. She was in the large, low drawing-room when he came to say good-by. The rest were down stairs in the dining-room, where there was still a fire, but she had taken her work, and was sitting near the window, with the bright sun shedding a golden light all over her, when he passed through the garden, and, looking up, smiled and bowed. The minutes seemed hours as she sat waiting,—he could not go without saying good-by, without one word to ask her not to forget him. There was a step on the stair, and then her sister's voice called " Come down stairs, Minnie, Frank Warden has come to say good-by." She rose, folded her work, and went down. He was standing, as was his custom, leaning on the mantelpiece, and looked round as she came in, with some laughing remark about her incessant industry. " I'll be an old married man M^hen you come back, Frank," said young Newton, gaily. " Oh, no," said Mary, " he must not be so long as that, or I'll be too old to wear the splendid diamond earrings he is to bring me." " And he'll tell us lots of stories about the wild beasts," said George, who had just come in from school, and flung his books on the table. " Oh, yes, plenty of traveller's tales," answered Frank; " but it is time I were off." Minnie rose, and stood by the mantelpiece. It was dreadful to say good-by thus, with them all standing round, and more dreadful still without one word of regret. Those lines often recuiTed to her afterwards, when she looked back on that moment— " 'Wami Zwei von einander scheiJen So geben sie sich die Hiind ' Und fangen an zu weiuen Und seufzen ohne End.' Wir haben nicht geweinet Wii' seufzen nicht Web ! und Ach ! Die Tbriinen und dio soufzer Die kamen hintennach."

His hand trembled slightly as he took hers, but he looked past her at the clock on the mantelpiece, saying, " I fear I am late," and then he was gone; and she went up-stairs again with a feeling that something was dead in her life.

Only once during the long years that followed did he mention Minnie Stanley in his letters. One day she had gone down to see old Mrs Coutts, Frank's aunt. " When arc you to be married, Minnie ?" she asked. THE ATTEMPT. 101 " To whom 1" asked Minnie, in astonishment. " To Mr Campbell, of course," she said; " I heard it long ago as such a fact, that I told Frank when I wrote." " Did you," said Minnie eagerly, " and what does he say ?" " Give me my spectacles over child, and I will read it to you ; he tells me," she continued, glancing over the letter, " that it has not been all smooth sailing, but that now he is in a fair way to make a fortune: Ah, yes, here it is, ' You tell me Minnie Stanley is to be married. Campbell Ls a nice fellow, and she is a very old friend of mine, I hope they may be happy. I enclose something to buy her a little remem- brance of me ;' and just think, Minnie, he enclosed fifty pounds; but Frank was always kind." " Very kind," said Minnie, as she turned to the window. It was perhaps the only time in her life that Minnie Stanley spoke bitterly. " You must return him the money, Mrs Coutts, and say, he will be sorry to hear there is no foundation for the report;" but she did not know that when he got his aunt's next letter, the gray, cheerless cloud which had obscured liLs horizon melted suddenly away.

PART II.

" Just guess, aunt Minnie, who has come home?" said Ada Newton, as she flung her hat off, and sat down in the easy chair on the other side of the fire. " Who, my dear?" said her aunt, looking up from her knitting. " A very old friend of mama's and yours, a Mr Warden,—Frank Warden, mama called him." " Frank Warden come home!" and Miss Stanley laid down her work, and looked up in astonishment." " When did you hear that, Ada ?" " I met him in London, aunt, and he was very pleasant, and asked about you all, and he is to be down here immediately, and he is so rich, just rolling in money, and mama says every one will be running after him, and that Mrs Black will be sure to try and get him for one of her daughters." " Poor Frank !" and Minnie Stanley sighed, as she thought was this what he had come home for. " But I can hardly think it, auntie " continued the young girl, " he is as yellow as if he were made of gold, and he is quite an old thing." " And does he really look so old ?—let me see, he was twenty-five when he left, and he has been twenty-five years away, he will just be fifty." 102 THE ATTEMPT. " Well, he looks still more, but mama was angry with me for saying he was old, and said I should be very well off if I married him ; but I think it would be wrong to marry an old man, don't you think so, aunt Minnie 1" " I don't know, my dear," she said rising, and going to the tea-table ; " you see I can't think of Frank Warden as an old man."

They stood together in the dining-room, leaning on the old, carved mantelpiece, as they had stood twentj^-five years before, and looked at each other as people look who have been parted half a lifetime, and strive to read the story of these years in each other's faces. " Do you find me much changed, Minnie 1" said Frank Warden, tenderly. (He was a man of wealth now, and could afford to speak tenderly.) She looked uj) at the worn face, and the few scant grey hairs, where the rich brown curls had waved, and she smiled as she said, " Twenty-five years changes all of us, Frank." " You are not much changed," he said. " You little know," she said quietly; " I am more changed than you are, although my hair is not grey." " And I find you still in the old house," he continued, glancing round. " Yes," she answered, " here I have lived from my birth, and here I hope to live till I die." " No, Minnie," he said, " I hope not, I wish jou to share my home, can you love me enough?" he asked smiling. She looked up startled, as if looking back into her heart for some chord tliat should have answered, and then she sighed as she said, " I love you, Frank, as my dear old friend,—no more." " But it is more than that I want," he said, " it is the wife's love, Minnie." " It is too late," she said sadly ; " you should have said it long ago." " Nonsense, Minnie, it can never be too late while we live; you will not destroy the purpose of my life 1" " I cannot, Frank," she said slowly and faintly ; " I have forgotten it." There was a long silence as they stood thus together. He was thinking angrily, was this to be the end of it all 1 he had made his life's plan, and would she overthrow it 1 he had gained wealth, and he could not gain a weak woman's love, and one who had once loved him, he knew. What was his money to her : she had not once asked about the success of his life's labour ? She was looking sadly into the Past, thinking how her heart would once have answered to these words, and wondering how strange THE ATTEMPT. 103 it was they could not move her now. Yet how unchanged everything without seemed. The room was the same, the same old clock ticking on the mantelpiece, the same flower-glass on the table, with the serpent twined round it, and she re- membered how its red eyes seemed to scorch into her brain as she stood listening to his words of farewell. It was the same kind of day—mid-way between the summer and winter—a fire in the grate, yet bright sunshine ; only then it was a spring morn- ing, and now it was far on in autumn, and the sun's rays that were stealing in by the open window were from the far west. There had been many others in the room then, now she was quite alone, and she, too, was verily gone, she could not be the same with that Minnie Stanley who had felt the life must go out of her when that farewell was said. " Do not go yet," she said timidly, for he was turning to the door. " I must," he said, " I cannot stay; it seems a light matter to you—to me, it is my life's disappointment." " Do not be angry, Frank," she said plaintively, as she laid her hand on his arm. " I am very sorry, but I cannot help that it is dead." He turned round with a sudden look of remorse. " Good-bye, Minnie," he said, " God forgive me." " God forgive us both," she said ; " perhaps it was my faith that failed."

The marriage of Mr Warden, the rich cofiiee-planter, to Ada Newton, caused a great deal of talk in the town. A few, a very few, thought it a shame that a beauti- ful young girl should marry a man as old as her father ; but the majority considered it a very suitable match. Some, mostly the women, thought it a capital marriage for a girl without a penny ; and the men laughed, and said Warden was always a know- ing fellow, knew to get the best bargain for his money. And Ada Newton cried all night over young Alaric's letters, and then packed them up in the morning, and gave them to her mother to send back to him, and bathed her eyes in rose water, and went down stairs quite composed when Mr War- den came to call. Eveiy one said it was a very nice marriage-party—everything in the handsomest style. The bride looked very pale, but then all brides do !—and she ci'ied very much when she went away ; but then she was so young, poor thing ! and she had the most beautiful Honiton lace veil, and splendid ornaments, and they weie going to France and Italy, and back to London for the season. 104 THE ATTEMPT. About a year had passed, when one morning, as Miss Stanley was sitting at breakfast, a letter was handed to her. It had a very broad black edge, and her hand trembled as she opened it and read :—

" Dear Aunt Minnie,—You will be grieved to hear that my dear husband died last night; he had been imwell for some time, but it was very sudden in the end. You can understand I have not much time to wi-ite.—Your distressed niece, ADA WARDEN."

And Minnie Stanley folded it up, and wiped her spectacles, and went out through the old garden, on to the little hill, and sat down by the stream where they had sat that day. And as she sat there the yeai'S seemed to melt away, and she saw him as he had stood there beside her, and her tears fell softly as she said—" Poor Frank, perhaps when we meet again we may have young hearts."

And Ada cried a little, too ; indeed, she became hysterical, and was nervous and agitated when her mother arrived, but she consoled her; and though she did not ex- actly say—" You see, my dear, I told you," yet she kissed her " poor Ada/' and said, " well, he was a good, worthy man," and then she slipped down stairs to meet her husband as he came out from the reading of the will, and hear if he had left every- thing to his widow. ENAI.

I feel them, oft, and I feel them now, Famiing their pinions around my brow, Kissing the lids of my weary eyes, Aiding my heart from the dust to rise. They wait for me, but one tiny pace Beyond my prison of time and space,— Whose keys are kept in the Lord's right hand, And the gates that open into his land. TUE ATTEMPT. 105 / hve them. The very atmosphere They trail fi"om heaven, is to me most dear ; And I breathe therefrom their memory, With a foretaste sweet of things to be. / see them oft when the dream of night Gives memory back the keys of sight; And I sometimes think in a reverie Their living forms come back to me.

/ hwv} them—my father, whose manly face Is lit by a ray from his heavenly place. Where his weary toils are crowned with rest: He sought the good, he hath gained the best. Unchanged I find him still to me. Rich in the child's simplicity. That sweetly blent, by heaven-taught art With his man's brave soul, and his woman's heart.

And hLs infant babes, my sisters twain. With our little brother, come again;— Though half upon earth, and half above, Our family groiip is one in love. Younger than I, in the times gone by. They are wisely old through love on high, T am the babe that unconscious lies,— They would teach me to speak and to recognise !

These come not alone, a friendly few That cared for me once, prove ever true; Haunting my steps with outstretched arms They would keep off the world and all its harms. They would come between me and its might,— Ah, woe, when I put them all to flight. When I dash right through my loving guard. To face my life without watch or ward, o 106 THE ATTEMPT. / hear them speiik in that inner tone, That is only to kindi-ed sj^irits known, Ye might say—" how silent" while I know Their meaning clear between us grow— Washing the shores of thy mortal frame Flow streams that to thee we may not name ! He lies around, as He reigns above, He fills all space with His sea of love.

In our first free bound we like Him grew, The secrets of love and wisdom knew; Oh, hear our so\ils, as they call to thee To join us in our Eternity! For there are other " forevers" near Loveless and lightless, hopeless and drear, Where souls seek downwards beneath the woe. That never our Father's face may know.

We thank our Fathei-—His eldest Son Hath done, what never we could have done ! We thank our Father who left us hei-e, To point oiit His jaath to one so dear !" I thank Thee,Father, from this side time. Thy work and Thy word hath power sublime To cleanse my soul from all earthly stain. To meet such friends in Thy sight again ! LuTEA RESEDA. THE ATTEMPT. 107

" NEWSPAPERS,"—It is quite a household word, for how few homes are there in England where they may not be found 1 From the palace to the poor man's cottage, from the drawing-room to the servant's hall, they find their way, and have consti- tuted themselves almost one of the necessaries of daily life. Whether it be that aristoci'atic and ubiquitous visitor " The Times," or the more unpretending and less respectable looking penny papers, they are all alike made welcome in their different spheres, and scatter the " News" broad-cast over the land; whether for good or for evil, they extend their influence to thousands and tens of thousands; in them, as in everjiihing else, the good and the evil will ever be found in close proximity, for the Chi'onicles of a Nation's thoughts, words, and deeds must necessarily largely combine both these elements. To judge by the name, newspa2>ers were originally intended to give the " News " merely, but in the present day they far exceed any such limit, and may now be said to form part, and no inconsiderable part, of the national literature, comprising, as they do, history, politics, critical notices, moral reflections, and literary articles of various degrees of merit. What an amazing amount of information may be found in a copy of " The Times," what a storehouse of history in its pages, whether narrated, as during the Crimean War, Indian Mutiny, &c., by the clever and brilliant pen of Mr Eussel, or in the less remarkable narratives of " Our own Correspondents " generally. Wliat a comprehensive history of the British Nation might be compiled from our old news- papers ! The sad story of its vices and its crimes, its sins and its sorrows, as well as the glorious recital of its heroism, its noble self-sacrifices, its heaven-born charity, and its many virtues. The advantage of a free press is no doubt very great, and helps to make Eng- land what she is. The right of free discussion, free opinion, of private judgment in short, upon every subject, is an Englishman's birth-right, and the thorough ventila- tion—to use a common and not very poetical simile—of public and private opinion, is likely to improve and preserve the mental and moral, as free ventilation, in its literal sense, does the physical health and well-being of the community. But that there will, in the free publication of the nation's sayings and doings, be necessarily mixed up much that is evil, I have said before : good and evil must be found side-by- side in the present state of things. There is, I believe, an incalculable amount of 108 THE ATTEMPT. mischief done by the lowest class of newspapers, whose great object would seem to be that of providing the most unwholesome mental and moral food for those who are only too ready to pai-take of it. We are told in the Book of Trath that " One suiner destroyeth much good." Sin, like many diseases, is infectious; and bringing con- stantly before the public view vice and crime in all their varied phases, must, I think, be productive of much evil. Whether such publicity be necessary, or whether the withholding of it altogether might not prove the greater evil of the two, I shall not attempt to decide. The newspapers are the nation's biographers, and it is their duty to be faithful ones; but a people's history is often a sad and terrible one, and many a page in it had better be left unperused. The tendency, however, of the best-class of newspapers is certainly to elevate and improve the tone of society. Many of the leading articles in the principal papers are full of true practical wisdom; and in treating of the various social, religious, and political questions of the day, they often do good sei-vice to the cause of tnith and righteousness. They give us the speeches, lectures, and letters of our wisest and best men, and so scatter the seeds of virtuous and noble sentiments, and enlist the public sympathies for many desirable and estim- able objects. There are newspapers now on every subject. We have religious papers—high, low, and broad-clTurch; political papers—ministerial and anti-minis- terial,—farming, sporting, fashionable and literary papers. In some we have a little on all these subjects within the compass of a few columns, and what multifarious objects of interest and anxiety do these represent. What crimes and tragedies, hopes and fears lie sometimes hidden in the few lines of an ajipeal or an advertisement. In these days, when there seems to be a shaking of the pillars of the earth, when both on the political and religious horizons dark clouds seem gathering, when war is frowning upon the nations, and man and reason seem to be setting themselves in their vain imaginations above God and the Bible, we might well lay down our newspaper, with a feeling of pei'plexity and fear, as it each day reveals apparently fresh cause for such feelings, did we not remember that " The Lord reigneth," and that " He doeth according to His will in the armies of heaven, and among the inhabitants of earth;" that His truth sliall stand when the heavens themselves shall be rolled together as a scroll. ZoE. THE ATTEMPr. 109

A RALLYING WORD. Now then—steady, right file, steady— Listen what I say : Are you, one and all, lads, ready For your work to-day 1 No slight skirmishing you'll find it, Ere an hour's o'er— Here's your rallying-cry, and mind it Well—" Claymore !" Right before you is the foe, lads— See, they're moving near ! Well I know you'll none be slow, lads, When the word you hear ! Give it them with blade and ball, lads, Down upon them pour Like the winter torrent's fall, lads, With " Claymore ! " Think, lads, on the distant Highlands Of your childhood's days,— Spey's green banks, and Badeuoch's forests— Far Lochaber's braes. Then, strike home for Scotland's honour As you've struck before. When you hear the cry of battle Loud, " Claymore ! " Where the fighting is the sorest, Thickest piled the dead, Lot our tartan kilt be foremost. On to glory led. Fight while you can hold your broadswords Running red with gore,— Let them feel the edge so trusty Of " Claymore !" 110 THE ATTEMPT. Hark ! the pipes more fierce are blowing, Rattles quick the drum ! Hurrah, lads ! at last we're going. Aye ! the time is come ! Steady,—just one moment, steady ! There they are before ! Now then—life and death, lads, ready ! Charge ! " Claymore ! " MAS ALTA.

Cljt seasons nnH tijetr |pianis. MAY.

DURING the past month the process of vegetation has been going on very rapidly; the tinge of green, which a week or two ago was only just beginning to pervade the woods and hedgerows, has deepened, the meadows are gay with flowers, the birds are carolling merrily, all nature seems rejoicing, and spring is truly with us.

" The gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with Speedwell flowers are gay, The oak is budding ; and Vjeneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath— The silver WTeath of Maj-." So numerous are the flowers now to be found by earnest seekers, that our May bouqixet will assume larger proportions than any of our previous ones. In case of wearying some of my friends, and, perhaps, also exposing myself to the charge of overlooking many plants which I should have noticed, I shall only attempt to de- scribe a few of the most prominent, and tliose most likely to attract attention. Whilst the sun shines so brightly, let us pass over the beauties adorning fields and meadows, and wander through the woods in search of some of the many gems worthy of a place in our herbarium. Surely the large handsome leaves and curious flower of the Cuckoo Pint (^Arum Maculatum), will be amongst the first to attract our at- tention. It is a very peculiar-looking plant, and the only British rej^resentative of the Arum tribe, a graphic description of which is thus given by old Gerarde, three cen- turies ago :—"This plant hath great, large, smoothe, shining, sharp-pointed leaves. THE ATTEMPT. Ill spotten here and there with blackish spots, among which riseth up a stalke nine inches long, besprinkled with cei"taine purple spots. It beareth also a certaine long hose or hoode, in proportion like unto the ears of a hare, in the middle of which hoode Cometh forthe a pestle or clapper, of a pale purple colour ; which being past, there apjieareth in place thereof a bunch of berries, gi-eene at the first, but after they be ripe, of a red-like coral, full of juice." The root is tuberous, and exceedingly acrid; so much so, " that by applying the juice of the raw tuber to the skin, this will be considerably blistered ;" the noxious quality, however, is extremely volatile ; and if the root be boiled or roasted, and afterwards pounded, it affords a farinace- ous starchy substance, which is jjerfectly tasteless, and is \ised for the same purposes as arrow-root. A little further on we shall find the pale-yellow Daffodil (Pseudo Narcissus), the droopiug stalks of the Blue-bell or wild Hyacinth {Ilyacinthus-non-scriptus), and occasionally (in Scotland rarely), the delicate, bell-shaped Lily of the Valley (Convallaria Majalis), all of which are so well-known that any description of them woidd be unnecessary. At the foot of yonder mossy bank a perfect little gem awaits our notice. The Wood Sorrel (Oxalis Acetosella), with its lovely white petals, delicately veined with purple and bright trefoil leaves similar to those of the shamrock, is certainly one of the prettiest of our wild flowers. The blossom is exceedingly fragile, and withers al- most immediately on being gathered ; the leaves partake somewhat of the nature of sensitive plants, closing at eventide and on the approach of rain. They are very acrid, so much so, that in former days when greater faith was placed in remedies close at hand, an infusion of them was much used in fever cases. When properly evaporated, the juice of the Wood-sorrel yields the well known oxalic acid. Not far off, we may come upon the narrow, curiously arranged leaves of the sweet-scented Wood-ruff (Asperula Odorata), with its very small, but beautifully formed clusters of white flowers. The leaves when di-ied retain their sweet odour for months. In Germany they are used to impart a flavour to wine; and some botanists allege that a decoction of the whole plant yields tea equal in quality to that procured from China. Our next friend is a very odd-looking one, about a foot in height, with green blossoms, erect stem, and leaves arranged in a whorl, or clusfer of four. It is the Herb Paris, or True Lover's Knot (Faris Quadrifolia). Yet another plant calls for a few words of notice before passing on to the river side. Veiy pretty are the white clusters of the Allium Ursium, or broad-leaved garlic ; but beware of gathering more than just sufficient for examination, unless particularly partial to the odour of onions, of which 112 THE ATTEMPT. it smells strongly. The Alliuni is the first example we have met with of what is termed an wmie^-beariug plant. The Xlmbelliferse are so called from the peculiar arrangement of the flower stems; from the centre stalk, and rising nearly to the same height, grow a number of smaller stalks, which sj^read out from it like the spokes of an umbrella, hence the name. Many of the plants of this family are highly poisonous; others, again, are used both for food and medicinal purposes. Those growing in moist places are nearly all pernicious, while those aflecting dry, sandy soils, are edible. The carrot, parsnip, carraway, and parsley, are all umbelliferous. Arrived at the banks of the clear, rippling brook, a number of floral friends claim attention. Most conspicuous among them is the Ragged Robin [Lychnis-flus-cuculi), belonging to the Pink tribe. Its jointed stem rises to the height of two feet, and is sui-mounted by bunches of bright pink petals, so deej)ly jagged that at first sight they appear not unlike tiny bunches of nari-ow ribbon. There are four native species of Lychnis ; and it is to this genus in its cultivated state we owe the deliciously-scented Carnation, the Pink, and all varieties of the Sweet William. Delighting in the marshy gi'ound we are now treading, is the handsome white spike, tinged with rose colour, of the Marsh Trefoil, or Buck-bean {Menyantlms TrifoUaUt). Like the Gentian tribe to which it belongs, the Buck-bean possesses valuable medicinal proper- ties. Miss Pratt, in her " Popular Botany," mentions the use of this plant by the Highlanders as a substitute for hops. Another beautifier of the stream-side is the blue-blossomed Veronica Beccabunga or Brooklime. There are eighteen native sjjecies of Veronica, six or seven of which may now be found in their respective localities; all are distinguished from other genera of the same order, by having the lowest division of their monopetalous blos- som narrower than the other three. The specimen most familiar to us, is doubtless the brilliant Germander Speedwell {Veronica Chamaedrys), with its egg-shaped leaves, recumbent hairy stem, and clusters of lovely blue flowers. A handsome plant, fre- quent by river banks, is the Common Comfrey {Symphytum Offichiale), with its yellowish-white, and sometimes purple flowers; the leaves are egg-shaped, covered with fine hairs, as also is the stem, which attains a height of three feet. In jiassing along by some old wall, on our way to the cornfield, we shall probably be able to secure, in addition to our little friends, the Stitchworts and Chickweeds, some speci- mens of the Saxifrages, easily recognisable by their resemblance to the garden London Pride. The variety Tridactylite, so called from the likeness of its leaves to three little fingers, is very frequent on dry walls, and on the roofs of cottages; here too, is the tiny Myosotis Arvensis, Field Scorpion Grass, better known as Forget-nie- THE ATTEMPT. 113 Xot, although, strictly speaking, it is the Myosotis Palustris, or large flowered species, which is more especially looked upon as the emblem of friendship. The hairy stem, lance-shaped leaves, tinged with red and rose-coloured white-veined petals of the Herb Robert [Geranium Robertianum) next catch the eye, a pleasing constrast to the bright blue of the Myosotia There are several species of Geraniums, or, as tlicy are not unfrequently called, Crane's Bill, from the resemblance the fruit bears to the bill of that bird, but Koljertianum and Dove's Foot {Geranium Molle), so designated from the soft downy hairs on leaves and stems, are the only two flowering at this season. In addition to the buttercups of last month, we may now join the Ranun- cidus Repens, or Creeping Crowfoot, and the Auricomus, Wood Crowfoot, both having small kidney-shaped leaves and yellow blossoms. To our list of Cruciferous plants, we must add the Barbai-a Vulgaris, Yellow Rocket, furnished with a strong furrowed stalk, lyre-shaped leaves and clusters, or, to sjieak more correctly, corymvs of bright yellow flowers. Another very common member of this family, making it- self at home everywhere, by hedges, on walls, amongst rubbish, or in cornfields at this season, is the Erysium, AUiaria, Treacle, Mustard, or more commonly Jack in the Hedge, or Sauce Alone, the latter name probably obtained from the strong smell of garlic which it jwssesses. The flowers are white and numerous, the leaves heart- shaped, and the whole plant from one to two feet in height. On heathlands or sandy banks we may occasionally mc«t with the familiar prickly shrub, respectively styled Furze, Whin, or Gorse (Ulex Europaeus), but as it is seldom in full profusion until the month of June, we shall reser\^e our description of it for another paper. K. H. D.

TAKE back the flowers we gathered there. In the green beech wood, when the Spring was fail-. Yes, they are withered and pale to see. But they were all the world to me.

Take back the ring. When you put it on. How my heart leaped up, and my fears were gone ! Is it a trifle 1 So let it be. But it was all the world to me. p 114 THE ATTEMPT. Take back the hair. It shines like gold, It is shining still, though your love is cold : Do you remember—the rocks, the sea'i Ay, it was all the world to me.

Take back the locket. The pulses strong Throb in my throat, and the thrush's song Again I hear it. Love's tiny fee, (Take it) 'twas all the world to me.

Take them again, your faith, your troth. Those trembling accents that bound us both. Take them, and break them. Your heart is free. But your love was all the world to me.

What does it matter 1 Let me go, I gave you myself so long ago, That I cannot take back the gift, you see. For you still are all the world to me.

" More blessed to give." Can that be true ? If it is, may my love be blessed to you. And may you be happy, both you and she, For jou still are all the world to me.

Take back the hope that once shone so gay, Over life's dusty and toilsome way. But you cannot take back the memory. And it shall be all the world to me. O. M. THE ATTEMPT. . 115

^^tnomcna iithnbant on ibt 6nij5lioit 0f ^Toitul 0csubhts. I THINK it may not be uninteresting at this time, when our attention has been so recently attracted to an eruption of Mount Vesuvius, to recall to our minds some of those wonderful ^ihenomena which usually attend the eruption of this mountain. Vesuvius is one of those volcanoes which are classed under the name of inter- mittant volcanoes, that is, the volcano is not always in an active state. For years, and even centuries, it has been known to be in a quiescent state ;—and, previous to the great eruption of 79 A.D., it was considered as an extinct volcano. We shall now mention tlie volcanic phenomena. I. Earthquakes, which sometimes spread destruction in the surrounding country for months or even years previous to the eruption. Sometimes the earthquakes are most severe, destroying houses and even cities, at other times they are much less severe. II. The retiring of the sea : this phenomenon sometimes precedes the erap- tion, and at others is simultaneous with it. It has been noticed that the sea suddenly rises as if with a violent gale, and then rapidly retires, at times to the distance of fifteen or even twenty paces from the beach. The reason of this phenomenon has never yet been clearly explained. III. The diminution of the water in the wells and springs on the base of the mountain, or contiguous to it, is another striking phenomenon. This is considered hj the inhabitants of the country as one of the surest signs of an eruption, and the opinion has been confirmed by the learned. IV. The bottom of the crater of the volcano during its quiescent state is gradually covered with ashes and cinders ; these, previous to an eruption, are raised higher and higher by the elastic vapours contained within the volcano, until they have been elevated to its rim. V. Sometimes after an eruption, there is an opening left in the crater, through which opening the elastic vapours escape, and raise small pieces of lava (scoria), which, falling to the ground, soon form a small hill within the crater, which is called a " cone of eruption." At times these hills rise so high as to be seen above the rim of the crater. The heat of the vapours contained within this hill bursts open the cone in two or even more places, and the cone continues to increase until an eruption clears away, in a few hours, the immense quantity of volcanic Jivitter which has Iteen collecting for vears. 11G THE ATTEMPT. "VI. Tlie eruption commences by the crater being burst open with a loud crash, if not with an earthquake ; and the column of smoke, which, previous to the eruption is white, now becomes quite black. Tn this smoke are thrown up scoria, sand, and ashes. Pieces of solid rock are also thrown up sometimes to a great height,—one witness affirming that during one eruption they were can-ied to a height of 7,000 feet. VII. The smoke becomes more and more elevated, and towards the close of the eiaiption, at its upper extremity, it expands until it assumes the form of an extensive cloud of a circular form, which appears to be supported by a slender column. Its shape resembles a mushroom, and is considered as one of the most beautiful phenomena of the eruption. At night it is most magnificent, the column appearing to be of fire from the reflection of the light in the ci-ater, and the interior is dotted with innumerable shining points of great splendour, which are quantities of sand and ashes rising up and down the column. Frequently flashes of forked lightning are seen either in the column or in the cloud above it. VIII. The showers of ashes, sometimes heavy black particles, at otliere more minute particles like fine dust or flour, form one of the most destructive phenomena of the eruption. For, when the fall of ashes is heavy, it buries buildings, hamlets, and even towns. Tliese ashes also destroy vineyards and fruit trees, as being moist they adhere to the leaves and branches, and cover them with a thick coat. They, however, form so luxuriant a soil, that plants grow more quickly and vigorously in it than in any other mould. This is the reason that, notwithstanding the danger, the plains of Campania surrounding Mount Vesuvius ai'e so thickly populated. IX. During the eruption, and in some cases preceding it, vast quantities of lava are thrown up by the volcano. It sometimes issues from lateral eruptions in the mountain, and this during the most violent eruptions, at others from the crater itself, and occasionally both are united. When first discharged from the volcano, the lava rushes violently along, but soon it flows with a regular current like water. During the dajtime only a white smoke is visible rising from the lava, but at night it has the appearance of a fiery stream. It flows generally very quietly, the only noise being a slight bubbling. To try the consistency of the lava, stones have been thrown in, but instead of sinking they float ujion the surface. The stream in some parts is bridged over by scoria. Pieces of scoria are detached from the burning lava, and these pieces gradually form dykes on both sides of the stream, which, by the addition of new scoria, are raised, and being cemented by the heat from the stream, by degrees arch over and meet in the centre, thus forming a bridge over the lava. THE ATTEMPT. 117 The lava sometimes flows as fast as a torrent, but at other times it has been known to flow for years or months. It is an extraordinary fact that the lava has retained its heat for three or even five years after its eruption. We have now noticed the most remarkable of the volcanic phenomona, and as an instance of the action of the subterranean powers which produce them, we would men- tion the most feai-fiil known erui)tion of Mount Vesuvius. It was that which haj)- pened in 79, A.D. By it were destroyed the flourishing cities of Herculaneum, Pompeii, and Stabiae ; and so vast were the showers of ashes, scoria, and sand which were poured on them, that the highest parts of villas and palaces were buried. At INIisenum, thirty miles distant from the volcano, the showers of ashes were so great and the darkness so appalling that the inhabitants were seized with great dread, being unable to see each other. It was during this eruption that Pliny the elder, then commander of the fleet, died. He had gone to Stabiae to aid it and the surrounding towns. Having landed at the former place, to allay the fears of his friends he supped and lay down to rest. But he was soon awakened, and compelled to leave the house, it being dangerous to remain there longer. He and his friends hastened to the beach to learn if they could put to sea, but the waves ran so high that they were afraid to venture. Showers of stones fell around them in all directions, and the fearful darkness was only relieved by flashes of lightening. Pliny now lay down, however the flames and the strong smell of sulphur obliged him to rise, but in so doing, he fell back dead, suffocated by the noxious vapours. EXCELSIOR.

DEAR friend, your love of truth and right, You seem to breathe a cleai'er air, Your noble scorn of what is wrong. That gives you courage to endure, Your earnest faith in all things good, Like that brave knight of olden days. Make me, your weaker sister, strong. So strong, "because his heart was pure."

No thought of self your progress mars, ()r ties your hands in doing good ; Erect you walk life's rugged ways. In earnest, noble womanhood. VERONICA. 118 THE ATTEMPT.

|arioto(fbgc cf Jgnanrnfc.

IT is an old and well-known saying of one of the wisest and best of men, that he only knew one thing, viz., he knew that he knew nothing; but that in this he was wiser than the multitude, who knew not even so much. Wiser, certainly, than most of us, for we must have made some progress in thought and study before we can say heartily, but sadly, " we know nothing." The man dwelling in an enclosed jilaiu, surrounded by high hills, may explore his little domain, and think that he knows the world; but let him ascend even the lowest of the surrounding hills, and a faint glimmer of doubt as to his knowledge will break upon his mind, and as he mounts step by step, the glimmer will become a gleam, till, as he gains the summit, the knowledge of his own ignorance will flash upon him with ii-resistible light, discovering to him the chaotic daikness of his mind. And so it is with most of us. We live in a small circle, and if we but survey its contents, we fondly believe our knowledge to be immense. The season comes probably at different stages in the lives of different persons, but to all who think at all, a season does come, when an overwhelming consciousness of their own ignorance breaks upon them, well nigh prostrating every faculty of the mind, and they exclaim, with Socrates of old, " Trulj^ we know nothing !" The effect is humbling, crushing ; but let such as are experiencing it take comfort, for now, and now only, is the first step being made towards knowledge. The facts they have learned and conned by I'ote seem to them now revolting, as though they had been wooing skeletons, when living beings might have been their companions. For some time this feeling of prostration remains, but it is succeeded by an interest in life so deep and so real, that no outward circumstances, no physical suffering, can ever rob the mind of the new pleasure to which it has just awakened. Not but that before this mental awakening a certain real interest may have been felt in study of various kinds ; but it was probably that interest which is aroused by the reading of some stirring event, or beautiful description ; whereas the new interest is that taken by a mind which has just discovered the existence of many weighty problems, of which, in its former proud ignorance, it dreamt not. We petty people may sometimes wonder that the great men who lead the world of thought by the result of their own mental work, are not vain and intoxicated by THE ATTEMPT. 119 then- superiority to other men; but we may be sure that they at least have had long experience of their own want of knowledge. And as it is not natural to man to compare himself to those below, but to be ever striving to reach those above him, so with these great men : theii' minds do not stoop to compare themselves with inferior beings, but are always seeing higher objects before them to which to attain.; and when they pass above all their fellow-men in knowledge and wisdom, they measure themselves with infinitude, and once more they exclaim, with the philosopher of old, more feelingly and more humbly, than we in our ignorance can do, " In tmth we know nothing." Thus we see that the extension of knowledge tends to the putting down of arrogance and pride ; for what is more humbling than this self-measuring with infini- tude to the pride of man, yet what more elevating to his character 1 Self-knowledge of ignorance begets ti-uly a humble mind. One of our poets, striving to pierce the mysteries of death, and to solve problems too hard for human understanding, bears testimony to the tnith of this in one simple line,

" Behold, we know not anything."

And to this conclusion much study and deep thought have brought our wisest men. Never did the Delphic Oracle pass truer judgment on any man than when it raised its awful voice and pronounced Socrates to be " Wisest of men."

DES EAUX.

WHY ever haunt me. Softly the vision Freighted with light. Is wafted anear. Dense with a glory Pouring its melodies That pierceth the night. Full on my ear. Stirring old longings I buried so deep— Born of a fragrance of amaranth glow. Nought but your beauty to trouble their Where gently and alway the summer sleep 1 winds blow. 120 THE ATTEMPT.

Forests so wond'rous. Searching for valleys, Birdlets so gay, Where bluer lakes gleam. South breezes fanning. Seeking those rarer joys. The young fawns at play. Lent in a dream. Rivulets glancing, rippling around. Shall longing avail me, once more to unfold The wild notes according in tunefullest The distance, all mellow in frame-work of sound ! gold 1

Glorious the golden mist, " The earth is renewing Over the sea, Her beauty agaia. Sweetly the shadowland Over the frozen fields Hovers o'er me ! Sweepeth the rain. But the wild tears of longing are clouding The young Kfe is waking, and clustering mine eyes, low, Whilst the vision that mocked me and And deep in the forest the violets grow." dazzled me, dies. " But over thy spirit Dies amid dreariness. Are gathering fast— Floating away— The joyless to-morrows, Leaving a weariness, When roses are past. Over the day. Alas ! for the silence that follows the song. Leaving a silence, a chilling despair ; Ah ! who can go merrily all the day long !" A blankness and pallor diffused in the air ! Only a moment— Ah ! If I climb onward. Passionless star, Wand'ring at will. Shadow in rising, List but the plover's cry, The islets afar. Out on the hill. (Gilding a moment the vapours o'erhead) Tasting in loneliness growing delights,— Mirror them back ere the twilight be dead! Swiftly ascending the dark purple heights. R. M. THE ATTEMPT. 121

Contcmponrru focts—^fmoms anb Stlcctions.

EDITED BY MISS EMILY TAYLOK.

IT is doubtful whether books containing selections from the works of our great and universally studied Poets are of much value. A volume filled with " gems " from the Poets, as they are generally styled, may be of use in temjiting the young to seek the sources from whence the rivulets have flowed, and there to drink for themselves of the deep waters ; but to a more mature mind a book of scraps from favourite authors will never be satisfactory. Accustomed to study an author by himself, in his own home as it were, we feel a certain irritation in meeting a little of him wandering about with little bits of other authors in the same volume. But it is very different, as will at once be seen, in the volume of " Contemporary Poets " now under our notice. The Editor of this new selection, having observed how many beautiful poems were fading from the world for want of being gathered in time, has set herself the task of collecting and arranging from Poets, the greater number of whom have been her contemporaries, such of their works as seemed least known to the general reader. To the selections from each writer are prefixed some memories of his or her life. The volume commences with a writer whose name is certainly not a stranger to the world, but whose poems deserve to be more widely studied than is at present the case. " To the beloved and venerated Anna Letitia Barbauld " the Editor has assigned the first place in this volume. Though written at an advanced age of life, her " Ode to Remorse " is full of power : after bringing before us heart-rending images of those racked by that most fearful of punishments. Remorse, she tells us how to "guilty souls" it is remorse that makes their "direful hell;" but the poem, though dark with misery, is lightened by love, for even of these guilty souls it says :— " With thee condemned to stay Till time has roUed away Long eras of uncounted years, And every stain is washed in soft repentant tears." Q 122 THE ATTEMPT. There is no need here to give selections from all the poets brought together in this volume ; enough will have been accomplished if we shew that the aim for which it was compiled is well fulfilled. The sonnets of Charles Johnston speak straight to the heart as only the words of a pure poet can. Little is known of him personally, biit that he died early, before he had said half the beautiful things the world might have received from him. We cpiote from Sonnet XXI. :—

" Oh ! 'tis not vain what the rapt poet singi?, That those we loved in life, in death attend Our steps ; in sorrow soothe, from Ul defend : Hovering like angels round with noiseless wings."

When knowing that death was about to take him from this world, he wrote his calm, brave sonnet, beginning

" I've seen my day before its noon decline."

We pass on now to what is called " The Roscoe Poetry." There is a peculiar interest attaching itself to this set of i)oems, from the fact of its being contributed from the pens of many members of one family. It is seldom we find eight gifted writers in one family groiip; but here we have specimens from the head of the house, his five children, and his two gi-andchildren, all distinguished by elegance of style, and some by poetic genius. The name of Roscoe is probably best known to the world in connection with Italian Literature, but with the original literature of our own country it also deserves to be remembered. Of the works of William Roscoe himself we are not in this volume given many specimens; but there is one beautiful little imitation of Sir Walter Kaleigh, of which we give our readers one verse— " In fieldis grene, Silvered with hawthorne white, To walk alone, and meditate unsene, Is my delyte."

From the two poems which we are given from the writings of Margaret Iloscoe it is difficult to decide from which to quote; the following verse is from her i)oem on " Evening :"— " Gather the loved around ! and now Breathe the fond word, the tender vow, For love throws, lUie the sweetest flowers, Its fragrance o'er the evening hours." THE ATTEMPT. 123 From Mary Anne Roscoe we give a verse from " The Home of Youth," of which the rhythm is so musical as at once to please the readei*—

" Home of my youth ! when the soft light Ls breaking O'er vale and o'er mountain to welcome my waking ; I think of the sun that shines bright on my morning ; Thy groves and thy valleys with beauty adorning."

With one more selection we miist pass from the works of this pleasing family ; it shall be from Jane E. Roscoe, from her poem on " Charity." In it she has fathomed the true depth of that divine virtue, the virtue which " hopeth all things." She shows us the presumption of judging any man by outward signs—

"There may be hope, as pure, as bright, As ever sought eternity ; There may be hght, clear heavenly light. Where aU seems cold and dai-k to thee ; And where thy vision mourns the dust, There may be trust, delightful trust."

Tliere are some writei's who have given to the world one or two flashes of genius so bright, that eveiy one has recognised them withovit knowing anything further of their woiks. Miss Catherine Fanshawe is one of these ; though admu'ed for her many accomplishments, and venerated for her " simple piety," by the cii'cle in which she moved, it is only through a few of her most brilliant poems that she is universally known. We need only remind our readers of her " Epistle to Earl Har- court," in which she so successfully vindicates herself for spelling her name of Cathe- rine with a C instead of a K, as that gentleman was desirous she should do. The lively humour running through the whole of this clever poem makes it very attrac- tive. Many people ascribe to Lord Byron one of Miss Fanshawe's best riddles, in- deed, it is still to be found in some of the editions of his works. It is that most ingenious of riddles clothed in verse, commencing—

" 'Twaa in Heaven pronounced, 'twas muttered in Hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell."

Wo pass on now to what seems to us one of the most beautiful sonnets to be met with in the volume before us ; the author is Hartley Coleridge, son of The Coleridge. The subject is Prayer; and when wo know that the writer under- 124 THE ATTEMPT. went much mental suffering and struggling after right in the midst of wrong, it Ije- comes invested with a peculiar interest; it says :—

" Be not afraid to pray—to pray is right. Pray, if thou canst, with hope—but ever pray, Though hope be weak, or sick with long delay ; Pray in the darkness, if there be no light."

There are several poems by Sarah Flower Adams which deserve to be known, though it seems to us (2)erhaps from old acquaintance), that her hymns are the most beautiful of her writings. It is something to have done, were that even all she had accomplished, the giving us the hymn which so often ascends from oiir churches—

" Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee."

But she has done more, and judging by the selections before us, hers must have been no common genius. We have specimens from the writings of Ebenezer Elliott and Arthur Hugh Clougli, two poets of whom the world is comparatively ignorant; but a song by the latter has been set to music by Mr Hullali, beginning

"My wind is turned to bitter north. That waa so soft a south before."

The Editor felt that in this collection of poems she could not omit a few selec- tions from one or two poets, who, though not unknown like some others, have con- tributed so much real beauty to the literature of their country, that the more widely they are spread abroad the greater will be the blessing to the world. It is this, thei-efore, which enables us in these pages to find some of the most beautiful thoughts of Adelaide Anne Proctor, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. We fiAd also one poem from the works of the Rev. John Keble which is little known ; it is his " Burial of the Dead," taken from the " Lyra Apostolica." The collection of poems from English wiiters finishes with some single poems from different authors; and then we come to the Scottish lyrics. " The Auld Scotch Sangs" begin with several by the Rev. John Skinner, best known i>robab]y as the author of " The Reel of Tullochgorum," and " Tlic Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn." There is a i)oem of his called " The Stipendlcss Parson," THE ATTEMPT. 125 characteristic of hLs gentle, yet zealous nature ; in it he describes well the content- ment and happiness which are even within reach of the stipendless parson—

"Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great, Neither factious in Church, nor pragmatic in State, He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere. And finds work sufficient in preaching and prayer."

But the poetess of whom we, her country-women, are most justly proud, is Lady Nairn. No need to recall to our readers her charming songs, though we are tndy glad to find so many of her best collected in a volume likely to be in the hands of many English readers. Hers was a high aim in writing—that of elevating and puri- fying the taste of her countiymen. We are told that very early in life she was dis- tressed by the common words and low ideas which were found in the songs adapted to the melodies of her country. This suggested to her the thought of substituting some of her own words; and we have only to remember " Tlie Laird o' Cockpen," " The Auld House," and " The Land o' the Leal," to see how successfully her genius adapted itself to the wants of the case. We cannot pass over " The Laird o' Cock- pen" without pausing to regret that the last two stanzas (said to have been contributed by Miss Ferriar), were ever given place in the ballad. It seems to us that the whole spirit of the ballad is marred by Mistress Jean changing her emphatic " na " into an affirmative. Surely it was but just that the self-satisfied laird should receive the rebuff so much needed. Her deep sympathy with her fellow-creatures, and living creatures of all kind, makes this " Flower of Strathearn " a most lovable poet. Listen to her pleading for the lives of the little robins—

" Ye Hieland and ye Lowland lads, As birdies gay, as birdies gay, Oh, spare them whistling like yoursels, And hopping blithe from spray to spray ! Their wings were made to soar aloft, And skim the air at liberty ; And as you freedom gie to them, May you and yours be ever free."

We only give one more extract from a poem written by Lady Nairn in her 76th year, and veiy pleasant it is to find one who has travelled so far on the road of life not regretting the flight of time— " Would you be young again ? So would not I— 12G THE ATTEMPT. One tear to memory given, Onward I'd hie. Life's dark flood forded o'er, All but at rest on shore, Say would ye plunge once more, With home so nigh ? "

Susanna Blamire has imitated most successfully the Scottish form of song, though not herself a thorough Scotchwoman, for no one will deny that her " And ye shall walk in silk attire " has the true national ring. Mrs John Hunter is pro- bably best known as the author of " My mother bids me bind my hair," which makes txs the more glad to find a few other poems in this volume by the same writer. " The Lot of Thousands " is only too true— " Tis hard to smUe when one would weep, To speak when one would silent be, To wake when one would wish to sleep. And wake to agony."

The works of Joanna Baillie cannot indeed be said to be unknown ; but it is with pleasure that the reader meets with some of her poems in this collection. Her's was a long and happy life ; the Editor, after describing some incidents in its course, concludes with " And so she went on, loving and being loved, for ten years more, and then, on February 5tli, 1851 (in her 90th year), the gentle life passed away." Very little is known of William Motherwell, author of " Jeanie Morrison," or rather writer of the poem so called, for surely the little girl there described must have been a reality, and not only an idealized cb.ild. It would be hopeless work to give our readers any idea of this charming poem by the quoting of a verse if they are not already acquainted with it. To those who are, the following will remind them of the two little school-companions, loving each other freely and fully as chil- dren love, and yet with something, at least on the part of one, more lasting than is usual in the affection of most children— " I wonder, Jeanie, often yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touching cheek, loof huked in loof, What our wee heads could think ; When baith bent down owre a'e braid page, Wi' a'e buke on our knee, Tliy lips war on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee." THE ATTEMPT. 127 "We are indebted to a mistake on the part of the Editor for having here three most pleasing stanzas by Dora Greenwell. They are given as being written by an unknown author, and it was not till after their insertion that the writer was dis- covered to be one who, we rejoice to say, is still living and writing amongst us, a cu'cumstance which, according to the rule laid down for these selections, would have necessitated their exclusion. Though doubtless our readers were not aware by whom they were written, yet to many of them those beautiful stanzas must be familiar, beginning—

" Do ye think o' the days that are gone, Jeanie, As ye sit by yer fire at night ?"

The volume closes with an amusing song, the author of which is unknown ; it describes a canny Scotchman giving his good wife a treat, and letting her have en- tirely her own way—

" If my dear wife should chance to gang Wi' me to Edinburgh toun, Into a shop I will her tak', And buy her a new goun ; But if my dear should hain the charge, As I expect she wOl, And if she says the auld will do, By my word she shall hae her will."

The selections altogether make a valuable book, containing as it does many beautiful poems which were being overlooked amid the new writings of our day. Except for the rale requiiing that the authors must have left us before theii- works are inserted in these pages, we should have much liked to have found some speci- mens from the pen of the gifted Editor, herself a poetess, to whose disciiminating exertions we owe this interesting little volume, as well as others of great interest, both original and collected. DES EAUX. 128 THE ATTEMPT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

ANDROMACHE.

" HECTOR, can'st thou leave me thus, and go Where Achilles brings, with hostile hands, Fearful ofT'rings to Patroclus' ghost 1 "Who will teach thy little son to throw Jav'lins, and obey the gods' commands, When in gloomy Orcus thou art lost 1"

HECTOR. " Dearest wife, thy bitter tears restrain ! Fiery longings urge me to the field ; 'Tis my arms that guard the walls of Troy ! I shall tlie my country's rights to gain. And the altars of the gods to shield. Then descend to Stygian shores with joy."

ANDROMACHE. " Ne'er again thy weapons' clang I'll hear. In the hall thy sword will hang alone, Priam's hero race will die with thee ; Thou wilt dwell where day can ne'er appear, Whei'e Cocytus flows with dreaiy moan ; Lethe's waves will quench thy love for me."

HECTOR. " All my thoixghts and longings, hope and fear, I may lose in Lethe's silent flood, All—except my love ! Hark ! the foeman at the walls I hear. Gird my sword on ! quit thy tearful mood, Lethe cannot alter Hector's love." DIDO. THE ATTEMPT. 129

#« i^t Usfs oi % Stubu of ^ritnce.

IN one of his most amusing essays, Charles Lamb, confessing what, he wishes us to believe, is his dense state of ignorance, gravely announces that if, on some porten- tous morning the sun arose in the west instead of the east, while every one else was gasping in apprehension about him, he alone would stand unterrified from sheer in- curiosity and want of attention ! I wonder how many people there are in the world whose want of observation makes their ignorance almost as appalling as this. How indignant we should be if some astronomer or geologist were to tell us that our blindness was nearly as great, and that, u])on examination, we should find ourselves almost as unobservant. But how can that be, we cry indignantly ; we have eyes surely ; no sane person could be so blind as not to see that the sun always rises in the east ! Undoubtedly it does, but how many wonderful things there are besides of which we know very little, and which concern us just as much? I think I can assert very confidently, that some of the most remarkable phenomena might occur in the sky, and a good many of us would walk about composedly on this earth of ours, never troubling our- selves about them, and in total ignorance that anything out of the way was happening at all. Some of us may have been startled, a year ago, by reading in " Good Words," a paper entitled " The Atmosphere of a World on Fire," in which we were told, that while we were pursuing our usual occupations in peace and serenity, a star like our sun, which may be a sun to worlds similar to our own, was being consumed by fire, gradually destroyed and burnt out, yet few people knew anything about the matter. Was not this an instance of ignorance and inattention; true^ it Could only be discovered by looking carefully through a telescope, but if the telescope had been pointed for us, and we instmcted where to look, should we have been any the wiser, would the star's appearance have suggested to our minds the idea of fire ] Still more, had any astronomer been kind enough to exjjlain the meaning of what we saw, how many of us would have listened patiently, or have turned away in fright at the first difficult word, complaining that such things were too puzzling to understand, and were meant for harder heads than ours ? It is an old saying, that the mind sees what it brings with it the faculty of see- ing ; until our eyes are opened we shall see nothing, wo shall walk this earth in Vjitter 130 THE ATTEMPT. and de])lorable ignorance, very little wiser than Charles Lamb, who professed not to know in what quarter of the sky the sun arose every morning ; the most wonderful things happening around us, above us, and beneath us, of which we are unconscious, daily receiving blessings, whose constant repetition has deadened, instead of quicken- ing our minds, which we take thanklessly, and never pause to examine. We live in a wonderful world; a single thought of its wonders is enough to take away the breath, to make us start from our sleep of inditference and carelessness, and exclaim, in reverent fear, " The Lord God omnipotent reignetb !" How sad to live in such a world and not to penetrate into its mysteries, never to go deeper than the surface of things, to be content to know that the earth and planets revolve around the sun, that summer and winter, seed time and harvest, follow each other in even succession and do not cease, that by a wonderful process, which we could not ex2:)laLu, our bodies are invigorated, and able to obey our wills ; that there are such things as comets and meteors which periodically astonish us, and which we as periodically—forget ! Even about oiir own earth, that small speck in God's universe, most people know very little ; we have heard of tlie trade winds, coiild we all explain their cause ? We make iise of the electric telegi'aph, do we know the nature of the mysterious messenger we employ 1 Others work while we are idle ; many discoveries have been made lately uj)on these subjects; the old theories about electricity ai-e now rejected as false; if we were to read these erroneous opinions, should we know them to be wrong ? Or, com- fortably wrapped in error and ignorance, accejit every word we saw as pure truth 1 There is something peculiarly elevating in the study of Physical Science, or Natural Philosophy, call it what you will; I should prefer to say, God's dealings in the universe. When we read history, we are sometimes perplexed and pained, and are apt to become egotistical, as if this little world of ours, with its business and squabbles, were eveiything God had made, and there was no universe beyond ; we see that the wrong is often victorious, and the right trampled down, that cruelty and injustice are fearfully frequent, and that the cry of the oppressed is often drowned in the shouts of the oppressor. Many hard ])roblenis ai-e suggested, which the wisest lieads among us cannot solve; it is often difficult to decide, among so many events, which are frivolous or untrue, and may be rejected as useless and not worth remem- bering, and which must be seized upon, as containing the germs of what were after- wards to be might}^ influences uj)on men. History is deejdy interesting ; the more we study it, the more entrancing it be- comes ; but surely, in some ways, it falls short of Science. Is it not a relief, after reading of wars and rumoui's of wars, of grand coronations and sjdendid alliances; of THE ATTEMPT. L31 treaties, truces, and sieges ; of massacres, victories, and triumphs ; after seeing with shame and indignation the depths to which men may fall when abandoned to their own devices; even after admiring those noble men, who have come, like heaven-sent messengers, to do great deeds of wisdom and courage, is it not a relief to turn to the histoiy, not of men's doings, but of God's, to admire the laws which have been silently at work all these centuries when most people were too busy to notice them, accom- plishing their certain results, nothing wasted, nothing destroyed, the whole creation in such beautiful order, that it should make us ashamed to be even specks of disorder in it? The study of Science cannot be a thing to throw aside, according to our humour, but a duty which is incumbent upon every one to whom God has given an under- standing. Of one thing we are sure, he meant us to understand it, to think, and think carefully, of the uses and meanings of what we see around us ; not to live in this world as little children might do, taking every good gift we can get, and never ask- ing how it came to be ours. It is a great pity to become so used to things as not to see their wonder ! But then, many reply, these studies are so hard, who can learn Astronomy and Greology without feeling his mind ache ? how is it possible to learn Chemistry with- out dabbling with dangerous acids and gases, perhaps burning ourselves for our pains? These things are very well for people who have a decided leaning that way, but for us there is no occasion ! I think that there is occasion for every one who has a mind at all to understand a little about these subjects,— whether they need go deeply into them is quite another matter, but it is one of those branches of education where a " Little Learning " may be of great use ; we may know very little, still our minds are awake, and knowledge will pour in from unexpected quarters; a remark we overhear does not pass by us without making any impression ; we possess the key to its meaning, and can follow it out ourselves. Science can never be learned by merely attending lectures and looking at beau- tiful experiments, it must be studied carefully, with hard mental application. Nature does not reveal her secrets easily; and here, as in other things, there is no royal road to learning. Nor is it possible to learn even the simplest facts of Science by re- peating the words of a book, as parrots might do; our minds must be awake and constantly working, as well as our memories, and here is another great advantage of the study; there is no opportunity for idleness or dreaming. At the end we shall find ourselves tired, no doubt, but invigorated and refreshed, able to learn more next time, and with the delightful consciousness that our intellects are becoming stronger with 132 THE ATTEMPT. every step we take. To some it will be uphill work, struggling against a natural inaptitude all the time, but, I think, in the end they will find they have gained treasures worth the trouble of seeking : the harder it is to understand a subject at first, the more delightful to see light breaking in upon us by degrees. And for those of us who have no time for hard reading, I think the best way would be to ask the meaning of things we see around us. We shall find that we are living in a world of mysteries ; wonders, far greater than any in the wildest stories of romance, will unfold themselves, if we seek and inquire, for in God's world nothing is frivolous or common, in it we are never puzzled by thinking what to pass by as useless and not worth remembering. Deep principles are often hidden in the most ordinary sights and sounds. It was a wise act of the old philosopher, who examined the things that every one else threw away. We shall often feel ourselves humbled,—the subjects are so vast, our powers of comprehension so limited; mountains rise before us,—when we reach one summit an- other appears, higher, higher, and even higher, till we almost sink into despair, or else, losing ourselves in infinitude, and overwhelmed at the thought of immensities we cannot fathom, feel as if we were ciiished by the weight of our own insignificance ; small atoms in this vast creation, so poor, helpless, and trifling, that the eye of the Creator must fail to perceive or watch us altogether. It is not wonderful that such thoughts should trouble us when we consider the grandeur of the universe ; when we recollect that each of those tiny twinkling stars which we see in the sky is a sun much larger than ours, that the only purpose for which we can conceive them useful is to light up worlds as important as this on which we live; when we try to realize their numbers, "scattered like dust in the immensity of space," of the distance which separates us from them, the millions and millions of miles their light must travel be- fore it reaches us, when we consider all this, there is no wonder that the proudest human intellect should sink appalled, or that we feel ready to exclaim, " What is man that Thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that Thou visitest him 1" When oppressed by such fancies as these, let us turn to the other side of the picture. The wonders revealed by the miscroscope are as great as those which the telescope has made known to us. The same care which regulates the movements of the solar sys- tem, which has made worlds so large that our own is small in comparison, which guides Arcturus and his sons, and has loosed the bands of Orion, this same Power has tinted the leaves of the rose, has given each bird its special song and its own peculiar colour, and while creating insects so small that the human eye cannot behold them, has never left one unprovided or uncared for. We must all have been stiiick, in THE ATTEMPT. 133 looking at certain flowers, with the tsisteful blending of their colours, and the beauti- ful patterns they sometimes form, it is so evident that this could never have happened by chance,—it seems as if it must be the result of thought, of exquisite arrangement. If the creations of God are so vast that we tremble and faint in the contemplation of them, they are also so minute that we can never fear being overlooked or forgotten.

" Thou art as much His care, as if beside, Nor man, nor angel, lived in heaven or earth : Those sunbeams pour alike their glorious tide To rouse up worlds, or wake an insect's mirth."

If we venture to enter the domains of Science, it must be with reverence and humi- lity ; we must never forget the Creator whUe admiring His creations ; we must always bear in mind, while hearing of the laws of nature, that there never yet was a law without a law-giver ; we shall be constantly reminded of Him in our studies. We delight in tracing back phenomena to their causes, in discovering the reasons of the wonders we see around us ; but there is a still deeper delight in reaching at last what are called final causes, beyond which the cleverest scientific men of our day cannot go, whose origin no one understands, probably never will understand, till the day when we shall come to the Great Architect of all things to explain. Nor need it lessen our pleasure, or our faith, to know that these final causes retreat as our knowledge increases; that what was once mysterious can now be explained,—for how- ever deeply we may penetrate into the secrets of nature, something inex2:)licable must always lie behind. It is one of the great advantages of this sort of study, that what- ever may be the case with other kinds of knowledge, the pursuit of Science in any form is more likely to humiliate than to exalt us in our own opinion.

"Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell, That mind and soul according well. May make one music aa before, But vaster." R. N.

—

THE shadows are falling, the dew lies wet— Where is the Lady Margaret 1 Not in her chamber up the stair, That looks o'er her father's broad lands so fair, Not in the hall, where the fire burns bright, And the wine-cups gleam in the ruddy lights Not in the bower where her sisters are set— Oh, where is the Lady Margaret ?

There is a path through the tangled glade. And the silent depths of the forest shade ; A way by no eye that is marked, save one— Adown that path is Margaret gone. The shadows are ghostly, the wind moans shrill, And its breath on her cheek is damp and chill; Whither away, in the closing night. Alone through the wood, hies that lady bright 1

O'er the dead leaves and the quivering grass The hurrying steps of the maiden pass; Unheeded, the giant branches high Swing their gaunt limbs 'gainst the dark'iiing sky ; Unheeded, the voices of night sweep round As she hastens on—for she hears no sound ; Not to right or to loft e'en once looks she, But holds on her way right steadfastly.

For louder than all those sounds of fear Echoes love's whispering in her ear ; Warm on her lips she can feel love's kiss— THE ATTEMPT. 135 Can the breeze of night quench the warmth of tlds ? She is thinking only of one dear face, Of its noble pride, and its manly grace ; Let the night be never so dark and cold. With love in her heart, she may well be bold.

She is come to a hollow dark and still, Where murmurs the voice of a trickling rill, And a mighty oak-tree rises gi-and, And stretches its arms o'er the forest land. She stops, and she listens—no sound is heard, Save the sweet good-night of a twittering bird— Say, is it safe 1 May she further go ? " Hupert! " she whispers, clear and low.

A nistle—a movement she scarce could tell. Did she not know the sound too well; With bated breath and beating heart She watches the boughs of the oak-tree part, And sees through the leaves a strong white hand, That has wielded so well a patriot's brand,— Then a smothered ciy, that she cannot check— And Rupei-t's arms are about her neck !

One brief moment of deej) delight. In the close embrace of her own true knight, One passionate word of the love and faith That are strong in his heart, and shall be, till death ; And their arms untwine, and their heads they raise, And long and earnestly both they gaze ; Sweet and sad is the face he looks upon. And the one she scans is pale and wan.

" Rupert, my own one ! I must not stay— Hither I stole from tlie hall away. When the wine passed round, and the laugh was loud. And I was not missed from the noisy crowd. 136 THE ATTEMPT. See, here is the bread, and a pasty good, And a flask of sack that will warm your blood. Oh, pale and thin is the face I kissed— Say, how does it fare with my Koyalist 1"

" Margaret, Margaret, loyal and true ! How have I waited and watched for you—- How I have feared for you, stealing here. Through the dismal forest, so dark and drear. Dearest ! the hours were long and sad. Till the sound of youi- footfall made me glad ; All forgotten are hunger and cold. When your own dear hand in mine I hold.

" Ah ! where is my Liege, this chilly night? Lying in hiding, or speeding in flight; I have a friend, who risks her life For the one who had hoped to call her—wife ; While lonely I sit in my sheltering tree, I know she is praying, and thinking of me. Oh, wherever he is, is there one can be To our gallant Charles what you are to me 1"

One more embrace—a half-checked sigh— A ti-embling tear in the lady's eye,— Her head beneath Rupei't's hand low bent. As he prays heaven's blessing on her be sent; And then they part by the trysting-place, And homeward again she turns her face. Oh, what if her father, the roundhead, wist That his daughter loved a lioyalist ? MAS ALTA. THE ATTEMPT. 137

PART I.—RUNNING OVER THE MOOR.

CHAPTER I.

I AM an old woman, and a lonely one. Mine is not the old age which is made golden by the sun of household love and reverence, growing brighter as night comes on,—no, it is the grey, sombre twilight of a solitary life. Few young people under- stand the meaning of the word " alone." In all language no word is more pitifully sad. Lonely youth has hope, and the strength that hope gives ; but lonely old age, with no children's voices ringing through its silence, no warm hands to guide, no tender hearts to sympathize, is lonely indeed. But I was not always old. Yes, my hair is grey, almost white, my hands are shrivelled, my cheeks are withered. But I look down, down into the well of the past, and lo, there looks up at me a laughing face; two white shapely hands draw back nut-brown mas.ses of hair from two downy cheeks, warm-tinted as summer roses ; two long-lashed merry eyes answer mine, dim and weary with the burden and heat of the day. And what I am gazes sadly, yet gladly, at what I was. That was long ago. I am knitting beside the fire on a December day. Once the chill frost wind from over the hills sent the red blood to my cheeks—set my feet dancing along in defiance of its cold. Now, I shrink from it into myself, and only look out—out over the moor. And so many memories come wandering over it to me ; my vanished youth, and all its hope and fear, its tears and laughter, seem linked with that moor for ever, and I cannot separate them. When I am dead my soul will come back, if souls do come back to earth, and wander where these memories are wandering now, over the moor. Some of them come so close, so close, they put their pale mournful faces against the window, between me and the waning light. And I must tell you what they say, or, like the skeleton in armour, they will haunt me the more. It is a bright September morning. This old house is all radiant with the autumnal beauty of late roses and many-hued creepers, and the windows are open, and beside one of them sits a girl with a book in her hand. She is tall for her age, and slight, her hair and eyes are lustrous brown, her choeks have felt the summer wind and sun, and are somewhat brown too, but rosy, and fresh, and soft. Mangnall's questions are not entrancing; 138 THE ATTEMPT. only a few minutes, and the governess will be here, and lessons must be begun. Oh, to escape from the stiff school-room, with its globes, and maps, and inkstands ! Hark, a sudden voice outside, a boy's voice, expostulative, commanding—" Come along, Nelly, I'm going to spend the day on the moor, and I won't go without you ! " No time is there to lose. Duty and Mangnall say nay; but hush, listen, an advancing step, the rustle of an ancient silk in the passage. Through the interposed deal of the school-room door my fearful fancy sees the stiff, wiry, gi'ey curls, the primly fashioned cap, the angular figure of Miss Backboard ; she will be here anon. One stej) to the window-sill, one spring to the ground ; ah me, that same leap would be an insurmountable diiBculty now, but then it needed nothing but a brown scratched paw stretched from below in aid of the rebellious resolution to escape, and I, for it was I, reader, am off, beyond the reach of my preceptress and her rules for one long, sunny day. Round the corner of the house, " with imagined speed," to avoid observation, past the stables, through a belt of pines, over the dry, crackly ground beneath them, and we have reached the moor, and sit down on a heathery bank to meditate on our next step. The unforeseen rapidity of my flight has forced me to quit the house without either bonnet or shawl, but my companion substitutes his battered cajs, which has seen much service, for one, and who, as he remarks, cares about the other ? I for one do not. If I shut my eyes I can see his face, and I will show you the picture memory shows me. Fair curly hair, over a broad, clear forehead, blue eyes shining with fun, and mischief, and kindness, a sun-burnt face, a mouth resolute, but smiling, a figure promising height and strength, though he is only fourteen. Now for our social position and relation to one another. I am, as everybody in our neighbourhood knows, the only child of my father, who is the principal pro- prietor in the place, the laird, or, as the lairds are usually known by the names of their estates, Glenmavis. The Morays have had Glenmavis for generations, and ray father's great trouble in life has been, and is, that he has no son to inherit it. Though I may say, like him of old, "Am I not better unto thee than ten sons?" though no bogs, rivers, or rocks hinder me from trotting by his side wherever he goes, from sharing his drives, rides, shooting and fishing excursions; though I struggle with the difficulties of Latin that I may read what he reads, though I have become what is called a " tomboy " in my efforts to fit myself for his couipanionshi}:), I can still see that there is a deep underlying regret, that since he was to have bxit one child, that one should be a girl. I cannot remember my mother, she died the year I was born, and my father never thought of marrying again. THE ATTEMPT. 139 There is her portrait, still hanging where it always has hung, on the wall opposite me. For long my father could not look at it, and a curtain covered the pictured face, even as the grass covered his dead love out of his sight. But that passed away in time, and when my story begins, he could fix his eyes on those deep, mournful ones that seemed shadowed by their coming fate, and fancy a likeness in my face to the lost beauty of my mother. I say, fancy, for if there was any resemblance, it must have been in some passing expression only; my face was a feminine repetition of my father's. But I must return from these thoughts of my dead mother and my widowed father to the two young, happy, thoughtless, living creatures, sitting together where the piue-wood opens out to the moor. The boy beside me is two years older than myself—about the same age in reality, for girls grow up faster than boys, as who does not know. He is my cousin, rather a Scotch relationship, for he is the son of a distant cousin of my mother's ; but a girl without either brothers or sisters catches at any excuse for intimacy with a companion of her own age, and Charlie Stuart and I are close and confidential in our friendship, and glad of the far-away tie of blood which occasioned it. My mother had few relations, and my father, always glad to render a service to any of them, had presented Charlie Stuart's father to the parish of Crawsmuir, about ten years before the time I write of. He was well educated and gentlemanly, and both my father and his tenants had reason to rejoice at their choice of a minister. As for Charlie and myself, he led us so gently in the way we should go, smoothed the paths of learning so deftly for our feet, and was such a friend and com- panion in spite of the difference in age, that we both regarded him as the nearest approach to perfection human nature could exhibit. He, as well as my own father, had lost his wife a year or so before he came to settle in Crawsmuir Manse, and this common motherlessness cemented the bond between Charlie and me—" Charlie and me." Ah ! how naturally and closely the two words come together, and how widely and sadly the two realities have been parted. But on that September day no shadow crept near us, except, perhaps, the thought of Miss Backboard, and her wrath on discovering my escape. Oh ! sun that is gone ; oh ! shadows that are creeping nearer and nearer, to melt away, I trust, in a better light than that of youth and hope, how little we thought of you that morning as we ran across the heather. O. M. 140 THE ATTEMPT.

#« l^e first fcrieto of <§toit^erlanb.

I DO remember well how burst that scene Of wondrous beauty on me ; 'mid the green And grassy heights of Jura we had spent One of those days of sweetness that are sent To be for ever after kept apart, And cherished in the memory of the heart; But it had ended, and the sunset threw. Like parting happiness, a deeper hue : When, in an instant, on our sight arose The glorious land, crowned with eternal snows,— No word was spoken, the astonished eye Scarce dared to gaze ui^on its majesty, The full heart swelled, a sense of littleness Seemed on it like a sudden weight to press, Till, gazing on the peaceful lake that slept In its blue loveliness beneath,—I wept. E. H. S.

CIjc seasons anir lljtb |pi;mts.

JUNE.

JUNE—the leafy month of June, is at hand ; the stately ornaments of our woods and forests are now clothed in their richest, most luxuriant foliage, many of them are in flower; but it would occupy too much space, nor, indeed, can we suppose it necessary, to enter into minute descriptions of our wayside trees ; suflice to say that the Alder [Alnus), the Poplar {Populus), the Chesnut (Castanea), the Oak (Quercus), the smooth-bai-ked Beech [Fagus Sylvatica), the graceful Birch {Bctula), and the Ash THE ATTEMPT. Ill (Fraximis), are now in bloom. With the exception of the last named, they are all what are termed Catkin-bearing trees, that is, having their fertile flowers, like those of the willow and hazel, on one part of the stem, and the barren in a drooping catkin on another. The Box Tree {Buxus Sempervivus), belonging to the Euphorbia or Spurge family, the dwarf variety of which forms the border of most garden walks, affords another specimen of barren and fertile flowers. Although thus for the pre • sent declining any more particular acquaintance with our forest trees, we must spend some little time in sauntering along by the edge of the shrubbery and peeping through the orchard, for among the smaller trees, shrubs, and bushes there we shall find re- presentatives, and numerous ones at this season, of the two great natural orders of plants which remain to be noticed,—the Rosacese, and the Leguminosse. We are at once attracted by the beauty no less than the sweet perfume of the Hawthorn, Whitethorn or May, deriving its scientific name of Cratagos Oxycanthus from the Greek Cratos, strength,—its wood, when old enough, being exceedingly hard and dense, consequently admirably adapted to the purposes of the wood engraver. On examina- tion we find the blossom answering in many particulars to the description given of the Ranunculacse, and yet on looking more closely we perceive the distinction pre- viously noticed, which it may be well to repeat, that in all specimens of the Ranun- culus family the numerous stamens are attached just below the seed-vessel and inde- pendent of the calyx, whilst in Rosaceous plants they are fixed to the latter. The calyx is monopetalous, divided into five heart-shaped segments ; the carolla is likewise divided into five, and the seed or fruit varying from the berry of the Hawthorn to the plum, or, in botanical language, the drupa of the cherry, the core divided apple, and the fleshy receptacle of the strawberry. By many botanists this family is sub- divided into six genera, which it may be well to enumerate :—the Rose (JRosaceae), the Apple (Pomeae), the Amygdalae, Plum and Cherry, the Bramble and Cinquefoil tribe, Potentillidae, the Meadow Sweet Spiridae, and Sanguisorbeae or Burnet tribe. The Hawthorn, the occasion of this long digression, belongs to the second named division, as do the Wild Pear {Pyrus Communis), the Crab Apple {Fyrus Malua), the originals of our choice apples and pears, tlie Wild Service Tree {Pynis Terminalis), and lastly, the beautiful Mountain Ash or Rowan Tree {Pyrus Aucuparia.) To the third class belong the early flowering Blackthorn or Sloe [Prunus Communis), bear- ing flowers similar to those of the Hawthorn, but appearing a month earlier, and soon giving place to a fleshy purple fruit; the Wild Cherry (Prunus Jvium), and the Bird Cherry (Prunus Padus), with its beautiful clusters of white drooping blossoms. Inthe fourth genera are included the Bramble [liuhus), the Raspberry {Ruhus Idaeus), 142 THE ATTEMPT. Blackberry (li. Fruticosus), and Strawberry {Fragaria Vised), among edible fruits ; whilst of flowers, we have the Cinquefoils, the creeping one (^Potentilla lieptens), the Strawberry leaved (Folentilla Fragariastrum), bearing such a striking resem- blance to the Wood Strawberry, that they are not unfrequently mistaken for each other during the period of blossom ; the fruits present a marked difference, that of the Strawberry consists of numerous small tints in a succulent or fleshy receptacle, whilst in the Potentilla, and their close allies the Tormentils and Avens, the seed is dry. Tlie prettiest of the Potentillas is the Silverweed (P. A7iserina), so called from the white silvery appearance of the underside of the leaves; the flowers are large, pale yellow, very fragrant, and lying so close to the ground that they are " half hidden by the leaf of grey." We fear we shall not be successful in finding any specimens of the Spiridae or Meadow Sweet thus early in the summer; but surely we are all familiar with the graceful and fragrant Queen of the Meadow, which delights to fringe the banks of streams and ponds ; the stem attains the height of three or even four feet, the leaves are largo and downy on the under side, the whitish or rather cream-coloured flowers are small but very numerous on much branclied stalks. The scent of the Meadow- Sweet is so exceedingly powerful, containing so much Prussic Acid, that we cannot advise any large quantity of it finding place in our bouquet; only in the open-air amid fresh country breezes is it safe to inhale its fi-agrance I The small gi-een flowers without petals of the Lady's Mantle (Alchemilla), luxuriating on hilly pastures, the long yellow spikes of the Common Agrimony [Jgrimonia Eupatoria), on waste places, and the Salad Burnet (Foterium Sanguisorha), with its deeply cut leaves smelling strongly of cucumber, and heads of a dark i-od colour, all to be found during this and the succeeding month, fully represent the Sanguisorbese. Of the Rose, the true glory of the family, we need not speak ; all love and appreciate its richness, beauty, and fragrance, whether as revealed in-the opening bud, the full- blown flower, or the fading petals, for

" E'en when it dies, It bequeathes a charm to sweeten death."

The two principal species of Wild Boses are the Dog Bose [R. Canvna), and the Eglantine or Sweet Briar [R. Rubiginosa.) We must now pass on to the considei-ation of the very important order which yet remains to be noticed,—the Leguininosse. In the woi-ds of Dr Lindley—•" This order is not only one of the most extensive known, but is also one of the most important THE ATTEMPT. 143 to man, whether we consider the beauty of the numerous species, or their appli- cability to a thousand useful purposes. The Acacia is not less valued for its airy foliage and elegant blossoms, than for its hard and durable wood,—the logwood and rosewoods of commerce ; the Laburnum, the Furze and Broom, both the pride of the otherwise dreary heaths of Europe; the Bean, the Pea, the Vetch, the Clover, are all so many leguminous species." The petals are unequal in shape and size, bearrag some resemblance to a butterfly, hence blossoms of this class are termed Papilionaceous, from the Latin Papilio, butterfly ; the name Leguminous is derived from the fact of the seed or fruit being contained in a legume oi' pod. During the next few months many beautiful specimens of this family may be met with in our countiy rambles. The meadows and pasture-lands are enamelled white, purple, and gold, with the Dutch Clover {Trefoliuni Ile]}ens), the sweet-scented Trifolium Pratense, the Strawberry-headed Trefoil (Trefolium Fragiferum), and the bright yellow heads of the pretty Bird's-foot Trefoil, the pods of which spread out like the claws of a bird; whilst clinging to the hedgerows with their delicate tendrils, long narrow leaf- lets, and bunches of purple blossoms, are several species of Vetches {Vicia), all closely resembling each other. Two veiy pretty Papilionaceous flowers are the Rest Harrow {Ononis Arvensis), with creeping, sometimes thorny stem, and large rose- coloured blossoms ; and the Kidney Vetch or Lady's Fingers (^yithyllis Vulneraria), a beautiful little plant, whose flowers, although generally yellow, are occasionally of a reddish colour, the stem is very haiiy, so much so that the flower-heads appear as if peeping out from tiny bunches of wool. The Broom {Cytisus Scoparius), Burns' oft sung " bonnie bush," together with the Furze (Ulex Europaeus), are, among shrubs, the best known specimens of the Leguminous family. Few plants can equal the brilliancy of colour, sweetness of scent, and compactness of growth presented by a large bush of Whin or Gorse, as it is respectively styled in Scotland and England; nor need we wonder that the great Swedish Botanist should, on first beholding this gorgeous plant in perfection, have thrown himself on the gi-ound in a transport of delight, thanking God for a sight so beautiful. As in the case of many of our minor blessings, not until they are with- held for a season do we fully appreciate them ; so with the Furze, were it more uncommon, more unattainable, its value would be greatly enhanced. K. H. D. 144 THE ATTEMPT.

" The "Well of English undefiled, On Fame's eternal bead-roll worthy to be filed."

" That gentle Bard, Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State."

1. " Would he were fatter—but I fear not him."

2. " Ambition's dreams I've seen depart. Have felt of love the venomed dart, "When hope was flown ; Yet rests one solace to my heart "

3. " "Was ever woman in this humour wooed 1 Was ever woman in this humour won V

4. " Up, to yon mortal hie, For thou wast christened man ; For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, For muttered word or ban."

5. "If yoii have writ your annals true, 'tis there. That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Fluttered your Voices."

6. " The fair, the loveable, The lily maid of Astolat."

7. " He scoured the sea for many a day ; At lasl, grown rich with plundered store. He steers his way for Scotland's shore." THE ATTEMPT. Ii5

Clje Sislorij of pMsk.

" Through all the woods they heard the charming noise Of chirping birds ; and tried to frame their voice, And imitate. Thus birds instructed man, And taught them songs before their art began : And whilst soft evening gales blew o'er the plain. And shook the sounding reeds, they taught the swains. And thus the pipe was formed, and tuneful reed."—Lucretius.

THE origin of the art of music is, like that of other arts, much disputed. If the lines quoted above do not inform us of its actual origin, they at least afford us a very pro- bable account of it. We cannot but suppose that an art so congenial to the nature of man must be of nearly as great antiquity as the arts of navigation, agricul- ture, &c. Vocal music is probably of earlier date than instrumental, since man was endowed with voice before he could have invented instruments. Perhaps, even before men "went down to the sea in ships," they " began to handle the harp and organ." They could not do this with any agreeable result without some knowledge.of the relation and coincidences of sound, which form the essence of the science of music. As the voices of animals, the whistling of the wind, the fall of waters contain the elements of harmony, these may be supposed to have furnished such ideas of sound as have been subsequently arranged into a system. Dr Burney tells us that harmony is as much a part of nature as heat or light, and that it is therefore absurd to call it a human invention ; and even the art or practice of music cannot be considered to be the invention of any one man, as it must have had its period of infancy before arriving at perfection. The history of music may be said to commence with the Eg}'ptians, for although Jubal and his followers may have done much in " handling the harp and the organ," we have no record of their progress. The few allusions to music in the Assyrian sculptures refer to a later period than do the allusions in Egyptian history. The derivation of the word music is said to be from the Egyf)tian mo, water. The simplest and rudest, and therefore probably the most ancient instruments, are the lyre and the pipe. Thoth, the Egyptian Mercury, has the credit of invent- ing the lyre. It is said to have been first made by stretching strings across the hollow of the shell of an animal of the tortoise kind. The Greeks, although acknow- 146 THE ATTEMPT. ledging that their musical instruments were borrowed from Egyjit, claim the honour of this invention for their Mercury, and state that he used three strings, because there were reckoned three seasons among the Greeks,—by spring, summer, and winter. Anotlier account informs us that the lyre was first made by stretching strings between the horns of the skull of a goat. The pipe or tibia is said to have been first made from the leg bone of a crane. Probably percussive instruments, as the tambourine, cymbals, and drum, were of early origin. The earliest reference to music in Genesis (after the Deluge), is where Laban laments Jacob's departure, and regrets that he has not been sent away with songs, with tabret, and with harp.—Gen. xxxi. 27. After the residence of the Israelites in Egypt we find many instruments and songs mentioned. Moses is often spoken of as the composer of these songs ; and as he was " learned in the wisdom of the Egyptians," it is but natural to suppose that he received his musical knowledge from them. Professions in Egypt were hereditary, and we find that the Hebrews adopted the custom of training hereditary professional singers. In 1st Chron. vi. 33, and xxi. 1-2, we find whole families " under the hands of their father, for song, in the house of the Lord ; with cymbals, psalteries, and harps." The Egyptians do not appear to have made much progress in the art of music. Dr Barry tells us that, " from a defect in the construction of their organs, and a want of genius, the Egyptians never had any music, except what is as detestable as that of the present inhabitants of Asia or Africa." " From the formation of these instruments we must conclude that nothing but noise could proceed from them ; and their coarse flutes (of ram's horns), and the bellowing of the bull Apis, must have constituted such a noise as Jio musical ear could tolerate." It appears from the representations on Egyptian tombs and other sculptures, that their musical instruments were very rude and uncouth. The flutes are repre- sented as being the actual horns of animals; and no contrivance for tuning the lyre can be observed in any of the sculptures. Bruce describes a picture on the wall of a tomb in Abyssinia, in which a man of five feet ten inches is represented playing on a harp of six feet six inches, using both hands with great vigour. The harp appears well made, and elegantly finished, and has about thirteen strings. Bruce believes the date of the tomb to be that of Sesostris, about the time of Saul. As David both danced and sang to the harp before the ark, it seems probable that the harps used in Palestine were of a smaller size. In the great pyramid of Ghizeh, which appears to be the depository of most of the branches of human learning, there is an urn, which, when struck, gives a musical note. This is supposed to have been THE ATTEMPT. 147 the fundamental note of the Egyjjtian scale. As this urn is further said to give two other sounds, these may give the intervals from this tonic* The Hebrews seem to have improved upon the coarse instruments of the Egj^- tians; for we read of silver trumpets. Numbers x. 4, although ram's horns were also used.—Josh. viii. 48. With these rvide instruments, it seems impossible that there could have been music in parts. The only wonder is, that human ears could have tolerated any two intruments playing together even the same part; for we have no reason to think that they were capable of being tuned to perfect unison. Dr Burney thinks it certain that harmony or counterpoint was not used until long after this date. Even the Greek music, so much extolled, appears to have been quite deficient in this respect.t So far as the Greek MSS. can be translated into our notation, the music appears to consist of monotonous melodies or chants, comprising but few notes; and the intervals are so small between one note and another, that it is difScult to obtain any recognizable air or melody from them. The Greek Mythology claims the invention of the flute for Minerva. Her equanimity, however, was disturbed by finding herself laughed at while playing uj^on it. She took occasion, therefore, to observe her own appearance in a clear stream ; and finding that when her cheeks were puffed out in blowing the flute she had not a pleasing exjDression of countenance, she very wisely relinquished the flute for the lyre. This latter instrument was the favourite of Apollo, who gave a challenge to all musicians to produce a better instrument. Marsyas, a flute-player, accepted the challenge. He played so well, that the umpires were delighted; but when Apollo played, he sang to his lyre, and completely turned the scale in his own favour. Marsyas objected to the vocal part, as it was to be only a trial of in- struments ; but Apollo maintained that, as Marsyas used his mouth as well as his fingers for his performance, it was but fair that the player on the lyre should be per- mitted likewise to use his mouth as well as fingers. The contest was renewed, but Apollo, although declared victor, lost his temper, and flayed Marsyas alive. How- ever, repentance seems to have followed ; for Apollo broke his lyre to pieces as a

* The writer Joes not wish to be held responsible for the truth of any of the statements in this paper. It is compUed from various authors whose views differ materially.

t An enthusiastic Greek Scholar has maintained that this music is correct, and that the modem system—with its large and imperfect intervals, and various parts proceeding simultaneously—is a Gothic invention, and altogether barbarous ! He further adds, that we shall never know true music until we go back to the ancient simple models. 148 THE ATTEMPT. token of sorrow. The Pythian Games were instituted for the cultivation of music and other arts, of which Apollo was the protector. The origin of the fable that swans sing is not known; but we find it recorded, that while a temple was being consecrated to Apollo, a flock of swans descended and joined the choir, singing with great precision and in correct taste. The earliest of the Greek musicians of whom we have any record was Linus, about 1280 B.C. He unfortunately tried to teach Hercules ; but the hero grew im- patient, and killed his master by a blow with his own lyre. Orpheus, who lived about the same time, went to Egypt for instruction in music and medicine. His knowledge of these two arts may have been the origin of the story of his recalling Eurydice from death by the power of his music. It would appear that the variety of musical instruments had increased ; for we find in the reigns of Saul and David, within two hundred years after Orpheus, that the psaltery, tabret, pipe, harji, trumpet, timbrel, cornet, and cymbals are mentioned. Prophesying and playing on musical instruments seem to have been connected, for we read of "a company of prophets with psaltery, tabret, pipe, and harp before them." It is diificult to account for the soothing power of David's harp over Saul if it was the rude kind of instrument before described. Dr Burney thinks the effect must be attributed more to David's singing than to his playing. This appears the more probable, when we remember Miss Nightingale's remarks on the different effects of vocal and instrumental music on nervous patients. She expressly states that vocal music (and in some cases even the sound of a soft wind instrument) has a beneficial effect; while stringed instruments produce no pleasant feelings in their minds. Among the Greeks the musical profession appears to have ranked higher than among the Hebrews. Homer tells us of great honours being paid to the Bards. " Lives there a man beneath the spacious skies, Who sacred honours to the Bard denies ?" The great Ulysses waited on the Bard at table. Probably the members of this profession were honoured in proportion to their power of bestowing fame. Being his- torians and poets as well as musicians, they were able to record and immortalize the deeds of their benefactors. From Homer to Sappho we have no record of the pro- gress of music in Greece. Sappho is said to have altered the scale ; but it seems pro- bable that all that we are to understand by this alteration is, that she increased the extent of the scale, from the circumstance of her voice being of unusual compass. During the same period of Hebrew history we get little information about music ; b\it in an Assyrian sculpture of about this date, we see, in "tlie triumph of Sarda- THE ATTEMPT. 149 napalus over the Susians,"a representation of people playing on the lyre, and the pipe or trumpet. The lyre is here represented upright, with about twenty strings, which are stmck apparently with the fingers. This Sardauapalus was the son of Pul, in whose reign Jonah prophesied ; and as the instruments appear even ruder than among the Hebrews, we may infer that the Assyrian music was not in a very advanced state. There is one Other representation of musical instruments in these sculptures, which is of about 70 to 100 years later date. It refers to some event in the reign of Sennacherib. Two figures are standing, each before a stringed instrument, which he is striking with a quill or stick. There are but few strings to these instruments, and they are stretched horizontally instead of being, as usual, upright. The omission of musical instruments from the greater number of the representations of festivals, processions, and battle-pieces leads us to infer that the Assyrians had little taste for the art. The golden age of music did not commence until the time of Alexander the Great. A step towards its advancement was made when purely instrumental musical contests were entered into at the Pythian Games. But nothing approaching to har- mony could be attempted before the discovery of the proportions existing between harmonious intervals. Pythagoras is admitted to have been the discoverer of this, al- though Euclid afterwards fui-nished harmonic calculations. Dr Burney says, however, that the story of Pythagoras having discovered the consonances through hearing hammers of various weights struck upon an anvil, is not only untrue, but impossible. It is much more probable that he found out these proportions by purely mathe- matical reasoning and calculation. EINNA. [7'o he continuexl.~\

Mljg sljculir to^ tlD0 kfac mt\ olbtr? I DARE not bid thee love me I ask thee but to love me. For the outline of my face, Because I need thy love; For the fashion of my raiment, 'Tis through a loving heart on earth. For my pride of noble race ! We learn the Heart above ! I ^^•ould not have thee love me I ask thee thence to love me, As a right, or justice due. Through what I fain would be, To gifts of mind, or fortune's dower. For, loving what I strive towar-ds. Or acts of kindness ti-ue ! Thou can'st not but love me ! LuTEA RESEDA. 150 THE ATTEMPT.

" The Wheel of Foi-tune " is a figure of speech with which we are all familiar, and the justice of which most of us must acknowledge ; although, as I have endea- voured to demonstrate in a former paper, there are some people in the world with whom the wheel seems to stand still; some who sit at ease on the very highest and airiest spoke, and many others who remain crushed and hopeless under the very lowest one. Still, these cases are exceptional, and with most people the wheel flies round, bringing them all varieties of fortune and misfortune. But it was not exactly the Wheel of Fortune which was in my mind when I wrote the heading of this paper, but a still larger wheel, slower in its revolutions, but quite as capricious and irregular—the Wheel which alters things in general, without reference to the good or ill fortune of particular individuals; the Wheel which brings one set of opinions into favour, and throws out another,—which alters the public taste in art and literature— in morals and manners—in everything, from politics to cookery, and which is as in-e- sistible in its influence as it is unaccountable in its vagaries. I don't know anything which exemplifies this better than the entire change of sentiment which has of late years come over that very delightful branch of literature —historical novels, essays, and sketches. Until about twenty or thirty years ago, did the book or the essay treat of the Ci\dl Wars, the hero was of necessity a Royalist —a Puritan hero would in these days have seemed an absurd anomaly. Going back to the wars of the Roses, the higher roles were all filled by Lancasterians ; the spirit of chivalry, then still awake and active, eagerly espoused the cause of the unfortunate Henry and his high-minded Queen, and round the novels and essays written in il- lustration of that period the red rose twined and clustered, as did its snowy sister round those which gave us the history of more modern times,—the times when our own country became the field of European romance, and when, " Bonnie Prince Charlie " wandered among our mountains, played his last bold game, with a kingdom for the stake, and lost all, save the loyalty of his Scottish subjects. But alas ! the wheel has turned, and " old times are changed, old manners gone." Cromwell is now- a-days the king of men ; the model for warriors and statesmen ; the martyr king, whose pale, sad face used to look forth, with melancholy, wistful eyes, from the pages of old chronicles and novels, is now once more the " Man Charles Stuart," the per- jured, fickle, heartless oppressor, undei-going the penalty due to his crimes. The Cavaliers have fallen into sad disgrace ; not a modern author but shakes his or her THE ATTEMPT. 151 head mournfully over their depravity, their many sins and shortcomings ; the heroines who used to embroider their scarfs, and watch them from turret windows, and i)ray for their success in the field, and receive them with pride and joy when they returned, are now fully convinced of the error of their ways; the scarfs and plumes, the long curls and silk doublets, the flattering speeches and courtly wit, these heroines of the modern novel regard with indifference or perhaps disgust; or if at first the young and inexperienced maiden is dazzled by these allurements, she is in due time brought to despise them, sends the Cavalier to the right-about, and at the end of the book bestows her hand upon some roundhead lover, staid of speech and sober of apparel, with a turn for field-preaching, and a strong disposition " to speak evil of dignities." As to the Wars of the Roses, the wheel has turned there too, though not so completely. With regard to them, the most modern novelists and essayists keep assuring us that " black's not so black, nor white so very white." Tliey have a good word to say for Richard of Gloucester, and several darkish .shades to paint into the character of Margaret of Anjou. They have collected some curious old scandal about Elizabeth Woodville, and shake their heads in a knowing and mysterious manner over the king-maker and his daughters. They blanch the red rose to a dull streaky colour, and stain the white one till its beauty and purity are gone. But alas for our own White Rose in the hands of these authors whom the last turn of the wheel has brought to the top ! I am not aware that any one has as yet attempted an Anti-Jacobite romance ; but when the authors who have made such wild work with Charles and the Cavaliers turn their attention to the historical events of the last century, what havoc will take place ! Those who have showed us with such unrelenting severity the inquity of Charles I., will assuredly not spare his namesake and descendant; the enthusiastic eulogists of Cromwell will not fail to discover some amiable trait in the character of Cumberland; Balmerino and Lord George Murray, Clanranald and Lochiel, will share the fate of Montrose and Dundee— " Honoiir shall be deemed dishonour, Loyalty be called a crime—"

and I tremble to think of the amount of righteous indignation and horror which will be lavished on that very misguided young person, Flora Macdonald ! Already we can trace in essays and biographies indications of the change ; already the turn of the wheel is making itself manifest in this direction also; the public opinion which has exalted Cromwell to a demi-god will not long leave this fertile soil unturned; and then, alas ! for our old heroes and favourites, for great indeed will be their fall! 152 THE ATTEMPT. The wheel has turned, and resistance is in vain. I have no doubt the revolution will speedily extend to nursery stories and fairy tales; princes and princesses will no longer be allowed to occupy the exalted stations which once were theirs; the democratic spirit of the age will soon substitute wealthy soap-boilers and influential stocking-weavers for the royal personages who figured in our childish days ; the ogres will now be princes, and succumb to the courage and prowess of some low- born champion ; unless, indeed, as it is not improbable, fighting go out of fashion altogether, and sagacious underhand management take its place. The wicked uncle of the babes in the wood will turn out to have been a very much misrepresented individual, the victim of circumstances; and some entirely new construction will be placed upon the mutual relations of Puss-in-Boots and the Marquis of Carrabas, in whom the " bloated aristocrat" will be shadowed forth when the wheel has com- pleted its revolution. Perhaps some one may say, all this seems fair enough ; the aristocrats have had their turn, let the democrats have theii-s ; princes and nobles. Royalists and Jacobites, enjoyed for a time public favour, and had their day as the heroes of history and ro- mance ; and now it is only just that Roundheads, Hanoverians, the Puritans, and the people should have their season of popularity and power in literature and in public opinion. Well! perhaps so ; it depends—but it is needless to pause and ask, which is best ? the wheel turns regardless of philosophy or patriotism, and just now demo- cracy is in the ascendant. But since it is so, and since our ancient enemies are clearly in possession of the field, let iis at least beg them to use their advantage more generously than they seem at present inclined to do ; let them have some mercy on their opponents, our quondam heroes, and not add insult to injury by trampling on a fallen foe. Give us fair play, we entreat, ou behalf of the cavaliers and aristocrats ; and though the spirit of the age requires that we should get the worst of it, and share the fate of the " bad boy" of nursery story-books, by coming to signal grief at the end of the volume, don't exaggerate our faults and follies, nor ignore our redeem- ing points (which, believe us, really do exist) so very much as is at present the fashion. Above all, let your facts, or your fictions, as the case may be, speak for themselves, and try to give up that wearisome habit of " improving the occasion," by moralising over every incident which affords the slightest excuse for a harangue. Fair play is all we want; and we gave it to you when toe basked in the sunshine of popularity, as every reader of Sir Walter can testify ; think of that, and iniitate our magnanimity and forbearance, for, in the meantime, who knows ? the wheel may turn again. ^^^0 THE ATTEMPT. 153

g0it fibre's §ribjj.

The Princess Joanna, daughter of Edward III., died at Bayonne during the preparation for the celebration of her nuptials with Don Pedro of Spain; and was buried in the Cathedral the very day and hour that should have witnessed her marriage.

THERE was feasting, joy, and gladness in Bayonne's old city fair. And noble ladies, many a one, and gallant knights, were there ; There were waving banners, and gleaming jewels, and armour glistening bright, And toumays all the sunny day, and revelries by night. There were blooming Flemish damsels, and merry maids of France, And black-eyed Spanish donnas, with soft and witching glance, And lovely English ladies—but fairer far than all Was the sweet young bride, the royal gem, of that great festival. Oh, her eye was bright, and her heart was light, and she was blithe and gay, For the hours flew past that would bring at last her happy bridal day. Oh, clash the bells, and pile the fires, and let the flags fly out, And all the merry folk rejoice with laughter and with shout ;— For Spain's proud son has come to wed with England's sweetest flower,— Oh time, speed fast the happy day, the joyous festal hour. Oh sun, shine brighter, warmer down upon the blossoms fair That spring to grace the bride's white brow, and deck her golden hair. Blow, strong east wind, blow far away, o'er the blue Biscay water. The clouds that must not break in rain upon King Edward's daughter. Sing out, oh birds, sing louder out your merry heartsome lays, Echo to Spain's far olive groves the royal lady's praise. And bid her dark-eyed dames look well unto their laurels now, For never marriage-wreath was set upon a fairer brow. Oh, God her bless, the sweet princess, and grant, in days to come. That Spain may be to her as dear as was her English home ; May sorrow never dim her eye, nor check her young heart's glee. But may all her days as calm and glad as her bridal morning be ; So shall her life steal peaceful on, in happy wedded love. Till God shall call her up from earth, to a better life above ! 154 THE ATTEMPT. The morning sun is veiy bright, and pure the morning breeze. And the young leaves gaily dance and sway on the tall and bending trees ; Loud thrills the blithe and echoing air with the small birds' songs of mirth. The sky above is clear and blue, and fresh and green the earth; Can never summer day arise, more joyous and more fair, Than the glorious bridal morning of Spain's proud and brilliant heir ! But silent lies the city, Dark and drear and lone ; Over all its joyaunce One vast pall is thrown. The streets are all deserted, The voice of music hushed. The wreaths are cast aside, And on the earth lie crushed. No banners now are flying O'er the pageants brave beneath, For a show of pomp and splendovir Is all unmeet for death. Gloom is on every visage. Tears are on every cheek, And low, and sad, and mournful, Are the words you hear men speak. Oh, what can be the meaning Of this wondrous change of dread ? On this, her man-iage morning, The bride is lying dead : When everything was fairest,— When hope was bounding high— When smiles were wreathing every lip. And bright was every eye,— That awful, swift destruction That wasteth at noon-day, Struck down the royal lady, And tore her life away. And at this very hour. She should have given her hand THE ATTEMPT. 155 To the noblest and the bravest Of Spain's great and ancient laud, Before the great high altar, Where burn the tapers dim. Where faintly floats the incense, And wails the funeral hymn— Upon her bier she lieth. And, by the lifeless clay, Don Pedro kneels in agony. And sobs his heart away. MAS ALTA.

Jfrnm P^iilla to ^trcn.

EVEN after a short voyage, who does not appreciate the prospect of a few hours on terra firma ! The deck of the good ship Crocodile was crowded with her passengers, eager for a landing, and every variety of glass was directed to the shore as we steamed slowly in between the huge ports that guard the entrance to Valetta, with the band play- ing vigorously, and proclaiming, by the strains of " Hieland Laddie," the presence of a Highland regiment on board. The forts were lined with soldiers watching for our arrival, and before the anchor dropped, hosts of gay boats were swarming round us only waiting for permission from the all powerful health-officer to begin canvassing for custom. Soon he appeared, self-important and fussy, and, to the dismay of all, ordered up the yellow flag of quarantine, because of a death that had occurred. Half- an-hour's suspense, however, was soon over, and the obnoxious flag hauled down, and a race ensued for boats and rooms at the hotels. Amid the usual din of unmusical Arabic, we succeeded, after some shouting, in securing a porter, who only paused to exchange a few blows with a disappointed competitor, and seizing our goods, started at a running walk up the town. It was growing dusk as we elbowed our way breathlessly after our guide, remembering with sympathy Byron's angry comments on the " town of stairs;" after an endless ascent we landed safely in an English hotel, so called, though the rooms are eastern in their arrangement, and the olive- skinned waiters are somewhat un-English in their ways. The opera, to ears accus- 156 THE ATTEMPT. tomed for some days to the noises of ship life, was a refreshment most welcome, and one thinks with a slight feeling of provocation of the ugly, hot, and inconvenient theatres that adorn provincial towns at home, while we scan the beautiful propor- tions, wide staircases, and tasteful carvings and decorations of tlie Valetta house. Southern enthusiasm may not perhaps reward its favourites with as much money as falls to the lot of an English " Star," but to an artistic temperament there must be a great charm in the resounding applause, the showers of wreaths and bouquets that testify to the delight of the audience when their favourite singer appears. Would any talent under the sun rouse a grave company of modem Athenians to scatter from the galleries, as did the Maltese, copies of flattering verses in which the tenor is said to be crowned by Apollo himself? life must be more full of pleasure to such ardent souls as these, though doubtless it has fewer of what John Bull would term " solid advantages." After an orthodox breakfast of whitebait, that would have delighted a frequenter of Greenwich, and the famed red mullet, we sallied forth for an hour of shopping under difEculties, which are amusing or annoying according to the humour of the moment. When we ask for an article, and are shown a dozen others we do not require, wlien the small shoji is full of men screaming the value of their goods close to their victim's ear, when the head man says, " by jingo," in answer to all your re- marks, and looks angiy and rejjroachful by turns as you persist in declining the rub- bish he ofiers, and finally, when you know that every one of your persecutors is asking double prices because he knows you are a stranger from the big ship, with limited time and unlimited ignorance of the place, it is too much to expect that human nature will remain unruffled under the trial. At last, having bought something at not much more than a third above its worth, we leave the shop to encounter a fresh struggle at the door; here are beggars of all ages and both sexes, imploring assistance in many tongues, and offering to carry our parcels all day for a shilling—even a sixpence, Sig- nora ! Rejecting their dubious help, we make for the Palace, a noble structure built by the knights of Malta, and full of interesting relics of their glory. One room con- tains some of the finest Gobelin's tapestry in the world, animals and birds depicted with pre-Raphaelite delicacy of detail,—scaly lizards, and an enormous cassowary being prominent among them, and all retaining a brilliancy of colour quite wonderful con- sidering the age of the work. In the galleries are portraits of the knights, many of them painted by themselves, and in no way remarkable as art; there are, however, one or two full lengths by masters, side by side with a vile copy of a Lawrence. The armoury is the finest part of the Palace ; not only full of weapons of every kind, in- cluding a very primitive breech-loading gun, but also containing some good specimens THE ATTEMPT. 157 of Majolica ware; whde in glass cases are preserved a sceptre belonging to the grand master, some quaint charters, and the trumpet on which the retreat was sounded when the order left their ancient stronghold at Rhodes. At the door of the armoury, we find (a strange resting place for them) a pair of colours belonging to the 9 2d High- landers, left at Malta many years ago. In the square of San Giorgio, the sun is blazing whitely, and looks painfully hot after the cool courts of the Palace, where the walls are purple with blossoming creepers, and the high buildings fling refreshing shade. The town is picturesque, with its steep, naiTOW streets, and the mingling of various nationalities has a curious effect; here we see a girl, English from her golden chignon to her dainty boots,—hobbling behind her comes a hag with yellow face and the eternal faldetta held close to her chin; this is the costume worn by all the women, and is neither pretty nor graceful. It is of silk or calico, always black, and is fastened at the waist, and then drawn over the head and held with one hand ; the slightest wind inflates it, and, seen from behind, it is most ungainly; its date and his- tory we were unable to discover. John Bull retains his usual appearance with mar- vellous pertinacity : we passed more than one dandy of the Dundreary species, dressed, in spite of the heat, as if for Regent Street, and retaining Ms placid nonchalence admirably amid the vociferating natives. We drove to the orange gardens of Saint Antonio, to purchase fruit and see the formal stone walks, shaded by olive, cypress and Vjlack pepper, where the knights formally took a summer stroll. The surrounding country, though slightly undulating, is ugly, and more prolific of stone walls than of vegetation; but as good eaith used to be the chief of the harbour dues, and the soil is almost all imported, the barrenness ceases to surpise us. Prickly pear and dark locust bushes dot the landscape, but we are almost glad to return to the town, and driving past the usual variety of English, French, Arabic, and Italian shops, make for the quays. Among the first of the former we see a spirit shop calling itself " George Dragon," a novel view of the saint, for the sign says further that he sells wine. The Blue Peter is hoisted, and the procession of boats is hurrying back to the ship ; divers are crowding round begging for sixpences to be thrown in for them to fetch, good-byes are being said, and at last the screw begins to throb again, and the band bids farewell to Malta in " Auld Lang Syne." Somehow as we set ofi" again on our journey we think somewhat sadly of how " we'll wander mony a weary fit" before we see this bright Valetta a second time. Four days of soa and we land at Alexandria. Here we are further east, and con- sequently everything is dirtier, hottei', more odoriferous, and the people are more noisy 158 THE ATTEMPT. and idle. We take a cai-riage, and bid our French hotel-keeper explain to our swartliy driver that we wish to see the Catacombs^ Pompey's Pillar, and Cleopatra's Needle. Do not fear that you will have yet one more description of these hackneyed sights, for we never reached them. After driving aimlessly for an immense distance, our driver, and a friend who accompanied him, said, with an idiotic gi'in, " where go 1" Where, indeed ! the wretches knew neither English nor French, and only a few words of Italian. Neither did they know the way; but in time, guided by a small boy, and bumping over banks, we reached the Catacombs close to the sea. Tliey are curious, being cut in the solid rock, and it would appear likely to be worn away by the encroaching water. Next, after much smothered anger and many wasted words, we set off for the Pillar, which we could see in the distance, looking, we were heretics enough to think, both commonplace and iminteresting. Our road lay past groups of palms, which disaf)pointed us greatly ; no doubt to eyes accustomed to this country they are beautiful, both in themselves and for the ideas they suggest of fruit and water; but to us, fresh from our varied woods, our sweej)ing beeches and gnarled oaks, their regularity and absolute likeness to one another is quite painful. If you were to stick on end rows of very large feather brooms, and colour them a heavy bottle green, the first effect of a palm grove would be adequately represented. The prickly pear, too, is very ugly in form, and the older stems and leaves are caked with dust till they resemble slates; at best they are of a pale sickly shade. After a while we found ourselves in what the driver made us undei-stand was the only thoroughfare into the town, and here we spent an hour studying the manners of the natives during a block in the street. It was a sight well worth seeing, though pro- voking enough at the time; but with a ruler who leaves one of his chief cities in such a state as Alexandria, and a people as little interested in improvement as these appear to be, such misfortunes as ours must occur daily. The road was full of ruts and holes, piojecting slabs of stones, and sudden hollows, over which it seemed im- possible that anything on springs could pass; it was flooded with thick mud several inches deep, and only varied by pools of water, all which had an odour indescribable in polite language. In the middle of this region a small cart had broken down, and round it struggled two opposing streams of vehicles—if one can call them so—boards put on wheels, and packed high with huge cotton bales^ these were drawn by small but energetic hoi'ses, often, poor brutes, quite unequal to the task. Elbowing among these heavier obstacles came four streams of donkeys, laden camels, and foot passen- gers—jumping from cart to cart were the uncouth drivers, sometimes flogging and hauling mercilessly at the horses, though they could not move an inch, and cveiy THE ATTEMPT. 159 soul in the crowd incessantly yelling dui-ing the entire hour. There seemed to be very little anger, a great deal of talk with no result, much indifference, and a scream- ing of "Hee, hee !" which conveyed away all the energy that might have removed the obstacles before us. At the end of the hour, some men up to their knees in mud had helped to lift the carts out of the deepest holes, and we drove on, feeling com- forted by the reflection that to upset was impossible, since we were tightly wedged on both sides as we moved. Once out of this slough of despond it was growing too dark to do more, so we adjourned to the hotel, very wroth with everything, and hoping never again to spend another afternoon in Alexandria. Next morning we walked through some of the streets under the care of a gaily-attired dragoman, and saw a variety of colour and costume that would have delighted a painter, or our friends at home, who see the portraits of natives in gorge- ous turbans and wonderful cumberbunds, and are spared the heat and odours which attend a nearer view; truly, in things ea.stern, 'tis distance lends enchantment. Returning to the Crocodile to join the last detachment, we bid adieu to lior finally in the afternoon with many regrets, for we had met with much pleasant friendliness on board, and adjourned to the railway, where we spent about an hour watching the circles of squatting natives, the lazy official (there seems to be but one) with his fez and pipe, and the sailors who had come down to give us a parting cheer. At last we were fairly off for the Desert, and fortunately the moon favoured us so that we could see something of the country. For miles we passed swamps and lakes, then came fields, and the Nile, winding so that we crossed it more than once, sometimes on good suspension bridges. The flatness of the view destroys all preten- sion to beauty, not an object was to be seen higher than a palm tree, or the masts of the boats,—these are curious, being curved so that a gi-oup of them resemble Titanic fishing rods beside the water. The stations were most picturesque, lighted up with cressets holding blazing torches of the sweet smelling pine, round which crowded muffled figures selling oranges to the soldiers, whose brilliant uniforms stood out against the background of the prickly pear that hedged in the platfonn. At Cairo we left vegetation behind, and rushed out into the undulating endless waste of yellow sand, over which the faint stars still gleamed ; very ghastly it looked as we tore along through the night, and very welcome was the sunrise, coming up radiantly behind far away mountains, and tinging the foreground with a deep, weird purple. Outside Suez we halted for a while, seeming to draw a line as we stood between the east and west. On one hand were fresh white tents, and droves of mules going to water, heaps IGO THE ATTEMPT. of sacks and packages, and English officers riding past, all these belonging to the Abys- sinian expedition ; beyond them again rose the flat roofs of the town, and the usual railway appliances, all backed by a range of barren mountains. On the other hand, the blue hills melted away in the distance, and the sand stretched out monotonously —slowly moving specks came up along the horizon, and drew nearer ; strings of camels these, bringing water in skins, and led by dark Arabs, with brown bernouses, and deliberate step. Some paused to look idly at the train, others rested on the ground, and others wound their way leisurely into Suez, whither we speedily followed, and embarked again for the Red Sea. No time was given us to visit the environs of Suez, so we had to content ourselves with a distant view of the wonderful French canal, and, strange contrast, the valley down which the Israelites came on their escape from Egypt, and the green trees that mark the spot still known as the " Wells of Moses." The Red Sea treated us graciously, so the sailors said, though to us it seemed the heat was almost too gi-eat to allow us to enjoy the loveliness of the water, with its changeful sheen of colours melting into each other like the tints of a gi-eat opal, during the day, and its equally beautiful evening robe of flashing phosphorescence. For nearly a week we steamed on monotonously till the huge rocks of Aden came in sight, and we had another twenty-four hours of breathing time. Of the sights of Aden, consisting of the tanks for water, holding millions of gallons, Ave cannot speak, for the heat was too intense for more than a lazy stroll, and sketch from the beach, where our coming woke up some English soldiers to take an interest in our perform- ance ; it was pleasant, as we sat perched on some high steps, to hear them singing well-known home songs over their work. Not so pleasant was it to find ourselves in contact with natives, darker, uglier, and more slightly clad than any we had yet seen, though we should have regarded these by rights with the friendliest of feelings, since in one respect their fashions resemble, not ours, forbid it nature ! but those of the more elaborate beau monde : the inhabitants of Aden have black hair, and the " swells " among them wash it with lime, so as to form in colour, and sometimes in its variety of curl or frizzle, a counterpart of the locks shewn by their fair sisters in more civilized lands. It is a pity that these damsels are not aware upon how aboriginal authority their novel custom rests. But the ship claims her passengers once more, and our lucubrations must end ; would that they might amuse a reader as much as they have tended to occujiy the writer, when occupation is eagerly sought, and hard indeed to find. ELSIE STRIVELYNE. THE ATTEMPT. 161

" MAEY'S PATH."

BOLD Tlielemarken's rocky ranges tower Like giants in their pride ; some darkly lower, And others fair and green, with changing hue, Add a fresh beavity to the lovely view ; Whilst down the slopes and precipices steep The light and shade in quick succession sweep. Far above all, a monarch on his throne. Rests mighty Gausta, God-like, and alone ; Region of snow eternal, thy white peak, ■ Seems as though Heaven's mysteries thou would'st seek ; And now, illumined with the sun's fierce beams Almost with radiance unearthly gleams. Far, far below the dark pine forests lie. And like a thread of silver to the eye, The Mann-elv glitters through the waving trees, Which rustle gently in the summer breeze. The wanderer turns from mountain, stream, and wood, And gazes down into the boiling flood ; Eight hundred feet at one terrific bound Leaps the great Rjukan-Foss, the world renowned. The gulf that opes its dreary portals wide Sends up an airy veil that serves to hide The cavernous abyss—a fleecy haze Of vapour sparkling in a thousand rays Ascends to Heaven : Now lift up the eye To where the precipice is rising high Above the torrent,—Can a mortal dare To plant his foot presumptuously there 1 Death and destiniction surely seem to wait On him who rashly thus would tempt his fate. Yet the bold Norseman does not fear to tread That thread-like track, although a tale of dread 162 THE ATTEMPT. Clings to this spot, and hallows it for aye, The lasting monument of that dark day. The Mari-Stien ! The name has clung for long, And been immortalized in prose and song : A youth and maiden pined in hapless love, Her parents held a rank so far above His own, despair had seized each faithful heart, And sadly, hopelessly they dwelt apart. She drooped and withered like a fading flower. And soon they saw that some resistless power Was di-agging her to death, and then, though late. They sought to save her from her mournful fate. And summoned back her lover.—Forth he sprang Fleet as the wind, whilst in his ear there rang The gladsome message, fraught with joy and life, That now in Mary he might claim his wife. In breathless haste to greet his bride, his Queen, He took the fatal path, the Mari-Stien. Now, at the torrent's brink, the gentle maid Had ta'en her stand, her sorrows all allayed ; With eager eyes she scanned the mountain side. Then gazed upon the chasm yawning wide. " He comes," she cried, his well-known form was near, Her heart beat quick at sight of one so dear. She called aloud, at the familiar sound So long unheard, he stopt, and looked around, He saw his Mary, but the sudden shock O'erwhelmed him standing on that fearful rock, He reeled, he staggered, clutched the barren ground. But not a vestige of support was found; Aloft he threw his arms, and with a cry Most superhuman in its agony, Down, down he plunged into the dread abyss, Where the wild waters ever boil and hiss. Wide yawned the chasm where he met his doom, Enclosed for ever in that awful tomb ! THE ATTEMPT. 163

Can fancy paint the darkness of despair That seized the horror-stricken maiden there ? Reason forsook its throne,—Ye powers above Thy judgment fell in mercy and in love ; Smiling and hopeful, each returning day Beheld her take her solitary way To hold her tryst, and there she sought in vain For him who ne'er should plight his troth again ; Slowly returning to her mountain home She'd say, to-morrow he would surely come. So silently and sadly fled the years. Till death released her from this vale of tears. Farewell, grim torrent,—farewell, glorious scene. Gorgeous in beauty as a poet's dream. Nature has spent her treasures to enhance Thy wonders, land of legend and romance. Arise in splendour, thou fair queen of night, And bathe the landscape in thy liquid light. Shine out bright stars, and mark with silver sheen, The path of death, the fatal Mari-Stien. ALMA.

0nv '^aov.

CHAPTER II.

" An empty sky, a world of heather, Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom ; We two among them wading together, Shaking off honey, treading perfume."—Jean Ingelow. A few more details of our life up to the time I write of. Mr Stuart, or Uncle James, as I always called him, had undertaken my classical education along with his son's, and for an hour every morning used to instruct me in Latin. Up to within a year of the September day in question, he and my father had taught me all I knew between them, all parties being well pleased, when one day a maiden aunt, usually re- 164 THE ATTEMPT. siding in Edinburgh, made her appearance at Glenmavis. Thenceforth things altered. " I was far from promising to be elegant or lady-like ; no accomplishments, no companionship of my own sex." A governess must forthwith be procured, and ac- cordingly, sore against my will, I was committed to the care of Miss Backboard, to be taught music, the use of the globes, and the other varied and useful acquii'ements usually imparted to young ladies of my age. Alack ! the day, woeful were the comments on the brownness of my hands and the roughness of my hair. My very knowledge was as detrimental to my success in life as my ignorance. What was to be done with a girl who could shoot, fish, and leap any gate in the country on horseback, and yet to whom crochet and worsted-work, with other lady-like arcana, were Greek, and worse, for from Uncle James I had derived a smattering of that tongue 1 One thing I clung to—^yea, two. Go with my father I would, whenever and wherever he went; go to Uncle James, also, for my morning lesson in Latin, I would, and Miss Backboard might take the rest, if so be she coiild get it. She clung tenaciously, like a drowning man to a straw, to the morning hours, from eleven to one, up to which last named period my father was usually occu2)ied in his study. From ten to eleven I was at the Manse, and after one I was "ower the border"— or, at least, the boundaries of the park—" and awa," and those who wished to re- cover me might, like the guests at the wedding we all wot of, " play at catch who catch can, till the gvmpowder ran out of the heels of their boots." On the September day I treat of, my diurnal escape had been ante-dated by some three hours. My father had gone two days before to visit a property which had been lately left to him in the south country ; and as for Uncle James, he had informed us the day before that the Latin lessons must be discontinued sine die, in consequence of his having been asked to " take the charge" of a brother minister for a few weeks; it was a case of illness, and Mr Stuart had obtained a substitute to occupy his pulpit during his absence. It was a matter of com-se that Charlie should come up to Glenmavis to stay till his father returned, and equally of course. Miss Backboard seized the opportunity of my father's absence and the cessation of my classical studies to fill up the greater part of my time with those branches of study which I have previously enumerated as being her special care. •The triumph of Mangnall over Virgil and Horace was to begin on this very morning. But alas, Miss Backboard was destined to experience the truth of Burns' words— " Tlie best-laid schemes of mice and men, Gang aft agee." THE ATTEMPT. 165 For there we were, not in the schoolroom, but on the moor. Oh ! that long sunny September day. How we gave ourselves up to its enjoyment. How we revelled, unconsciously, as children revel, in the smell of the heather and the free fresh air, in the bums Charlie carried me over, in the leaps off ledges of scattered rocks on to the yielding turf below. How we raced, and tumbled, and sang, and chased bees, and listened to larks lost in the clouds above us. How we wandered, till lo, a long streak of silver glinting in the sun far away, told of the firth lying miles from iis, giving a new life to the landscape, and a new joy to our hearts. Did we not get into a glen, hitherto considered inaccessible, and find nuts enough to keep twenty Hallowe'ens, hanging in such irresistibly brown and plentiful clusters, that when " we tore ourselves away," the bushes did the same by a con- siderable portion of the sku-t of my fiock, and filled me with many fears of what would become of me on my return, between Miss Backboard and Old Maggie, my nurse, whose sway had by no means decreased with my increasing years 1 Indeed, the latter circumstance only served to point the reproofs which were levelled at my " daftlike " conduct, as opposed to the " wiselike " ways into which, at the age of twelve, I should have been gradually getting. However, I " drove away sorrow " for the time, by the contemplation of those splendid bunches of wild hidden trea- sures. It was so charming to think we had come upon them in a place where no one we knew of had ever gathered them before ; even Jock M'Intyre, the hero of Craws- rauir, Bayard and the Admirable Crichton rolled into one, never having penetrated into the recesses of what was called " The Wud "Woman's Glen." The legend told of it was one of those connected with almost every place of the kind in this land of legends. An old castle, a cruel lord, a murdered brother, a white figure wandering down to the glen at the dead of night, bearing a sleeping child, a curse, a plunge, a wild face, with its frenzied eyes staring up through the dark waters of the deepest pool, a search, a mystery, a ghost ! Charlie and I had shivered at the story as old Maggie told it beside the fire on a winter night, but why should we fear the glen in the broad, brave sunshine ? And did we not go to the farm where old Maggie's sister and her husband lived, and were we not regaled with potatoes and new milk, rich, creamy, foaming 1 And as the gloaming came and settled down over the moor, like the wings of a brooding bird, did we not turn our steps homeward, and talk as we went of the hardships of our lot 1 Miss Backboard, Mangnall and Co., were my great griefs in life ; Charlie's Latin and Greek, and the fear of being made a minister, were his. His boy's heart yearned after excitement and adventure, and above all, after the sea with its wonders 166 THE ATTEMPT. and terrors; and we soothed ourselves by reflecting that all the Miss Backboards in the world could not hinder us from being married when we grew up, and going all over the world together, when, as I explained to Charlie, my rapidly increasing ease in construing the -iEneid would render me of great service to him in his voyages. In the full discussion of this point we reached the house, and cautiously aj)- proaching it, beheld Miss Backboard reconnoitering from the school-room window. Hastily persuading Charlie to go in and engage her, while I " went up the back stairs and let naebody see " to get off my torn garments, wisely choosing the least of two evils, and preferring old Maggie's " Hech, sirs, Eleanor Moray, where hae ye been, and whatna state is this to come hame in ?" and the rest of the scolding which is de rigueur after such an escapade to Miss Backboard's stiff indignation, I went off, and so ended that day on the moor. Some of my story is told. Take your faces from the window, pale ghosts of " the days that are no more." I am old, and weary, and alone. O. M.

CIj^ ^0tkin0-Stout.

A FEW years ago, when we were spending the summer in the south of Perthshire, we, as was natural, made it our business to find out nnd visit the objects of interest in the neighbourhood, one of which, we were informed, was the Eocking-stone, situated on the side of a hill of the Ochil range, a mile or two distant. " Bocking- stone "—an interesting and imposing name, suggesting to the imagination pictures of miniature Stonehenges, with all their marvellous histories in stone. The Bock- ing-stone must be discovered, that was decided, and this discovery was accordingly one day the aim of our walk ; but though we hunted over the hill and saw many a stone, not one of them seemed as if it would so far compromise its dignity as to con- sent to rock for our pleasure, and we were obliged to return home without our curiosity being satisfied. A second time we started on the expedition of discovery, but had again to return, feeling very foolish at having missed the sight once more. As we thought it would be really absurd to go away without seeing so remark- able a spectacle, which, moreover, was not more than two miles from the village THE ATTEMPT. 167 where we wei'e staying, we secured, not long before we left, the services, as guide, of a lady who was resident in the place, and knew all the neighbouring marvels. With the art which residenters have of finding out paths which strangers unconsciously pass by, she led us by a short and pleasant way through fields and woods, till at length we found ourselves at the long-wished-for spot, where we saw, of course, a huge mass of rock poLsed on another with such nicety of equilibrium that a child could set it rocking with a toiich of its little hand 1 No such thing, reader, met the gaze of our eager eyes ; nothing but a large stone resting on the ground, with the bottom peculiarly rounded, instead of being flat like most others. Our guide then began with a gi-eat deal of exertion to rock the stone, and seeing that no rei3iarkable residts fol- lowed her toils, we kindly lent our assistance, and all four laboured away with great .assiduity to make the unwieldy mass move from its position, but very loth was the giant to give way, and so inconsiderable was the I'esult of all our united efforts, that our guide was forced apologetically to assure us that " it used to rock better before ! " For the sake of its fame we hoped so, but I grieve to confess that not all our senti- ments of the gratitude and politeness due to our friend were able to check the exu- berance of our mirth in any measure, so keenly had our sense of the ludicrous been excited by the absurdity of the affair. Fancy us coming on three different occasions (twice, it is true, to no purpose) to see a Rocking-stone, which, with four ladies pushing with all their strength, could scarcely be got to budge at all! It was supremely ridiculous, and glad were my sister and I when the unfortunate stone being left behind, and our guide walking off in front, we could let the hill-side ring with our laughter, without feelings of politeness restraining (or rather trying to restrain) our mirth. We were told that so large a stone being j)laced in such a position was very wonderful: perhaps it was; most probably it was to scientific eyes, but certainly the phenomenon did not present anything exceedingly remarkable to our merely natural optics, craving for a marvellous sight. A pleasant walk and a hearty laugh, however, are not things to be despised, and such at least were afibrded us in no slight degi-ee by our visit to the famed " Rocking- stone." AGATHA.

—r-5-5:;gj^^:^i2rir-3— 168 THE ATTEMPT.

C^{ ilosc-Crce.

TRANSLATION FROM DE LEGRE—SEE " LA LYRE FRANCAISE," BY GUSTAVE MASSON.

MY hands have planted thee sweet Rose, I've watched thy growth from day to day. And 'neath my lattice, 'mid thy boughs Birds sing an ever changefid lay.

Forbear ! ye joyous twittering band ! Your am'rous notes are sad to me : He wanders in a foreign land Whose love was my life's melody.

Love's smile he leaves—Death's frown he braves,— For golden shores in worlds unknown, And seeks the bliss o'er ocean waves That in Home's haven was his own.

Fly, swallows, on ! with fleetest wing ! Changeful ye are—but ever true ; Returning with return of Spring, Ah ! bring my long lost love with you ! ECHO.

Chaucer—Spenser. C- assiu . S H- — ar —P A- nn —E U- rga —N C- oriolanu S E- lain —E R--alph the Rove —R. THE ATTEMPT. 1G9

llotfs upon llje ^istorj) of Pxisk.

PART II.

" To Thee, serene advance The spheres in solemn dance ; For ever singing as they move Around the sacred throne of Jove, Songs accordant to Thy lyre, While all the heavenly host admire." Ancient Greek Hymn tu Apollo.

" the music of the Spheres So loud, it deafens mortal ears. As wise philosophers have thought ; And that's the cause we hear it not."—Iludihras.

SIR John Hawkins informs us that " the most eminent of the Greek sects con- versant with harmony were the Pythagorean and Aristoxenian—Pythagoras dejudi- cated it by reason, and Aristoxenus by sense. The Pythagoreans defined music as an apt composition of contraries, an union of many, and consent of differents; for it not only co-ordinates rhythms and modulations, but all manner of systems. In music consists the agreement of all things, and aristocracy of the universe." Pytha- goras maintained the idea that music far surpassing mortal conception is produced by the motion of the spheres in their orbits. The following extract will explain his theory :—" The names of sounds were derived from the seven stars which move cir- cularly in the heavens, and encompass the earth. The circumnagitation of these bodies must of necessity cause a sound ; for air being struck, from the intervention of the blow, sendeth forth a noise. Now, all bodies which are carried round with noise must necessarily cause sounds differing from each other. Moreover, the sound induceth somewhat sweet and musical; for if certain proportions moderate the blow, it effects a harmony; and, as in heaven, all things proceed from settled proportions, it follows that the sounds proceeding from celestial spheres are musical. From the motion of the lunary nearest the earth proceeds Nete o, or the lowest tone; and so on, according to the following table :— 170 THE ATTEMPT. The Earth in the centre, ) „ Moon, Nete, ) ^ Tone. Venus, Paranete, -^ I T Mercury, Paramese, ) J c •" ■ \ teemitone. Sun, Mese, J J^^^^_ Mars, Hypermese, ) ''Tone Jupiter, Parhypate, / ) g^^^^^^^^^ Satvii-n, Hypate, / The terms Nete, Mese, Hj^ate, &c., were names applied to some of the musical notes used by the Greeks, just as we now use the names Do, Re, Mi, &c. Accord- ing to this theory, the celestial space between the earth (as the centre) and Saturn (the most remote planet then known) corresponded exactly to the octave. Each planet in its revolution gave forth a sound ; and the spaces between the planet were supposed to correspond with the intervals, of which the octave was composed. Although in this case the octave is divided into five tones and two semitones (somewhat similar to the division of the present Diatonic scale), we must not imagine that the Greek scale at all resembled ours; for, in addition to these tones and in- tervals, almost every possible sub-division of the sounds was used as a basis for a scale. It was as though the intervals in the present Chromatic scale were filled iip with every sound that could possibly be produced between each chromatic sub-divi- sion. As every sejjarate note of every octave had a separate sign, we may readily perceive that the notation must have been confused and perplexing. The signs amounted to iipwards of 1600 in number. They appear to have consisted at first of the letters of the alphabet in difierent positions and combinations arranged in a purely arbitrary manner. This notation had not the convenience of expressing grave and acute sounds by their position only, which is accomplished by the modern nota- tion. To avoid the awkwardness of employing all these sounds in one piece of music, the modes, such as Lydian, Dorian, Phrygian, &c., were invented. A mode was an arbitrary arrangement, by which certain sounds only were permitted to oc- cur in music written in given mode ; and to each of these was assigned a diflferent office. Thus the Lydian mode was intended to express the softer passions; while the Phrygian was devoted to feelings of a violent and warlike character, and so forth. The time and rhythm of the music was entirely governed by the rhythm of the poetry to which it was attached ; and little more of the music itself was given than the key note. Perhaps the modern recitation gives us the best idea of the Greek music. The difficulty of learning the art Was probably the cause of the rigid enact- THE ATTEMPT. 171 ments as to the people who were to be permitted to sing. Only those who had had three years' instruction might do so. It is curious to observe that nearly all the specimens we possess of ancient music are of a melancholy cast, almost all are written minor, and have the peculiarity of omitting the 4th and sharp 7th of the scale. In this matter, there is a strong resemblance between the Chinese, the Greek, and the Scotch music, each omitting the sharp 7th. The adage, " Khythm moves the world," ajjpears to have been carried into practice in the Greek choruses to such excess that the tune seems to have been almost forgotten in the struggle to preserve the absolute time. The conductor had a rostrum in the orchestra, similar to the present arrangement. But, instead of simply pre- serving the uniformity of the time, the Greek conductor was required to strike each beat upon some resounding body ; sometimes upon a piece of wood, at other times two large shells were clashed together. It is hardly credible that a people, whose taste in the arts was so refined as that of the Greeks, could have tolerated this incessant, monotonous thumping, carried throughout each chorus. Dr Burney's remark seems peculiarly appropriate. " It is difficult to imagine how any music was performed without sending both audience and performers into convulsions." Both Sir J. Hawkins and Dr Burney think that the Greeks have grossly exaggerated the power of their music. The soothing and exciting eflEects so frequently attributed to it might, with greater probability, have been ascribed to the poetry with which music was then always united. Many of the stories of the extraordinary power of the Greek music are evident exaggerations. The one, for example, of Timotheus inciting Alexander to the burning of Persepolis by his war- like music. It might well happen that there was no music at all needed in the matter; for it usually requires little more than a mere suggestion to incite a half intoxicated being to an act of mischief With respect to the music of a Greek hymn, now extant, Dr Burney remarks, " Had I been told that this music came from the Hottentots or the Gherokees, I should not have been surprised at its excellence." The earliest remains of any system of Notation date from the time of Alypius, (A.D. 115), who is said to have been the inventor of Notation. It consisted simply, as before mentioned, of the Greek letters placed over the words of the poetry, which was to be sung or recited. The Romans, have the credit of simplifying this cumbrous Notation. They gradually reduced the number of signs from IGOO to 15. They employed Roman letters ; and by dispensing with many of the modes, and by 172 THE ATTEMPT. using the same sign for similar notes, in different octaves they were able thus to reduce the number. The Romans borrowed their music from the Greeks ; and did little to improve the art. It was used in their temple worship, their funerals, and their feasts. Of all the Roman Emperors, Nero appears to have taken the greatest interest in music. It does not seem to have civilized or refined him, however, if we are to credit the story of his playing with such delight while Rome was burning. He was ambitious of excelling as a composer ; and at the musical festivals which he instituted, he took a part in the public contests. As a matter of coiu-se, the Emperor was always de- clared victor. His pcrfomiances were almost endless—and he required the audience to remain in the theatres day and night until the close. However urgently their presence might be required elsewhere, the unhappy people were obliged to remain ; and Nero employed spies to observe if they appeared attentive and delighted; and woe to those who did not ! It is said that Vespasian had the misfortune to fall aslee]) during one of the Emperor's long performances, and that he was saved from the vengeance of the tyrant only by the interposition of powerful friends. The lower animals of that period seem to have been more accessible to the influence of music than we find them at present. If we believe the stories told of them, we shall be forced to suppose, either that the music was more powerful in its effects, or that the animals possessed greater discrimination than at present. There was an elephant, for example, belonging to the Emperor Domitian, which was being trained, with others, to march and perform A^arious evolutions to the sound of music. The animal was punished one day for being out of time, and at night was found to be missing. It was discovered, after some search, in a field, diligently practising the evolutions with the evident intention of being perfect in its part on the next occasion. After the establishment of Christianity, music became the object of much atten- tion on the part of the church. Singing is frequently mentioned with approbation in the epistles. "Is any merry? let him sing psalms." " Singing and making melody in your hearts." We find Paul and Silas singing even in the dungeon. St Ignatius, the successor of St Paul, was the inventor of the antiphoual style of singing. He is said to have conceived the idea from hearing the songs of alternate choirs of aiigels in one of his visions—he therefore caused this style to be adopted at Antioch. At the Council of Laodicea, about A.D. 3G5, it was ordained, that none but singing men or canons should presume to sing in the churches. This regulation does not surprise us, when we consider how very vaguely the musical notes were indicated by the nota- tion. As the time also depended chiefly upon the singer's own conception of the THE ATTEMPT. 173 meaning of the words sung (somewhat simUiar to the modern recitati\o), it is evident that if the whole congregation had joined in the chorus, nothing but discord could have been the result. These singing men or canons belonged to the regular clergy, and it was a necessary part of the education of each cleric that he should learn music and singing,—a regulation which would be of much use in the present day. At a later period, when the music was simplified, the congregation were allowed to join in the service; and it was especially enacted " that women might take part in the singing, in spite of the Ajx)stle's injunction to them to keep silence in the church ! " There were four distinct methods of congregational singing employed in the service :— Symphony.—When the whole assembly joined. Antiphony.—When the congregation was divided into alternate choirs. liespOTisaria.—When the minister sang the first part of each verse, and the con- gregation joined at the close, and sometimes the minister sang the whole, while the rest ILstened. Father Menestrui believes that the manner of reading and singing in the churches was copied from the theatres. In them the spaces were too vast for our human voice to fill while speaking; and therefore a musical tone was adopted, which was audible at a much greater distance than simple speech. This was the origin of chanting; and the passion being a tragedy, it is believed that the priest recited or sang it to the people in a style similar to that used at the theatres. As the rhythm of the music depended upon that of the poetry, it is evident that when the Christians sang the prose words of Scripture, there would be no very perceptible rhythm. Thus originated the plain song or monotone .so much used in the Anglican ser- vice at the present time. Instruments were very sparingly used in churches at these early periods. Dancing continued to form a part of the early Christian worship. St Augustine objected to this practice, and said " It is better to dig or plough on the Lord's day than to dance." EINNA.

^s^^i^-^^ 17'1 THE ATTEMPT.

IP^rsonal ^bbaittag^s.

" FAVOUR is deceitful, and beauty is vain ;"—yes, but what pleasant things they are ! and what powerful things, too ! It is all very well to say, proud in the consciousness of our superior strength of mind, that such advantages have no weight \vith us ; that we overlook them, ignore them, despise them ; it may all sound very well in theory, but in practice we scarcely come up to our preaching. Consciously or unconsciously, willingly or unwilliagly, in a greater or a less degree, we all do homage to personal advantages, and even permit them now and then to turn our firmest resolutions, our most cherished ideas and prejudices, slightly aside. And why should we hesitate to confess it ? Weak mortals as we are, why need we blush to own that golden hair is fairer in our eyes than sandy tresses, that bright eyes looking straight into ours have more influence on our minds than a pair which will act independently of each other and of artistic efiect, and that the most unreasonable requests, backed up by a suflicient amount of personal advantages, it is hard to refuse and impossible to frown upon, though they may be urged upon us with arguments defiant of logic, and pei'haps regardless of grammar 1 Ah, yes ! I suspect that in the experience of most of us, the judgment of Paris has had a parallel; Venus has re- ceived the prize, and Minerva been utterly and totally neglected. I know at this moment I can recall a dozen instances in which "personal advantages" have borne down all my resolutions of resistance, have reconciled me to the greatest absurdities, have i-endered me forgetful of impei-tiiience, of silliness, of carelessness,—of everything, in short, but the one brilliant and bewildering gift of the delinquent—beauty. I am sure most of my readers must have known a character parallel to one which comes vividly before me when thinking on this subject. Minnie Foster was, without excep- tion, the most bewitcliing little fairy that ever confused one's ideas of right and wrong; to describe her woiild be a hopeless attempt; a butterfly, a humming bird, a fire-fly, are creatures of a similar nature,—I might almost say character. Without a grain of talent, and with a very small amount of sense, she captivated every one she apjiroached. The pet and plaything of all around her, her temper might well bo sweet, for nothing was ever suflered to interfere with her wishes. I cannot remem- ber a single instance of Minnie's giving up her will to suit the tastes or desires of others ; yet I know, that much as I loved my own way, I never felt it a hardship to lot Minnie have hers instead, and I am sure this was the universal feeling. THE ATTEMPT. 175 The gravest and most rigorous of our seniors would soften to Minnie, listen com- placently to her silliest speeches, laugh indulgently over her numerous follies and inLsdemeanours, and gi'ant to her requests, the audacity of which made the boldest of us tremble; while among the juniors, male and female alike, Minnie's bright eyes and pleading glances, her fascinating ways and coaxing speeches, surpassed all reason, logic, and eloquence, and she led us captive to her will, bound in a chain of " nods and becks and wreathed smiles." She was the most useless little creature the sun ever shone upon; I don't suppose Minnie, at twenty-one, could have re- corded of herself a single useful work, a single act of self-denial, a single service ren- dered to others ; her beauty was her one accomplishment, her one shining quality; and yet I never knew a more general favourite. She was " a winsome wee thing," as Burns hath it; and if she did no good in the world, her one wonderful gift afforded many people a great deal of pleasure. As an example of a different kind, take my friend Nora Campbell. Nora was tall, commanding, haughty, with great dark flashing eyes, and coils of black haii- wound round her head like a crown. She was not a universal favourite like Minnie Foster; but then her friends led a life compared to which Minnie's yoke was a mere chimera. Nora's temper was as easily set aflame as a heap of dry grass, and as difficult to quench as the fire of London. And what things she would say when the fit was on her ! Truly, if Nora's friends had less to suffer than Minnie's from petty exactions and constant self-sacrifice, they had twenty times as much to forgive. Nora's speeches, when her temper was roused, would have seemed unpardonable from any one less favoured by nature ; but her passion became her so well, she looked so completely suited to the part of an indignant empress, one whose will was law, and whom to hear was to obey, that we forgot her haughty overbearing ways, her violent exacting temper, forgot everything but her wonderful beauty, defended her against all accusations, direct or indirect, and replied to all attacks in the spirit, if not in the letter, of the famous lines—

" If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget them all."

Does any one seriously doubt the power of personal advantages ? History, sacred and profane, poetry, ancient and modern, alike testify to their influence, even when un- accompanied by any mental superiority. I don't believe Helen was in the least in- tellectual ; and for all we know, King Cophetua's beggar-maid was utterly illiterate, and I daresay she would shock the fastidious portion of the courtiers by a thousand 17G THE ATTEMPT. breaches of etiquette; yet Helen's face set the world in a flame, and the beggar- maiden became a monarch's bride. Why did the Israelites rejoice that Saul was made king over them 1 He was young and inexperienced, his family was obscure, they knew nothing of his character and capabilities. True; but " there was not among the children of Israel a goodlier person than he ; and from his shoulders and upward he was higher than any of the people." Look at the history of our own Queen Mary;— it is true that her misfortunes would force pity from a heart of stone; but had Mary been less richly d»wered with beauty, had she had the sharp hard features, the small crafty eyes, the scanty red hair of her royal contemporary and neighbour, we should not have preserved her memory so fondly, defended her so wai'mly, and clung so tenaciously to every little memento of her existence and presence among us; for " In spite of all, however humours vary, There is a talisman in that word MART, Which unto Scottish bosoms aU and some Is found the genuine Open Sesamum ! " Most of my readers must be well acquainted with that charming creation of Dickens' pen, little Dora Cop2)erfield. Where would she have been without personal advan- tages 1 What a tiresome little fool we should have thought her ! how soon we should have lost patience with her caprices, and wearied of her silly childish speeches, and heartily pitied her sorely-tried husband ! But, as the case stands, we bear with all these faults and failings of David Coj^perfield's bewitching little "child-wife;" we forgive her untidiness, her childishness, her curious notions of housekeeping, and her fondness for that detestable dog; we sigh with her in her struggles over the account-book, aud bless Miss Betsy Trotwood for her championshijj and protection of "little Blossom." Poor little Dora ! she is a most striking example of the power of personal advantages. But how very hard all this is for those whom nature has neglected in her dis- tribution of external adornments ! I appeal to my sisters and brothers in misfor- tune ; is it not too much for any mortal temper to bear, when, after you have been trying, with all your might, to make yourself agi^eeable and attractive, to see some individual possessed of these fortuitous advantages of personal appearance which have been denied to you, step in, and without the slightest effort or trouble, perhaps unconscious or even careless of his or her success, carry off the approval, the esteem, the liking which you have heen striving so hard to obtain, and from which you have been shut out by a snub nose, a wide mouth, or an unfortunate obliquity of vision ? It is unjust! it is unreasonable ! it is enough to curdle the milk of human kindness THE ATTEMPT, 177 within you at once, and for ever ! Why, in the name of indignation, should one shade of hair, one shape of face, one arrangement of features, be better than another? Why should it be moi'C in accordance with the eternal fitness of things, that a nose should turn down instead of up, that a mouth shoxild be small instead of large, that red and white should be the component colours of a complexion instead of different shades of yellow ? What reason can Logic, Philosophy, Justice, offer for these things? None ! none, whatever ! Then we ai-e injured, deeply injured ! but no one will be- lieve it. " Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain ! " we cry indignantly to tlie world ; but the world heeds us not, and personal advantages retain their wrongful supremacy and their despotic power. DIDO.

-~-i^SJi:i^risiifS::S,~S-^^-

THOU mighty monument of manhood's love ! Thou grand creation to a woman's beauty !

Thou standest midst the heathen nations I'ound tliee, Foreshadowing eternity 'midst time ; Contrasted with the darkness where we found thee, • Thy marble loveliness is so sublime, That e'en those darkened minds feel o'er them stealing Love of the purity thou art revealing.

How pure, and white, and cold thy beauty seems, Like some fair palace that we see in dreams. Ere childhood's hours have fled—and angels fail-, Or weird-like visitors, seem trooping near; Sure, queens of Elfdom, from the faiiy land, Have raised thee with one wave of magic wand !

If woman gazes on thee when her heart Is filled witJi love and truth, Ere she has found man can deceive, And blast the hopes of youth— How soft thy beauties to her heart a])peal, And thoughts of bliss to come upon her spirit steal. 178 TlfE ATTEMPT. If manhood gazes on thee, When the rough -waves of life have flooded o'er x\ll that he thought was beautiful or pure— When his belief in virtue's self is fled, And all his boyhood's hopes are withered— A calm and peace fall o'er his weary mind. He looks to heaven and thee, and feels resigned.

lie sees the gloomy cypress waving near thee. Which tells him of a love laid in thy breast. And whispers, that a mourner here did rear thee That he might lay his only love to rest— Thou tell'st of grief all biiried in the deepest gloom, Without one ray of comfort known beyond the tomb !

And, thinking of the mighty king who raised thee. In all his wealth and plenitude of power, He sighs to think that royal mind had never Known e'en the comfort of a future hour. When her ho loved and lost he still might see, 111 all the blaze of great eternity ! DAUPHINE.

I0or. PART II.—WALKING OVER THE MOOR.

CHAPTER I. "All my losses did I tell you, You perchance would look away, You would answer me ' Farewell, j'ou Make sad company to-day, And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.' " E. D. Browning. LIFE is a long road, with many mile-stones marking its dusty course. Mile- stones that are the grave-stones of the dead years. But most of us, as we draw near to the road's end and look back, seem to see only a few of these mile-stones standing out clearly among the others, some few times when our common life was intensified into such joy or pain as we can never forget. THE ATTEMPT. 179 I pause by the way to turn my eyes backward. Ay, my mile-stones are ci-owded together, far back on my life's lonely path, and see, round their bases heather is growing. They stand on the moor. Tears have wet them, sighs have wandered over them in vain. Now the snows of old age are falling on them fast, but my thoughts cling round them still. My first is the day of which I have already written. Little we thought that day was to be the last of our childish days on the moor. Strange how we go laughing up to the gate that shuts out a happy, careless, untroubled life from us for evermore; how we dance over the bridge that is to be broken down behind us, never again to be crossed by our wilful feet. Well, that September night brought all my many misdemeanours to their cidminating point, in Miss Backboard's eyes. She was displeased. Did any one ever hear of a governess of the Miss Backboard type being cross, angry, di.sgustcd 1 No, such invaluable insti-uctresses are always displeased. 1 verily believe they in- vented the term to stand for all the infirmities that flesh is heir to. Headache, toothache, weariness, most natural and excusable in themselves, are all sot down as displeasure, and visited upon their pupils as s\ich— " Non ragioniam' di lor, ma uarda e passa " to that night of dire disgrace. After a lecture of an hour's duration (I could not help looking at the clock from time to time, by stealth)—Miss Backboard rose witli all the combined dignity of Lindley Murray and Richmal Mangnall (for an exact likeness of my esteemed governess, see the edition of the latter's questions, to which the author's portrait is annexed), and informed me that I had got entirely beyond her control. That she felt it her duty to wi-itc at once to Mr Moray, to express her regret at being obliged to quit a situation where all her efforts after the physical and mental improvement of her pupil were entirely in vain. My heart, careless child as I was, misgave me, for, in her way, she had taken pains with me, and striven to lead my life into her own straitened, regulated ideal, as she might have striven to turn that wild bum Charlie and I had crossed on the old stepping-stones, as the light was fading, into a stiff, well made, silent canal. Peace be with her : the dead leaves have rustled over her grave now for many a year; and her vexed spirit reposes from its toils, with the others who have done their work, however disagreeably and mechanically, from the right motive, and won their reward. All I can say is, that if she and her method had been different, I and my life might have been different too. Dismissed from the school room, stunned by Miss Backboard's sudden resolve, 180 TKE ATTEMPT. and feeling wicked, and lonely, and wi-etched, I went into this very room, and looked at that picture which hangs opposite me now. The soft, sad eyes seemed to look at me with a i)itying, yearning love. I felt as if the spirit of my mother saw me through them, as if she looked down on her poor little girl, wanting her all the more, because half unconscious of that want. Dimly I had perceived the absence of the mother-love I had never known, the love for which no other can make up; and I cried myself to sleep that night in the old nursery, with the September moon looking peacefully in at the window. My father came home two days after the day ill question, and found me still in disgrace. I had hardly dared to say a word to Charlie during that time, and he, poor boy, had wandered about tlie house and garden, my society being tabooed, and had on the afternoon, when my father returned, found some consolation in heading a party of young ex2)lorers into the now profaned fastnesses of the Wiul Woman's Glen. So he was away when the dog-cart i-attled up the avenue, and T, fi'om an upper chamber, where I had taken I'cfuge with old Maggie, saw my father get down and come up the steps leading to the front door, with the (jueer old heraldic devices above it, and the griffins in the shield, which used to awaken doubts in my mind as to whether their attitude betokened devotional exercises, or prei)arations for active combat. How 1 listened ! Alas, his first inquiry must have been for Miss Backboard. 'I'lie long shrill call of the silver whistle he carried at his watch-chain,—asunmioiisto which 1 always responded, being not in the least scandalized at the fact that it also, when heard by them, roused Watch, Hector, and Dido, the dogs,—never reached my eai', and I shrunk back behind the door, and waited till I should be formally cited to answer for my sins. Willingly would I have cried " peccavi/' sprinkled the dust off my despised traditional guides for youth upon my rough brown head, nay, rent my garments, though that, after my late exploits, would certainly have been a work of supcFerogation, could I Inive jnit things back as they were three days ago. No counsel had I to employ in my defence, and though, by the lotaining fee of a kiss and many entieaties, I sought to engage old Maggie on my side, she only sliook her head, produced the clucking noise peculiar to Scotch nurses, by which they express mingled astonishment and despair, and hojted " the master wadna be as angry wi' me as I desei-ved." Being ignorant of Sliaks])caic at that time, t could not retort upon her with " use every man after his deserts," &c., and was cowed into silent exjiectation. Ilalf-an-hour passed, and tlien 1 heai'd the whistle. Much relieved, I dried my eyes, and betook myself to the stair, which [ cautiously descended. Surely f should THE ATTEMPT. 18] not have been called in that way if it had been my father's intention to confront me with Miss Backboard, and have a solemn trial and condemnation. No, he was standing at the door; and at the foot of the steps Hector, the spaniel, was curving his glossy black and white back, and uttering shoi*t spasmodic barks in his impatience. My father kissed me, looked me over with his quiet, keen, brown eyes, which took in, I saw, the tear-stains, the crumi)led frock, and tumbled hair, and then told me to put on my hat and come with him. I rejoined him quickly, and he led the way to a rough piece of ground which bordered one side of the park, where a Vmrn brattled over stones and moss. Thei'c he sat down, and I beside him, wondering what was to come next, how I, poor little naughty Peri, was to i-egain the paradise of his approval. After a few minutes' silence, he began— " Well, Nelly, you have got yourself into a scrape, and how to get you out of it is hard to sec." " Papa," 1 broke in, tiying to be bold in my defence, and seeing him quiet, " Miss Backboard and I will never get on. Charlie and I can't have the least bit of fun j she does not even like me to go with you, but wants me to drone over those stupid English lessons all day long ! I know it M'as'iit riglit to jump out of the window, nor to go out before the time, but"— " Stof) a minute, Nelly, and look here," said my father, and he threw a stick into the burn. The tiny eddies gurgled round it, struggled with it, and earned it away. " Does it matter much where that stick goes?" " No," said I, wondering. " But look at the burn. Where is it going ]" " Where it is carrying the stick," 1 said, " Down to Crawsmuir." " Does it matter where the bum goes, then 1" " Yes," said I, but my reasons were slow of coming. '' If it ran u]) to the moor, it would do no good ; as it is, it tunis Crawsmuir Mill, and fills Crawsmuir Loch," said Papa. "And the stick, though it is useless and ti-illing, shows the way the burn is going. Now, Nell, your esca2)ade o)i Tuesday is not of much imiiortancc, but it shows wliich way your heart and your life are going. A.nd so I care about it. Your life won't tui'ii a mill if it goes on as it is going; it will waste itself in idleness and wilfulness." " I don't want to turn a mill," trying to escape from the serious discussion of the point. " We must all turn a mill of some kind, Nell, sooner or later, and if we won't do it, our lives may bo veiy pretty and sweet, but we had better ne\er liave lived at all, and we shall wisK for the mill stone round our necks at last, to sink us in tlie sea. But you don't understand me, my child ; perhaps yoiir mill isn't built yet, 182 THE ATTEMPT. but the corn must be ground some day all the same." He paused a minute or two, and then said, " In short, Nelly, the next few years will decide in a great measure what your life is to be, and I think it is better on all accounts that you should spend them away from Glenmavis, If your mother had lived, home would have been the best place for you, but as it is—indeed, my darling, it is hard to part with you, but to school you must go, as soon as Maggie can get you ready. You will have girls of your own age there, and very soon you wall get over the home sickness, and be happy and active." He spoke decidedly, and I saw there was no chance of my alter- ing his resolution, sudden though it seemed. I did not cry, but walked back with him in a kind of dream. And so, what need to tell how things came about: how Charlie and I had a sorrowful parting in the garden, when my somewhat rusty scissors, stiff with disuse as the " shabble" of Bailie Nicol Jarvie, came into requisition to clip a curly fair lock from his hea~d, and a gold-touched brown one from my own, how they were exchanged, how old Maggie and the servants, and uncle James, who had come back to say good-by, and the dogs and the dubious griffins, and the moor and the garden, and even Miss Backboard herself, had a veil of pathos cast over them by the shadow of separation ? I can make but little mention of the six years that lay between that day and the day that brought me back to my home. Suffice it to say, that almost immediately after I became one of Mrs Weston's pupils, far away in pleasant Devonshire, I heard from my father that Charlie's wish for a sea-life had " by its own energy ful- filled itself," that uncle James was gradually getting over his disappointment, and that papa had got Charlie a midshipman's beith on board II.M.S. Ariel, since there was no time to lose. Enclosed in the letter tliat brought me this news came one from Charlie himself, brimful of hope and happiness, which, as a great fiivour, I was allowed to keep private, on the understanding that any others were to be submitted to the i)erusal of Mrs Weston. Cousins are regarded as dangerous animals even by the most indulgent school-mistress, and I sent a message to Charlie begging him to write no more, in my next epistle homo. I heard of his coming home on leave, and sometimes he came during my holi- days, which, however^ were always spent in England. The journey north was a more serious affair then than it is now ; but, nevertheless, I think my fixther would have had me home had it not been for amit Isabella. Why she managed that I should never go home for the summer and Christmas six weeks my unsophisticated mind never imagined, but that it was effected by her agency, and no other, niv THE ATTEMPT. 183 child's instinct told me, as surely as my knowledge of her character tells me now. But my father visited me several times, and soon after one of his visits came a letter telling me uncle James was gone. The kind, true heart had grown cold with the chill of death, the willing feet would never again traverse moor and meadow on errands of mercy to the sick bodies and weary hearts that had no other comforter. And Charlie, my Charlie, was alone in the world, fatherless and motherless. God help and comfort him, I prayed ; my tears were more for him than for the " crowned and happy spirit" that had found its rest, or even for the sad blank at Glenmavis and Crawsmuir, where rich and poor would alike feel the blow, alike miss the upright, gentle, Christian life, one of those which, like a soft strain of music, make no loud echo in the world, but leave a want too deep for tears when they pass away. And Charlie had been far away when his father died, for the messenger from the King, as old John Bunyan calls the Angel of Death, came suddenly, and there was no time to summon him. So the years went on, rich in apple-blossoms, and hay and sweet country scents, and sights and sounds, in that quiet Devonshire country side, and as one by one they ripened the flower to fruit, the green blade to corn, so all together they ripened my life and me. Six years from that Sejitcmber day on the moor, and my school-days were over. Contrary to the usual pi-actice of girls in their teens, I had made but few friends at school, and not one of these was very intimate. My Scottish pride and resei-ve fenced me round, and my heart was never a very wide one. It was deep, though, and when once you had got into it, you might as well make up your mind to stay there, for you would never get out. Home I came in June, to Glenmavis at last, brought to Scotland by my father, and greeted at the town, where we left the coach of the olden time, by my aunt. Both were satisfied with me, that was evident at the first glance ; but I did not read my beauty or my lovesomeness in either pair of eyes, any more than I had read them in the looking-glass. I was to read them one day in a pair of blue eager eyes that were far enough away then. My first walk was over the moor, and I looked at the distant glimpse of sea with a wistful glance. Did nothing tell us, that lost September day, years before, how that gleaming strip of silver was our fate 1 O. M. 184 THE ATTEMPT,

"^ ^0jt0 of % iomtr

OH, it's merry in the forest, when the Spring is green and sweet, And o'er the dewy greensward bound the deer with flying feet; When the blackbii-d blithe is singing, and the glad thrush pours his lay; Oh, it's merry in the greenwood in the morning bright and gay.

Oh, it's pleasant in the forest, when the summer sun shines hot, Where the woodland streamlet ripples by the blue foi"get-me-not. When not a leaf is stiiTing, to lie the trees below, And gazing through the branches, watch the shadows come and go.

It is sad within the forest, when the brown leaves fade and fall, And against the dull gray sky stretch the dark boughs bare and tall; When the nests are all deserted, and the happy birds are flown, Oh, it's sad within the forest when the summer days are gone.

It is lone within the forest, when the winter snow lies deep, And the singing stream is silent, and the trees cold ice-tears weep; When the chilly winds are moaning, and joy and beauty fled, Oh, how lonely in the forest, when the year is nearly dead.

But courage ! for the darkness of winter soon will pass, And the snow will melt away from the gi'een and tender grass ; And spring once more in gladness shall burst upon the land. It is always darkest midnight when the dawning is at hand. MAS ALTA. THE ATTEMPT. 18-5

^it Pour's IP^usmgs in art 6Ib ^itrrarij.

THE wintry rain makes sky and landscape grey. We have an hour to spend within these ancient walls, lined thus with dusky tomes. Silence 1 We are amidst the dead ! For who else are the dead but those who have completed life and thought, and laid them down and named them " finished," as these volumes are ? As all these trees are fallen, will they lie; what all these lives have uttered, will they ever sf)eak. We human beings, in whose veins the Temporal doth flow with the Eternal, inust, from our very nature, stand in awe before those gone beyond us, whose completed time hath grown eternity. For time can bear no two stamps on its brow, but ever one,—the thing that has been once, and that will never die, or change, or be o'ergrown, or be repeated, for the die impressed is broken in its use. No wonder we are solemnly oppressed, when meeting " the Has Been," its magnitude looks darkling on our soul. Mighty the tide of life, that, half restrained within the banks of time's too narrow channel, roars behind. Upon that tide, how many a wave must have dashed high in spray against the obstacles thrust in its path; how many an eddy, after powerful work in rounding pebbles or rending rocks, have sunk into the ooze amid the sedge; how many a wavelet rippling to the shore, have kissed the banks and murmured " let me rest and die;" but the great tide would hurry it along to the great sea. And we, though not abreast to watch those times, hear from the distance some faint breeze- borne notes. The voice of many waters ! Can we yet untwine their ravelled threads, and weave them straight again ? Here are the keys of some, whence we may pitch their power and altitude. We look aloft,—around. These books are more than epitaphs men wrote, while yet alive, to mark their tomb-stones. They do not say alone—" Here lies,—something that is not life ; the 18G THE ATTEMPT. form of what once lived and wrought these deeds ;" but rather utter, " Here remains a fragment of the spirit, whence the flesh is reft." Let us read the names of men who wrote, the themes they wrote on. Do we trifle thus to read without of what may lie within ? Thereby we learn which men have been impelled to wield their pens ; and what thoughts seemed to them greatest to think, what utterance most worthy of their lives. Some write on solemn subjects, some on gay ; some choose the Chemic lore, and some reach up to what transcends the Physical. We draw one down, and, looking through the writer to the theme, we turn a page to find, if lightly or if seriously, he deals with this same theme, longing, rejoicing at a treasure found by this one glance to have been given a local habitation and a name. At the first point of contact, through our eyes, our soul meets his ; and, flash- ing there-through, an electric stream of quivering thought and feeling shakes its depths. Thank God that He hath made the whole world kin, and thank Him that He grants the means whereby close kinship can be proved by kindred feeling. We do not turn to seek more authors, and more styles of books, for we are spell-bound now ! There may be richer lore just at our hand ; but this, this living thought, is what we oft have felt, but never could express, by word or sign, nor form the figure of it in our minds ! Here one has spoken what we would fain have said—Oiu's the keen joy, the sigh of full relief, the rapture of the eager, struggling dumb, when he hath found a loosened tongue, and learned a language fit. Here one has proved that we are not alone, in thought or feeling. All that we have felt, others have felt; all that we wish, others have wished; and thus we breathe in unison with breath long since expired, till symjiathy grows grand, and triumphs over time. Only one hour 1 And must it pass so soon ? Can Time's wheels not run smooth 1 But how too slow, when, lacked with pain and grief, hours seemed whole days ; anon, like this one, when its sixty rays flash into one by its own fire-hot speed. Gond! the hour gone, in which we hoped so much ! Yet—hath its work been little, though we go back to the outer world, un- satisfied, with thirsting, hungering souls, that yearn the more that they have seen a feast they tnight not call their own 1 Are we not blessed in promise ? For we know that only those who hunger and who thirst will ever be filled with the rich feast that still awaits us; and the more we long the more do our souls cxjiand in size and THE ATTEMPT. 187 in capacity, till we learn at last, in full fruition, that though all he filled, the greater vessel can contain the more. Ere long our lives, all finished and bound up unto " The end," will be set by, to wait the reading time; for are we not to spirits, volumes clear and easily unrolled as are these tomes to us 1 In that dread " Yet to be," will not They come and learn the names of those who wrote, the themes they wrote on, and the style thereof? Will not Tlwy, oft-times sighing, turn to say, " Was this the best that to this human soul seemed worth his life's expression ? Is he content to meet Forever with no other tale ? " LuTEA RESEDA.

TRANSLATION FROM ARNAULT.

(SEE LA LYRE FRANCAISE, BY GUSTAVE MASSON.)

TORN from thy stem, poor leaflet, say. Ah ! whither wilt thou go ? Withered and trampled on the way, Alas ! I do not know. Yon gallant oak, my only stay. Now scathed by lightning stands : The breezes blow—and I obey Resistless their commands. Now North, now South, thro' forest glade, O'er mountain, plain, or hill. Unmurmuring and undismayed, I'm wafted at their will. But 'tis not mine alone, I ween, At their decree to bend : All—rose leaf fair, or laurel green. All hasten to one end. ECHO. 188 THE ATTEMPT.

JULY AND AUGUST.

SUMMER in all its richness and splendour has burst upon us ; true, the first deli- cate tinge of green in which we rejoiced a month ago has become dimmed, our early- spring favourites have disappeared,

" The Primrose to the grave is gone, The Hawthorn flower is dead ; The violet, by the mossed grey stone, Hath laid its weary head."

And yet so multifarious are their beauteous successors that we scarce miss them. Hill-top, meadow-land, hedge-row, river-bank, woodland glade, sea-shore, all are redolent with exquisite and seemingly inexhaustible beaiity. So numerous, indeed, are the treasures displayed, that we find ourselves in the position of those who are perplexed with I'embarras de richesse. We know not where first to turn our steps ; }>erhaps in these hot, sultry days, the sea-shore may prove a pleasant change to some, and even there, disputing the territory with the sea-weed, we shall find many inte- resting specimens. One of the most familiar is doubtless the Sea-Pink or Thrift (Armeria Maritima), with its heads of rose-coloured flowers and calyx of bright shining scales ; we have also the bluish blossoms of the Sea Lavender (Stalice Lim- onium), the fleshy leaves and pink blossoms of the Sea Milkwort (Glaux Marithna), and the curious jointed Glass-wort or Marsh Samphire (Salicomia Herhacea), which is often collected, burned, and the ashes preserved as valuable in the manufacture of glass and soap. We shall likewise readily find in salt marshes two of our crucifer- ous friends, the Sea Rocket, with its lilac petals, and jointed, fleshy leaves, of the peculiar bluish shade so common in sea-side plants ; and the Common Scurvy Grass {Cochlearia OfficinaUs), bearing numerous clusters of white cross-like blossoms. Turning inland, and traversing with no inconsiderable amount of difiiculty, the dry, sandy hillocks, partially covered with Sea Grass {Zostera Marina), we reach the close, short herbage of what in Scotland are termed the links, and there let us rest, for a whole host of tiny flowers, which we must content ourselves with only cursorily noticing, are to be found springing up at oiir feet. Foremost among them is the pretty bright Euphrasia Officinalis, deriving its English name of Eyebright from its reputed eflicacy in diseases of the eye. It belongs to the Figwort family, and THE ATTEMPT. 189 is recognisable by its two-lipped corolla and vivid white flowers, variegated with purple and yellow; here, too, are all four varieties, white, purple, pink, and blue, of the Milkwort {Folygala Vulgaris), our only native species; it has long, narrow leaves, and peculiar calyx of fine leaves, two of them being shaped like wings. A singular looking plant, some specimens of which are sure to be in close proximity, is the Cudweed, or Everlasting as it is sometimes called (Gnapliolium Dioisum), with its downy leaves, erect stem of from four to eight inches in height, and head of white or rose-coloured blossoms. Proceeding on a little further towards the mossy ground, we come upon one of the most elegant of our marsh plants, and one which seems grossly misnamed Grass of Parnassus (Pamassia Palustris), as it bears no resemblance to the grass tribe. Our old friend Gerarde evidently shares our indig- nation, as the following quotation will show :—" The Grasse of Parnassus," he says, " hath heretofore been described by blinde men ; I do not meane such as are blinde in theii- eyes, but in their understandings, for if this plant be a kind of grasse, then may the Butter-burre or Colte's-foote be reckoned for grasses, as also all plants what- soever." The leaves are heart-shaped, the stem, which is several inches high, bears only one cup-like blossom of yellowish-white colour, beautifully veined, and with curious fringed nectaries between the stamens. Dotted here and there on the boggy, marshy ground, is another extremely interesting miniature plant, the Sun-dew [Dro- sera Rotundifolia); its round leaves grow at the foot of the flower stalk, which rises immediately from the root, and are covered with reddish glandular hairs, rendering them so sticky that many a tiny insect finds there as sure a death as when caught in the inextricable meshes of the spider's web. Not far oft' we shall probably see some of the pink Lousewort [Pedicularis Palustris), and perhaps, also, a stray plant of the purple Butter-wort {Penguicula Vulgaris.) There yet remains one genus of plants, many specimens of which are still in great beauty, which we have hitherto entirely overlooked, viz., the Orchids, the strange, fanciful forms of whose blossom must surely be familiar. We have ten British species. The best known are the Ei.rly Purple {Orchis Mascula), with its large dark-spotted leaves, the Meadow {Orchis Morio), and the Butterfly {Orchis Bifolia), distinguished from the rest by its long, slender spur, and singular construction of the lip, growing in moist places, wliilst on chalky soil there are the Bee and Fly Orchis, each without any sjjur, but bearing a striking resemblance to the insects after which they are respectively named. One word about the purple blooming heather, now in profuse beauty, and then we shall turn our backs upon links and moorland, and luxuriate in the cool deep 190 THE ATTEMPT. woods and silent glens. The small-flowering heather, or Ling as it is termed in the south {Calluna Vulgaris), is an evergreen, the flowrets are bell-shaped, with eight stamens not united to the corolla, and of a pinkish, sometimes white colour. As well as being highly ornamental, the Ling is a veiy useful shrub to the Highlander; its young shoots constitute almost the sole food of his cattle during the winter months, the roof of his humble cottage is thatched with layers of it, and the old branches are stored up for fuel. Nor is the heather useful to man alone,—Grouse find shelter under its branches and sustenance from its seeds, whilst from its bells bees extract their purest honey. Our Scottish hills doubtless owe much of theii* beauty to the Liag, but the family of Heaths [Ericas) are still more attractive, and impart a richer, warmer tint to the landscape. The two most common species are the fine- leaved {Erica Cinerea), and the cross-leaved {Erica Titralix.) The bluish crimson blossoms of the former are the most abundant, whilst the larger, waxy-looking, rose-coloured bells of the latter are eagerly sought after. And now let us hasten to—

" Where the copse-wood is the greenest, Where the fountain glistens sheenest, Where the morning dew lies longest, Where the lady-fern grows strongest."

The gi'aceful Ferns and delicate Mosses attain their greatest perfection during the months of July and August, and many an enthusiastic collector will spend days searching for some special specimen which ouglit to be found in his neighbour- hood. At present we cannot afibrd time to assist him in his examinations, but must hurry on in quest of woodland flowers. Should our wood prove a pine or fir one, we may, perchance, be fortunate enough to find a fairy little plant, named after the great Swedish Naturalist, Linnsea Borealis or two flowered Linnsea. The roots are fibrous, the stem creeping, and generally bears two white pendulous flowers, slightly tinged with pink in the inside, and emitting a fragrant odour. Another fragile little plant, not very dissimilar to the Linnsea, is the Winter Green {Pyrola), which often finds a congenial habitat in the same neighbourhood. Here, too, are some of the pretty trailing Loosestrifes [Lysimacldas), with opposite leaves, recumbent stem, and yellow blossoms, the well known Blue Periwinkle {Vinca), and several specimens of our old friends the LabiatcB, such as the Wood Betony {Betonica Officinalis), with its large oblong spikes of crimson flowers, the variegated whorls of the Wound-wort (Stacys), the woolly leaves and small white clusters of the Horehound {Marrubinum THE ATTEMPT. 191 Vulgare), and the bluish purple heads of the Self-heal (Prunella Vulgaris), besides many more which our botanical friends must seek out for themselves. Emerging from the wood, and skirting along the roadside, hedgerow, and pasture lands, we meet with many floral acquaintances. Conspicious among them, in sandy soils, is the tall handsome Foxglove (Digitalis Purpurea), so called from its resemblance to the finger of a glove, with its mottled, inversely conical purple, and occasionally white bells, and the St John Worts, of which there are several species. The latter ax'e herbaceous shrubs, with leaves opposite, and often dotted with shining spots, as if perforated ; the petals likewise have black dots at the margin ; the best known are the small upright Hypericum Pulchrum, a beautiful plant, with yellow flowers tipped with red before expansion, and the Perforated St John's Wort (H. Perforatum.) Crowning the top of this high bank, we have the slender tufts of the Hare or Blue-bell (Campanula liotundifolio), and perhaps we may meet with the rarer variety, Hederacea or Ivy-leaved Bellflower, a lovely little plant of four or six inches in height, with ivy like leaves and clear pale blue bells, as well as innumerable specimens of our May friends, the Chickweeds, Bedstraws, Forget-me- nots, Crowfoots, and Vetches. The cornfields are rich in " treasures of Silver and Gold," but we fear to weaiy our friends with a longer catalogue ; and as in Scotland the harvest is seldom very general before the middle of September, we shall trust to make the acquaintance of the Poppies, Corncockles, Ox-eye Daisies, Pansies, and many others at a future time. K. H. D.

" Thoughtless Angela, beware ! Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom. Thou diggest for thyself a tomb !"

" The roads should mourn and be veiled in gloom, So fair a corpse shall leave its home ! Should mourn and should weep. Ah, well-away ! So fair a corpse shall pass to-day !" 192 THE ATTEMPT. 1 " They shot him on the nine-stane rigg, Beside the headless cross, A.nd they left him lying in his blood, Upon the moor and moss."

2 " She thinks of her cross, I "wis ! To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper Feels her heart swell to hear all around her whisper, * How beautiful! How beautiful she is!' "

3 " He sat by the celestial gate. And nodded o'er his keys."

4 " When Greek joins Greek, then is of war."

5 " All beauty compassed in a female form. The Princess."

6 " Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth."

7 " The beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled."

8 " It was between the night and day, When the Faiiy king hath power. That I sank down in a sinful fray. And 'twixfc life and death was snatched away To the joyless Elfin bower."

The Editors regret that they cannot undertake to return rejected contributions. A Prize will be awa/rded by the Ladies' Edinburgh Essay Society for tlie best prose paper which appears in The Attempt during the months of August, September, and October. THE ATTEMPT. 193

^^t Influtna 0f ^tlj^m^ on fFje poet's Ulin^.

POETRY is divided into two great classes—the Dramatic and the Non-Dramatic. The Drama, or at least the Tragedy, has been considered esjjecially suited to blank verse. In real life we have too strong and lively an interest in the words we utter to have leisure to think of arranging them beautifully. The Drama, to be suc- cessful in producing the necessary realistic effect of life in the act of passing before us, must speak somewhat as we should be likely to speak in such feelings and situa- tions. These are generally of a more harrowing kind than anything we have gone through. Even in describing such intense excitement, the mind is so intent on making powerful what it is saying in this one sentence, or one line, that it forgets all past or future. It cannot scatter its forces enough to remember that the last line ended with any particular sound, or that the next one ought to terminate ac- cordingly. We acknowledge, then, the right of the Dramatist to dispense with rhyme. But his language is more grandiose than ours, more intricate, more stilted ; our free sentences are contracted into rhythmic lines, our exclamations are con- strained by accent. Yet this does not offend us. Because the style of life repre- sented to us is higher than our own, more concentrated, more continuously sustained by high feeling; it seems fit that a nobler form of language should be used therein. Though art is an incarnation of nature, yet " it is called art because it is not nature." The spirit is nature, but art has a peculiar body of its own. The interest of the literature of the Drama and the Novel is £he interest of a lifetime concentrated into one brilliant focus, and spread richly before us in a few short hours. Life is weeded from all meanness, all vulgarity, all dreai'iness, all monotony; the long, dreary, plain- periods of continuous sameness are blotted from our sight; but above the mists the sharp hill-tops are seen clustering together, and bathed in a rosy light. Our dif- fuse every-day speech should receive some change to fit it for such changed circum- stances. Yet the Tragedy is not forbidden rhyme. We have known tragedies where the rhyme seemed so soft and suitable, that it did not ring upon our ear to the damage of the subject matter, and amid blank verse we frequently hear a peal of poetry ringing in rhyme, burstmg song-like from the heart of some excited character; and we love to hear it, for our own hearts have sometimes outspoken thus. In comedy we find rhyme much more common, because there is sometimes a suggestive 2 A 194 THE ATTEMPT, humour about the very sounds that aids the writer. We know how, in every-day life, a chance rhyme produces mirth ; and in the ultra-comedy or travesty, the more far-fetched and awkward is the rhyme, the better it assists its author to prove irre- sistibly comic.

The non-dramatic poems are very different. They are neither struck off extempore, like speech,—nor are they, by the il- lusion of scenery and actors, intended to be restored into the present time. They are (generally, at least) the expression of a feeling after the feeling itself has some- what passed, or has become habitual. They are fused into language while the fire is yet glowing that absorbed every energy into itself when it was being kindled and yet spreading. The smoke is spent, and the crackling silenced, and the red glow is warm and clear, when leisure and peace permit meditation to perpetuate memory. What is the poet's mission 1 Is it not to translate the inner imaginings of his finely strung soul into fit words, that may convey his electric power to other souls not yet surcharged, and prove, as it were, a sixth sense,—another avenue through which men's souls might learn the wonders of God's universe. How does the use of rhyme affect the poet in his power of expression as regards himself, and of impression as regards his hearers 1 We shall glance at the latter first. I. Human beings, in the early stages of their nationality, are more susceptible to jioetry, and comparatively better provided with it, than at any subsequent period in their history. They are ignorant, and therefore they are credulous ; they are hungry, and therefore ready to devour whatever pleases them ; they are simple, and therefore easily satisfied, no fastidious taste nor superabundance of books was there to make them critical; their hours of relaxation were hours of total rest, when, without anxiety, without frivolity, they had leisure to yield their every faculty to the influence of poetry—a leisure such as we, in this rapid and pre-occupied age, can hardly realise. To such peoples, at such times, the poems were recited or sung, either by the poet, or some other, whose profession was such recitation. The human voice has a wondrous power on the human heart. Even yet we acknowledge the power of well read poetry; and what must it have been amid those simple wills that bent themselves to its influence, when it was poured forth by one who knew it all by heart, so that there was no hesitation, no turning away of his kindling eye from theirs to bend upon a book,—when the pride of possessing such a power increased it, and made it glow in one interest through the poet unto the listeners. THE ATTEMPT. 195 The discovery of printing has not done so much unmingled good for the poet as it has done for the histoi-ian or the philosopher. Great facts or discoveries, historical naiTations, require to gain no sentimental power by recitation. They may be more quickly understood, and more faithfully remembered, when the naked spirit of the writer speaks to our own, divested of all form, all action; when the speaker becomes impersonal, and his thoughts wind into ours through the labyrinth of reasoning by the most silent and unconscious path, the jirinted words. For then we only dwell upon the thoughts. We hold them loosely or closely as our attention is enlightened or our understanding bewildered. We make him repeat himself, and vary himself in a manner that the patience of no living preceptor could endure (though he were propounding his favourite theory), until even we, slowest of mortals, in our silent solitude, make ourselves masters of the matter, knowing all that the author knew. But the poet's imaginations are not facts to be proved through triumphant rational systems. The bewildered geometrician who asked "what Racine's Tragedies could have been written to demonstrate ?" could never have made himself master of them by any after study. If our nature have not the key to his, so that we may form chords unto the melody he J)lays, the poet cannot prove himself to us, nor will he even try to do so. Therefore he needs not so much to lay his thoughts calmly before our judgment in clear tyjie, as to repeat them in warm words that win a ready access through our feelings to our souls ; and poetry is written still with a view to being recited, As we noticed, the early poems were all said or sung to lute, guitar, harp, or other form of Apollo's -wreathed shell; therefore they were framed to suit music. Hence came, first, the divisions into breaths or lines ; second, the sub-divisions into accents set at regularly recuriing intervals throughout these lines. In after times, when the music was lost, or merged into the words—these divisions had become the law. The singer required breath, and we mark an ended line ; the music required its accent, which we commemorate in the quantity of our syllables. Classical poems owned these laws and no other. But are we not apt to admire indiscriminately all labours and all laws of Latin or of Greek 1 Do we not worshii) blindly in the past what we might find more than courage to consider improvable were it of our own days, which are so wearily accustomed to the critic's lash 1 We must try to divest ourselves of any such influence as we bring all past and present poetry (non-dramatic) before our mind, and find if any other law derivable from music is, or would be, an improvement to them, or otherwise. That other law is vhjTne. No one denies to music its rhymes, that is, its risings and fallings at the 196 THE ATTEMPT. end of its strains and movement? in regular concord or unison. Do not its breaths end in a chord-note, and the last strain with the ground-note of the key and chord 1 "Would it not prove some error somewhere were it otherwise 1 Would the ear rest satisfied if the anticipated sound came not 1 Would the full rest of completion follow the execution of beautiful symphonies if they did not reach their climax in the concord that resolves itself in one 1 Even the restless, vainly yearning minor has the same set of laws, from its own starting-note. And all musical sounds are ever seeking their compliments :—The major finds the minor, the minor the major; the extended finds the diminished, and so on. And why should the sister muse be deprived of the satisfying effects of verbal rhyme ? For to us it seems almost to have the beauty of the musical terminations—infinitely more varied and variable. Let us now look at our collected poems, and think of rhyme. In many cases their spirit woidd seem to rebel against its trammels; but is this rebellion not some- times to be traced to the discord of a divided house ? Is the aim simply, purely, and entirely, in all such cases, only pure poetry? Is the imaginative not so mixed with the descriptive, the scientific, the moralistic moods, that it cannot name the field entirely its own 1 We do not think pure poetry can lose one charm, one power, by being purely modulated and rhymed. Especially in this fatherland of ours, must it seem natural, decorous, and home-like, because rhyme has tenanted the land before our noble English language rose from Chaos, as did Venus from the sea. Perhaps, thereby we speak with an ear and a habit of mind too much in favour of that to which we have been accustomed, and must endeavour to keep ourselves free from all prejudice ; but can we mention any truly gi-eat poem really spoiled by rhyme ? Or any that would have been disparaged had rhyme been used instead of its present blank verse ? If the rhyme be beautiful and dignified, does it not soothe and calm our souls to rapt absorption ? Does it not lead on our willing steps unto the flower of thought, as perfume leads us to the violet 1 Does it not sometimes even win a listener, for music's sake, who cared not for the thought, until he heard it couched in music, and converted thence ? And all things that can aid the poet in his aim to raise and to ennoble man must win, at least, respectful consideration. More practically still—do we not find the rhymes like rests in music, where we may relax a-while our speed? Or, like hooks, on which to hang attention, or rivet impression 1 For, in remembering verse, they prove like links from which a long chain of connected thoughts depend ; and when we draw forth one, it rings so in our ears, we recollect its fellows, and we draw forth, link by link, each in its turn, perchance a thousand more, each with its burden of poetic thought made musical. THE ATTEMPT. 197 It is ti-ue that we have occasionally seen poor rhymes joined to high thought; but the false ear that was contented with such imperfect concords would have woven his words into blank verse as faulty, and perhaps more lame. We might bring forward the Paradise Lost as one of the few noble poems that might not be improved by rhyme ; but we should find almost the same caxises for its absence there as we found in the Drama—intensity of feeling, objective magnificence of plan, and a partially dramatic efiect of recalliag its scenes into the present time, by its de- scriptions, which are almost painted, and by its speeches, which are almost heard. But even Milton is not essentially an unrhyming poet. He considered that his great work required to he embodied in blank verse ; and he, a Classicist, did so.

" But now my task is smoothly done : I can fly, or I can run,"

said he in Comus, and we see his natural soul loved rhyme, and spoke it forth in Lycidas, L'Allegro, Comus, his odes and sonnets, poems that would have almost raised him to his present rank, had his " Paradise " never been designed. Seeing how grandly he could handle it, we may not seem too arrogant in asking if the use of rhyme could have inpaired the charm of ancient classical poems, at least those of the lyrical form. Did they, as they were, satisfy the manes of the music that had departed from their side ? II. If we have been successful in proving what we attempted to prove—that rhyming is natural to poetry, and an advantage to it, by assisting the poet's impres- sion on our souls, we must suppose that the rhyming poet must have a similar conviction, consciously or unconsciously, pervading his mind. If he is himself pleasantly influenced by rhyme, he will feel that his rhyme may likewise influence others. While all things graceful and harmonious in nature strike a soul so delicately strung as his, in his utterance thereof he also strives after the graceful and harmonious. Poetry does not consist in form. Imagination forms both poet and poem. Prose is never poetry, though it should sometimes starve itself to fit the attenuated garb it was not born to wear. Its facts are not ideals ; its dreams are not born of imagination ; its glory is not from the poet's muse. It may have a lustre and a power of its own, but not that it would win as poetry. From Pope downwards, our language has many a specimen of rhyming and unrhymed verses, whose form is poetry, whole soul is prose. Stern facts are sufiicient for themselves; they have, as it were, a body of flesh and muscle, that can resist the breeze; but a poet's thought is so delicate and grasj)- 198 THE ATTEMPT. eluding; that, as it were, he gilds a little frame wherein to set it, that it might not waft away upon the air between his and his hearers' hearts. At times this thought unites itself to science, and walks forth strong enough for prose. Who would say that some chapters in Hugh Miller's Testimony of the Rocks—a book purely scientific, are not, at the same time, purely poetic, in all but form ? Or that Chalmers' Discourses on Astronomy were only scientific, only speculative, only anything that would exclude poetry ? Sometimes also the poetic fervour mingles so sweetly with some other mood, that it leaves us such prose pastorals, such idylls, or " delicious reveries," that the very muse of poetry wears them as the brightest jewels in her crown. But the poet-proper produces his pure literature in the foim called poetry. We must suppose him with " both heart and head, both active, both complete, and both in earnest," imbued with the fine feelings, gifted with the keen siisceptibility and imaginative fervour that belong to a true poet. We must imagine him acquainted with those of other days who were of his kindred. He comes into liis kingdom not all free. But where or when is man entirely free 1 When God gave him dominion over His " creatures " He retained dominion over them and him, so that, in all cases, he must bend to serve the laws God sets on " creatures," he may make his slaves. And having yielded to these laws, he finds an increased power grow thex'efrom. He bows to the fact that electricity only prefers to his own body a metallic path ; and, erecting a lightening rod to conduct it safely away from him to the earth, he learns how like his own thought is this wondrous " creature,"—how, if he grants it but the path it loves, space flies beneath it, and it rests upon the sharp- est point of time. Thence he makes it his winged messenger, more swift than Mercury, and it seems more true. He obeys its Master's laws, and it reveals to him a fragment of his Master's omniscient power. So is it ever those who yield that are the victors ; and the boughs that bend they that endure the longest. How wonderful is music—purely imaginative on the one hand, clearly scienti- fic on the other; proceeding on laws as sharply defined as mathematics. Both of these are of the sciences called perfect. Nothing in them that ever has been proved can, by the growth of mind or increase of our knowledge, be disproved ; in which they differ from other lore, that alters through our development. We never shall find out that we have falsely placed the semitones, or formed too crude a chord, or an imperfect octave ; nor shall we impi-ove on Euclid or the Multiplication Table. He who delights in music, studies all its laws, agrees with all, ascends by that to which he stooped. When his heaven-tuned soul would find an outlet for its jient-up feelings, THE ATTEMPT. 199 he feels it no bondage to walk by these rules. He could not move without them ; habit has made them as unconscious as his life, and they bind him as the air does that surrounds, which he must breathe to live, and, living, breathes. He walks, a free man in the liberty by law made free, uttering his lovely speech in law-born freedom. Our very life is ruled by law, we may not live if we yield no obedience thereto. Therefore, if life be thus sustained by law, if science yields to those who yield to her, it is but just the poet should be like to other men. He, too, must stoop to conquer, Certes his art is not a science ; insomuch as it does not make laws for itself, save that regarding spirit. Its form depends upon the tastes of men, or on their habits. As old poets wrote, new ones must write ; such and such points gi-ow necessary, only because habitual. Yet is no form essential; we have lost some forms, and now dis- cover traces thereof in long-buried languages ; and other forms may yet arise, when some great poet, finding the old vestments all too worn and frail, too narrowly con- tractive for his grand, new thought, may forge new forms to fit it. But we act iip to laws that now we have, in this our land, though it is not treason to think that some might possibly be improved. So must the poet. And it is not hard that he should be confined by these; it rather is an aid, inducing concen- tration, more than wandering tastes. And all these laws a well-trained poet knows, and has set deep within his inner self, so that they mingle with his very nature. Almost intuitively he recognises these ; for, as he learns to read, or stands to listen, he imbibes the habits of other writers, that grow to him a law. We have heard of untutored poets ; and it is true a soul fit for a poet often has grown up even in a wilderness. The mind, all apt and ready for the seed, may receive it without ploughing, and bring forth a rich harvest without weeding. But there must always be some planted seed. And we always sadly think how great true training, and a noble yielding to all learned laws, would have made such a soul. It saves him all the labour of discovering iiidely for himself what many minds have gradually worked out for him and us throughout past ages. Besides the facility given to the mind of uttering distinctly what it desires to say—besides the humility noble spirits learn from reading what great things were said, and greatly said, by others, long before— besides the high-toned feeling produced by the constant inflowing of such worthy thought;—we must consider that one of the greatest benefits that results from the training of a poet is the fact that he thereby recognises his laws, and willingly puts himself under their power. For he also, by stooping, discovers new treasures, that the untrained, lawless poet would have trodden on. While we thus plead for all law in all things, all law in poetry, we may have likewise proved that the Law of 200 THE ATTEMPT. Rhyme need of itself prove no constraint unto the poet; nay, that it may lead on to richer liberty. He thinks unto the sound he hears afar, that guides him, as the marked point guides the artist's pencil in a long straight line. He moves more pleasantly when music marks his time ; he writes more hopefully when looking to be sweetly read ; and we must know ere this how small a portion of our present literaiy store we should possess had not the writers hoped that their expressions might become impressions. Look at the use that modest poetasters make of rhyme ! They look to it to supply them with ideas, picking the rhymes out first, and then fitting the words thereto. And, when their verse is formed, they trust its flowing robes will hide their wooden frame, if it does not even delude themselves into the belief that there must be some rich soul beneath so fair a cloak. This is one sign of its power, and one inducement more to the man of genius to make it hence his slave. Because, as " hypocrisy is the homage vice pays to virtue," the lovely form attainable to the poetaster is paid in homage to that lovelier soul that will elude his grasp. He strives to seem to be, and not to be ; therefore he may not reach its hidden source. Our poet, as we love to paint him—rich in all poet-gifts, learned in all poet-lore —will surely ever find all poet-law become his very slave, and freely utter the glorious imagery of his free soul, in " perfect music set to noble words." LuTEA RESEDA.

" A LITTLE bit more, Tom ; ah, like that, Stretch it out carefully, lay it flat; It's rather an old one, lad, this net. But we'll make it last out the winter yet. Now for the needles and twine—that's right! If we both work well 'twill be done by night. I'm glad I've not got it all to do— What a good thing to have a young helper like you. THE ATTEMPT. 201 I'm sure your mother and I may well say, You're getting handier every day : I ne'er in my life such a lad did see— It's a good son, Tom, that you are to me. Fifteen years old come Christmas time ! Why, lad, you'll be soon getting into your prime. Fifteen years old ! why, when I was your age, I thought myself quite a man, I'll engage. But I wasn't so stout and so strapping as you. And you're rather tall for your age, lad, too ; Ah, well ! to be sure, 'tis very strange. How times, and things, and ourselves all change; It seems but only the other day That I was a merry, wee boy at play ; And now, see how wrinkled and grizzled I've grown. With a great lad like you to call my own. And the time will soon come as well to you, When you will be brown and weather-beat too; And cares like mine will bend your head, When you've got to work for your children's bread. Ah, lad ! you may laugh, and say ' What stuff,' That you're only a boy," and there's time enough ; But, Tom, I often sigh when I see Your bright, young face that's so dear to me. And then think of the trouble and hard stiff strife That ever weigh on a poor man's life. But never mind, lad, we were meant to work ; There's never no use in trying to shirk : Just do your duty, and leave the rest To God above—sure. He knows what's best. If you're hard-working, and honest, and true, Sober and steady, and always do The thing that's right—why, you must succeed, With the blessing of God, lad, you must, indeed. If you can help it, don't always spend All that you earn, till it comes to an end ; 202 THE ATTEMPT. But put by some for a rainy day, To keep the wet off you, as one may say. I don't want to praise myself, Tom, to you, But you know that's what always I've tried to do ; And you've seen how it answers—for well you know, When I broke my leg five winters ago, And couldn't go out for so long in the boat, How that savings' bank money kept us afloat. Then, as T got well, and times were good, I made it up as well as I could; So when Polly—God bless her—married Bob Pitt, I was able to set her up a bit. With a feather bed, and a gown or two— That's what every fisherman hei-e can't do. And when you get older, Tom, if I can, I shall buy you a share in our * Mary-Anne,' To help you—but look, lad, what do you see ? That's surely mother is calling me— And there's somebody with her, too, I declare ! Why, its Polly and Bob are standing there : And Bob has the baby, holding it high, To look at the gulls in the sunset sky. What, done it already 1 well, that's a man ! Now, let's off home as fast as we can ; Hang up the net, and put away The needles and twine for another day. And bring the basket of oysters there— We'll Slip to-night on good fisherman's fare. Beady ! come, oflf lad—now for a race ! Which will first kiss my Polly's sweet face 1" MAS AiiTA. THE ATTEMPT. 203

PART II.—WALKING OVEB THE MOOR.

CHAPTER II.

" Wenn sich zwei Herzen scheiden Die sich dereinst geliebt Es ist ein groszes Leiden Wie 's groszres niininer giebt."

THE days passed on at Glenmavis, in walks and talks, rides and drives with the dear father, whose constant delight was in my company, and whom I followed everywhere very much in my old style. Even aunt Isabella, though she said nothing of what had hindered my spending my holidays at home, seemed half to repent of her management in that respect. One day a sudden light broke in upon me. I was sitting in a small room, which opened by folding-doors from the drawing- room, and had been set apart for my books and effects in general. Through the folding-doors I heard my aunt's voice—" And so, my dear Graham, you see how much better it is that she should have remained away till her education was finished. Of course, you thought my precautions all nonsense, men always do ; but if you had had her here, with that curly-headed fellow idling about the house on leave just when she was growing up, by this time they would have been engaged. And how much better for Eleanor to come home, handsome and accomplished, and heart-whole, and ready to make an excellent marriage. She shall have every oppoi-tunity of choosing well " So far I heard, and then my conscience took up the word, and rated me well. " Had I ever done such a thing before as listen to words not intended for my ear?" It sent me out of the room in half a minute, and I rushed upstairs, my cheeks burning with shame and anger. So it had all been a scheme to keep me from seeing Charlie, for fear we should fall in love, and defeat aunt Isabella's plans. Well, if Charlie grew up what he promised to be—two years would show, and if he still fancied his old playmate, we should see. Then the blood tingled to my temples again at such a thought, and I leaned out of the window into the June breeze to cool them. I am coming slowly to my second mile-stone, but I am coming nevertheless. Summer went by, and winter brought my first and only season in Edinburgh. I was admired ; that girl I see in the dim past was admired, I mean. People talked 204 THE ATTEMPT. about her eyes, and her hair, and her shape, and wrote verses to her, and engaged her six deep at balls, and sought her out and made much of her. They flattered my girl's vanity, dear, and it was pleasant to be praised and pre- ferred ; but at night, when I sat brushing out my hair, and wondering whether I was really so beautiful as people seemed to think, my inmost thought was, would Charlie think so too 1 Would he care for the hair that slijjped through my fingers in its rich heavy length of glossy brown, and fell below my waist, making me like a fountain of shining ripples ?—for the eyes that shone under those black fringes of mine 1—for the little, rounded figure 1—for the girl, in short, who used to be called Nelly Moray, and the heart she had to give 1 One resolution was strong within me —I would wait and see. Before the winter was over, I had what is called " an excellent offer;" before the summer came, I had another. My aunt was vexed, I could see, that neither of the eligible gentlemen who sought my hand had managed to find my heart. Perhaps, if either of them had cared for me, as myself, it might have been different. But the first merely thought that as his land " marched" with my father's, and I was the heiress of Glenmavis, it would be suitable for both parties could we come to an arrangement. And as for the second, he might have wished for me as he would have wished for a handsome dog or horse, but certainly not as a man wishes for the woman he desires to make " his true and honourable wife," whom he chooses from all others, not because she is beautiful, or graceful, or rich, but because she is herself. And when my season was over, and papa saw my pale cheeks, into which, how- ever, a few scampers on my pet horse, " Prince Charlie," soon brought back the flush of health and enjoyment, it was decided that I was to have no more seasons, but stay at home and make his tea and cheer him up, for he could not bear a town life, and had only let me spend a winter in the old city where my tore-mothers had come out long ago, at my aunt's earnest request. And the summer j)assed again, and September and Charlie came together. Of course he had nowhere to go but to Glenmavis, and to Glenmavis he came. I was standing on the front-door steps that evening. Aunt Isabella, who was now settled at Glenmavis as my chaperone and companion, should not say I had run out to meet him like a silly child. I stood under those same stone grifiins, but I was changed. I can look back at my then self as I look at my mother's picture. My eyes were shining with expectation, my hair (I had learnt to keep it smooth by that time) was blown back from my face, my hands were twisted together in a white THE ATTEMPT. 205 dimpled knot, my colour flushed and faded as I stood in the shadow of the grey stone porch, waiting for the sound of wheels. And I heard it " low on the sand and loud on the stone;" and my heart, not- withstanding the years that had passed, perhaps because of them, and the changes they had brought and might have brought, began to thump unreasonably against my muslin dress, as I saw two figures in the front seat of the dog-cart. One, my father's, tall, slight, grey-haired; the other, taller still, broad-shouldered, and as to the face, I could hardly see it, for our house faced to the west, and the autumn sunset was dazzling my eyes. Yes, the dear old face, not a boy's any longer, but a man's, brown, handsome, bold, with the blue eyes still brave and bright, and the fair hair still curly and sunny, the lips shaded by a light-brown moustache, and the mouth smiling and steadfast as of old. He jumped down before the dog-cart stopped, and was up the steps and had caught me by both hands before I could speak. And then he looked at me, and I looked at him, and I read in his eyes that I was beautiful, and that he thought so; and I knew he had not changed, and that though the boy was a man, and the child a woman, our hearts were the same as ever to each other. We looked, till a laugh, half vexed and half amused, from my father drew our eyes away. " "Well, yoimg people, are you going to glower at each other in that unmannerly way all night ? You are both grown up, that is all, though one would think there was something uncanny about you, Nelly ; just let me see that nothing has happened since I left you to change your appearance and make you into a Gorgon, fixing people's eyes in a stony stare on your snaky coiffure. Is this the way you welcome weary mariners when they come in from sea ?" Long before he had done speaking, Charlie let go my hands as if he had been in a dream, and then, with a quick sense of having perpetrated every true Briton's horror, a sort of scene, blushed crimson, as if his tanned face had caught the glow from the western hills, stammering something about his surprise and delight, and then rushed to assist the groom in getting out his portmanteau, nearly knocking the man over in his eagerness. Well, we went in to an old fashioned " rough tea," and aunt Isabella had some- how an immense deal to say abotit the Coast of Africa, where CharUe had been stationed. One would have thought that she had been an exported black from that region, or a captive among the Moors, or a captain in the Navy, or anything but a quiet maiden lady, whose furthest flight had been London. All tea-time, and after 20G THE ATTEMPT. tea, she went on, engaging Charlie in close conversation, knitting and talking in a peaceful, but resolute manner, till my father asked me to sing, and Charlie must needs turn over the leaves for me. I had not a very jiowerful voice, but it was sweet and rich, and in those days people liked to listen to it— " Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame."

It is a sweet song, and I was fond of it, and sang it well; but that night it seemed to sob like the night-wind, and tremble like the waves in the moonlight, and I felt my heart beat, and my cheek redden in the twilight, as I sang. And, when I rose from the piano, after hearing a faint stertorous sound from my aunt, whose vigilance had at length relaxed, a sound too soft for a snore, too decided for a sigh, just sufficiently slumbrous to betoken the passage of her busy mind into the dreamy realms, where susceptible heiresses, and mischievous, penniless sailoi'-cousins are not; my father had gone to his study, and Charlie and I were, to all intents and purjooses, alone. We went into the deep bow-window, thoughtfully choosing a position in which the loudest whisper could hardly disturb the balmy slumbers of my worthy relative, and we talked,—how we talked ! Slowly the stars came glimmering out, and the moonlight shone into the room. And I heard of the wonderful sea-life, and the adventui-es Charlie had gone through, and how the news of Uncle James' death had come like— " A single cloud on a sunny day," but a cloud that curtained all the sunshine like a pall. So many things I heard, and then came the " Do you remember 1" The reminiscences of the sweet, old life, years before, the childish recollections, which, shared in common, make so dear a part of friendship, and sometimes of something else. Then came a sudden awakening on the part of my aunt, and candles were sent for, and the usual protestations as to having been wide-awake, and never being in the habit of going to sleep in a chair, were conscientiously gone through, and so the evening passed. And many a day and night passed before that walk on the moor came. At length Charlie's leave drew near its close. For several days he had been petition- ing me for a good, long, mutual walk, with no one else to interfere. Schemes for all manner of parties had been got up, but we had had people with us nearly all the month, one way or another, and the walk had never been taken. THE ATTEMPT. 207 I think, as Charlie's departure drew nearer, aunt Isabella grew less careful, at any rate, on the last day of all, a bright, calm day, she had a delightfully inevitable engagement at some distance. My father was in Edinburgh, intending to return just in time to see Charlie off; and when the back of the carriage containing my aunt had vanished out of the gates, I ran up to my room and put on my bonnet, feeling almost as naughty as that day when I jumped out of the schoolroom window. • Charlie was waiting for me in the hall. How bright and anxious his eyes looked as he met me, and we passed out of the pine-wood on to the moor again ! All the way I felt them on mo, though he said very little, till we came to the heathery knowe from whence we could see that far off sea^brightness. Then he spoke. He did not say much; and though every word is safe in my heart to-day, as safe as my Charlie is now in a better keeping than mine, I cannot tell them. Enough to say, that he spoke of childish liking that had ripened and strengthened into a man's love, of hopes of promotion, of time to wait, of patience that would never tire, if only he might trust me. Enough, that I never hesitated to answer him. My heart was given, and my hand was promised. And we sat together on that knowe, not quite foolish or thoughtless, I hope, but inexpressibly happy. Only now and then came a feeling, like the touch of a cold finger upon my heart, as I thought of the wide, weary sea, and the years of parting; and I shook it off, as I said to Charlie, " Love is like a muslin ; if it won't wash it isn't worth having." I was thinking then of the " many waters " which the Preacher says cannot quench love, of the sea rolling between us, but I did not know what bitter, salt tears were to wash my love white from all earthly stain, what a fire of purifying pain it had to go through to make it meet for heaven. It is being made meet now, and I shall wear it in the light as I have worn it in the shadow. For a time all thought was lost in the delight of feeling. I was Charlie's darling Nelly, his own one true love ; what did I care for anything else 1 Then a sense of sudden remorse shot through me. Papa, kind and true and dear as he had always been, this great new joy of mine was a thing apart from him. Nay, it would bring him pain, and take me from him, and I was all he had left. Faintly, as a young, happy spirit, in the first flush of loving and being beloved, sees into another from which the love-bliss has long ago departed, I saw and felt that Charlie had his fate in his hands and the world before him, while papa's best life on earth was behind him, and he had nothing but me. And I half shrunk back, my foot still lingering on the threshold of the wonder- 208 THE ATTEMPT. ful untried existence,—" That new world which is the old." Charlie soothed me, told me years must pass before ho could hope to call me wife, all that time papa would have me, and now he had only this one last day. Would I not let him be happy ? Would I not, indeed ? Somehow there was a deep misgiving in my heart that the wedding-day Charlie talked of as we walked back across the moor, sending many a sudden wing whirring up from the heather on our way, would never come. At least, I feel as if it had been there now; perhaps at the time it was not. But He who reads our hearts knew then, and Charlie knows now, that I took that day " So cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sty," for the wedding-day to which girls look forward with shrinking pleasure, that I took the clasp of his hand for a bridal ring, and his earnest, tender words for the con- secrated troth-jilight that binds two lives in one. The whole clear sky was solemn above and around us as a cathedral, the whole world seemed turned into a church— "A space to lean and love in for a day. With darkness and the death-hour rounding it," in which we were joined together for ever. I cannot tell much of what followed our return home. I know I went up- stairs and took off the dress I had worn for the walk, and laid it by as Enid laid by her faded silk, not to be soiled with common use any more. Was it silly and sentimental ? Perhaps so. At any rate it was my natural impulse, and I obeyed it. Next morning Charlie had an audience from papa before leaving, and T was summoned into the study to act the part of Miunehaha, except that my Hiawatha, with the blue eyes and broad shoiilders, had no intention of carrying me off then and there, and that I was not quite so out-spoken as the "loveliest of all the women." I hid my wet eyes on papa's shoulder, for I could not bear to look into his face, and he kissed me with a sort of sad, wistful tenderness, that was half a reproach and half a blessing. But he consented, not unwillingly or grudgingly, and when Charlie had the command of a vessel, he was to have me too. Then we were left alone to say good- bye. Oh ! that word, so short, so common, yet shutting within itself such untold misery. It was a long good-bye, yet when that fatal sound of wheels came to the dooi*, and Lieutenant Stuart's portmanteau was being brought down from his room, it seemed as if we had had only a moment in which to say everything. THE ATTEMPT. 209 Charlie took off a ring of his mother's hair, which he had worn ever since he went to sea, and put it on my hand, and we went out together into the hall. No one was there but my father and my aunt. I saw a storm brewing under the assumed quietness of the lattei's demeanour; but a total indifference to almost everything but the fact of Charlie's dejjarture having taken possession of me, I only was conscious, in a dim confused way, that she put out three cold fingers to him and wished him a safe journey. He took his last kiss before them both, and I gave it back, and I watched the dog-cart drive away, and then the tears came to blind my sight and relieve my sorrow, and he was gone. O. M.

{^To he continued.)

IN early days, in youthful houi-s, And now, with quiet step and slow, I stood amidst earth's fairest flowers, I wander where the flowers still blow, A light, a sunny light, was shed, And still a light is in the sky, And in that light a word I read, And still a sweet word meets my eye; Whose golden letters did appear It gilds the future with the past, To brighten every coming year; So will it do unto the last. Oh Hope, dear name, and heavenly bright, Dear word, beloved unchangingly, Thine were the letters, thine the light. Enshrining all blest Memory !

Farewell then sunny hopes of youth, Remembrance of the blessed truth, That sweet fruition once ye bore Shall be my light for evermore, And, gleaming in my evening sky, Shall live that dear word Memory. E. H. S. 2 c 210 THE ATTEMPT.

THERE are certain inquisitorial books, kept by certain inquisitive people, in which they force good-natured, unwary, or weak-minded friends to record some of their opinions, tastes and crotchets—their " likes and dislikes," in short, as these examination ^^apers are generally styled. Looking over a book of this kind the other day, I came upon a new question—new, at least, to me—more inquisitive and impertinent than any of its companion queries :—" What is your favourite reminis- cence?" I found, however, upon looking closer, that most of the individuals whose likes and dislikes were recorded in the book had either left this question altogether unanswered, or had managed to evade it by some answer, such as "July 1855," " Christmas three years ago," which, to the general public, conveyed no idea of the real nature of the reminiscence. One romantic young lady had recorded that her most cherished recollection was " a ride in the rain ;" one copy of answers in large text hand pointed to " the last examination day " as the writer's sunniest memory ; and one gentleman honestly and unpoetically confessed that his favourite reminis- cence was—his first pair of trousers ! but veiy few of the writers condescended to be so precise and circumstantial, and most of the answers to this searching question were vague and uninteresting. And certainly this was not to be wondered at, I thought, as I closed the book. Having myself no especially cherished reminiscence, no recollection standing out very prominently among the pictures of the past, I felt that I should have had great difficulty in making a selection, and even more in putting the reminiscence into words. And surely most people, when suddenly called upon to declare in words their favourite recollection, must either feel extremely unwilling to confess the truth, and ingeniously manage to evade the question, or else feel so confused and perplexed by a sudden rush of pleasant recollections crowding on their memories, mixed up in a thousand brilliant and bewildering pictui'es, as to be quite unable to choose among them, or to describe the real nature of the picture which looks the brightest. For how very bright and fair those days look in the distance, some of which seemed dull and disagreeable, nay, even perhaps painful and melancholy when we were in the midst of them ! How often we feel it to be true, that " The past will always win A glory from its being far ; THE ATTEMPT. 211 And orb into the perfect star, We saw not when we moved therein.

Long, dull lesson-hours ; days when we wearied of books and slates and orderly walks with a governess ; summer days whose beauty was all unheeded by us at the time, and which still, in some mysterious way, have left their sunshine in our memories; books read unwillingly and as a task, learned and conned, oh ! how wearily, and with what secret rebellion, whose words are now like music to our ears ; they all seem to us exalted and glorified by the distance, and we could almost wish ourselves back among them. And not only these days and events, but our youthful griefs and misfortunes, misdemeanours and punishments, do not seem to us worthy of the direful distress which we can well remember feeling in connection with them. Calamities which cost us floods of tears we can now think of with a smile; sorrows which oppressed us with what seemed unendurable heaviness have grown lighter, or fallen from us altogether ; irreconcileable feuds and unconquerable antipathies have somehow been reconciled and conquered ; the bitterness of quarrels has worn off, and our ancient enemies have become our trusty friends and companions.

" On that deep retu-ing shore, Frequent pearls of beauty lie, Where the passion-waves of yore Fiercely beat and mounted high ; Sorrows that are sorrows still Lose the bitter taste of woe ; Nothing's altogether ill In the griefs of Long-Ago."

Of course, I mean that these things are pleasant only as reminiscences, for I am convinced, that however fondly we may now look back upon our childish days, yet, were we suddenly transported back among them, the restraint and routine, the tasks and school promenades would seem as irksome as ever, and we should wish just as ardently that we were free from all such trammels. But if even these doubtful days look fair and pleasant in retrospect, how bright are the hues in which memory paints those whose reality we enjoyed, and over whose depai-ture we mourned, even at the time ! Difficult, indeed, is the task of selecting our favourite reminiscence from among the thousand pleasant recollections that press upon us. Christmas holidays, which were a gorgeous union of pantomimes, and presents, and plum-puddings, and juvenile parties, which, in anticipation, made our lessons lighter for six weeks before the joyful time arrived, and reflected a portion 212 THE ATTEMPT. of their radiance into everyday life for many a day after they were gone; autumn vacations among heathery hills or wooded valleys, or by the rush and roar of ocean ; walks, and talks, and friendships of more than common interest,—but why go on in this strain 1 for the memory of every reader will supply him with countless pleasant reminiscences among which to make choice. Yes, of every reader ! quiet and uneventful, common place and uninteresting as their lives may have been,—for our most pleasant reminiscences are not generally to be found in the most eventful period of our lives, nor even among our most fortunate and distinguished days, if any such exist; it is nearly always to some scene of everyday life, commonplace in itself, uninteresting to the world at large, and which might find a parallel in the lives of most of our fellow mortals, that we look back with the deepest and truest pleasure. And I think this is pretty generally true even of men who have risen to a high place in the world's estimation, and who have many a proud and glorious reminiscence to look back upon. Had Sir Walter Scott been asked to record his favourite recollection, would he have reverted to the days when the first dawn of fame shone into his life, or to the later period when his success was assured, and he took his stand in the front rank of Scottish poets, or to the time of culminating glory and prosperity, when his name was known and honoured in every part of the civilised world; when all that was great, and noble, and dis- tinguished in Europe paid the homage of respect and admiration alike to his genius and his character ? I am very sure he would have passed over all these brilliant scenes, and hesitated how to choose between others of a very different cast. The drills and field-days of the Edinburgh Light Dragoons, the quiet days at Lasswade, or the happy summers at Ashestiel;—some of the merry parties in Castle Street, enlivened with all that wit and intellect could give; a raid into Liddesdale in search of ballads and antiquities, some jovial anniversary of the Abhotsford Hunt, or perhaps even some night spent leistering salmon in Tweed with James Hogg and Tom Purdie, among these, or such as these, Sir Walter would have found his favourite re- miniscence. Byron was essentially a man of the world, with a strong partiality for its pleasures, and for its praise ; and yet he looks back longingly to his childish happiness ; he " sighs for the valley of dark Loch-na-Garr," and his words have the accent of truth in them when he sings— «

" Oh talk not to me of a name great in story. The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty, Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty." THE ATTEMPT. 213 And doubtless we should find it to be the same with most of the great men whose names are household words, the giants of history and literature; they would pass over their victories and deeds of high emprise, their wise statesmanship and master- strokes of policy, all the mighty thoughts and words and actions which have made them famous, and turn to some scene of ordinary life, unknown to the world, un- cared for and forgotten, perhaps by all but themselves. Who that has read of Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor of England, in an hour of relaxation from the duties and cares of office, playing with his children in the hayfield, and pelted by them with the fragrant hay; who that has read of this, does not remember how, wearied with the unwonted exertion, he sat down to rest beside his eldest and best-beloved daughter, better known to us as Mistress Margaret Roper, and to her confided, in vague and dreamy words, his sense of the impending future, the shadow of coming events that hovered over them, " that fai--offe, future day, Meg, when thou and I shall looke back on this hour, and this hay field 1" And do we not feel assured when the shadow gathered substance, and the far-off day at length arrived, when Sir Thomas More went down to the Tower Wharf on his way to execution, and Margaret Roper forced her way throtigh the halberdiers, threw her arms round her father, and bade him a last farewell—that the mind of the aged Chancellor, did he cast his eyes back on his past life, would turn wearily from the scenes of sjilendour and dignity which abounded there, to rest gratefully on the domestic life at Chelsea, and that sunny afternoon in the hay field, with the children playing round him ; a day shadowed but by a dim and dreamy consciousness of the penalties attendant on greatness 1 But whither is imagination carrying us 1 And how have we been transported from the pages of a fashionable album, whence we started, to the 15th century, and all the gloom and horror of the Tower Wharf ? What liberties we are taking with illustrious pereonages—presuming, on the slenderest evidence, to decide for them what they would have hesitated to decide for themselves, and choosing among the favourite reminiscences of poets and statesmen, when we cannot select our own, or perhaps refuse to reveal them ! Let us hasten to bring this paper to a conclusion, before we are hurried into any more such infringements of the laws of propriety and probability. DiDO. 214 THE ATTEMPT.

Yes, in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown. Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow. And then their endless bounds they know.

A God, a God, their severance ruled, And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.—M. Arnold.

DIVIDED yet united ! this is the key-note of the parable ; divided in the sea of life, bound altogether in the great ocean of love. Distinct in individual identity, separated by the waves of fate, circumstance, or diversity of character, yet all echoing the same hopes and fears, the same longings and aspirations towards an un- bounded shore. Floating islands we might call the lives of this life, for the groupings change gradually, and often unconsciously the strait widens, the voices echo more faintly, and the spirit wakes up to find itself drifting away from all those who had seemed a part of itself. And then other gi-oupings form themselves, more congenial it may be—though it is ever pleasant to look back to the happy early time, where no dividing line was known, to childhood's happiness which felt no separation ; for it is as the rays go farther from the sun that they part farther from each other. The consciousness does not come to all alike,—to some it comes as the realization of a long, undefined, aching void, to others gradually, and with no jxang; but all must feel it some time, whether those to whom it comes early, even " as the first shades of the prison-house " begin to fall, or those others, the happy lives, who oft reach mid-life ere " the isolation grows defined." Strange it is to think of this island life, with its curious and varied groups, some so near that when the tall reeds and water-grasses grow up on either side, they droop over the stream and hide it; but nevertheless the strait, however narrow, is still there, the branch, however small, of " the unplumbed, salt, estranging sea." Yes—bitterly salt is this estranging THE ATTEMPT. 215 sea, and unplumbed also, for who can fathom the depth of human life, who can measure the degree of isolation of soul from soul 1 But even those who seem so near, are not always so,—the stream, though narrow, may be noisy with cataract and foam, and the roar of the turbulent waves may drown the voices, so that they echo dimly but from shore to shore, and may never even strive to pierce into the forest depths of the interior : and then, perhaps, from some island far across " the watery wild " will come a whisper, clear and distinct, thrilling the lonely spirit, which will joy to find that the wide sea is no barrier, since the ocean wave will waft their voices across. But, in their happy communion, they forget or disclaim " the severance God has ruled," and then comes the bitter awakening. Ofttimes it is a wild storm that parts them, or a thick, blinding mist that seems to screen the one from all others' view, or, it may be—and not less painful is the conviction thus forced—that the dazzling sunlight on the one may hide it effectually from the eyes looking out from the shade; and then, the spirit for the first time sees and realises the separation, and eagerly strives to reach over the strait that seems so narrow, but in vain, for there is an undefinable line which not the nearest and dear- est can cross, which no human sympathy can bridge over. And then a despairing fear takes possession of it, as it looks out with sudden awakened eyes at the supreme solitude of life. But another feeling comes, too; in such moments it is that

*' The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know."

For ever with the consciousness of human isolation comes the strengthening conscious- ness of the ever present Divine love. And then, the lesson taught, the spirit will feel alone no more, and the storms may rage, or the mists may clear away, but the lives will be nearer than they seemed before, for they know that they are all held in one clasping hand, all tending to a shore where there will be no dividing sea, no isolated life. ENAI. 216 THE ATTEMPT.

AUTHOR of constant comfort I to man, Am ample part of nature's boundless plan ; With plants well stored I meet the sage's eye, And bid him ancient histories descry ; Means to an end in almost every trade, Through me are princely fortunes often made : My end foretold caused lamentation sore, Yet shall I last untU our babes are hoar. Thus prized by all, yet each who owns me, knows My merits shine the most 'neath prudent blows. ELSIE STEIVELTNE.

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The Editors regret that they cannot undertake to return rejected contributions. A Prize will be awarded by the Ladies^ Edinburgh Essay Society for the best prose paper which appea/rs in The Attempt during ike months of August, September, and October. THE ATTEMPT. 217

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PART III.

POPE GREGORY did all in his power to simplify church music. He abolished the use of the modes, and selected, instead of them, eight distinct tones, ujoon which the ser%"ice might be chanted. These were called the eight Gregorian tones ; and they are in use at the present time in the Gregorian chants, so much employed in the Anglican Church. St Ambrose (who is said to have been the author of the Te Deum), also took much interest in the musical part of the service. He and Gregory advo- cated different systems of chanting and accentuating the psalms. Each wished his own version to be adopted ; and the disi)ute ran so high that it was at last agreed to refer the matter to the arbitration of a miracle. A copy of each version was accord- ingly laid at night upon the high altar ; and in the morning, that of Gregory was dis- covered torn to pieces and strewn about, whilst that of Ambrose remained open on the altar. This very miraculous decision was accepted as a final solution of the difficulty. When Pope Gregory sent St Augustine upon his missionary journey to England, the musical service was adopted there, along with the Christian religion. St Augus- tine was much surprised at the amount of musical knowledge possessed by the Britons—chiefly the inhabitants of Northumbria and Wales. He is reported to have said that they were born musicians. Notwithstanding this natural advantage, the British clergy were sent to Home for instruction in music, until the foundation of the school of music at Canterbury in 668. King Alfred, who patronised learning of all kinds, seems to have been a proficient in music. It was in his reign that organs were generally introduced in churches. They could not have been absolute novelties, for in an Italian missal, bearing date 660, there is a note to the eflect that the priest was to sing part of the service to the organ. The first organ introduced in France was one presented by the Pope to Charlemagne. The instrument was of rude construction—consisting of a clumsy wind chest, and a few j^ipes placed upon it, the wind being admitted to the pipes, by means of a simple mechanism, when the keys were struck. The keys were five or six inches across, and were played, not with the fingers, but by blows with the fist. The method of playing appears to have greatly resembled the carillon playing, once so much esteemed. 2 D 218 THE ATTEMPT. St Dunstan (925) seems to have had a great amount of musical knowledge. He is believed to have been a composer of chants, as well as a maker of musical instru- ments. A harp of his making is said to have moved of itself, and to have been played without hands. This gained for St Dunstan the imputation of having satanic assistance ; and it seems probable that the story of his pinching the devil's nose with the tongs was set afloat to show that the Saint, far from profiting by diabolical sug- gestions, resisted the adversary with all his might whenever opportunity served. The harp was the favourite instrument in Britain for a very long period. Even so late as the coronation of Henry V. we read of no other being used. The Irish harp, and the crwth or crowth, or Welsh harp, are of very ancient origin.* We have no mention of the bagpipes before 1400, and it is probably owing to the imperfec- tion of this instrument that the Scottish scale possesses no sharp 7 th. The lute and getron or cittern (the original of the guitar), are also of very early date. Although the instruments, and indeed the art itself, were in such an imperfect state, yet music was held in such high estimation in these early times, that whoever cultivated letters thought it necessary likewise to learn music, and it would have been thought as disgraceful then for a learned man to be ignorant of it, as for a man of fortune at the present day to be unable to read or write. When Louis IV. visited Tours in 9-40, some of his court expressed surprise at finding Count Foulque singing in the choir in his surplice. The Count is said to have replied " Sachez qu'un roi sans musique, est un ane couronne." It ajipears to have been by no means uncommon for even kings to take part in the public musical services ; and to be able to do so ai'gued no small amount of education. It has been already explained that the earliest notation simply consisted in writing down the verses to be sung, and placing the appropriate arbitrary musical characters over the words. By degrees, the idea arose of marking the respective rises or falls in the melody by writing the words on higher or lower lines, Paral- lel lines were employed (of no determinate number) and the words, with the musical characters over them, were written upon these lines. The specimens still extant (to be seen in the British Museum), have a very singular appearance; for when the melody has a large interval, the words are suddenly raised from the middle to the top of a page, and are found, indeed, so curiously transposed and placed, that it is difficult to read them at all. The next improvement consisted in placing the musical

Tho Welsh Uyry, a tortoise, is said by Owen Pike to be derived from the Greek "kvpcx, (lyra), a lyre, —a curious confirmation of the tradition that the lyre was first formed of a tortoise-shell. THE ATTEMPT. 219 characters (without the words) upon the parallel lines. At first, one line only was used, and the musical characters were placed close by, or far from the line, in ac- cordance with the size of the interval to be indicated. Then more lines were intro- duced, and the spaces were used as well as the lines. Many more than five were frequently used, but it was ultimately found that five, with ledger lines, were amply sufficient, as a greater number only served to confuse the eye. By the addi- tion of three ledger lines two octaves can be represented on one stave of five lines ; and by the use of two, three or more staves, with their a2)propriate signs or clefs, every musical note can be represented without confusion in one score. The clefs were originally letters of the alphabet, placed as signs at the commencement. They were numerously employed at first, but as the number became pei-plexing, fewer were gradually used; and three only now remain, viz. : the treble or G clef,—the bass or F clef,—and the tenor or C clef. This last still varies in its position, accord- ing to the quality of the voice using it, the line between the black tranverse lines being uniformly C, while the other two clefs never alter their position. The use of the clef being to connect a definite sound with a particular line, we find that the same result was obtained by using a coloured line instead of a clef. Thus, instead of the G clef, the second line was frequently of a red colour. The credit of the invention of the stave, or, at all events, the merit of first using the spaces as well as the lines, is generally accorded to Guido d'Arezzo or Aretino, a monk who lived about 1025. His attention was called to the necessity for sim- plifying the musical notation by finding that the boy choristei's grew too old for their parts before they could master all the innumerable arbitrary signs. Guido's invention marked an important era in musical progress, and the system was soon generally adopted. Pope John XIX. was so delighted with the simplicity of the mode in which the relative intervals between the sounds were pre- sented, even to the eye, that he would not rise from his seat until he had mastered a chant in the new notation. The ecclesiastics made no opposition to the change, as it had be^n introduced by one of their own body. Guido adopted the syllables Ut, Re, Mi, as the names of the notes. He is said to have taken them from a hymn to St John, in low Latin, in which the syllables Ut, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, occur upon consecutive ascending notes. Ut queant laxis ^esonare fibris MirsL gestorum i^amuli tuorum 220 THE ATTEMPT. Sohe polluti Zabii reatum 5ancte Johannes. The 7th Si was not used by Guido ; and was afterwards named from the initial letters of Sancte Johannes. Guido is generally believed to have been the in- ventor of counterpoint or part music. The name counteipoint arose from placing the points or musical characters counter to one another. Part singing was also called organizing; probably the name arose from the facilities which the organ offers for composition in parts. In the burial register of Paris, there appears an entry to the effect that " clerks who sing Alleluia in organo, triplo, or quadruplo (two, three, or four parts), shall be rewarded with sixpence." "Whenever four clerks shall organiiie Alleluia they shall receive six deniers." Descant was another mode of part singing, in which the principal voice, Tenore, held on (as the name implies) to the air, while the other voices executed brilliant passages around the main part. Denis compares descant to the curls, folds, and flounces of female dress. " It hides the meaning of the music, as false ornaments conceal the shape and beauty of the figure." The earliest record of the existence of the violin or fiddle occurs in a legend of St Christopher, about 1200—

" St Christofre hym served longe Ye kynge loved melodie of fithele and of songe."

A concert is described at the court of Phillip of Yalois, about 1235, in which more than thirty different musical instruments are mentioned. The most interesting record of the kind is that of the coronation of Petrarch, as Laureate, at Pome, when a great variety of musical instruments is described. Although bars are of frequent occurrence in the ancient notation, they were only employed to inform the singer where he might take breath. The division of music into rhythmical periods was not invented until about 1340, when Magister Franco conceived the idea of arranging the notes into spaces or bars of equal duration. By this means the rhjrthm of the music was expressed independently of that of the poetry. Magister Fi'anco arranged the values of the various notes then in use, viz. : Longs, Breves, Semi-breves, Minims. A Long was equal to three Breves, and a Breve to two Semi-breves. The smaller divisions, such as crotchets, quavers, and semi-quavers, were not THE ATTEMPT. 221 employed until a comparatively recent period; and this should be borne in mind when reading ancient music (Palestrina's, for example), otherwise the tendency would be to take it at far too slow a rate, it being natural to suppose that a semi- breve means always a long slow note, while in reality it was one of the shorter and quicker notes at the period when the music was written. This invention of the cantus mensurabilis, or division of the notes into equal periods of time, must have marked nearly as great an era in the science as the dis- covery of the coTisofiances by Pythagoras, or the invention of the scale by Guido. The improvement in musical composition is now obvious, and became more rapid since the date of this invention. The degree of Doctor of Music seems to have been first confen-ed in 1463, although Anthony a "Wood says it was given as early as the reign of Henry II., 1154. The minstrels and singers were held in high esti- mation, and were united into a body, having certain privileges granted to them by letters patent under Edward IV. Chester Fair was held in honour of this body, and it does not reflect much credit upon it to find that the fair was usually a season of misrule and licence. Debtors and evil-doers of all kinds enjoyed an immunity from danger of imprison- ment at this fair, and so serious were the consequent evils, that the charter was at last abolished. There are now extant ballads and roundelays in MS. dating from 1326. Dr Bumey tells us that these contain the germs of much excellence. The oldest English dance music preserved is a country dance of the period of Henry VIII. The most ancient English part song now extant is the curious canon, " Sumer is a cumen in" ("Summer is a coming in," published by Novello in the Musical Times.) The stave consists (in the old MS.) of six lines, and it is written in four real parts, with a fundamental note or " Pes," to be held on by the choir throughout. The composition dates from about the middle of the fifteenth century. Dr Burney says that it may belong to a much earlier j^eriod, however, as the fre- quent occurrence of consecutives shows that the laws of harmonious succession were not well carried out at the time that it was written. EINNA.

*H§J^ 222 THE ATTEMPT.

"WOMAN AND THE WORLD."

IT is some time since an article appeared in the Saturday Review bearing the above title, but ia commenting upon it we do not apologise for returning to a sub- ject, the interest of which ought to be proportionate to its importance, and on which, if on any, a woman may be supposed to have an opinion, at least worthy of an im- partial hearing. The criticism referred to is expressed with the mixture of plain-speaking and sarcasm which usually characterises the papers in the Saturday on social matters, and while we are willing to confess that the former is thoroughly deserved, at any rate in all fashionable circles, we hail the latter as the medicine which may aid in working a salutary cure; we would only deprecate the entire disregard of any " protest" or excuse on the part of the accused, and suggest that there are one or two aspects of the matter, as seen from her point of view, which might be brought for- ward with advantage. After complaining of the current faults of dress and conver- sation of late publicly noticed, we are told that to all rebukes from man, woman rej^lies by a tu quoque retort, which is dismissed as almost beneath argument; and here we beg to differ, on the ancient ground that example far outweighs precept, and, therefore, in pronouncing judgment on what is objectionable in the conduct of women, evidence of as great and as inexcusable sin in man should be taken into account as a palliative. A desire to win a certain amount of liking and admiration, we use the word in its best sense, is a universal, ay, and a God-given instinct in the feminine nature; and the thrill of pleasure with which a simple girl receives well-merited praise is a faint foretaste of the proudest and happiest feeling she can experience, the consciousness of being worthily loved. With all the dormant war-mth of her nature just coming into play, with all the eagerness and enthusiasm of youth and inexperi- ence, she "comes out," and finds, as the Saturday tacitly allows, that the young men whom she constantly meets, and one of whom she will in all probability eventually marry, are addicted to slang and chaff, and undoubtedly honour with their preference those damsels who are the " best fun," and afford them the greatest amount of care- less amusement; is it not taxing human weakness somewhat too severely if we expect the young debutante to perceive that this temporary populai'ity is in reality a reproach, since the element of respect is wanting in it; or, can we ask her to look on from a distance at the enjoyment of others, satisfied with the knowledge that THE ATTEMPT. 223 however " colourless and uninteresting" her life may be, it comes " fairly up to the standard" of unapproachable respectability ? Is it not far more likely that she will adopt the tone of her circle, and take her share in conversation that her unbiassed instincts would speedily condemn 1 Let her once do this, let her once stifle her better inclinations, and her deterioration is as certain as it is rapid. Hermione can never I'emount her pedestal nor resume her statuesque calm while there lives one among the spectators whose glance might remind her that she had once forgotten her queenliness. Perhaps a writer in the Saturday would deny the existence of such inexperi- enced and easily influenced maidens as we have described, and would say that sweet seventeen is already wise in the mysteries of " Styrian lotion" and " bloom of roses; " the scepticism is hardly sui-prising, considering whence it is issued, but though the great city, like all centres of luxury, can exercise a most baleful influence, London, after all, is not Great Britain, and we maintain that in more rustic regions there are still British homes and mothers after the old type, where the accustomed tribute of honour may well be paid. There is something inconsistent in the various statements we hear respecting the mutual influence of the sexes ; we are told, on the one hand, that woman is weak, unable to lead a fitting life without the immediate care of man, incapable of judging or reasoning without his advice and instruction, while, on the other, we are led to infer that it is the want of " good mothers" that gives rise to much that is evil among men, an inference which, of course, relegates to them an enormous power in the world. Each view is partially true, for while dependence on man is woman's natural and gi-aceful position, her indirect and refined influence is theoretically sujjposed to confirm his good, and aid in counteracting his bad qualities; admitting this, we would ask if it is fair that the stronger sex, presumably the best able to resist temp- tation and pursue an upright and honourable career, should, while claiming superi- ority, reject the attendant responsibility, and say that the bad example of the weaker is the origin of widely spread folly and immorality. The Attempt is hardly the place where such matters can be freely discussed, though had we the ready pen of the Saturday, this branch of the subject might be pursued farther ; still, one word more we must venture to say. In what is confessed to be a telling sketch, man is described as bringing, " as an agreeable topic of conversa- tion," a particular phase of modern society before the notice of the women from whom he yet expects the old standard of purity and modesty in which " Englishmen felt a national pride." 224 THE ATTEMPT. He must be singularly obtuse who cannot see that the two things are incompa- tible ; indeed, the general blindness on this point tempts us to recall the self-evident propositions, that it is hard to touch pitch and not be defiled, and impossible to re- place the bloom on a peach if once wilfully rubbed off. If there is any need to a^iproach painful matters, any good to be attained by it, in the name of charity let it be done gravely and quietly ; but if men speak of them lightly or acknowledge their existence to young girls, let them cease to criticise the results of their own handi- work, nor expect delicacy of feeling to exist where they themselves have been largely instrumental in destroying it. Some theorists aifirm, that in the necessary revolution of events opposite condi- tions of morality, manners, and even fashions, must recur, and that we might almost calculate the lapse of time required to complete a given circle ; thus, the period of sobriety is almost expired, and we must return in a few more years to the wine- bibbing habits of our great-gi\andfathers ; similarly they may allege that the failings so common among women are the legacy left us by the wtuous genei'ation Avhom we regret, and that our fashionable dames will be in turn succeeded by a more staid and simple race. The idea savours too much of fatalism to be pleasant, and makes life a somewhat hard thing for those who have the misfortune to be bom while the evil peiiod is working itself out; nor do we feel inclined to submit to the reign of paint and hair-dyes with no better consolation than the knowledge that it is a part of the recognised sequence of occurrences. Whatever may be the piimary cause, there is no doubt the minds of both men and women are in an unsatisfactory state, and it behoves each of us in our own sphere to discover the remedy. To bandy ac- cusations is of no use, nor do we derive much benefit from raising questions as to which sex was the first to fail; but we may justly ask, that we should not be left alone in attempting the task of reformation j we reiterate our appeal to masculine strength, and scarcely less to manly courtesy—though perhaps few would see at once the force of the latter claim ; it is founded, however, on very sufficient grounds, for it is a fashion among men of a certain style to speak of woman flippantly and slight- ingly, as if courtesy towards her were superfluous ; we say a fashion, because first, it is often a boyish afiectation, and secondly, if it last longer, we still presume that tlie speakers do not seriously include their own female relations in their sweeping con- demnation. Trivial as such comments seem, we all know how galling a very small sore will become if constantly irritated, and the same sensitiveness which, under the sunshine of encouragement, redoubles a woman's efforts in a good cause, positively writhes under unmerited contempt or blame. THE ATTEMPT. 225 To have her csp'nt de corps continually wounded, to be treated merely as an inane doll, to feel, as we have before hinted, that her influence exists only in theory, while in reality she is utterly powerless, is by no means a cheerful pros- pect, nor one likely to develop the home-loving or domestic qualities the Saturday desiderates ; yet, too frequently, no other lies before her. It is not to be wondered at if her pliable nature becomes warped, and her good intentions are smothered, so that finally she rebels in her turn, and feeling the reward that awaits her at her own fireside so slight, seeks elsewhere for interests and sympathy. If the typical English matron, the old Lady Bountiful, full of reverence for her husband, and kindness to her dependents, is so pleasing, does not the typical English Squire also differ in many ways from our polished modem gentleman ; his faults were many, but perhaps they did not interfere so much with the companion picture as do the sins of his successors. We do not hear that he voted his children a nuis- ance, or his home a bore, nor that he found life intolerable without a club ; on the contrary, he too was a domestic being, and if at times a somewhat hard master, any woman will allow, that provided love lies behind it, even a little tyranny is prefer- able to the chUl of indifference ; in the main, he had a rough faith in many things that to his heirs are almost empty formulae, among others, in God and in woman- kind ; and here in truth lies the gist of the matter, for though the former faith might be blind and unreasoning, like that of the " Northern Farmer," yet it was there, a grain that would in a thousand different ways affect and mollify the man ; altogether we imagine him to have been a gentleman more fitted to win a woman's respect, and make her what she should be, his best friend, than our nineteenth century dandy, ■who rather prides himself on being altogether above her society. "We would fain hope, however, that he is beginning dimly to see whither his thoughtless words and ways are tending, and that the vaunted weight of public opinion will gradually coerce into better paths both him and the miserable caricature of womanhood who now in her secret heart despises alike him and herself. We do not believe that womanly instincts have died out of the sex, they must reassert themselves ere long; but with the deepest anxiety in our hearts we say, give us fathers, husbands, brothers, who will accompany us in the right road, who will give us credit for good till we prove ourselves unworthy, share their friendship with us, not banish us from their confidence, unite with us in our joys and sorrows as Heaven intended they should, and who will assuredly find theii- reward in so doing, for she must be an exceptional woman indeed, who does not endeavour heartily to answer to every call so made on her noblest qualities. ELSIE STKIVELYNE. 2 E 226 THE ATTEMPT.

"^n an (Drc^arb."

OH, many a day has passed away, And my face has grown old to see, Since careless and gay the bright hours sped 'Neatli the dear old aj)ple-tree. M, And heavy trials, and long, long years " Have turned my dark hair white— But I still remember those joyous hours Of my manhood's young delight.

Oh, down in the orchard among the grass— I can see them sitting there; Sweet Lucy is twining the apple-flowers In the waves of her golden hair— And Harry is singing a merry song While his black eyes flash and glow— And Jack, from his seat in the boughs above. Laughs down to us, laughing below.

And there in the swing, in the flickering shade. Just swaying to and fro. Oh, there sits Eflie,—the one I loved As my life, long years ago. Oh, that sweet young face, with its thoughtful grace. And the liquid fire that lies 'Neath the lashes long, in the shadowy depths Of the dreamy, dark grey eyes !

I can see her rise as she hears my tread, I can catch her laugh so low, I can watch the rippling smile that played Round her lips and her calm, clear brow. I can feel the grasp of the small white hand Stretched forth in greeting sweet; And oh ! what happy rest to lie On the cool grass at her feet! THE ATTEMPT. Oh, Effie, my darling ! why did those days Speed so swiftly for ever away 1 All bright and brief as the first sweet blush Of the dawn of a summer's day. Then gathered the storm, and the black clouds broke In wrath o'er my bending head— I would I had died, when, that first dark hour, I learned that my love was dead !

Oh, apple-tree ! you are standing yet. Though your tmnk is gnarled and old—■ But that bonnie face, with its light and gi-ace, Has long lain low and cold. When spring-time comes, your blossoms gay Still gleam on your rugged brow,— But an angel's wreath of living flowers Crowns my darling in Heaven now ! MAS ALTA.

PART III.—SITTING ON THE MOOU.

CHAPTER I.

" But we, we empty heart and home Of life's life, love. We bear to think You're gone, to feel you may not come To hear the door-latch stir and clink. Yet no more you, nor sink." E. B. Browning.

So one woman, who was a poet, says what so many women who are not poets can only feel. Oh, for the blank, the giilf, the sudden silence in the house and in the heart, when the voice, the hand, the face you love are gone, and you are left. Left as lonely as the lark's mate among the heather, when his wings and his song are lost to sight and hearing in unknown spaces of sky. Left as lonely as the sea-weed on the shore, when the bright fresh waves that have borne it iip and played with it in 228 ' THE ATTEMPT. their morning gladness have crept away with the ebbing tide. Oh ! what is the pain of leaving to the pain of being left ? In all ages, in all ranks, that pain, and' the passion and poetry of it, are alike, and the most ordinary servant-giii who waves her cotton handkerchief to the slowly vanishing emigrant ship that holds her lover is as pathetic a picture as " Dido, with a willow iii her hand Upon the wild Bea-banks. We need our woman's patience to bear our woman's burden, and my burden travelled faster than my patience, and came to me first, as it does to most of us. Oh, how heavily it pressed as I turned from the door that morning ! I could neither bear soothing nor scolding, and I ran, as my habit was, up the wide, old-fashioned stairs to cry my heart out in n)y own old room. I cried and cried, with my face pressed into the pillow of my bed, till the eyes Charlie had said were like the brown pools Crawsmuir burn made among the rocks when the sunshine glinted in them, were blurred and dim, and miich more like the same pools after a spate. Since they could not look at Charlie any more, except in so far as he was represented in an execrable likeness in water-colours, taken by a fellow-oificer who set up for something of an artist, they seemed to me for the time, I must confess, of little use except to cry with. At last I felt a certain repentance mingled with fear for my own ingi-atitude. Had I no thank-offering but tears and misery to give for the best blessing of my life 1 Was it nothing that I knew Charlie loved me, and was worthy of all my love ? Was I not tempting the love that had given me so much to withdraw its bounty, and leave me to shiver outside the shut doors of the heart that had taken me in, or (though that wovild hardly be so cruel a fate) to wait year by year in loneliness out- side the gates of the better country, where my love had passed through 1 And I knelt and prayed for strength and patience, for hope and trust, for safety and blessing to my sailor wherever he might go. I prayed that I might be a good daughter, and that, when the time came, I might be a good, true, loving wife to the man I loved. And I rose with a new comfort dawning in my heart, and with one of the Hues I had learned oiit of the -iEneid long ago iu my mind,

" Quidquid erit, superanda omnis Fortuna ferendo est."

Ah ! that line, with its flavour of old times ! how it brought back Uncle James' study table, inked here and there by frequent Stygian overflows, caused by Chai-lie or myself, the one book, and the two heads close together over it. Such a long, long THE ATTEMPT. 229 time ago, when we were children, or so long it seemed to me, fresh from crossing the the dividing line, " Where the brook and river meet Womanhood and childhood fleet." But the line comforted me, and I went to the window and looked out, and felt glad to see that it was raining as hard as though yesterday's sunshine had never been. Then I dried my eyes, and bathed my flushed, tear-stained cheeks, and went down stairs. The storm was brewing still, but would not break for a while. My aunt sat at the luncheon table in the dining-room, silently discussing chicken. What a cruel, prosaic, ridiculous mockery chicken and other such " good familiar creatures," at ordinary times agi-eeable and endurable, appear to a young person in my then con- dition ! What might aunt Isabella mean by coolly inviting me to partake of a wing ? Was there anj-ihing else, I wondered, she would like me to do ? An ancient lyrical effort describes several feats, considered probably, to be something out of the common way. " The cow jumped over the moon." Did it, indeed 1 A very easy matter that would be to me, in comparison to swallowing a morsel of the dish my aunt presses upon me with such gentle ignoring of everything but the facts that it is luncheon-time, and I ate nothing at breakfast. " Where is Papa ?" I say at last; anything to break the silence, which is brimful of shocked disapprobation. " Gone down to Crawsmuir," replies my aunt " naturally he wants a little time to recover from the blow he received this morning. When a father has spared no care or pains upon his daughter's proper education and training, it is hard to find her wilfully and utterly throwing herself away upon the fi.rst adventurer with a pair of empty pockets who can persuade her he thinks more of her pretty face than of her pretty property." So the storm broke, and I was silent, as the birds are silent, till it passed over. But my heart was not silent. Ringing through it, as new-year chimes ring through the wiuter night, came the words of a song I had read to Charlie a week before, (Tennyson was a new poet then), the ballad of Lady Clare— " ' He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair, * He loves me for my own true worth : f And that is well,' said Lady Clare." My inmost spirit flung back the accusation scornfully, as a rock throws back a wave, but it hurt me ; my heart was a girl's heart, not a rock. True it is that women know each other's hearts, and sometimes use that knowledge as an engine of torture. I sat silent, tightening the fingers of my right hand round the little ring on my left, that seemed to have some comfort in it, and my aunt folded up her table 230 THE ATTEMPT. napkin slowly and deKberately, and said no more at that time. Perhaps she thought me convinced. She had sent her little puif of factoiy smoke well across my sun- shine, and left it to do its smutty work. Would the world judge as she judged 1 and after all, said my heart, what if it did? Had not Charlie said to me, as we came home the night before, that my only drawback was my wealth, but that, before he maiiied me, he would be independent of anything I might bring him 1 Did I not, between laughing and crying at his pride, ask him why, when he was willing to take my heart and my life, and all I was, at my hand, he should slirink from taking the poor miserable money and land that went along with me 1 What did I care for it all, except that I might give it to him, and if it was more blessed to give than to receive, why should he grudge me the blessing, any more than I should have grudged it to him, had he been the giver 1 Many a girl was crying over her poverty now, because it parted her and her lover, must I, I asked, cry over my riches, and sing not "The Lowlands o' Holland," but " The High- lands of Glenmavis hae twinned my love and me V " Listen, Charlie," I said, as I paused at the stile that led into the pine-wood, " our neighbour, Mr Crawford asked me for my inheritance last sjjring, without much caring to have myself, and you ask me for myself, without much caring to have my inheritance. I'll satisfy you both ; he shall have Glenmavis, and you shall have Nelly Moray, without the gild- ing, except that I have a silly partiality for you, and should like to give you all I can. The noble laird of Crawford was willing, at least, to encumber himself with me, in consideration of my money, but you won't take my money in consideration of me. No, I won't listen to you. Help me down, and think over my plan ; it seems to me an excellent one." So I had laughed over his pride and determination, all the time loving him all the better for them both. I knew how true and pure the heart was that had so opened itself to me, but a woman delights to see the man she honours crowned with the honour of others; and it was right, nobly right, that Charlie should resolve to make his own way, and be the " lord of his own hands," the builder of his own fortunes. And now, aunt Isabella had given a voice to the wordless, tcreeping, cowardly fear of what the world might say, that Charlie's sudden change of tone and face when he sj^oke of the fortune which would one day be mine had first put into my heart. But I knew my father would not judge as she did, or pretended to do ; his sorrow was all caused by the thought of losing me. And I went to look for him, and found him just returned from his walk. I helped him to take ofl' his wet over- coat, and he stooped as he hung it up, and looked through my eyes. THE ATTEMPT. 231 " Don't forget the mill, Nell," he said gently, " the water has'nt all run out to sea, has it ]" " No, papa," I answered, laughing in a small way, " there's just enough left to grind the meal and make bannocks for tea." But my laughing was too near crying to stop short of it, though I had some self-restraint in the matter, and have been used all my life to keeps my tears for my own private delectation. " Come, take courage, Nelly darling," so my father tried to cheer me, " you'll never do for " the lass that loves a sailor " if this is to be the way of it. Besides, I shall tliink you have'nt kept a single corner of your heart for me, who have the right of previous possession." For answer I threw my arms round his neck, and smothered him as far as in me lay with vigorous caresses. " You unnatural father, you harshest of parents, to imagine that loving Charlie would ever make me love you the least morsel less," I cried, our voices being now safe from common hearing inside the study. And, indeed, I felt that my love had widened and softened my heart, and made it gentler and more dutiful. My mill would turn all the more steadily for it, though the water might be dark and drumly for a little, and not laugh and sparkle like the careless, swift-running burn it had been before. " Let the stream widen and deepen," thought I, " and the brook become a river." How we look up from what is low and quiet, and long for what is high ; how we look out from what is narrow and safe, and long for what is wide.

" Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair, I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there."

Oh ! Father, is it not Thy plan that we should look up and on till our eyes fail and our hearts sink, and till we say " Earth is too narrow, open the other world and let us in 1" That day came to an end, and not long after my aunt left Glenmavis. Tliere was a certain shaking of the dust off her feet, a certain mental washing of her hands in the manner in which she said farewell, which implied that she had done her best for me, and now meant to leave me to take my own course. I was comforted by knowing that papa's opinion of Charlie did not at all coincide with hers, and by Charlie's letters. These last were very frequent, and mine to him were equally so; how I enjoyed his descriptions of the life on board, of his companions, of Gibraltar, where they were at that time, of all he did and all he saw. He used to say my letters came to him like a breeze from over the heather, and his brought to me a waft of fresh, strong sea-air ; they have a lingering sea-fragrance round them yet, these old letters. I unlock my old desk and take a packet of them 232 THE ATTEMPT. out. How yellow and faded ink and paper look ; alas for the hopes and delights that are faded too ! Autumn drew to winter, and winter to spring, and one May afternoon I went for a walk on the moor. The warm, sweet air made me languid at last, and I sat down to rest where a great lichened rock shadowed me from the westering sun, and also hid me from the road which passed across the moor from Crawsmuir to the little fishing village (it was hardly a town) of Nessburgh. It was an unfrequented road; most people preferred the longer but less lonely way which followed the coast for a few miles, and then struck across the level country. Yet some one had taken the moor that afternoon, for I heard voices approaching from the Nessburgh direction, though the rock concealed the speakers. They drew nearer and nearer, and I recognised the broad east-country accent of one of my father's tenants. He was relating some adventure, apparently, and his companion was only interrupting him with occasional expressions of wonder. Suddenly I heard a name I knew, oh ! how well—" Charlie Stuart," and my heart seemed to stop beating, as I heard a woman's sobs (it was the farmer's wife who was with him), breaking through her few disjointed words, as her husband's tale stopped. "Puir laddie, drooned ! Sae young and sae winsome ! And Miss Kelly !" That was enough. I sprang from behind the rock with a scream that I scarcely heard myself, but which old Phemie M'Intyre said rang in her ears for many a day, and fronted them suddenly, feeling as if I were a ghost that had no business in the daylight. I just saw then- affrighted faces, no more, and then " a horror of great darkness " came over me, and I reeled and fell. O. M.

t ^msoits mib tijcir plants,

SEPTEMBER AND OCTOBER.

LAST month, after numerous wanderings over hill and dale, by sea-shore and heath-land, we halted, wearied and heated, just as we neared the corn fields, and neither the beauty of the showy poppy, nor the brilliancy of the blue corn-flower, could lure us on any further. Kow, however, that the excessive heat and accom- panying langour of summer have passed, to be succeeded by bright, genial, autumn days, when all nature seems to rejoice, when the trees are laden with fruit, the rich yellow com is waving in the breeze, and the whole earth clothed with fulness, we THE ATTEMPT. 233 must be "up and doing," or rather, seeking; for soon, alas ! too soon, the melancholy days will come

" Of wailing winds, naked woods, and meadows brown and sere."

Loudly calling for notice as we follow in the steps of the reaper, is the gaudy Poppy {Papaver rhceas), with its scarlet petals and curious seed-vessel, too well-known to require more minute description. The species, from the seeds of which the opium and laudanum of commerce are obtained, is the White Poppy (P. Somniferum), but it is very rarely found wild. Close to the Poppy, and having the same habitats, is the Corncockle [Agrostemma gitJiago), or Crown of the Field, with upright stem and large purplish-red flowers; it belongs to the Dianthus, or pink tribe. The calyx is com- posed of fine leafy segments, the upper parts divided into long narrow leaves, which project beyond the petals, and the whole covered with silky hairs. A pretty little trailing plant, hiding itself amongst its taller rivals, is the Scarlet Pimpernel {Anagallis arvensis), " With its eye of gold And scarlet, starry points of flowers, Pimpernel, dreading night and showers. Oft called ' the shepherd's weather glass,' That sleeps till sun has dried the grass, Then wakes, and spreads its creeping bloom Till clouds with threatening shadows come ; Then close it shuts to sleep again. Which weeders see, and talk of rain."

This little flower has been aptly termed " one of Flora's watches;" it always turns towards the sun, and opens at particular times. The remarkable property of solar flowers, such as the Yellow Goat's Beard, the Sow Thistle, and many others, of thus unfolding their petals at an allotted time, has been traced by botanists to a peculiar arrangement of the spiral fibres. Specimens of our old friends, the Compositsea, now meet us on every side, and linger on untU winter frosts lay them low. The list with which these autumn flowers furnish us is so long, that we must endeavour, for perspicuity's sake, to classify them a little, and this we shall most readdy do by dividing the family into its three distinct groups or tribes. First we have the Succory (Cichorance), in which the florits are all 2)erf-^ct; that is, containing stamens and pistils ; 2d, the Thistle tribe {Cynarocephalai), with tubular florits ; and 3dly, the Chamomile tribe {CorymhifercB), an intermingling of tubular and strap-shaped florits. Of the first, we have at present 234 THE ATTEMPT. in flower several varieties of Hawk weed (Hieraciuni), greatly resembling the Dande- lion, but rather paler in colour ; the variety Pilosella is lemon-coloured, with a red stripe outside, and long, oval, cottony leaves ; Wild Succory or Chicory (Cichorium Intylus), a straggling plant, with large, clear, blue flowers ; the Sow Thistle (Sonchus arvensis), with large, upright, succulent, yellow flowers; and lastly, the Wild Lettuce (Laetuca Virosa), which is poisonous, but perhaps may be the origin of the cultivated varieties. The representatives of the second or Thistle tribe are numer- ous. One of the most elegant and beautiful of the family is the Centaurea Ci/anus, or Blue-bottle, with bright bine flowers, the outer florits being much larger than the inner, the calyx scaly, the stem slender, and the leaves narrow and woolly. Very common, likewise, are the Knap-weeds, Centaurea Nigra and Centaurea Scahiosa, the latter bearing handsome crimson-coloured flowers. During the present and suc- ceeding month, the many species of Thistles are in perfection ; the white, downy plants of the Cotton Thistle {Onopordum Acanthium); the Prickly Scotch Thistle {CnicusLanceolatus) ; the almost crimson flowers of Cnicus AcauUs, Plume Thistle ; the large, solitary, drooping flowers, of a purple colour and peculiar scent, of the Musk Thistle (Garduus Nutans) ; the smaller, more numeous heads of the Prickly Thistle {Carduus Acanthoides), and the broad, variegated leaves of the Milk or Holy Thistle {Carduus Marianus), supposed to have been dedicated to the Virgin Mary. The varietj^ which is generally regarded as the memorial plant of Scotland is the Lanceolatus, but some claim that distinction for the Melancholy Thistle. In case there should be any of my readers hitherto equally ignorant with myself as to the time when the Thistle was first adopted as oar national emblem, I shall transcribe the following extract from an old magazine whicli lately fell into my hands :—" Time was when a company of bearded men, with high-crowned hats and doublets, met in solemn consultation within the walls of the old Council House of Edinburgh, the subject of their deliberation being the desirableness of placing the Thistle on their banner, instead of the figure of St Giles, which had borne many a highland storm. This Council was convened about the middle of the fifteenth century, and shortly afterwards the Melancholy Thistle, whicli had hitherto been deemed the badge of the house of Stuart, became conspicuous on every banner throughout Scotland." Another plant, not unlike tlie thistle, now to be met with in waste places, is the Teazel, deriving its scientific name of Dipsacus from the Greek word signifying thirst}^, the leaves being so i:ieculiarly constructed that they embrace the stalk and form a sort of cup-like cavity capable of retaining moisture. The Fuller's Teazel {Dipsacus Fullomim), a large thistle-like plant with oval heads of blue flowers, is THE ATTEMPT. 235 exceedingly valuable to the woollen cloth manufacturers, " it alone is available to raise the nap from woollen cloths, and for this purpose the heads are fixed round the circumference of a large broad wheel which is made to turn in contact with the cloth." Belonging to the same tribe is the Devil's Bit, Scabious (Saabiosa Succisa), with flowers of a purple-bluish colour, forming globose heads. Miss Pratt, in her " Wild Flowers," tells us its strange name was given on account of its root, which terminates abruptly. One of the old herbalists thus puts the matter—" Fabulous Antiquity saide that the Deville, envying the good that this herbe might doe to mankind, bit away part of the roote of it, and thereof came the name of Succisa and Deville's bit." Of the third or Chamomile tribe, we shall find amongst the corn, or by the way- side, representatives in the White Ox-eye or Moon Daisy {Chrysanthemum Leucan- tliemumi), with large radiant flowers similar to those of the daisy ; the Yellow Ox- eye or Corn Marigold (C. Segetum) ; the numerous small white blossoms of the Feverfew (C. Farthenium) ; the Chamoniile (Anthemis Nohilis), readily I'ecognised by the aromatic odour of the leaves ; the small radiant pinkish umbels and much divided leaves of the Yarrow or Milfoil (Achillea Mille/olium); and, lastly, the bright profuse yellow flowers and ragged leaves of the Ragwort {Senecio Jacohcea.) A near relative of the composites is the Knautia A rvensis, or Gipsy Rose, with heads of light-coloured lilac flowers, which botanists now class with the Teasel tribe. K. H. D.

Co

SLEEP on beloved ! and if the prayer It may not be, for were it given That asked so much might reach the sky. To earthly love to be so blest. Mine would be breathed that not a care The heart within itself a heaven Might ever dim thy waking eye. Would seek no other place of rest.

That not a flower of love might fade. Then e'en for thee whose coming years That not a hope of life decay, I most of all would wish to bless, Nor sunbeam know a single shade. Whom I so love, that gushing tears, That might not pass in light away. Not words, must speak that love's excess.

I can but pray that He whose might Is shewn in mercy and in love. Will e'en in sorrow be a lightj— An ever, shining star above. E. H. S. 236 THE ATTEMPT.

Courisfs.

" Too much rest is rust, There's ever cheer in changing, We tyne by too much trust, So we'll be up and ranging."

I DO not know any class or profession so amusing in appearance, manners, and customs, who display in all these things such infinite variety, yet tinged with so strange and whimsical a family likeness, as tourists—the wandering Arabs of civilised life, who go to and fro in the earth, and walk up and down in it, who seem to lie dormant during the winter months, and suddenly awake to x-enewed existence under the quickening influence of the summer sun. During a considerable part of the autumn of 1867, I lived in a house situated close on the road between Melrose and Abbotsford, and thus had ample opportunity of observing the appearance and habits of that strange creature, the tourist, who, dur- ing the summer and autumn, may be found in any j^aj-t of Melrose and its environs, in the greatest abundance and perfection, at any hour of the day, and till a very late hour of the night; and many an amusing scene I have witnessed, fully developing the natural eccentricities of this chameleon-like animal. These scenes mostly took place during our visits to Abbotsford, which were very frequent, for being all of us enthusiastic admirers of Sir Walter, we were far from being satisfied with one pil- grimage to his shrine. I am sure, during the past summer, we must all have seen some specimens of the tourist who travels for travelling's sake. Of all kinds of tourist, this is the most easily pleased, the least troublesome, and the jolliest. He travels where he likes, and stops when he likes. He has no very definite line of march mapped out for him- self, and therefore is not distracted when a train is late, nor broken-hearted when his carriage breaks down. He takes things as they come, and makes the best of them ; ho is constantly discovering new and beautiful walks, drives, and coups d'oeil, archi- tectural beauties which have hitherto remained unnoticed, and interesting ruins as yet unexplored. He is excellent at devising and contriving all sorts of little acces- sories to the comfort of himself and his fellow-traveller; he is the best possible C07n- pagnoii cle voyage—but alas ! he is, comparatively speaking, rare; and among a score of tourists, you will often find but one fully developed specimen of this kind. Then there is the systematic tourist, who goes forth to do his duty as a Briton THE ATTEMPT. 237 (for this class is essentially of British extraction), and to see the greatest possible amount of sights in the smallest possible space of time. The amount of hard labour which these unfortunates go through is truly appalling; they rush from abbey to castle, from castle to palace, picture-galleries here, paper-mUls there, in the morning up with the lark, to struggle to the top of some mountain, and dash down again to catch a train, in the afternoon steadily engaged in investigating a monster brewery, in the evening braving the night-air to behold the effect of the moonlight at some place appointed in his guide-book. They are the creatures of routine; if they miss a train, if they lose half-an-hour beyond the time prescribed by rule for any particular excursion, they are utterly miserable, their whole plan is ovei-thrown, and they cannot form a new one. They return home at the end of their tour with a sense of immeasurable relief, a proud consciousness of having done their duty, and gradually begin to persuade themselves that they enjoyed it very much ! I saw a tourist of this class leaving Melrose Abbey one lovely August day ; he was a stout, middle-aged gentleman, " Jolin Bidl" every inch of him. With an expression of resolute endurance on his face, he trudged round the Abbey, had looked at all the established points, and glanced at the carving when the guide told him the proper time and place to do so, had paused nearly five seconds over the stone which covers the resting-place of the Bruce's patriot heart, had exclaimed, " Bless my soul !" at the quaint image of the Wizard Michael, and now, with a heavy sigh of intense relief was leaving the Abbey. He was seized by an enterprising driver, placed in a gig, and whirled off to Abbotsford, he submitted with placid resignation; was it not so written in the guide-book 1 I met him again that afternoon, near Abbotsford gate, on his way back to Melrose ; he sat in the gig, his hands folded over the guide- book, his eyes fixed on vacancy, looking neither at the Eildons on the one side, nor at " Tweed's fair river, broad and deep," rolling through the rich strath, on the other ; but still, he looked more cheerful than before—his day's work was done—its troubles and fatigues were past—he was going home to dinner ! I hope he enjoyed it more than his visit to Tweedside. I called this class of tourist essentially British; but I forgot some very fine American specimens, who afforded much amusement to us all. One American gentlemen, in particular, -deserves to be mentioned, who boasted that he had "done" Edinburgh, Melrose, Dryburgh, and Abbotsford in one day, and who, to my certain knowledge, " did " the whole of Abbotsford in exactly five minutes ! I suppose this is the sort of man who is sure to make his way in the world; but for a travelling companion, I should prefer something rather less energetic. Upon the whole, however, the American tourists whom we noticed, were among the most 238 THE ATTEMPT. attentive and intelligent of the many pUgrims to Tweedside;—they certainly were the most amusing. They seemed thoroughly interested in all the ruins and relics, and well informed upon all historical and poetical events connected with ' them; their curiosity was excessive ; and I went once through Abbotsford with two Pennsylvauian gentlemen, who insisted upon undergoing the torture of the thumb- screw, that they might understand the working and effect of the machine (and it is only fair to add, that they stood the application most manfully) ; but the worst of curiosity in a tourist is preferable to listless indifference. Of course, there were multitudes of family tourists, in parties of all sorts and sizes ; sometimes a father, mother, and children, all going a-roving together; some- times a gentlemen with his daughters, or a lady under the protection of her sons, bent ujion seeing a little of the world ; frequently a young coui)le on their wedding tour, occasionally an older pair who had had their wedding toiir many a year ago, and had now come away for a week or two of holiday and relaxation, leaving all cares and incumbrances behind, and renewing their youth in the fresh hill air, among the glens and valleys so long unvisited. Family tourists are, for the most part, a comfortable, steady-going branch of the species. They don't work too hard, and they do theii* work thoroughly. As in most parties of family tourists there is a mixture of weak and strong members, they generally manage to preserve a happy medium between the overpowering energy of some tourists, and the listlessness of others. They travel, not from a sense of duty, but from a wish to enjoy themselves ; and, generally speaking, you will observe more genuine enjojTuent among this class of tourists than among any other. Perhaps the fathers are sometimes a little too sharp in exposing any historical and geographical blunder on the part of the young people, and the mothers a little too anxious about the luggage, and the daughters a little too sentimental, and the sons a little too critical ; but there is nearly always a large amount of thorough enjoy- ment, of genial good humour and mirth, seldom blighted by the terrible blase spii'it so often observable in those who travel in accordance with the demands of fixshion, or to chase away the demon of Ennui. If it ever was your lot to travel with a fidgetty tourist, pray accept the assur- ances of my deepest sympathy and condolence; I may not be able fully to estimate your sufferings, but I know they must have been great. One of the most prominent characteristics of fidgetty tourists, whether male or female, is the multitudinous col- lection of parcels and packages which they assemble round them, and carry with them. Bags and baskets, portmanteaux and reticules, paper parcels of all sorts and THE ATTEMPT. 239 sizes, cloaks, shawls, railway wrappers, umbrellas, parasols, canes, fishing rods and tackle, flasks, sandwich-cases, guide-books, handbooks, and railway time tables, such are tlie imjKdimenta under which the fidgetty tourist drags himself along, and which possess the jDerplexing and inconvenient peculiarity of constantly going astray, Their railway tickets seem peculiarly apt to disappear, and are always very difficult to find. They (the tourists, not the tickets) are generally oppressed with a fear of being carried past the station for which they are bound, and every now and then, when the train slackens speed, they gather up an armful of their cherished possessions, and prepare for a rush, heedless of the tranquillising assurances of their fellow-passengers ; and when at last they discover their mistake, half-a-dozen bags and a score of lesser articles are found to have been mislaid or displaced, and have to be hunted for in every corner of the carriage. This class of tourists is pre-eminently a grumbling and discontented one ; the weather is always too hot or too cold, too wet or too windy for them; by some curious fatality they always stop at tlie worst inns, and obtain the worst fare and accommodation ; during some lovely drive, they will shut their eyes to the beauties of nature, and deafen you with their lamentations over the scanty cushioning of the carriage ; and, standing in the very shade of some majestic ruin, you will hear at your elbow a fidgetty tourist bewailing his lot in having stirred from home without a camp-stool! They are generally very 2:)eculiar in their dress; but tljis remark a2)plies to almost all tourists, and a queerer collection of costumes than may be found at the Melrose station any fine day during the tourist season, can scarcely be imagined. Not only foreigners, in whom we might overlook such vagaries, but quiet, respectable English people, canny Scotchmen and Scotchwomen, when they leave their homes for a few weeks' sight-seeing, seem to throw all their established ideas of elegance and taste to the winds, and appear in garments of the most eccentric shape and hue. It is impossible to describe them, but I daresay all my readers will remember some illustration of what I say. Last, but not least, let me claim your attention for a few moments for that meritorious and hard-working individual the walking tourist; and let me first of all advise all intending tourists who are young, strong, and without encumbrances in the shape of weakly fellow-travellers, to walk wherever and whenever they can ; it is the real way to see the country, and the way in which they will obtain most enjoyment and benefit. But then you must walk in order to make a tour, and not make a tour in order that you may walk ; make the walking a matter of pleasure, and not a point of honour; walk at a moderate pace, and stop before you are thoroughly tired. 1 say this, because during the last few years there has been in 240 THE ATTEMPT. gradual process of development a terrible being, the extreme type of a walking tourist, the embodiment of muscular Christianity, who devours raw meat and hard biscuits, carefully eschews all butter, sugar, and pastry, and seems to consider time was created solely to be walked in, and space solely to be walked over. He explores every route and every district of our island—distance is to him no obstacle—he laughs the elements to scorn, consoling himself with the philosophic reflection— " That wind is only air, And rain is only water." He pushes steadily on to the end of his self-prescribed pilgrimage, and when he returns to the bosom of his family, can talk of nothing but the mile-stones. On an intensely hot August day we met on the Abbotsford road, a young man in whose every feature the words " walking tourist" were distinctly legible. He was swinging along under the burning sun with a pertinacious endurance worthy of a better cause. He had a knapsack on his back, a water-proof coat slung over his shoulder, a thick stick in his hand, determination was in his countenance, perspiration on his brow, he was sun-burnt, dusty, and ti-avel-staiued ; I am sure he was thirsty, and the road was entirely without shade; but not for the Avorld would he have sat down for five minutes, or slackened his pace in the slightest degree ! and though we all agreed that he was wasting his enei'gies, and losing much of the pleasvire of his tour, we most of us confessed to admiration for the indomitable " pluck," the thoroughly British determination of the walking tourist, and heartily wished him Good Speed ! « DIDO.

Stem Winter's frosts, from pole to pole. Attest the benefits of coal, A mineral rich,' tis strange but true, To vegetable sources due. 'Tis said, ere centuries three are o'er, This luxury will be no more; Then let the poker gentl}^ fall On what gives comfort to us all. ALMA. THE ATTEMPT. 241

THERE are probably few people who do not remember with 2)leasure the time when they first escaped from the bondage of a schoolroom, when the prison doors were .thrown open for governesses and masters to take leave of delighted pupils, who could scarcely restrain their smiles, and force themselves to look properly resigned and sorrowful, as they packed worn-out lesson books and faded atlases upon the deserted .shelves, or passed them down in triumph for the use of a younger genera- tion. It is a time towards which the desires of most children point, as soon as they can see beyond a week ; the present has happiness sufficient for them, and yet, with the inconsistency so frequent in childhood, which values its treasures none the less for desiring others more, they look forward to the future impatiently, wishing that these golden days would pass quickly, and that they could grow up to be men and women without a long probation. " I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late, And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait,

" I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head, The child is a woman, the book may close over, For aU the lessons are said."

When the joyful time has come a season of idleness and confusion generally follows : liberty is new, and amusements are engrossing; it is delightful to rise in the morning and look forward to a day which will be unfettered by rules, and interrupted by no calls to study, so that weeks and months often elapse before free- dom loses its first charm, and complaints are heard, much like those in the old nur- sery days, complaints which some people make all their lives—" that there is nothing whatever to do." They believe in the truth of the maxim which patient gover- nesses reiterated years before without gaining credence, that it is the hard work at regular intervals which makes play in childhood so delicious, and sometimes fall into the mistake of supposing that if they could return to school-days and school-hours, and resume old occupations just where they left ofi", it would make them perfectly happy. This scheme is often resorted to when the necessity for work is painfully felt, studies which were thrown aside in triumph a few months before are all resumed, 2 G 242 THE ATTEMPT. discarded lesson-books are brought from their shelves, and new ones added to the stock, a list of rules is drawn up marking out some employment for every hour of the day, and in spite of the many hindrances which may be expected, resolutions are taken to obey them scrupulously. This plan sometimes lasts for three months, it generally falls to pieces at the end of as many weeks, nor can any other result be well expected. No allowance has been made for the thousand interruptions which occur every day in a large family, teaching its members self-denial against their will; it is not easy to see how the duties they owe to others are to be reconciled with the duties they owe to themselves ; and having been accustomed to the undisturbed regularity of a school-room, it is difficult to accomplish work wliicli is liable to sudden interruptions in the middle, and may not be resumed for hours. Few can imitate Charlotte Bronte, who, as Mrs Gaskell tells us, used to leave off ^\'Titing when she was in the full flow and ardour of composition, disappear into the kitchen, where she peeled the potatoes and made them ready for dinner; then, having accom- plished the mission, return to her papers as coolly, or rather as ardently, as if she had never left them. On the contrary, they are distm-bed by every trifle, and find that it is quite impossible to give their minds to work after a morning drive, or an afternoon spent in shopping. It is disappointing, also, to feel their interest in study diminished. The desire for praise, or the excitement of competition, used to make even dull German exercises interesting, but these encouragements have ceased for ever, and after a short time of struggling against interruptions from without and weariness from within, they give up their scheme altogether, burn the written mles, throw the books back upon schoolroom shelves, and try some better or worse expedient for killing time. There are others, who have a real love for study, who are not driven to it by the necessity of finding something to do, but from an ardent wish to gain knowledge, which grows as they gi-ow, and deepens with every step they take towards the accomplishment of their desire. They are not chilled when people assure them that no object is to be gained by learning more than others, and that ridicule instead of praise will be the reward of their j^roficieucy ; ambition is not the motive which im- pels them to work hard, it is the keen delight they feel in reading and thinking, the pleasure they derive from the mere exercise of their faculties, even if it led to no result, and was pursued by the derision of a whole world. When, on the other hand, they are warned against self-indulgence, and reminded that these employments, though praiseworthy in themselves, are apt to become too absorbing, and that the hours they spend in reading might be more profitably occupied, their consciences THE ATTEMPT. 243 awake with a sudden sting, they are confused and troubled, partly acquiescing in the tnith of this opinion, but, at the same time, feeling that to give up many of their hours for study would be to cramp their whole natures, to come short of what they were meant to be, and in most cases to fail in being anything at all. They are some- times assured that duty requires them to surrender these intellectual pleasures, even should the cost of doing so be equal to the pain of cutting off a right hand, that they may give themselves unreservedly to the work which needs all their assistance, to the cause which requires in its champions, not the possession of a cultivated intellect or richly-stored mind, but simplj' an earnest heart and a will that cannot be shaken. On the other side, many warn them against the sin of neglecting talents, and remind them that their gifts are not to be lightly thrown away or left to rust, since for every one an account will be required. It is difficult to reconcile such opposite ad- vices : both seem just; and the struggle to decide between them is not only painful, but often ends in complete failure,-—the more bitter, since there is always a luiking conviction that it was possible to have fulfilled both vocations, to have made their mental gifts assist practical work without neglecting either, that this was their noble calling, and that they have missed it.

" All that I could not be. What men ignored in me. This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped."'

Tliere is another class of people more frequently met with than either of those I have described, who, without feeling that ardent desire to study which characterises the latter, contrive to keep clear of rocks where others have foundered. They do not expect to pass any day without interruption, nor do they make plans which are sure to be defeated, but content themselves by obtaining as much time as they can for reading without neglecting other duties. It is astonishing the number of books they get through in the course of a year ; one after another is taken up, read, and thrown aside, whether it contains history, poetry, philosophy, or science, being a matter of little consequence, provided the interest be sufficiently sustained to keep their minds from wandering, and to furnish them with the mental excitement they crave. Periodicals and reviews are great favourites with them ; they make a point of examining every pamphlet which comes into the house, unless it be unexception- ally dull, and can scarcely see the outside of a book without wishing to open it. The habit of taking notes of what they read has never been theirs, since it involves too much trouble, and occupies time which might be more pleasantly passed in learning 244 THE ATTEMPT. something new; thus, the scraps of knowledge they have acquired are all in con- fusion, and resemble seeds mixed together in a bag, useful enough in their different ways, but needing to be sifted and arranged before they are of any good. Their error does not lie in choosing foolish books, but in the simple fact that they have no orderly plan for study, and are apt to weary of a subject before it is exhausted or made thoroughly their own. They begin, for instance, with a volume of history, not too ponderous and weighty ; when that is finished, a book of travels or physical geography is taken up and studied diligently for a time, then they rush to another subject, such as the Norman Conquest of England, or the great Revolution in France, which obtains their attention for a week, and is followed by a little theology and a little botany, and a very little science—one book coming after another with- out any pause, and often chosen for no better reason than because it happened at that time to be lying upon the library table. There is one advantage, certainly, to be derived from this sort of study, it enables people to talk with great freedom and with an astonishing amount of self-confidence upon the deepest and most various sub- jects ; it is strange how much it costs them to rejily to any query by the honest answer, " I do not know;" they make a point of knowing everything, and having an opinion upon everything, and would be shocked if their right of private judgment upon the questions of the day were denied or called to account. Idle and indiscri- minate reading is a barrier to all real culture ; it would be better to spend one hour in reading according to a steady plan, than six in skimming over subjects after the butterfly fashion I have described. Cecil tells us that " Method is like packing things in a box ; a good packer will get in half as much again as a bad one." This saying is appropriate in many cases, but its wisdom is never more clearly exemplified than when we apply it to liabits of study. The first, and, I think, the most important, element in self-culture is to have the mind under proper control, and able to turn quickly from one class of subjects to an- other. We often hear people say that it is not worth while to occupy spare minutes in reading books which require a serious effort of attention, since the time escapes while they are trying " to get into the subject," meaning by this phrase that they cannot fix their minds upon it at once, nor prevent them from being occupied with the ideas which were paramount before they began to study. Some people have been known to re:Kl volumes in the moments they seized upon while waiting for others to keep their appointments, and when most persons wouM have thought it " not worth while" to do anything but look out of the window, or complain of their friend's want of punctuality and disrespect. This power involves not only a steady habit of THE ATTEMPT. 245 concentration, but great elasticity of mind ; it is therefore difficult to acquire, and many look upon it as a special gift far beyond the reach of ordinary people. No doubt there are persons, and these by no means the least talented or useful, who are extremely slow in changing the current of their thoughts, and find it diffi- cult to fix the attention quickly upon a new tojjic, so that they often give the im- pression of thinking about one subject while they talk of another. This failing, however, is more frequently noticed in men than women, for it is acknowledged to be a special characteristic of the latter that their minds are lightly turned from the set of ideas wliich is occupying them to others of a different nature ; it rests, tliere- fore, with them to make what is often an excuse for frivolity an aid to higher attain- ments. It is a great mistake to suppose that self-culture means only the cultivation of our minds by reading and studying. This is necessary, but it is not the whole or the half of what we have to do ; some people spend their lives in literary pursuits, and are surpassed in clearness of judgment and acuteness of observation by others, who are too busily employed in practical matters to spare much time for reading or thought. Many complain that they are obliged to pass eveiy day in a constant round of employment, which prevents them from studying to any advantage, and that their minds waste while they pine at uncongenial work, not knowing that this work, if it be well done, and thoroughly understood, quickens their intelligence quite as much as a course of reading; tliey must, indeed, sufier many privations, often thirsting for more information and a wider sphere of thought, but there is no need to fear that their minds will deteriorate or their intellects be dulled. It is not in the faces of hard-working women among the lower classes that we most frequently see an ex- pression of vacancy, denoting absence of thought. They are generally acute and clear-headed, even if their book-learning be of the slightest description, and would contrast favourably with many persons above them in social position. Their homely household work, the constant forethought they must exercise, the skill, and manage- ment, and economy needed to make their money serve its purpose, call out faculties which would otherwise sleep ; it is only when they are dreamy and indolent that their intellectual powers decay. It would be impossible to lay down exact rules for mental culture, each one must be guided by her own judgment, her own peculiarities, and her own tastes, remembering that while it is necessary to make a plan for reading, it is scarcely ever wise to make a plan for the disposal of time. The dangers of such an attempt are obvious. If we pass a single day with a plan before our minds, from which we are 246 THE ATTEMPT. reluctant to deviate, intent upon accomplishing certain schemes of our own, and making these schemes our first object, there is no wonder that we should become blind to the many claims (unforeseen, and therefore unprovided for), which press upon us on all hands and will not await a more convenient season. Some people make plans on pur2:)ose to avoid these small interruptions, complaining that but for an arrangement of this kind half their lives might be spent in doing " odds and ends." No doubt this is the case with most of us; we may sometimes regret the necessity, but cannot escape from it; and surely these so-called hindrances form part of our mental culture, assisting thought more than we know, and going far to give us that power of concentration and elasticity of mind which are so much needed, since we are compelled to make diligent use of the fragments of time we have, and to fix our attention upon new subjects quickly. A great many persons are puzzled by being told to put their knowledge to a practical use ; learning was such a pleasure to them, that they never looked beyond the present moment, or considered what was to be the end of their diligence, and when the questions fairly arise, " of what benefit is all this to other people, to what use shall I put such knowledge as I have gained 1" no philosophy seems able to answer them. I should say to such persons, " Your knowledge cannot be separated from yourself, it has moulded your character, influenced your thoughts, in short, it has become a part of you. Do you suppose that the insight into human nature, be it ever so slight, which you have gained by studying history, that the awed and swelling thoughts which rose in your mind as you studied astronomy and realized what grandeur surrounds us, that the charity and large-heartedness which you have learned in reading the lives of men and women, alike in theii- holiness and wisdom, though separated by different countries and different creeds,—do you suppose that all this has done no good 1 do you think that your capabilities of usefulness would have been as extended if these subjects had never opened on your imagination ? No, you cannot think so,—the desire and the i:)Ower to learn were given to you and have been cultivated, so far all is well; now, put yourself to use; and if the knowledge you have acquired is true, not shallow and vain, your life will soon prove its value." Some will say, " This may be so far true, but others, who have learned none of these things, are quite as useful as those who are deeply read ; then why waste time upon what is of no absolute importance f To which, the only answer is—" They have their work, you have yours; no doubt, they are of equal use, but it is in a different way ; by neglecting the cultivation of your talents, you make yourself unfit for your own post, and are as far off as ever from filling theirs." We need not be THE ATTEMPT. 247 alarmed, then, when we are told that our knowledge is of no practical value. "Who can separate his knowledge from himself, or, dissecting his miad as if it were a map, point to one part and say,

" This portion of the river of my mind Came from that fountain."

Let US awake to a sense of what we lose by remaining idle, let us improve every faculty we possess, remembering that the future is a sealed book, and that the smallest talents may be of use hereafter in ways we little dream of now ; let us keep our minds open to understand the lessons that come from mute and common things ; not absorbed in self, not buried in indolence, but with an exalted aim before us, so that self culture, instead of being another name for self indulgence, may seem to all the noblest duty, the highest honour, and the purest pleasure this world can give. R N.

'Wobz mt 'gxith, f Dk mc gan^."

Sigh no more such mournful sighs, luiow me first, and then approve. Sing no more of star-like eyes, Trust me first, then think of love, Talk no more of broken hearts. Prove me first, and pi'aise me then ; Think no more of deep-laid arts— Why be schooled by other men ? " Love me little, love me long, " Love me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song." Is the burden of my song."

Fiercest fires are soonest cold. Friendship's heaven's own gift to earth. Gayest garments soonest old, Faith, a gift of double worth. Fondest words are easiest spoken. Love is Eden ere the fall, Warmest vows are oftenest broken, Constancy outweighs them all. " Love me little, love me long, " Love me little, love me long. Is the burden of my song." Is the burden of my song." DIDO.

j 248 THE ATTEMPT.

PART III.—SITTING O'S THE MOOR.

CHAPTER II.

" My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat In river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore On the open desolate sea, And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore. For he came not back to me, Ah me !"—Jean Ingelow.

I had a long fever, and when my senses and my strength came back, oh, how my w ild, wilful, passionate nature turned its face to the wall, and chose death rather than life ! Why should the sun come streaming in to mock me, all through the long glory of the July days 1 Why should the birds sing and the wind stir the roses near my window, and fill the room with their scent, and why, oh why, should my father and my annt (she had been a kind, patient nurse) white and weary as they wei'e with watching, seem so glad and thankful that I was better 1 " Patience," I said to myself, " a watch doesn't go on long when the main-spring is broken ; neither does a woman when her heart is broken." Ah me, I was mistaken. " Now," I said, one evening when the doctor had pronounced me " much stronger," "tell me about it, papa, I can bear it; I know the worst." And he told me, my poor father, for he saw the hunger in my eyes, out of which the hope had died. How Charlie had been sent to the coast of Algiei's in command of a small sloop and a few men, how a sudden storm had risen, and the ship and every soul on board had gone down in sight of land. An unseen rock, a sudden crash, a rush of the cruel water, and then—death. No last message, no parting token, no one word out of the silent void to tell me that he thought of me before he died. It was hai'd and bitter to bear. And when at length I came down-stairs, and was able to go out into the garden, and feel the unsympathetic brightness and warmth of summer, my aunt said she was going back to Edinburgh, and would take me with her. And I consented ; what did it matter? To Edinburgh we went, and I sat at the window and watched the people passing, and wondered if many of them had as heavy hearts as mine. Soon I found out, though at first I was too weary to notice anything, that my aunt did not intend to let me shut myself up from society ; THE ATTEMPT. 249 and also that she gave her own account of my trouble to the friends who came to see us. One day she spoke a little too loud, as she had done once before. I was supposed to be showing some engravings to a yoimg acquaintance, while her mother and my aunt sunk their voices to hold a colloquy about my looks and their cause. "A sudden loss, my dear Mrs Armitage, grieved us all extremely—fine young man, her cousin, you know, had known him from childhood, nothing more." These two last words (my aunt pronounced them quite distinctly enough to be heard by both Miss Rubina Armitage and myself; and the former was listening to them most attentively), were more than I could bear. I rose and laid down the book of engravings, and said, " Aunt Isabella, you are mistaken. I was engaged to be married to Charlie Stuai-t, and I will never maiTy any one else." And then I went out of the room, and began packing my trunk. Papa thought it a sudden move- ment, but if I had fancied a residence on the gi-eat wall of China, he would have merely prepax-ed for the journey as quickly as possible, and he took me home. And I have stayed here ever since.

" Slowly did my sucooiir come, And a patience to my grief."

I think my first comfort came into my heart when I rode to Nessburgh to try to say a word of cheer to a poor girl whose husband had been lost one stormy night off the coast. I could do nothing at first but cry with her; it was about a year after my own sorrow, but then I thought of a better consolation than my utmost sympathy, even the sympathy of the heart that holds within itself all the joy and all the sorrow of the hearts it has made, and I read " Let not your heart be troubled," and the healing words seemed to fall like dew on the thirsty ground, till the poor yoimg widow thanked me through her tears. Then I began to feel tliat my suffering had not been in vain, and that the rest of my life must not only be a waiting, but a working. For it is only to hearts that have borne a heavy burden of pain that God's great gifts of patience and sympathy are given, and they must be used, even as the gifts of hope and happiness must be used, among our heavily-burdened fellow-men. Gradually my eyes were opened, and I saw into what a pit-fall of selfish, peevish wretchedness I had nearly fallen, and I roused myself from apathy, and began to try to brighten my dear father's life as much as possible, and I succeeded. My story is told. I sit here alone beside the fire. No, I never married. I kept my word. When papa seemed grieved at the thought of leaving me lonely, 2 H 250 THE ATTEMPT. and asked me if I could not fancy any of those who wished to be something nearer than friends, I could only say " No." I liked them, some of them at least, very much, but because the moon was taken out of my sky, I would not stick up a Chinese lantern instead. If He who makes the light and the dark saw fit that my day should be darkened into twilight before it had reached its noon, I would wait till I reached the citv that hath no need of the sun to see His light again. I could not bury that long-ago day on the moor when Charlie Stuart asked me to be his wife, and walk over its grave to give myself away to anybody else. I know women, good women too, who have buried such days, and trodden the ground flat, and built a house, and made a home above them, and I don't blame them, but neither do I envy them. Their houses are full; mine is empty, save for the dear memories that keej) my heart warm even now, for it is many a year since I closed my father's eyes, and Aunt Isabella is gone too. I was with her in her last illness, and she told me before she died that she had made a mistalie about me, and was very glad her schemes had been frustrated, and I cried with remorse for my harsh thoughts of her, when she went on and said how the faithlessness of one she had given all her heart to in her girlhood had dried up her belief in all things true and good. My house is empty, but my life is not quite love- less or forlorn for all that. There are sad faces, and glad faces too, that brighten when they see me in Nessburgh and Crawsmuir, though my jDony-carriage is not such a frequenter of the roads as it once was. Now it is getting dark, and I ring for my contemporary Jessie Mclntyi'e, who used to cause such grief of mind to Old Maggie when she was first installed as under- housemaid long ago, to draw the curtains and bring in tea. Hark, a sudden ring at the door-bell, and she and I start simultaneously. Then a quick, light step (the door being, as Jessie would express it, " on the sneck," is opened without further notice), and in walks a remarkably pretty girl of eighteen, holding up a long, trail- ing riding-habit. " My child, what brought you here this cold night?" says I. " Who but Saladin, Grannie, and he must take me back before it gets very late, so please give me my tea, if you think my company is worth it. I sent old Eobin round with the horse." I feel the cool fresh cheek and the warm red lips pressed to mine, and Theresa Crawford, my old admirer's only daughter, takes olf the little velvet hat with its coquettish feather, and sits down with the dancing fii-elight play- ing over her ripples of yellow hair, and looks at me with her great blue-grey eyes, which arc wide and bright with some happy excitement. Tea over, and Jessie with- drawn into some distant home of tea-cups, whence still comes a faint clatter, down THE ATTEMPT. 251 my young guest sits on the rug at my feet, aad looks yet more eagerly into my face, then suddenly pulls off her left riding-glove, which she has kept on all this time, and holds up a slender white hand, with a sparkling circle of diamonds. The eyes and the ring seem to refract each other's light, and tell the story she has ridden over from Crofthead on purpose to tell me. " Darling Grannie, they said I shouldn't come, but I was so happy, it seemed as if nothing but getting on Saladin's back and having a regular good gallop could let it all out, and I felt I must come and tell you first, after papa and mamma. You know what it is 1" " I know who it is," answers quiet, old Miss Moray, " Captain Ti-eherne left to-day, didn't he?" " Only for a fortnight, and we are engaged. Oh ! grannie, how happy I am." And she rests her head on my knee, and I stroke her bright hair fondly, and wish her all happiness and all good. She is a great pet of mine, Theresa Crawford. And you see my heart is not a private dwelling-house any more, with the doors .shut upon its own griefs and pleasures. I have made it into a quiet inn, where those who choose may sit down and rest for a little while, and get such refreshment as the place a£Fords ; it is for such as I to do so. We can afford time in our silent life to stop and give what others would very likely give better if their life were not larger and more noisy, and did not carry them along more hastily. Nine o'clock strikes, and Theresa starts from a reverie she has been enjoying, and I ring for Saladin to be brought round, and go to the door to see her mount. All the December night is one great glitter of stars, and I stand for a moment to look at them as the sound of the horse-hoofs dies away on the avenue. " He maketh the seven stars, and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into the morn- ing." And I can wait His time. O. M.

THE END.

IN INDIA.

SOMETIMES in Modem Athens it has been our lot to meet with damsels who professed to have attained that unenviable state in which they can say of all pleasure, with the hero of the play, that "there's nothing in it." Would that they could be 252 THE ATTEMPT. shipped off to any part of our Eastern Empire, and launched upon its curious life, with companions as ignorant as themselves of the language and ways of the people ! They woiild speedily return, prepared to be contented with everything at home, for though, no doubt, many sorrows haunt the souls of housekeepers even in merry England, none can compare with those that await them, where all their ideas must be more or less changed, and their dealings must be with the most accomplished liars and swindlers in the universe. Such has been our fate since we left behind the arid peaks of Aden, and perhaps some account of our doings may amuse the readers of " The Attempt." After a flying visit to Bombay, which in no way impressed us, and a wearisome voyage to Kurrachee, we bade farewell to the sea, and turned our faces inland, ti'avel- ling for one night by rail, and arriving, almost at daybreak, on the banks of the Indus, at that jioint and hour a picturesque tree-fringed stream, with innumerable strange objects hurrying down the current, which proved to be native fisherman. We often watched their proceedings with interest, wondering at their ease and se- curity even when caught in the wake of our steamer; each man wades out waist deep, and then laiinches before him a large red pot, on the mouth of which he lies face downwards ; he then floats with the stream, plying a net with a long pole, which he genei'ally holds xipright, probably to help in keej^ing his balance ; the fish are stowed into the pot, and when he has caiight enough he paddles to the bank, and carrying his goods on his head, walks back to his native village, a very primitive discijile of the gentle craft. For eighteen days we made way slowly up the river, stopping incessantly for wood for the engines, roasted by day with the thermometer at ninety-two, chilled by night, and much disappointed with the scenery. Once, we passed a range of low hills interesting as the scene of one of Napier's battles ; sometimes we saw the mirage, its deceptiveness heightened by the to us unexpected phenomenon, that a string of camels, in crossing the jslain, cast long reflections, as if in walking through shallow water; sometimes a dust storm tore along the horizon, or we saw a procession of " Cawupore Devils," large columns of sand resembling waterspouts, and whirling with great rapidity; but usually unutterable monotony characterised our voyage, and we recalled, with full appreciation, a j^icture in the Royal Academy named " An average view of the Indus," and which represented a straight brown bank either of sand, or clad with scrub or high grass, straight lines of brown water, and brown sand bank, varied by the jiresence of brown alligators, a yellow sky, and a hot sun— these were the objects that greeted our eyes day after day, with but rarely a few trees, THE ATTEMPT. 253 or a mud village. Sunset alone could make the level region look beautiful, and the early night was striking enough when the steamer was moored, and the natives crowded on shore to cook their one meal, for certain castes will not touch food pre- pared on any kind of boat, nor, indeed, in the vicinity of a white man, whose shadow, falling on the materials, would defile them, and render them useless ; and a wide space was always filled with little groups, each squatting round a fire, and enjoying the re- past with its accompaniment of "hubble-bubble," or pipe. One day, we passed at Sukkur a curious sudden height, where three old forts command the river, their walls partly painted blue or white, and where there are palm trees of a tolerable size. The place, however, is dismal in the extreme, and to English travellers peculiarly depressing; for here lie the bones of six hundred of the 78th Highlanders, slain by disease with which the bravest cannot cope, and Sukkur shares with some other places the unenviable name of the "white man's grave." Since that catastrophe the barracks have been abandoned, and hardly a white face is now to be seen there. Leaving the river behind, and thankfid to be off the narrow boats with their lack of space and shade, we travelled still on through Mooltan and Lahore, past Umritsur with its famed golden dome glistening in the sunlight, past cultivated fields where the delicate corn looked beautiful to our tired eyes, and so to our final destination in the heart of the Punjaub. And here, would that we could fittingly de- scribe the gharry in which we travelled the last night; a ricketty concern resembling a meat-safe more nearly than any other known article, and conveying, in a well below, provisions for the journey ; above that, the bed on which the traveller is sup- posed to find comfortable repose, and on the top, baggage and servants;—the whole drawn by horses which, when once started, can go at a gallop, but unhappily usually require the aid of several men at the outset to tui-n the wheels, and oblige them to move ; unless, indeed, they are too active, and prefer to spend some time in looking in at the windows and going through other futile evolutions. Now, at the end of our wanderings began the process which every " griff^' must undergo, that of being cheated and robbed by every soul with whom we dealt; and no one at home can imagine the feeling of irritation with which we discover first one and then another attempt at deceit. Does a friend send us her own particular pedlar, he tells her we are new comers, and he must charge sixpence, only a sixpence a-yard more for his wares, and it needs a sharp rebuke from his old customer to make him, still under protest, return to his original prices. Tliat no one statement made by any of our household deserves a moment's credence, is an axiom to be undoubtingly accepted. 254 THE ATTEMPT. and as we are fortunately in the neighbourhood of some good Samaritans who will answer our endless questions, we come off less badly than many, though friendship and Scotch caution combined cannot do more than partially assist us. It is some- time, too, before we can accustom ourselves to the bare walls and mud floors of our bungelow, the doors with cumbrous fastenings on one side only, the piiblic existence, as each room has three or four doors always open, and no windows, and the strange appearance of the servants, whose very attitude of respect, with folded arms, looks to a new comer impertinent. Our hearts revei-t with affection to the hideous hag who presided over the Malta hotel; for, unpleasing as was her appearance, she was the last relic of that integral part of the British Constitution, a liousemaid. No doubt, if spoken by educated natives, the language might have some slight claim to be considered musical; but the dialects of the lower classes are uncouth and perplexing. While wearisomely elaborate and vei-bose in the turning of a sentence, there is a singular paucity of common exjiressions. Thus, the same words express yesterday and to-morrow, the day before yesterday, and the day after to-morrow, and only by the verbs can the speaker's meaning be ascertained; thank you, and such amenities are unknown, though there is an abundance of flattering titles—highness, protector of the poor and such like—which are used in every sentence, while the royal we, is the idiom from the English to the natives. The want of any word precisely corresponding to have causes many an absurd blunder, and we ourselves gravely informed a man that he was a candle, when meaning to ask if he had got one. The native character is, to most people at least, veiy unpleasing, and we think with surprise of the enconiums we have heard passed on it at home; distance we imagine has lent enchantment to memory, though we also hear it everywhere asserted that the mutiny has left ineradicable traces, and that the servants are not so good, nor as a whole is the nation so submissive or respectful as formerly. Much is being done to foster the new spirit of independence by mistaken philanthropists in England who argue upon matters of which they are practically ignorant;—far be it from us to wish that the inhabitants of the country should meet with any but the fairest treatment at our hands, but unless the relations of conqueror and conquered are to be maintained, there is in the minds of many experienced Indians no doubt that mutiny, and perhaps eventually successful rebellion, must be the result. There is an innate servility and duplicity in a native that is most repellant to the British nature, and perhaps no one can judge of this better than an English lady who sees its full development. She knows that when she is alone her servants' faces have an indescribable aii- of lurking insolence, which does not tend to increase THE ATTEMPT. 250 her placability, and she knows that the moment the Sahib, the man who can make them suffer, enters the house, their deference and humility return ; and this varia- tion goes on in exact proportion to her power of assuming a stem manner, and her determination in cariying out any threat of punishment. Fear rules a native, and the proof of this is that the leaders who have been most popular with them are not those who have professed to like, or endeavoured to please them; but on the contrary, men of inflexible spirit, mostly of the muscular school, noted for personal daring; and who, while allowing liberty enough and to spare in many ways, could chastise with a severity that would mark them as repro- bates for ever in the eyes of our soft-hearted peace party at home. One such, well- known to fame, was so adored by his Sikhs, that they founded a sect named after him, and wore in his honour some imitation of a European hat. On one occasion, having condemned a prisoner to death, he had to wait for confirmation of the sentence, and during the interval the culprit died. " I told him I would hang him, and it must be done," was the verdict; and, accordingly, the dead body was hanged sooner than the Sahib's word should be broken, and it is said that few deeds so im- pressed the natives, or bore such good fruit as this. Any act is desii'able that increases their already strong faith in the written or spoken promise of their masters—the truthful word of an English gentleman is so unlike anything in their own experience^ that it obtains almost unbounded credence ; and whether for good or evil to them, it is well that they should feel it will never be unfulfilled. Absolute justice, unbending truth, and unvarying firmness—these are the measxires that should be meted to the double-dealing, childishly-minded races of the East. The more we see of the country and climate, the more marvellous do the efforts appear made by our people in the mutiny ; and, if anything were wanting to make us retain the inevitable feeling of superiority, it would be the sight of these scattered and defenceless bungalows, in which, as at Arrah for example, so gallant and successful a fight was maintained, and these wide tracts of country over which our men marched in sickening heat, stedfast in the double purpose of aid and of revenge. Those who, in their quiet distant homes, preach of toleration and a chimerical sympathy, cannot realise how differently we in India feel; it is impossible to restrain the sudden thrill of burning anger, as we think of the things that have been, or see, as we did here lately, a man known to have been " troublesome," who escaped by some accident with his life, and who now, as he salaams to the passing Sahibs, does it with a smirk on his face, and an affectation of ultra-respect that betray how unfor- gottenly those terrible by-gones lie in his mind. 25G THE ATTEMPT. But to turn to jileasanter themes. We are believed by many dreamers amoug our friends to be in the midst of magnificence such as greeted Aladdin; they think the " gorgeous East" is a region of picturesque costumes, beautiful flowers, and birds and insects of brilliant hue ; would that they could see the reality ! We are now on the lower spurs of the Himalayas, only GOOO feet above the sea ; it is true the rains bring out some sparse wild flowers, and two or three kinds of fern, but till now hardly a plant was seen to vary the j^ai'ched grass; one kind of tree only is to be found, a scraggy pine, strongly resembling the extinguisher-shaped tim- ber of a Noah's Ark ; there ai-e whitish vultures, and brown jackals round our house, but the butterflies alone boast of any beauty of colour. Not long since, after a heavy storm, we heard, for almost the first time since leaving Scotland, the gurgle of a little runlet by the roadside ; and what a picture did the familiar sound call up, of steep banks with their treasures of delicate under- growth, their tangles of ivy and trailing fern hanging lovingly over the clear brown streams that make our Scottish woodlands beautiful ! Then for study in the way of costume, we have frequently certain very dirty objects under the trees, which look like sacks, surmounted by several yards of equally dingy stuff rolled into a turban ; these are coolies who " bito" or squat, in compact attitudes unattainable by a European, during any intervals of work, and sleep with the jjlacidity of half torpid animals, certes ! neither picturesque nor in any way agreeable objects; and yet crea- tures hardly better clad than these, wear silver bangles and earrings, the usual way of canying all personal wealth ; the workmanship is of the roughest description, but still the ornaments look curiously out of place on their wearers. Once, indeed, we saw an attempt at finery on the part of a small Rajah ; he was fat, and his horse was fatter, and ambled like a circus nag, as, with arm a-kimbo, and every variety of jjurple, gold, and scarlet drapery about him, he swaggered to the band-stand, strongly re- sembling the rider who heads the procession, when a troupe of travelling performers go through an English town, and who, we know, conceals several changes of character and dress on his amply padded person. Further up the country, there is more beauty of scenery to reward the artist, and more variety to please the traveller, which perhaps some day we may endeavour to describe; meanwhile, we would assure our readers that life in India is by no means the fairy tale that some Orientalists would have them imagine, and that " Home, sweet Home," is a vision that grows daily dearer to the heart of an exile. ELSIE STKIVELYNE. THE ATTEMPT. 257

"% Cljousmib liljs."

A thousand miles of moor and moss, Or lightly kiss her mouth ; And mountains wUd, there be. While I'm a thousand miles away. And rivers deeji and wide to cross. Here in the stranger south. Between my love and me. Oh weary, weary, thousand miles ! How many days of summer heat. So far away my darling's smiles. Of winter snow and rain. My darling's face of glee— Before my love and I shall meet So far those eyes, so bonnie blue, Once face to face again 'i So fondly tender, brightly true. How many hours of gnawing care, That beam alone for me. Of hungry longing, fervent prayer. Of lonely, weary pain,— Oh tossing waves of yellow corn ! Of sadness well-nigh near despair. Oh meadows green and free ! Of disappointments sharp to bear. Oh quiet purple heather hills ! Of hopes but weak and vain 1 Oh whispering woodland lea ! God, whose dear hands hold love and life. Why do you lie so still and broad In thine own time and way. About the long^ long miles of road Oh, bring us bravely through the strife, That lead unto the north 1 Out into perfect day 1 The breeze that floats you gently by And I wUl wait till, some glad hour. Is oh ! so happier far than /, Shall those long miles be past. As speeds it gaily forth ; And my true-love's eyes shall shine on me, For it may fan my darling's brow. And gaze in mine at last! And in her sunny tresses blow, MAS ALTA.

—-c^Lj;:J(& ;^ *is-2.j-

'§,OUB on i^t Pislorg of Pusif.

PART IV.

THE oldest foreign specimens of simultaneous harmony which remain extant. are to be found in the missals and other writings of Guido d'Aretino. Dr Bumey says that they reflect little credit on the taste of the writer, " for there is no melody 2 I 258 THK ATTEMPT. so uncouth that would not be more injured than embellished by such accompani- ment." These early specimens of part music were written in the strictest counter- point, note against note, in every part, and it was not until the 14th or 15th century that the era of music in parts, moving in different melodies, came into favour. Then fugue and canon became universal, and composers rivalled each other in their attempts to produce new and intricate canons, " riddle canons" as they were called, in which merely the subject was written ; and the reader had to exercise considerable ingenuity to discover where, and in what key, the response was to come in. It is very curious to observe the influence of fashion in the employment of the various kinds of intervals. It might have been thought that the laws of harmony were immutable, and not subject to the caprice of fashion; but we find it quite otherwise. In the middle ages, only these intervals, namely, 1st, 4th, 5tli, and 8th, were allowed to be used in harmony. The 3rd and 6th were subsequently intro- duced with some hesitation, and discords (such as 2d, 7th, 9th), were not used at all until about the time of the Reformation, and then only when regularly prepared and resolved. The 11th and 13th are of quite modern origin. There seems to have been always some uncertainty about the use of the 4th ; some reckoning it as a dis- cord, to be always prepared and resolved, and others treating it as a j^erfect concord. Similarly, the 3rd and 6th have both been regarded at various periods as discords i-equiring resolution, and as perfect concords. This uncertainty does not exist with our present system of tuning; when the major 6th is identical in sound, with an inverted minor 3rd, although even now there seems to be some uncertainty about the use of 4ths. It is difficult to under- stand why consecutive 5ths should be more objectionable than the same sounds inverted—viz., consecutive 4ths. Nevertheless, while consecutive 5ths are pro- hibited, we meet with consecutive fourths constantly, even in ecclesiastical music. An equal anomaly appears to be the treatment of 9ths, llths, and 13ths. . Wliy should their resolutions differ from those of the same notes in the lower octave—viz., 2ds, 4ths, and 6ths,—when the notes are identical, in consequence of the even tem- jjerament now universally adopted 1 Dr Burney likewise calls our attention to a very different, though equally curious, effect of fashion upon music. " In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the ambition of singers and composers seems to have been the approaching of the great abyss, by the extension of the scale downwards. I have met with ^mssages in the bass as low as the gi-eat C ! Every THE ATTEMPT. 259 lover of music must, on the contrary, have observed that, of late years, singers appear to be possessed of a centrifugal passion and rage for extraordinary altitudes, as if their apotheosis depended on such flights." The number of different parts or voices in one composition has been also liable to many fluctuations. John Okenheim, about the fifteenth century, wrote a motette in thirty-six parts. Dr Bird one in forty different parts. Six—viz., bass, baiitone, tenor, contralto, mezzo-soprano, and tenor, wei'e generally used ; while, at the pi'cseut time, we have seldom more tlian four. The discovery of the art of printing gave as great an impetus to the progress of music as to that of the other arts. The golden age of English music lasted from about this period until the reign of James. Henry VIII. is said to have seriously studied the art, and to have composed two masses, and Cardinal Wolsey also encouraged music, and would appear to have derived much pleasure from it, being, as we are told, always accompanied on his journeys by six smging boys and six gentlemen of the choii'. Queen Elizabeth has the reputation of having been a good performer upon the virginal; her lesson-book is still extant, and the difficulty of some of the lessons proves that, ajjart from Court flattery. Her Majesty really deserved her reputation of being a good player. It is difficult, how- ever, to conceive of a refined ear taking pleasure from the concert of twelve tnimpets, two kettle-drums, fifes, and cornets, to the sound of which she is said to have regularly dined. Let us hope that the band was placed at a distance from tlie royal table ! In this reign, the practice was adopted of impressing musicians for choirs. There is in the British Museum an order, signed by Queen Elizabeth, for impressing children, for the purpose of training them for singing in the Chapel Koyal. The English Cathedral services are said to have been in no way inferior to those of Italy. Most of our English ecclesiastical composers lived about this time. It is scarcely needful to name Orlando Gibbons, Morley, Bull, Bird, Talli^ Farrant, &c. Their services alone would render this period a memorable one. The stiffness and monotony of fugue and canon for secular music were now beginning to be felt, although fugue was still employed (as at present) in church services. By degrees, the madrigal usurped the place of the canon. The former, though now deemed severe and strict, was then considered to exceed the bounds of musical licence in its com- parative freedom from the trammels of the prescribed rules. Severe counterpoint was not retained in these compositions, and the parts moved in equal and unequal notes, according to the idea intended to be conveyed ; and no longer moved, in mono- tonous rhythm, as prescribed by the ancient mles. It has been often said that the 200 THE ATTEMPT. Reformation exercised an injurious influence upon music. Dr Burney, however, is not of that opinion. At times he inveighs against the Puritans for their wrong- headed narrow-mindedness, but he does not fail to tell of Luther, whose conviction it was, " that music is intolerable to demons"—and of John Huss, some of whose music, for example the Easter Hymn, was modernized by Luther. Calvin, however, does not seem to have approved of the art, for "not a musical instrument was suffered in Geneva for one hundred years after the Reformation." Prior to this period, the monks and clergy were almost the only people who took pai-t in the pei-formance of music. All organists in churches had been monks, no layman being permitted to share in the celebration of the service until the reign of Queen Elizabeth, when Thomas Tallis became organist of the Chapel Royal, being the first layman admitted to that office. In acknowledgment of his talents, we fiud that some curious privileges were granted to him, and in particular, a monopolising patent gi-anting to Tallis and Bird the sole right of publishing not only " their own music, but also all other ; and for the sole ruling and vending of music paper." The earliest specimen of English dramatic music, a musical comedy entitled " Gammer Gurton's T^eedle," bears the date of 15G0. Dramatic exhibitions, how- ever, were known in Padua as early as 1243 ; and 1264 a Compagnie was instituted there, whose principle employment was to represent the sufferings of Christ in Passion week. Le Chant Royal, invented in 1300, consisted of verses to the Virgin and Saints, sung in chorus by the troops of pilgiims returning from the Sepulchre ; and it appears that all European nations, in their first dramatic representations, had recourse to religious subjects. The Moralities and Mysteries were the originals of the oratorio or sacred drama; but these did not consist exclusively of musical performance, but were chiefly declaimed, having instrumental and vocal pieces introduced at intervals. One manner of their performance was to conceal the singers behind the stage, while the parts were represented by wooden or waxen figures. When the Reformers began to disseminate their doctrines throughout Euroj)e, religious plays were made the vehicles of opinion, both by Catholics and Protestants, and so common was it for them to avail themselves of Scripture plays, in which they mutually anathematized each other, that an act was passed in the reign of Henry VIII. forbidding these entertainments. The titles of some of these are sufficient to show their extravagant grossness. " Jesus, the true. Messiah," a comedy. " The new German Ass of Balaam." " The Calvinistical Postillion," &c. The mysteries ultimately obtained admission into the churches. THE ATTEMPT. 201 " San FUippo Neri," about 1515, among other pious exercises, in order to di-aw the Roman youth to church, and keep them from secular amusements, devised the- plan of having chorus Psalms divided into two parts ; the one sung before the sermon, and the other after it. In order to render the service still more attractive, some sacred story was written in verse, and set by the best musicians of the time. Being rendered interesting to the congregation, there was no danger that, during the sei-- mon, the hearers would retire before they heard the second part. This brought San Filippo's church or oratory into such repute, that the congregations became inmense, and this species of musical drama, under the title of " Oratorio," began to be gener- ally adopted. It is in one of these Oratorios, " San Maria Vergine Addolorata," that we find the first mention of the terms of diminishing or increasing the degi-ees of sound, such as Dim., Sforz., &c. We do not find the term Da Capo used until IGGO ; be- fore this, the strain intended to be repeated was written a second time. About 1590, dramatic melody or recitative was invented, and has ever since been regarded as essential to, and characteristic of, musical drama, whether sacred or secular. We are told by musicians, that this invention was of the utmost service to the progress of musical composition ; but, notwithstanding, it does not appear to have suited Eng- lish taste. Plays in which the dialogue is spoken, and music occasionally introduced, still please an English audience better than the sustained recitative of the Opera. The Opera is of Italian origin, and arose from the freak of some musicians at the Carnival at Rome in 1606. Delia Valle gives a curious account of it. Five musicians united their eflxirts, both in the composition and in the performance, which took place in the open streets as they were drawn about in a cart during the carnival. " Though no more than five voices or instruments were employed (the exact number which an ambulant cart could contain), yet these afforded variety, as besides dialogue of single voices, sometimes two or three, and at last all five sang together. The music, though dramatic, was not all in simple recitative, which would have been tedious, but ornamented with beautiful passages and movements in measure, without deviating from true theatrical style, on which account it pleased extremely, as was manifest from the concourse of peojile it drew after it, who, so far from being tired, heard it performed five or six times. Some continued to follow oui- cart to ten or twelve places where it stopped, and never quitted it so long as we remained in the streets, which was from four o'clock until after midnight." One of the earliest operas is the famous one of Oronte, first set by Cesti in 1649. It was a tragi-comcdy ; but at this time air (which was scarcely separated 262 THE ATTEMPT. from recitative), had not two distinct characters as at present, for serious and comic purposes, for the subjects of comic opei-as were seldom so farcical as those of modern burlettas, and were therefore less likely to suggest such gay and frolicsome measures. The French apparently have done less for music than any other European nation. Voltaire accounts for their short-comings by referring to the inconvenient pronuncia- tion of the language. " French vocal music," he says, " is unpleasing to other nations, on account of the peculiarity of prosody—we always lay stress on the last syllable, while other nations lean on the penultimate, or anti-penultimate. Ours is the only language which has words terminated by e mute ; and tliis e, not pro- nounced in common speech, has a note assigned in musical declamation. And this it is which renders most of our aira insupportable to those unaccustomed to them. Besides the slowness of our melody, which, in such strange contrast to our national vivacity, will always make the music of France fit only for its own inhabitants." In England masques were the precursors of the opera. The music of Milton's Masque of Comus was written by Henry Lawes in the reign of Charles I. This monarch paid little attention to the art, and is said to have had no coucei"ts during his reign. The total suppression of the Cathedral service in 1643 gave a grievous blow to music, and the destruction of the church books accounts for the (musical) barbarism of the succeeding reigns. If the Loyalists had one enjoyment which more than another excited in the Puritans acrimonious hatred, it was the celebrating religious rites with good music, while the Cavaliers were equal enemies to the coarse, vociferous, and clamorous psalmody of the Puritans. The consequence of the abolition of Cathedral services was, of course, the departure of the singers and musicians, and foreign organ builders and singers were obliged to be invited when the church services were again practised. As a proof of the re-establishment of the influence of music over the minds of the English, we need only quote the history of the Temple organ. Two of the most celebrated organ builders—Harris and " Father" Smith—were employed by the benchers of ' The Temple' to send in estimates for this organ, which the benchers were resolved should be the finest in England. Each maker erected an organ in the church, and for more than a year it was impossible to decide which was the best. At last, after the competent judges had failed to determine which instrument had the superiority, the matter was decided by Lord Chief-Justice JefTei'ies in favour of Father Smitli's. This organ, until within a very recent period, had the black keys, which in a piano serve for both A flat and G, C and D flat, &c., divided into two halves, so that the player could use either half of the black note according to the true THE ATTEMPT. 263 ration of the semi-toue required. This organ is (or was) tuned every Saturday, a sum of £20 per annum having been set apart for that purpose. Henry Purcell, who ranks foremost among English composers, was one of the first performers upon this instrament. It is he of whom Diyden said in his Epitaph, that he had " gone to that blessed abode where alone his harmony can be excelled." He died at the early age of thirty-seven. During the suppression of Cathedral services, dramatic exhibitions were like- wise abolished in England. Matthew Locke, who lived from about 1650 to 1680, wi'ote some of the earliest English dramatic musie—i.e.,2}ure dramatic music, in which (unlike the comedies before alluded to), the musical part was of the first importance, and not introduced merely as a change from the declamation. " The Tempest" and " Macbeth" are well-known specimens of his composition. To quote the words of one of the best musical authorities, " the music for the witches, though smooth and airy as any music of that period, has obtained by age that wild and savage cast which is so admirably suited to the diabolical characters supposed to perform it." Although common enough in Italy, yet oratorios were never attempted in England until 1720, when Handel set the sacred drama of Esther for the chapel of the Duke of Chandos. This was publicly performed in 1730, and the following is a copy of the advertisement of the performance :—" By His Majest/s command, at the King's Theatre in the Haymarket, will be performed the sacred story of Esther, an Oratorio in English, composed by Mr Handel, and now revised. To be performed by a great number of voices and instruments. N.B.—There will be no acting on the stage, but the house will be fitted up in a decent manner for the audience." As most of Handel's works were written in England, he may perhaps be regarded as almost an English composer. He was originally intended for the law, but soon relinquished it, and in 1710, when he was only about 25 years of age, he had attained to the honour of being Kapellmeister to the Elector of Hanover. Soon after the accession of George I., Handel came to England, and his greatest works were all produced in this country, and with English words. The Messiah was first performed in Dublin, whither Handel had gone in consequence of some disputes with the English publishers and performers. Handel's operatic music enjoyed much popularity, but since the failure of his scheme for naturalizing the opera in England, he relinquished that style of composi- tion, and devoted himself to the oratorio. With the record of Handel's introduction of the oratorio, closes that part of the History of Music which is not too purely technical for the purposes of this paper. 264 THE ATTEMPT. The biographies of eminent composers afford us the best oppoi-timities of tracing the progress of various styles of harmonization, closely connected as it is with the inven- tion of the new and elaborate musical instruments of the present day. EINNA.

Similes.

No. II.—A COQUETTE.

We bend our steps into the frosty air. Tempted by sunshine, and the bright blue sky ; We find the day not genial, though so fair, Its breath doth chill us, as it passeth by. So doth the maiden that is but a show Of womanhood, in beauty, and in grace. That lacks the soul thereof, and owns the face ; That looks so bright, but sheddeth no soft glow That seems so true, but only seemeth so ; Bitter her tender mercies—piercing frost— Freezing the veins that near her, to their cost. The fount is ice, whence never streams can flow. T^o fruit for bare twigs where no buds can blow. The heart is dead, where we no pulses know. LuTEA RESEDA.

='&f^^

The prize offered for the best prose paper which should appear in " The Attempt" during the months of August, September, and October, has been awarded to LuTEA RESEDA, for her paper entitled " The Influence of Rhyme on the Poet's Mind."

Articles which Jiave appeared in " The Attempt" must not be inserted in any other magazine without a notice stating that they are reprinted from " The Attempt." THE ATTEMPT. 265

at Cljristmas brought to ^tUm ^xmt,

"I wonder what Christmas will brhig me," said Adele de Bassin, a bright piquant French girl, as she stood before a long mirror, fanning herself coquettishly. It was a large salon in an old chateau of Brittany, more elegantly than comfortably furnished, for the cold wind came piercing through the crevices in the windows, and the many min-ors reflected everywhere the bare desolate trees, and frosty sky. A small square of carpet covered the centre of the flooi', and a few logs of wood burnt dimly on the hearth ; and, kneeling before it, striving to stir them into warmth, was a young girl, the only other occupant of the apartment. " It will bring me the canary thou hast promised me, ma cousine, and from grandmother some good book," she continued, with a shrug of her shoulders. " Oh how I wish people would give me pretty presents, jewels, and bright things; I am weaiy of this tiresome blue ; I wish I were married, and I should have such a beautiful toilette, and I should wear red, it would suit me so well.," she said, catching a piece of scarlet wool from her work, and twisting it through her dark hair. " But what would'st thou like it to bring thee, cousin Helene 1" she exclaimed, darting round, as something suddenly flashed into her mind " What dost thou think it will bring thee 1" " Nothing very remarkable, I suppose," said Helene Grant listlessly. She had given up, as futile, her attempts to reinvigorate the fire, and was sitting on the floor, her head leaning back on the wall, and her hands dropt on her lap, in that peculiarly dejected, wearied way, which expresses, more than words, the hopelessness of the spirit. She .seemed about two-and-twenty, tall and slight, with soft brown hair braided away from a pale face, whose only beauty lay in the large, soft blue eyes, which seemed full of a certain melancholy pathos. " But it will bring thee something wonderful," said the younger girl, dancing joyously round the room ; " something that will astonish thee; guess, for I must not tell thee." Helene shook her head with a sad smile. " I do not know anything that could make me very happy, unless," she added, half to herself, " going back to dear old England." " Ah ! but thou must guess," said Adele, stopping before her, " or if thou really can'st not, I must tell thee;" and, bending, she whispered in her ear, " It will bring thee a husband ; grandmama intends to marry thee." Helene started in dismay, and turned deadly pale. She had lived long enough 266 THE ATTEMPT. in a French household to know how • useless opposition was to any decree of Madame's. "To whom?" she half gasjjed forth. " I do not know," said Adele carelessly ; " I think his name is Mercier ; thou hast never seen him, nor has grandmama, but she knows his mother, and is arranging it with her, and I heard her say to Pere Lambert that she was very anxious for it, for thou was't no more so very young ; and she has promised me," she continued, flinging herself on a couch, " that she will perhaps arrange a marriage for me, when I am eighteen—of course he must be rich, but I tell grandmama he must be handsome too; but then," said the little beauty, raising her head so as to get a glimpse into the mirror, " they say I am very beautiful." She hesitated and coloured slightly, and then darting to her cousin exclaimed, penitently, "But some- times thou art quite pretty, dear Hel^ne, and when thou art married thou wilt have such beautiful dresses, for grandmama says thy husband will be very rich; and perhaps he may bring thee some pretty presents, for he is to come to see thee soon, and the marriage is to take place before the end of the year." Helene had been listening but half consciously, but now she bent her head, and burst into tears. " What ails thee 1" asked Adele with a look of astonishment, and then putting her arms caressingly round her, she continued, " I cannot understand thee, my English cousin, I thought to make thee so joyful; only think, to be free to do what thou will'st, to live in Paris, and have a beautiful toilette, and go to balls, and the theatre; I should be ha2:)py if Christmas would bring me all that; or can it be that thou has a vocation—has the Blessed Mother appeared unto thee, and called thee to become a nun 1" she said, in an awe-strack whisper. Helene smiled through her tears. " Ah ! no, Adele, thou dost not imagine she would appear to a heretic." " But thou art not a heretic" said Adele. " I cannot believe it, thou art so good." " It is not that, at least," said Helene, rising and drawing herself up proudly, " but I wUl not be forced to marry; grandmother has no right. Come with me, I will seek her."

Madame de Bassin was a well-ijreserved, handsome woman, of about sixty. She moved with dignity, spoke with suavity and self-possession; she did nothing in haste, or with indifference ; every movement, every word was regulated and under control. Her toilette displayed care as well as taste; she wore a rich sHk dress, of a dim grey colour, and a small cap of the finest lace surmounted the high frizzed curls, every hair of which seemed arranged with order and precision. She was a shrewd, THE ATTEMPT. 2C7 clever woman, with a large supply of worldly wisdom, and that love of management, that diplomatic tendency which seems inherent in French women. She was seated at a table, on which were strewed letters and papers, and looked up impatiently as the two girls entered. AdSle shrank behind her cousin, who, with an effort at courage, walked to the table and said, " Grandmother, is it true that you are arrang- ing a marriage for me 1" Madame de Bassin fixed her keen grey eyes on Adele. " So thou hast repeated. Thou shalt learn sixty lines of thy English grammar to teach thee to be silent in future;" and then, tm-ning to Helene, she said coldly and decidedly, " It is quite true." A pause of some minutes ensued, broken at last by Helene, who spoke in an agitated, defiant tone, " But I do not wish to marry, and I will not be compelled." The old lady lifted her eyes and let them fall on the girl, " Thou will not do what I command thee, thou refusest the marriage I have appointed for thee !" " I cannot marry a man I do not love," said Helene. Madame de Bassin gave vent to an ejaculation of horror, and then, turning to her other gi-andchild, she said " Leave the room Adele, these are not fit sentiments for thee to hear. I am scandalised," she continued, when the door had closed, " at such words from a young girl; I had hoped that tkree years residence in my house had effaced those shocking English sentiments from thy mind; but, since it is not so, I beg of thee to keep them to thyself in future, and not shock the feelings of French ladies." " Eh bien grandmere," said Hel^ne, half annoyed and half amused, " since you object to that, I may say I cannot marry a man I do not know." " And really, Mademoiselle, I cannot see that thy knowledge is of any import- ance ; it is enough that I judge it proper. What dost thou expect? I took this Monsieur MercieryaMfe de mieux. Thou hast no dowry, no beauty, and obstinately refusest to join the Holy Church, and may'st well feel thankful that any family will receive thee ; and now," she said, turning to her letters, " leave me, and remember this is my will, and there is but one alternative, and I hardly expect," she added sarcastically, " that thou wUt become possessed with a strong desire for the re- ligious life." Helene returned to the large, empty salon. It was growing dusk, and the logs of wood were now smouldering on the hearth, as she sat down beside it; and, cover- ing her face with her hands, wept silently and s^adly. She had not been exactly un- happy in this French home ; at first there had been the delight of the novelty and 268 THE ATTEMPT. beauty of everything, then the reaction to misery and regret, and then she had settled down into the dull monotony of this existence, with only her memories and her dreams to tell her there could be joy in the world. But now this was broken in upon—a dreadful horror loomed before her—but as yet so vague, so incompre- hensible, that it could hardly make her miserable. But her tears fell fast as she thought of other winter evenings, of other Christmases. It had been always such a happy time, that the recurrence of it seemed to make her doubly miserable. She remembered but dimly her gentle, delicate French mother; but the image of her much-loved father rose clearly before her. She drew a locket containing their hair from under her dress, and kissed it sacredly. All her little jewels and trinkets had been taken from her, even her mother's ring, as unfit for a young girl to wear, and this alone had been left her, on condition that she wore it out of sight. It was a pretty little locket, and had been given her by a very kind friend of hers and of her father's—one who had been, oh! so kind to her—she often thought of him when weary and lonely, he seemed the only one in the world who could comfort or be- friend her, and it seemed so strange to fancy he had forgotten her. And all the old happy days, the merry Christmases of long ago seemed to rise up and overwhelm her, and she wondered if it could ever again be a happy time to her. Her reverie was broken in upon by the entrance of a bonne with a small lamp, and the scanty Friday supper of bread and milk. " Madame and Mademoiselle AdSle have gone to church," she said, as she placed it on the table, " and Madame desired that Mademoiselle Hel^ne should go to bed immediately."

And so the cold autumn days slipped gradually into winter, and Helene's fate was coming to a crisis. Meantime her life went on much as usual; she went about her accustomed duties in a vague, dreamy way; everything seemed so much the same as it had done for the last three years, that she could hardly realise any possible change. Hers was not so much a yielding as a passive nature ; it was not sub- mission that made her silent, but a lack of power of action ; she would burst into wild indignation when some word of her grandmother's would seem to show that she was being borne along resistlessly to her fate by a will stronger than her own, but she had not enough of strength of mind, of persevering courage, to make a deter- mined opposition. And then she was so young and hopeful, and it was hard to believe that she was meant to be so miserable, and she felt within her such strong love of happiness, such an assured feeling that it must come to her, that life had yet something to give worth living for. THE ATTEMPT. 269 It was not till the second week of December, when Monsieur Mercier made his little visit of ceremony, and was introduced to his bride, that the dreadful reality of it all dawned on her. It was not that he was in any way worse than she had ex- pected ; indeed, she was so bewildered during the few minutes of his visit that she hardly knew what he was like. He was very polite and affable, bowed his acknow- ledgements to Madame for the trouble she had taken in this little affair, paid some delicate compliments to Mademoiselle HelSue, and hoped, in an elegantly turned phrase, that the agreeable impression he had received might be mutual, and then came his lady mother to conclude the negotiations, and fix the marriage day for an early date. She said her son was quite satisfied with everything, and she brought an elegant bracelet for Mademoiselle as a token of his regard, which Heleue, reaching her own room, dashed on the floor in a fit of passionate despair, and burying her face on the bed, cried like a child. Ad^le entered the room some minutes after, and was amazed to find her cousin in such distress. She lifted the bracelet carefully, and laid it on the toilet table, and then approaching HelSne, she strove to soothe her, but finding that her sobs only waxed more violent, she hastened to fetch her grand- mother, fearing she must be ill. The sound of Madame's calm, collected voice was the first thing that recalled Helene, and rising fiercely, she exclaimed, " I will not marry him, grandmother, do with me what you will; rather put mo in a convent." She waited, half defiant, half frightened, at her own boldness, expecting an angry rebuke, but Madame merely said in her measured tones, "So be it, thou shalt have till Christmas to decide ; and, meanwhile, I shall make arrangements for thee to spend some time at the Convent de Victoiie." And so HSlene Grant spent a week with the sisters in the great gloomy con- vent of tlie Ursulines, and jirayed and wept the greater part of the time. They did not obtrude their beliefs on her, but were gentle and kind; they saw she was in dis- tress, and contented tkemselves with telling her, that here was a refuge from all the misery of the world. And Hel^ne half believed it, seeing through her tears the calm, jjlacid faces, and hearing the soft, comforting tones, and if she could have remained as she was, she would fain have rested there, for she was broken down in body and mind ; but they had miscalculated their power, and misconstrued the mere mental and physical exhaustion of this staunch protestant girl, when they fancied she could be easily swayed round to abandon her faith. And half sadly she felt, as she returned to the Chateau de Bassin, that for her there could be no out- ward hiding-place from the battle of life. It wanted but a few days to Christmas, and she found great preparations going on to celebrate the fete, and marriage pre- 270 THE ATTEMPT, parations also deliberately going forward ; for Madame had rightly judged that she would not remain in the convent, but she had wrongly judged ia imagining that she would come out any more reconciled to the forced marriage. Poor HelSne had no intention with regard to anything, she felt herself being borne along inevitably, sometimes in blank despair, and more often in a vague trust that God would yet open up to her some way of escape.

This was such a happy time, it could not be that she alone should be miserable, she thought, as she stood by her open window in the chill midnight, listening to the loud joyful chimes that welcomed in the Christmas morning. Cold and lonely she cried herself to sleej), but her first feeling on awakening was that she had been narrowly selfish in allowing her own personal distress to prevent her joining in the univeral rejoicing; and, following an irresistible instinct, she rose, dressed herself, and, attended by the old bonne, crossed the broad Place, and entered the Church of St Joseph. It was a fine old church, grand in its simplicity. Early mass was being celebi'ated, and the peasant women were flocking in. Every one looked J0)4"iil, and H^lene strove to feel the glad tidings too, as she passed through them, and knelt down in a dark corner. And a feeling of joy, of the happiness of trusting faith, stole into her heart, and her worship that morning was all of praise. When she rose, all round her were kneeling, and she moved softly, not to disturb their devotions. As she reached the door, a gentleman stood aside to let her pass. She did not see his face, but something in the stoop of the shoulders, in the quick turn of the head, brought back old memories; she paused a moment, and then, with a quick step, she stood before him. He started, and looked down at her with joyful surprise. "Nelly !" he exclaimed, " I have just come to seek you." How the familiar voice, the old home name thrilled her. She was hardly surprised, it seemed natural that God should save her by a miracle. " Come," she said eagerly, as she drew him out into the half garden, half shrubbery that surrounded the church, " we shall talk better here." And up and down the long alleys, heedless of the passers-by who stared in astonishment, they walked, while she told him the story of her oppression. He listened, and after a few minutes silence, stopped in his walk,—" I can see but one solution to your perplexity, Nelly," he said slowly, " and that is, to become my wife. I would fain have asked you three years ago, when your father died, but you were so young, and had seen so little of the world, that it seemed hardly fair to you; but THE ATTEMPT. 271 now that you are feeling how thorny and lonely it is," he continued^ half apologe- tically, " will you accept me, despite the disparity of years 1" " Yes," she said unhesitatingly, "I should have done so then," and she laid her hand on his arm, with a feeling of happiness, greater than for mere temporary salvation. There was no need for useless ceremony, and HelSne agreed that no time should be lost in giving her a right to a husband's protection; and so, all arrangements being speedily concluded, they proceeded to the English church, and before noon of that Christmas day they were married.

Madame's horror, when the culprits presented themselves before her, was too great for anger. Her authority had been despised, her plans frustrated, she had been made a fool of in her own household. She was not practised in taking defeat elegantly, and it was some time before she could command herself to speak, and then she said but little. She gave a small key to her bonne, and desired her to gather together all the jewellery that had belonged to Mademoiselle Helene, as no doubt Madame would leave by the first boat; and then, turning with freezing politeness, she hoped they would have a pleasant passage. " As for you, Madame," she said in a bitter tone, " I will strive to forget that you were the daughter of a de Bassin," and making a profound obeisance, she left the room. Hel^ne rushed up-stairs to take a last half-pitying look at her old room, where she was speedily followed by Adele. " And thou art going to leave me, my cousin," she said, putting her arms round her neck, " to go to that horrid England, and I shall never see thee more." "Ah, yes ma petite, thou wilt come and see me." " I know not—perhaps when I am married ; but tell me," she continued eagerly, " is it really possible that thou art married, and in that ugly black dress; and tell me about him, is he very rich?" " No, not at all rich," said Hel^ne. " Not at all rich !" ejaculated Ad^le in dismay, " then why hast thou married him V " Faute de mieux /" said HelSne with a little French shrug, and a smile which belied her words. AdSle could hardly believe this was her sad, heart-broken cousin of the day before. "Eh Men!" she said meditatively, " Christmas is indeed very good, for it has made even HelSne laugh, and look joyful." ENAI. 272 THE ATTEMPT.

C^£ seasons aitb il^m giants,

NOVEMBER AND DECEMBER.

TRULY the days for botanizing are well nigh past; autumn's blasts have left their traces, " The dead leaves strew the forest walk, And withered are the pale wild flowers."

The fields can no longer boast of their brilliant verdure, the trees are shorn of their splendour, and the few straggling heads of daisies still defying the storm, must soon bend and die before the chilling winter winds and driving snow. Yet, dreary as the picture must seem, and apparently scant as are the inducements to a country walk during the gloomy months of November and December, the true lover of nature will still be able to discover objects of interest hitherto unobserved, or it may be, passed by in the search after greater novelties, for at all seasons the earth is full of grace and loveliness. Very beautiful, when powdered over with the soft white snow sparkling in the fitful sunshine, are the outlines of the trees ; the manifold forms of the trunk and stems, the graceful, or it may be grotesque bend and innumerable intricacies of the branches and twigs, the latter studded over with the foliage of another year in the shape of the well protected leaf-buds, " Each m its case, Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ Uninjured with inimitable art; And ere one flowery season fades and dies Design'd are the blossoming wonders of the next." Then, again, it is at this season that many of the varieties of the extensive and exquisitely beautiful family of the mosses and lichens are in perfection, mantling with their verdure, and brightening with their scarlet cups, the tops of old walls and ruins, or creeping velvet-like over the loosened stones by the river-side, and tangled trunks of decayed trees, mementos of former storms. In similar localities, we find in great abundance the favourite Ivy (Redera Helix), with its minutely veined leaves, creeping stem, and brownish-black berries or seed. And what though the summer wreaths of Hoses, Thorns, Bryonies, Brambles, etc., no longer deck the hedgerows, have they not given place to the different tints, more or less brilliant, of the hips, haws, and many shaped berries of the Elder, Mountain Ash, Guilder Eose, Honeysuckle, not forgetting the two, we might almost style them, memorial plants THE ATTEMPT. 273 of the joyous season fast approaching, the Holly and Mistletoe. The Holly {Ilex Aquifolium), with its smooth, glassy, evergreen leaves, is beautiful at all seasons, but certainly most so in winter, when adorned by its brilliant clusters of bright scarlet berries, a rich supply of which prognosticates, it is said, a severe winter aud hard times for the feathered tribes. The Mistletoe [Viscum Album), is one of the very few British specimens of parasitical plants. It is an evergreen shrub, gi-owing upon several species of trees, but principally affecting the Apple and those of a similar species ; the leaves are long and narrow, of a very leathery texture and light-green colour, whilst the berries are round and transparently white. The seeds are peculiarly viscid, and, adhering to the beaks of birds who feed upon them, are rubbed off upon the bark of trees, and thus propagated. The Mistletoe is rarely, if ever, found wild in Scotland, but has been introduced in some places,—a very fine specimen is to be seen growing in the Botanical Gardens in Edinburgh. In these few notes upon the flora of the various months, we have merely indicated the most common and conspicuous of our wild flowers; hundreds of gems have remained unnoticed, ready, when spring bursts asunder the icy bonds which hold her, to reward by revelations of peculiar beauties or exquisite adaptations, the earnest care- ful seeker. Each locality has its own special attraction— " No plot so narrow—be but nature there, No waste so vacant, but may well employ Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart Awake to love and beauty." In the words of a modern Essayist—" When the eye looks round on the infinitely varied creation, all the higher affections are moved at perceiving how abundantly beauty and grace have been added to utility, and how the outpourings of generosity have been added to the supply of our bare necessities, for truly " God might have made enough, enough For every want of ours ;

And yet have made no flowers." " They would seem as if they had been expressly made to excite the imagina- tion, to sustain the hopes, and to enkindle the affections of men,—they are, as it were, some of the sweet poetiy of the Great Father's mind, periodically interlined with our prosiac life of difficulty and care,— " They comfort man, they whisper hope Whene'er his faith is dim ; For ' who so careth for the flowers WUl much more care for him.' " K. H. D. 2 L 274 THE ATTEMPT.

(OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.)

AYE, blaze on—blaze thou kindred Soul! Painting for me, mine only view For soul there sure must reign, Of nature's mstic vales, Where all these thought-like flashes Where glorious flowers they never knew. roll. Besprinkle mossy dales. To answer mine again ! Where tall trees crest steep mountains, I look into thy glowing eye, Where wondrous creatures stray ; And learn therefrom thy heart; While mighty magic fountains. And, proudly as thoii dost, do I Glitter in sparkling spray. My fancies wild impart. Thy breezes are' all golden. Thy volumes hold the only lore And thy sky is ever red ; My life has learned to read; I would not be beholden They tell me truly evermore. To the cold poor blue instead. Whate'er I feel I need. Thy trees and fountains, winds and Thou art the storehouse for my mind. streams, Which is too worn and old. Mingle a murmuring strain. To keep whate'er it is inclined, That soothes me into gentle dreams. To mind what it is told. To rouse my life again.

The memory of my blighted youth. And amid their varied singing, My loveless, homeless heart, I hear thy mighty voice; The bitter curse of broken ti-utli. With a burden ever bringing. Which never will depart. To make my heart rejoice.

Reminding me the hearts of men. For thou speakest as a brother, Are fair, but false and chill. To one loved in his own home. Until thou talk'st me right again. Saying " how we need each other. And calm'st me at thy will. Thou wilt never from me roam."

THE ATTEMPT. 275 I know we watch by turns the night, I understand thy nature wild, And that thou smil'st on me. And well thy faith can prove; When I lie down in slumbers light, I do not mourn, no others smiled, UntU awaked by thee. No others learned to love.

All that I love, as all I know, To feed thee at thy giant meals, Dwells in thy glow Tliy thanks to hear thee roar ; Thou rolling fire. To answer all the deep appeals, That dost this weaker heart inspire Thou framest evermore. With a fiery core As thyself I wore. I would not leave thee—for a chill And they call me mad ! ha, ha ! me mad 1 Would then benumb my breast; And yet it well may be ; I seek thee with a loving will. For who could live for evermore, For labour or for rest. And watch with me, by thee ; And fix upon thy scorching blaze, Oh changing, changeless, living fire, The earnestness of my deep gaze. My life, my hope, my sun; And grow with thee thus fiercely glad. Thou only thing whose truth entire Until thy life thrilled through his soul. Hath never evil done ! Till with himself it formed one whole. And then—thc^n—not be mad 1 LuTEA RESEDA.

:^€^^

C^{ C^MU^ Congress at «E)MbIm.

No doubt a great deal has already been written on the subject of the recent Church Congress, and still more remains to be read when the various papers and speeches there delivered shall be presented to the public in their entirety. Therefore, it is not so much my intention to reproduce the matters of these interesting meetings, as the manner in which they were conducted, and the various little circumstances calculated to strike a stranger. A particular interest was felt in the fact of the Con- gress being held in Dublin at this time, when men's minds are full of the Irish Church question ] but the subject of disestablishment was not prominently brought forward, for several reasons which T need not enter into, though, whenever an allu- 276 THE ATTEMPT. sion was made, the irrepressible feeling of the audience broke forth, very clearly showing on which side their sympathies lay. The object seemed to be to give a practical refutation of the supposed decadence of the church, by clear statements of the work that is done in it; and in this way much was elicited which drew forth declarations from some of the English present, whose warmth of expression savoured more of Irish than English eloquence. The Congress was held in the Music Hall of the Exhibition, a room not well adapted for hearing, therefore many of the speakers were interrupted by cries of " can't hear," and whei'e nature had not endowed them with strong lungs, and art with distinct elocution, much valuable matter v.^as lost by two-thirds of the audience. The beginning of October is an empty season in Dublin, nevertheless clergymen and their families flocked to the capital from all parts of the country. The. proceedings commenced with a service in St. Patrick's Cathedral, the sermon being preached by the Dean of Cork. The immense building was crowded, and we esteemed ourselves fortunate in obtaining seats in the middle aisle, up which the procession of Church dignitaries was obliged to pass. There was quite a stir of expectation as they came on, one by one ; men whose names have a world-wide celebrity, assembling together under the roof of that fine old Cathedral, restored through the munificence of the late Sir- Benjamin Giiiness, where only a few months previously the grand ceremony of creating the Prince of Wales a Knight of St. Patrick was performed. The Arch- bishop of Dublin, the Bishop of Oxford, the Deans of Chester and Bipon, with many noted Irish Bishops and Deans were present, and all the vast congregation listened with a hush of interest as the words of the text were given out, " And they beckoned unto their brethern, which were in the other ship, that they should come over and help them," words strangely applicable to the occasion. I have no intention of giving my recollections of this remarkable discourse, as it will be published, so that all who wish can judge for themselves of its worth. When the service was over, the mem- bers of Congress made the best of their way to the Exhibition Hall, to secure good seats for the ensuing meeting. Let us imagine ourselves seated on one of the front benches, with eyes eagerly upturned to the platform, watcliing the entrance of the distinguished English and Irish members, whose appearance is hailed by little bursts of ajjplause. The Archbishop of Dublin, of course, acted as president, and by his judicious conduct very materially contributed to preserve the peace and harmony that reigned throughout the meetings. Indeed, I may say, that since I returned to Scotland, being present at a meeting conducted by two clergymen of the Irish Church who were advocating their caiise, and explaining what is so little understood here. THE ATTEMPT. 277 viz., the extent of the work that is carried on in Ireland, I was witness to a scene that Irishmen would have been ashamed of, and an ungenerous mockery of certain peculiarities in the delivery of one of the speakers that must have given these gentle- men a strange idea of Scotch hospitality, and good feeling. On this opening day of the Congress there was some hissing, on the occasion of some vexed questions being brought up, when irrelevant to the subject in hand, and therefore, as it was very desir- able to check this mode of expressing opinion, the Archbishop, on the following morning, before the proceedings commenced, made some observations to the effect that " hissing was an inhuman utterance," and that he would request they would substitute " no, no" for it, which would express dissent from the thing spoken, not dislike of the person speaking. After this, we never heard another hiss, though there was no lack of " no, noes." I must here describe one of the arrangements which seemed to me remarkably sensible, and if it could be introduced into our General Assembly I cannot but think it would be productive of much good. This is a system of alloting so much time to each reader and speaker, by the aid of sand-glasses, allowing twenty-five minutes to readers of prepared papers, a quarter of an hour to speakers mentioned in the programme, and ten minutes to anyone desirous of making observations on the sybject under discussion. As the limit of time drew near, you heard the Archbishop gently whisper " three minutes more," thereby warning the speaker to wind up his harangue, and as the last grain of sand ran out of the glass, off went a little bell, with one sharp, clear ring, and instantly the speech was brought to a full stop. Many a time we regretted that inexorable bell, equally rung for the Bishop of Oxford as for the humblest country clergyman, but undoubtedly its effect was to compel the speakers to keep to their subject, to concentrate their arguments, and to prevent the exceeding weariness entailed on an audience by too great diffusiveness. The master of the ceremonies appeared to be the Eev. Dr Dickinson, a most energetic individual, who seemed to have a knack of putting everybody and everything to rights in a very expeditious manner. When the name of a speaker was announced by the Archbishop, whose voice is none of the loudest, and any of the audience requested its repetition, the gentleman I have mentioned would spring up, and in clear ringing tones, shout out the name so as to be distinctly audible through the hall, and I should say, in the street outside as well. He generally had little announcements to make before the meeting began business, and these were given out in a tone and style very provocative of laughter. One in special I recollect that amused us all. It was the morning of the conversazione, and there ZiO THE ATTEMPT. seemed to be general uncertainty on the important subject of dress. No one knew whether bonnets and shawls would be coi-rect, or if evening dress would be i-equisite. Perhaps I ought to mention that the ladies always appeared in great force at these meetings. At the close of the morning sederunt, our impetuous friend rose, and said, " In my passage through the room this morning, I have heard great agitation, on the part of the latlies, as to the style of dress they should wear this evening, and I therefore beg to inform them that it is requested they should adopt what is usually termed, " demie-toilette." Very vague must be the general idea of demie-toilette, for on entering the beautiful promenade room of the Exhibition that evening, we found all varieties of costume, from warm high di-ess, bonnets and shawls, to magni- ficent full dress, in the height of the fashion. This conversazione was quite a treat to the clergymen, and was a remarkably pretty sight. The immense gallery was brilliantly lighted, and the elegant fountain in the centre sent up sparkling jets to a great height, whilst a curious device over- head produced constantly changing colours on the water, after the manner of Bengal lights. A regimental band discoursed most excellent music, whilst, in. the hall adjoin- ing, the fine tones of the organ attracted many listeners. So well amused were the reverend gentlemen, that it was with the utmost difficulty they were induced to quit the building about midnight; in fact the gas was put out, and they declared it was very hard to be curtailed in their little innocent amusement. On one of the evenings, a sermon was preached by the Bishop of Oxford in St. Patrick's Cathedral, whei-e an immense crowd assembled to hear him. He has a very impressive manner, and an earnest delivery, and was listened to with the deepest attention. He is a great favourite in Dublin, his entrance at the Congress meetings being the signal for a perfect storm of applause, which the very name of Wilberforce was enough to evoke. He always took his seat on the left hand of the Archbishop, that on the right being reserved for the Primate. When the Arch- bishop had concluded his opening address, in which he adverted very feelingly to the sixty miles of stormy water which his English brethren had ventured to cross in the midst of equinoctial gales, he mentioned that the first subject for discussion was " Our Religious Societies, how their economical and efficient working may best be promoted." An able speech was made by the Attorney-General for Ireland, advocating centralization as the true principle of economical administration, and especially recommending the co-operation of clergy and laity. The Rev. Charles Rice gave us some alarming statistics on the bad eliects of multiplying societies, and the great expenditure involved. Dr Day, the Dean of Limerick, whilst agreeing to THE ATTEMPT. 279 the necessity for greater economy, believed that it must be carried out accordiag to distinctive doctrinal rules, whilst Archdeacon Denison of Taunton found that the fault lay with the parochial clergy, who did not take the position with regard to missionary work they should take, but waited for the societies to do it. It was the duty of the minister of the parish to advocate the cause of these societies, which, in fact, was the cause of the gospel. We were all delighted with the Archdeacon of Taunton, who is a striking- looking man, and has a very amusing way of expressing his honest downright opinions. As he said of himself, he did not know what fear was, which anyone who heard him could well believe. He belongs to the High Church party, and his tendencies are so well known, that, as he said, he had come to Ireland very doubtful of the reception he might meet with, though all such doubts were dissipated when he did come. At one o'clock the meeting closed, and everyone adjourned for lunch. This was not far to seek for those who were contented with the refreshment room of the Exhibition, where luncheon, dinner, wine, &c., were furnished at moderate charges. Not only this, but a Post Office for the members was provided under the same roof; rooms where they could conduct their correspondence, and in fact, all the advantages of a club were combined and ofiered for the benefit of strangers by the Committee who had charge of the arrangements. What would our weary members of Assembly give for such luxuries ? " The Relative Functions of Church and State, in National Education," occupied the attention of the evening meeting, on which a very lively and rather stormy debate took place, which led to the Archbishop's animadversion on hissing, which has been alluded to before. Not having been present on this occasion, I am unable to say more on the matter than that the Dean of Limerick, and the Archdeacon of Taunton, were very energetic and decided in their views, the former strongly advo- cating the teaching of the Scriptures in the schools, which the aged Bishop of Cashel confirmed with much earnestness. On the second day's meeting, a very valuable paper was read by the Dean of Cashel on " Church Work and Life in Ireland." He described the close relation between the pastor and his flock subsisting in that country ; bow he was the counsellor of all, their resource in temporal difiiculties and domestic distresses. He showed that there was no greater fallacy than that which represented the Church in Ireland as the Church of the rich. The great majority of landowners were members of it, but unfortunately the richest were non-resident. He concluded an admirable speech in these words, " Whatever may be the political future of our Church—whatever may be its position with regard to State connection 280 THE ATTEMPT. or ancient endowments; whether in days of good rej^ort or of evil report, of wealth or of poverty, the task of our generation is to make it meet for its high mission as a well-organised and living Church, and to give such proofs of Church work and life in Ireland that our bitterest opponents may be compelled to acknowledge the merits of our Chui'ch, even as they have been already compelled to acknowledge the per- sonal zeal and piety of its clergy." The Eev. J. H. Jellat, and the Rev. Dr Salmon also gave excellent addresses on the subject. One of the finest papers was read by the Rev. F. W. FaiTar, having for its text " How the Church may best secure and retain the attachment of her younger mem- bers." He gave it as his opinion that, whilst they remained at the public schools, this affection was maintained and fostered, but it was on leaving the schools that they lost their regard for the Church, when they found it torn by intestine feuds, when they found men's minds agitated by strange doubts; whilst they themselves were all at once cast adrift, and thrown into periloiis temptations, and often compelled to adopt principles different from those held by them while they enjoyed individual sympathising care. He then laid down certain principles which he thought essential for securing the affection of the young, of which the last, but not the least, was toler- ation, which he thought was their best preservative from that worship of opinion which was the fruitful source of all the indifference towards the Church which was so prevalent. The Dean of Cork, whilst expressing great admiration of Mr Farrar's able address, contended that there was a great and important distinction between toleration of opinion and charity towards persons, and that the national establish- ment Avas the accredited teacher of the nation, and was bound, by its compact, to teach certain doctrines. The subject of Lay Agency is one of deep interest, and was handled in a very masterly way by Dean Howson of Chester, followed by a most remarkable paper by Mr Gambler Parry, in which Protestant monasteries and nunneries were re- commended, and even vows of poverty, which roused the indignation of the audience to so high a pitch, that the speaker was not allowed to proceed. The Arch- bishop informing the audience that their noes were " Roman noes," but added that it was not desirable that this featui-e should be a prolonged one. The Bishop of Oxford appeared to have a leaning towards houses of retirement also, but in a modified form, and allowing no interference with domestic ties. His idea seemed to be a sort of boarding-house for maiden ladies and childless widows, where good works might be cultivated instead of gossip, and these ladies might act as angels of mercy to the sick and sorrowful, though not in the garb of sisters of THE ATTEMPT. 281 mercy. On the afternoon of Friday, the last day of the Congress, the Rev. Pro- fessor Jellatt read a paper " On the influence of the increased investigation of Physical Science on the religious views of those engaged in such inquiries, and on Theology in general." So eloquent was the whole speech, so full of research and wisdom, that I cannot but rejoice that this magnificent paper will be presented to the world in full. "We all assembled in the evening to hear two interesting lectures by the Rev. H. Tristram, and the Rev. G. Williams, on " The Bible, as illustrated by modern science and travel." Before these were read, the usual closing speeches were made, which certainly were not the tame matter-of- course aflairs they generally are at these meetings. In the course of these, and after a goodly amount of compliments had been showered in all dii-ections, the Dean of Cork rose and observed " that he had heard that, in the kingdom of Abys- sinia, there was a custom that in the reception of guests the host should crown each guest, on his arrival or departure, with a large quantity of butter. The amount of friendship and welcome, he understood, was measured by the proportions of this oleaginous glory." He went on to say that he did not thank the Bishop of Oxford for being eloquent, distinguished, eminent, and witty ; or Earl Nelson for being use- ful, learned, and competent, but he would thank them and others, not for their power, worth, and eminence, but for coming over to give their Irish brethem that sympathy, aid, encouragement, and counsel which they had dune. He also said that the Irish nation had been rather afraid of inviting over their English brethern, and regai-ded them somewhat as the gentleman did when he received the present of a white elephant. All had prospered, however, and their fears had been dissipated. The Bishop of Oxford, in returning thanks, said " that when he went home and told his brethem there what they had missed, Ireland would see that the white elephants might yet come in force. There would be no end of their trunks, and there would be an alarming show of their ivories." The English generally declared their high satisfaction with the reception they had met with. Indeed, the universal opinion was, that never had a Congress gone off so well before ; never had finer addresses been listened to, never had greater order and gooji feeling prevailed. All this was very grateful to the feelings of the committee, who had worked so hard to ensure success, and who now felt themselves so well rewarded. A very large audience assembled on the Saturday morning to hear an admirable lecture on Church Music by Dr Stuart, with vocal illustrations by a well trained choir; and, as we left the exhibition for the last time, we gave a sigh of regret that all our pleasant meetings were over, and we had ceased to be members of Congress. The memory of them, however, will not 2 M 282 THE ATTEMPT. soon fade from the minds of those who were present; the weak must have felt stronger for their influence ; the strong must have obtained additional incentives to exertion ; whilst the supine, if any such there were, must have been roused from their inertia, to prove themselves worthy of the countries that could produce such eloquence and energy. As we said farewell to the fair city of Dublin, we had an inward conviction that, amongst the best and brightest of our recollections, would ever be the pleasant memories connected with " The Church Congress." ALJIA.

^ Slicfljt Slicftfj 0f Sllriclj bon '§niUn anb bis

Mflrh ill ihtu Mcrrltr. THE subject of the present sketch was one of that small but remarkable band of men, who, numbering among them Frederick of Saxony, Maximilian of Ger- many, Eeuchlin, and Erasmus, etc., seem to have been, by their different positions, qualities, and acquirements, pre-eminently fitted, each in his own place, to act as pioneers in the great work of Reformation in the sixteenth century ; in laying siege, as it were, to the outworks of Romisli iniquity and error, and preparing, in God's good providence, the way for Luther to go boldly on and take the citadel. Von Hutten, who has been called the Demosthenes of Germany, from his phUipics against Rome and Popery, was born at Steckenberg in 1488. He was descended from a noble family of Franconia, and at an early age was sent to the convent of Fulda, Avhere it was intended he should become a monk, but feeling no in- clination for such a life, he ran away from the convent at the age of sixteen, and went to the University of Cologne, where he took the degree of M.A. at the early age of eighteen. He ajiplied himself to language and poetry, and went to Italy; but his parents not giving him sufiicient pecuniary help, he enlisted in the army, and served at the siege of Padua as a common soldier. In 1509 he returned to Germany, and there wrote a work tailed " The Roman Trinity," in which he spoke so strongly against Rome—which he had had an ojiportunity of seeing in all its deformity—that he was obliged to quit the court of the Archbishop of Mainz, where he was residing at the time of its publication. In 1512 he published a Latin Poem in praise of the Emperor Maximilian, which brought him into notice and gained him friends. He was knighted for his ejsigrams, and made Poet Laureate. In the contest between Reuchlin and the Dominicans, Von Hiitten took part THE ATTEMPT. 283 very decidedly with the former. Having been forced to give up the protection of the Archdeacon of Mainz, he sought that of Charles V. who was then on bad terms with the Pope, but on going to Brussels, where Charles then was, Hiitten found the Pope had demanded that he should be bound hand and foot, and sent to Rome, and that the celebrated inquisitor Hochstraten had been commissioned to pursue him. He took refuge at the castle of Ebernberg, where he was under the protection of Francis de Sickenger, Luther's great friend and guardian, to whom the castle belonged. There Von Hiitten devoted himself to literary pursuits, and in his zeal for the liberation of his nation wrote letters to Charles V., Fredrick of Saxony, and the Archdeacon of Mainz, from thence also he wrote to Luther. These letters are said to have placed him in the foremost rank of writers. At Ebernberg he also wrote many works which were destined to spread throughout Germany a detestation of Rome and a love for liberty. Von Hiitten is described as little of stature, weak, and sickly, but extremely brave and of a passionate temperament. Not content with using his pen against Rome, he wished also to use his sword. He is said by some to have been of a cruel disposition and very impatient. He died young, being only thii-ty-(ive years of age, but his works are numerous, and among them are several poems. His style of writing is de- scribed as marked by a peculiar brevity, rapidity, and force, with a certain soldier-like boldness and humour, and a knowledge of Rome only to be acquired by personal experience. Goethe wrote a tribute to the memory of TJlrich Von Iliitteri, which was translated into English in 1789. Hiitten appears to have been a remarkable, though a very fiery and hot-headed, actor in the great work of the sixteenth century. And though possessing a share of the serpent's wisdom, he does not appear to have acquired the harmlessness of the dove. Rash and fierce, he was more disposed to take up the weapons of a carnal warfare on the behalf of truth, than to trust to the sword of the Spiiit, whose edge has been tempered in the armoury of the Most High, and whose blade is sharper than any two-edged sword. Yet with all this rash ungentle spirit, and, as some have said, cruel disposition, there are still good and gentle deeds recorded of Von Hiitten. At the death of his parents, although the eldest son, he gave up all the family property to his brothers, and requested that they would not send him money or hold any communication with him, lest they should be involved in the misfortunes he thought it not unlikely might come upon him from the malice of his enemies. He died at Afrian, near Zurich, in 1523. 284 THE ATTEMPT. While we must ever regret the display of intemperate feeling, and any approach to a persecuting spirit, in the cause of the Prince of Peace, we must yet remember that the subject of our memoir lived in peculiar times, and that the Eefor- mation was a work that would admit of no timid half measures; that it required boldness and courage of no ordinary kind, and that it almost seemed as if nothing less than the hot breath of a fiery indignation was sufiicient to wither up the mass of wood, hay, and stubble, with which Rome had overlaid the word of Truth ; and while compelled to condemn the spirit in which Von Hiitten acted, let us at least give him credit for a sincere and thorough wish to reform what he believed to be most flagi'ant errors and abuses. ZOE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF WILHELM MULLER.

I LEAN my head upon my arm, The rifles clash against the wall And at the window stand, Behind me where I stand, Until my aching brow grows warm, Is it the wind that moves them all, And numb my weary hand. Or is't a spectre-hand 1

Far, far away on yonder height And now I seek to catcli the gale. A rifle's crack I hear; To blow my fears away ; The mountain breezes sound to-night, And if my courage still should fail, Like bugles to my ear. I'll trill a merry lay.

Ah, why so late 1 the night is chill, My heart grows lighter as I sing. And far away thou'rt gone; My busy fears are still, And nameless fears my fancy fill, Fi'om clifi" to clifi" to hear it ring, When I am here alone. And mount from hill to hill.

I scarce dare turn ! the well-known wall Yet should'st thou hear my voice to-night. Fills me with slmdd'ring awe ; Thy homeward path along, And yet, where'er my glance might fall, Ah, think not, love, my heart is light, I'd think 'twas thee I saw. As sounds my merry song. DIDO.

THE END.

A Prize will be awarded for the best Prose Article appearing in the January Number of "The A tlempt." "

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