^m

THE ATTEMPT

A LITEEAEY MAGAZINE

CONDUCTED BY THE MEMBERS OF THE

LADIES' EDINBUEGH LITEEAET SOCIETY

« VOLUME X.

"AUSPICIUM MELIORIS JEW

PRINTED FOR THE LADIES' EDINBURGH LITERARY SOCIETY BY COLSTON & SOX, EDINBTJEGH k MDCCCLXXIV. D >w

1936 ■§> '^^i;?. ;o'\^ CONTENTS.

FACE Aurora, by Melensa, .... 316 Beyond, by Semper Eadem, 312 Blind, by Martyn Hay, 302 Chant of the Bells, The, by Naomi S. Smith, . 22 Church Congress, The Recent, by Irene, 191 Concerning a Vexed Question, by Frucara, 136 Duty and Art in Dress, bj- Procla, 225 Duty of Woman to pay Great Attention to Dress ? Is it the, by Aliquae, 177 Early Epics of Germany, The, by Proola, 169, 201, 233, 269, 305 Euterpe, by E. J. O., 239 Exhibition of the Royal Scottish Academy, by E. J. ()., 129, 153 Fair Anna, by Helfene Muller, 337, 369 Freedom of the Will, On the, by E. J. O., 33 From Kirkwall to Tobermory, by Omicron, 262 George Eliot's Characters, by Lutea Reseda, . 73, OE 158 Haunted Rocks, The, by E. V. Lynne, 163 How do I know the Bible to be the Word of God ? by Jeanie Morison, 240 Industrial Training for Ladies, by Eta, 52 Inspiration, by Procla, .... 104 In the P3rrenees, by E. J. O., . 330, 360 Isle of Man, The, by E. V. Lynne, 317 " Jesus called a Little Child unto Him," by Naomi S. Smith, 157 Jottings from an Old Maid's Experiences, by Semper Eadem, 246 " Le Roi est mort, Vive le Roi," by Martyn Hay, 395 Labour and Love, by Erica, .... 359 Leonor de Cisneros, by Jeanie Morison, 278 Maiden's Philosophy of Dress, A, by Procla, . 261 Memories, by Gratia, .... 352 Memory of the North Wind, A, by Omicron, 311 Milla Forres, by Jeanie Morison, 9, 58, 88, 121, 137 IV CONTENTS.

PAGE Miss Hyslop, by Sara, ...... 210 Murillo's Holy Family, by Lutea Eeseda, . . . .175 Napoleon III., by E. J. 0., 16 Nature and Love, by Noli-me-Tangere, . . . .72 Notes in Church, by Frueara, ..... 8 Nothing, Lines on, by Jane B. Ballantyne, .... 292 Novel and the Novelist, The, by Lutea Reseda, . . .17, 42 On the Heights, by E. J. 0., 293 Our Library Table, 31, 367 Pensees, by Naomi S. Smith, ...... 344 Poverty of Wealth, The, by M. A. Palmer, . . . .146 Railway Bob, by E. V. Lynne, . . . . .197 Recent Researches in Roman History, by Procla, . . 345, 380 Sea-drop and the Pearl, The, by Melensa, .... 62 Some Defects in Education, by Noli-me-Tangere, . . . 389 Sonnet, by Enna, ...... 146 St. Andi-ews, by S., ...... 29 Suppose, by R., ...... 329 Swedish Licensing Laws, a Few Remarks on the, by Des Eaux, . 93 Tears in God's House, by Frucara, ..... 245 Turn of the Night, The, by R., . . . . .51 Umbrellas, by Semper Eadem, ..... 166 Unknown Saint, The, by E. J. O., . . . . 82, 114 Use of Songs and other Popular Poetry to an Historian, The, by Aliquae, 63 Valedictory Address to 1873, by Elfie, . . . . ] "Winter Story, A, by Enna, ...... 23 Ye Tryste of Ye Erie's Dochter, by Melensa, . . .379 Youth the Happiest Time of Life ? Is, by Des Eaux, . . 185 INDEX TO CONTRIBUTORS' N 0 M S D E PLUME.

Aliquae, 63, 177 Des Eaux, 93, 185 K J. O, 16, 33, 82, 1 4, 129, 153, 239, 293, 330, 360 Elfie, 1 Enna, 23, 146 Erica, 359 Eta, 52 E. V. Lynne, 163, 197, 317 Frucara, 8, 136, 245 Gratia, 352 Helfene MiiUer, 337, 369 Irene, 191 Jane B. Ballantyne, 292 Jeanie Morison, 9, 58, 88, 121, 137, 240, 278 Lutea Reseda, ; 17, 42, 73, 105, 158, 175 }ii. A. Palmer, . 146 Martyn Hay, . 302, 395 Melensa, , 62, 316 Naomi S. Smith, . 22, 157, 344 Noli-me-Tangere, 72, 389 Omicron, . 262, 311 Procla, 104, 169, 201,2 5, 233, 261, 269, 305, 345, 377 R. . 51, 329 S. . 29 Sara, . 210 Semper Eadem, , 166, 246, 312

THE ATTEMPT.

Datitdittorg to 1873.

" The years that were, the dim, the grey, Receive to-night, with choral hymn, A sister shade as lost as they. And soon to be as grey and dim. Fill high : she brought us both of weal and woe, And nearer lies the land to which we go."

NCE more the darkening sha- dows of December close round the fleeting vision of another year, drawing the veil of the irrevocable across the life-path which each weary pilgrim's foot shall know no more. So mark we the stealthy strides of the Great Enemy on his unwearied march, carrying all captive towards that bom-ne of his dominions " whence no traveller e'er returns." Scanning the meaning of these solemn footprints, too quickly do they seem erased to our short-sighted gaze. Living reahties, how soon they become dim phantoms! and the present merges in the past with the steady certainty of silent action. It must, therefore, ever be vnth a sense of missing much in one glance of retrospection, that the events of the year are reviewed in our pages. Thinking of Time's reverses in years gone by, the patriot's first remembrance of the last twelve months should be one of thankfulness for a period of much JANOAHT 1874. A The Attempt.

national prosperity, uninjured either agriculturally by a euccession of rainy seasons, or commercially by the , i-ii monetary panic in New York, which overthrew the usually ' ' = "tvell-balanced American equilibrium. Grave cause for anxiety is ever increasingly evident in the turmoil of class legislation, out of which have arisen those giant spectres of trades unions and strikes, which keep up an unfailing antagonism between capital and labour, and by the propa- gation of a spirit of moral cannibalism,—which so recognises selfishness as the law of humanity, that men must live by preying on each other,—threatens the disintegration of that national and Christian unity which has been Britam's bulwark for centuries. The course of poHtics before and Bince the Government defeat in spring, when an appeal to the country was refused by both parties, has been marked by signs of preparaMon for the working of prin- ciples favoured by 4. Conservative reaction, as expressed in numerous elections, and the receptions accorded Jto Mr Disraeh's admirable appearances in Lancashire and Glasgow. * ^ *^ '^ ' British charity has not lacked its call to the fields of India, wasted by drought and famine ; and British courage now stands the brunt of savage warfare, for the mainte- nance of national honour, injuredjby treachery to a foreign power. This is the only explanation we have been able to hear of this mysterious Ashantee war, which, as if to keep up the interest in the wonders of African travel, whetted by 8u- Samuel and Lady Baker's successful ex- plorations, discloses revelations of aboriginal man, which hardly justify his title of " fighting animal," unless behind a flying enemy. General Wolseley would therefore need supplies of soldiers, as well as stores, to bring out the retiring qualities of this questionable Fantee valour. The great peaceful celebration of the year has been the Vienna International Exhibition, to which, as in Jacques' golden world, all varieties of strange motley came flocking as if another flood were toward, and they were all coming to the Ark. These modern Fairs, which are held on such a scale as to bring the ends of the earth together to buy, and sell, and learn of each other, form an important part in the tecl^cal programme of tho^ducation of the age, etimulating^a love of travel, gratifyiiig curiosity, revealing ingenuity, glorifying industry, widening appreciation, and removing prejudice, with all other landmarks that may llie Attempt. interfere with the bird's-eye view, which it is the wish of civilization to take of the world as a vast level plain of human equality. Under these conditions, it has become the fashion for eastern potentates to travel, and we have had succes- sively the Turkish Porte, the Egyptian Viceroy, and Indian, Japanese, and China magnates starring it like foreign comets in our western sphere, finally illuminated by the appearance of Nasur-ed-din, the modern representa- tive of Haroun-al-raschid, round whose steps the glories of the Arabian nights seemed to revive as by magic, till the "^vorld was dazed with their splendour. In his triumphal march from one stronghold of w^estern civiliza- tion to another, the Shah must have experienced a series of surprises to stir even his mental stolidity, crowned by a revelation of womanhood gracing every sphere of life. I An impression of the imperative value of Christianity and womanly influence in the scheme of civilization, might prove of more avail to Persia's oppressed millions, than Baron Renter's mechanical programme of modern in- ventions. In fulfilment of the duty of royal personages to cement national friendships, a grand alliance has been negotiated, in which the Duke of Edinburgh is to wed the Grand Duchess Marie Alexandrovna, daughter of the Emperor of all the Russias. In honour of the prince of the royal house in whom Edinburgh can claim special interest, it becomes a duty to express the best wishes f r the happiness of his union with a princess of whom fame speaks so kindly; and the heartiness of the municipal resolve to celebrate the event by an illumination, such as makes the occasion of the Prince of Wales' marriage a brilliant memory in our > fair city, leads to expectation of such another unforget- able display m January. Prince Arthur's marriage, talked of as likely to follow his brother's, will bring to our shores another of that interesting family, whose virtues seem to make their fortunes, since the "first modest gem, its ray concealed," was discovered for our heir-apparent. European peace prevails, but Spain and France con- tinue their favourite indulgence in national imbroglio. Spain, having driven away her short-lived King Amadeus m despair of comfort or credit in his reign, is governed by factions, distracted by minorities, torn asunder by inter- necine con fiict. In France a similar spirit of self-destruc- tion prevails, and party after party is weighed in the The Attempt.

balance and found wanting; the memory of the empire is discredited, the rule of the Comte de Chambord is rejected because of his refusal to desert the Legitimist colours, and republican zeal blows the ashes of a dead war, that one of their own heroes may be sacrificed in the flame. Whatever the opinions of the mysterious capitulation of Metz, Marshal Bazaine carries to his captivity the feeling of just minds against a punishment so disproportionate to the remoteness of the offence, and the greatness of life- long services rendered to an ungrateful state. The death of the Emperor Napoleon closed one of those careers of stirring vicissitude that thrill the world with wonder, and are read by posterity as apt illustrations of the capricious turns of fortime's wheel. A life and char- acter alike so remarkable must be variously criticised; but judged with all severity, they remain those of France's great modern patriot, who devjjjed his mental and physical energies, great as they were, and albeit by crooked and devious ways, to be sorely spent in his country's service. The result was the apotheosis of France's greatness as a European power, and the glorifi- cation of despotism, till its hollow shell burst with ruin to all around. The pathos of the Emperor's last days in the midst of misfortunes as tremendous as his prosperity was once transcendent, touched all true English feeling with a remembrance only of his friendship as the monarch, and his reverses as the man, and called forth such words of just kindness throughout the land, in true response to the confident appeal for an asylum on English shores, as warmed the exile's heart, and shed peace upon his grave:— " So may he rest, His faults lie gently on him."

" He leaves a name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral or adorn a tale."

Year by year we are kept familiar with thoughts of the great by their removal from the place of the living. First on our list of losses stands the name of Edward Bulwei; Lord Lytton, of the highest mark in our literary annals for well-nigh half a century. His genius, of the brightest order, was united with a rare degree of application, which made the last suffering hours of his life ilhistrious ones, and invests the sad turn of " Kenelm Chilhngly's " story (KO fiill of liumnur in its opening) with the interest of the TJie Attempt. writer's personal trial. The characteristics of his genius, versatility, fertility, and brilhancy, distinguish hun alike as a novel writer, dramatist, orator, philosopher, poet and pohtician; but his popular fame attaches itself naturally to his character as a writer of fictions, which, minus the commanding humanity of Dickens, or the polished sarcasm of Thackaray, transcencJ\both in intellectual power and imaginative charm. To a different order of minds belonged John Stuart Mill, the great political economist, philosopher, and logi- cian. A hfe and character so ruled by logical deduction, that feeling never softenf the hard dominancy of mind, invite study as those of one of the most remarkable men of his day.. The light of a genius that leaves bright reflections on the walls even of many a humble home, went out Avith Sir Edwin Landseer, the artist whose worship of nature found expression in dehneating the animal creation with a power and beauty that make his name immortal. The sister gift of poetry has lost a humble but gifted disciple in Janet Hamilton, the Coatbridge poetess. Reared without learning, in circumstances, to outward seeming, the most repressive of poetic genius, she hved a hard-woi'king life of poverty, and never wrote a line till the rest of old age had been earned. The heyday of her noon past, her simple strains are tu!^ned to the sweet- ness of Ufe's evening. She lived a woman, and she died a bard. ^ Events happen in cycles. Last year, held as the ter- centenary of John Knox, was marked by the death of Dr Merle D'Aubigne, the great Geneva preacher and his- torian of the Reformation; and within twelve months the three principal Presbyterian denominations in Scotland have lost men whom each would gladly quote as repre- sentative names^-tff Dr Norman Macleod, Dr Thomas Guthrie, and Dr William Anderson. The two former are united in our thoughts as the editors of Good Words and tlie Sunday Magazine, and in their deaths they were not long divided. To the list, the name of Dr Candlish is now added, after living but to see his favourite scheme of ecclesiastical union narrowly escape the achievement of another disruption. The Scottish Episcopal Church has also been called to lament the loss of one of its brightest ornaments in Bishop Ewing, who, by reason of his open- mindedneufi and large-heartedness, can ill be spared. Our 6 Hie Attempt. citizens have also to lament the loss of Mr Thomson, the great engineer, and Mr Lawsoii, the most hospitable of Lord Provosts. By a still wider circle will be lamented the death of the distinguished statesman. Lord Westbury, almost simultaneously with that of Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Winchester, who by his catholic sympathies had endeared himself to his country. The result of the application of the Scotch Education Act has been an unmistakeable vote of confidence in the time-honoured system of Bible teaching, and the rightful sway of feminine judgment in the training of the young, *J not least so in our own city, where two ladies were returned to the School Board at the head of the poll, excepting the Roman Catholic candidate, who stood first; and secularism occupied the lowest place. The work of the Ladies Educational A ssociation has pro- gressed with no less, if not more than former vigour, since last session was inaugurated by Sir Alexander Grant, as Principal of the University, the bond of afiiliatiou thus being recognised. In spring were incorporated with the University Calendar, the Eegulations for the Examination of Women in the different classes through which they may have passed in connection with the Asociation. The examinations duly commenced last October, and just in time; for the Times began to deplore, in November, the hard fate of Scotch ladies to whom the Universities of Scotland had not been so liberal as those of England and Ireland. W^hatever Sir Robert Christison might have said as to the arrangement for ladies attending the Medical Classes, Sir Alexander Grant could happily answer, without confusion of countenance, in a cheerful manner regarding the Arts Classes. Let us hope that ■ our Scotch Universities Avill not find with iis subjects for satire so bitter as appeared in the Saturday Review of ^ November 15, on the ladies examined at Cambridge, nor have the will to be BO cruel, though there may seem reason; because during the struggling beginnings of things there should only be patience and observance, and neither satire, prejudice, nor hasty generalisations. The results of present opinion must be worked into the mode of the early education of women, before their abilities can be fairly tested against those of men in the higher education. Yet, even with their disadvantages, they have done well enough to cheer and encourage those Professors who have de- voted much of their interest and energies to the Ladies' The Attempt.

Educational Association. This year Professor Crum Brown has added Chemistry to the hst of Lectures, and Professor Charteris has been kind enough to accede to a strong requisition, and lecture on Biblical Criticism. The large numbers of the class show the interest of the study,? the popularity of the Professor,^ and the recognition of the fact regarding all Classes that lie outside of Arts,— that it is wise to take them when you can get them, or you may not have them when you want them, seeing that ^ the Association will not risk such Classes without a certain c number of guarantees. The Tichborne trial still drags its slow length along, unfolding wonder after wonder in a wilderness of weari- ness, of which the latest daring revelation may be quoted as an epitomized edition of the gigantic imposture made out by the pursuer's case. However the jury may decide on the story as told to them, its manifold episodes pre- sent curiosities of real life, which fiction would hardly have dared to invent. Of new books, the most interesting seem to belong to the biographical department* particularly the autobio- graphies of J. Stuart Mill, Dr Guthrie, and Mrs Somerville. In fiction, Bulwer Lytton's last novels, The Parisians and Kenelm Chillingly, Mrs Oliphant's May, Miss Thackeray's Old Kensington, and A very Young Couple, by the author of Mrs Jerningham's Journal are noticeable. Science pours out her usual treasury of deep thought, to many of whose students the accounts of the Dredging Cruises of H.M. S.S. Porcupine and Lightning will be of great in- terest ; and poetry contributes Browning's Red Cotton Alight Cap Country, and Longfellow's Aftermath, with a work of poetized prose. Master Spirits, from the pen of Mr Robert Buchanan. In wishing to subscribers and contributors the saluta- tions of the season. The Attempt must once more trust in their support and appreciation for the realization of to- day's watchword of hope, " A Good New Year." ELFIE. The Attempt.

gotes in dfhurrh.

THESE four stone walls, they seem too close together. • • • • • What is it I hear ?—strange words concerning The souls of men—Thou Who art Lo\e, Art Thou Hate also? Art Thou Revenge? I had deemed it not so.

• • • ■ • Is Faith here ? I know that she is here, But bounded by the four stone walls. She must not soar too high, She must not hope too much ; And he (God's messenger) is bounded too, And they, the worshippers, worship with placid brow. Content it is so. • • • • • " Miserable sinners !" I wonder why My lips refuse the words ? I, made, and loved, And sent by God to fill a little space, Dare I be miserable ? • • • • • They stoop so low, these worshippers. But do they stoop to rise ? And unto what ? Is their God boTm.ded too ? Ye four stone walls! I dream ye'U crumble into dust, The preacher's voice be silent. But all men know their God. For His great Music sounding through the world Shall hush the discords here. Give us, 0 God in Clirist! the wide, wide heart, That we may take each sister, brother, in,— For failing this, we hinder Its approach. FRUCARA. The Attempt.

A TALE OF THE FORTY-FIVE.

CHAPTEK XXVI.

WATCHING.

FOR a long anxious fortnight Alaster lay thus hovering, as it were, between life and death, and utterly unconscious of all around him. The doctor's face grew graver and gi-aver day after day, as he returned to Milla Forres only to find his patient as he had left him the day before. At first, no one had been so sanguine of his recovery as Nancy, after the first shock was over. Her bright, hope- ful nature always seemed to see the brightest side; but as day after day passed by, and brought with it no change for the better, her hope and courage fell, and, true to her impulsive, childish nature, by-and-bye gave way altogether. It was Barbara who now supported the household with brave words of hope and courage; Barbara, who had looked so grave at first at her little sister's predictions of speedy recovery, that Nancy had turned away from her impatiently, as a prophet of evil omen. But so it is always; it is the true, strong heart, that dares to look at things as they are, to face the truth, however appalling, that " endures to the end ;" not the gay, hopeful, sanguine spirit, that refuses to believe whatever is painful ^o it. Barbara fi-om the first had faced the fact that Alaster'a life hung by a single thread. I do not think that she ever quite brought herself to believe that he would die; loving him so, how could she believe that? She would hold him by that great love of hers. Surely he could not burst bands so strong; yet she faced the possibility that it might be even so, and because she dared to face it, " the truth made her free." One night, about a fortnight after Alaster's arrival, Barbara was sitting watching by his bedside. Dr Brown had paid his evening visit, and had looked at his patient with his kind, solicitous eyes—Barbara thought they looked graver than usual,—and when he turned to bid her good night, their kindness, she thought, had a deep com- passion in it. She had grown very learned in the varying expressions of those dark eyes of Dr Brown's, during that fortnight's watching; she had read in them so often the sad JANDAET 1874. B 10 The Attempt.

verdict of " no better," which he was always so loath to speak. How was it that she had never read in them that other secret, unspoken too, yet always trying to find for itself a voice? But she did not see it, she did not care to see it. He was the doctor to her—the doctor on whose skill and care Alaster's life might depend—that and nothing more. And he was content that it should be so ; content if he could only render her any service—any help, however humble. She sat pondering silently and sadly by the fireside, after he had left her, thinking of the ominous pity in those kind, dark eyes, and the terrible import of such compassion, when she was suddenly startled by a weak voice from the bed, saying in a scarcely audible whisper, " Is that Bar- bara?" It was no strange or new thing to hear Alaster speak, for during that anxious fortnight he had raved incessantly, but there was something in the weak tones this time different from anything she had heard before. Instinctively she knew, before she turned her head, that Alaster had recognised and was Speaking to her; that his mind had returned to him again. Her heart gave a great bound of mingled fear and relief, as she turned towards him. One look convinced her that she was not mistaken, that Alaster was perfectly conscious. His eyes met hers, no longer with the wild stare of delirium, but with a quiet wearied look, like the look in the eyes of a tired child. She went to his bedside, and lifting the thin hand that lay upon the quilt, pressed it silently to her lips. Her heart was too full for words. Tears were very near, but she would not shed them for fear of exciting the patient. He looked at her with a quiet, contented smile. She bent over him, and smoothed the pillow softly, and said in a soothing tone, " Yes, dear, it is Barbara, you will try to go to sleep, will you not ?" How sickness and trouble brings out the motherly element in every true woman! Here was Barbara, A\ath her strong passionate heart, who loved this man as only such a natiire can love. Proud Barbara, from whom in prosperous days he might perhaps have got all the less in the way of endearment, because she loved him so dearly, speaking to him now in his sickness and distress, as a mother might soothe an ailing child! His weak fingers closed round her hand, and he turned away his face with a long, contented breath, and mutter- ing, "Yes, I'll go to sleep now," he closed his eyes, and soon his regular soft breathing showed that he had fallen The Attempt. H into the first natural sleep he had had since he was brought to Milla Forres. It seemed as if somehow her presence satisfied him, and he could sleep holding her hand, as a wearied, frightened child could on its mother's breast. Barbara knew that Dr Brown had said that if he could but get one long refreshing sleep, he believed he would live, and as she sat there by the bedside a prisoner— for the weak hand clasped hers firmly even in its sleep— tears of joy and gratitude rolled over her face. Hour after hour slipped by while she sat there, the fire went out, and she was numb with cold, and with sitting so long in one imaltered attitude, but she scarcely felt it, her heart was so glad. She longed to go and tell Nancy and Elspet and Dr Brown the good news, it seemed so selfish to keep such happiness all to herself, but she dared not unclasp the clinging hand. So she sat till Elspet came in, in the early dawn, to relieve her watch, and was sent out again immediately to call Nancy, that they might all rejoice together. When Dr Brown came next morning, he con- firmed their hopes. Alaster had awakened again by that time—a different man. He had recognised them all, the delirium and fever had all passed away and left him, weak, indeed, as a little child, but quiet and at rest. He had got the turn, Dr Brown said, now good nursing would do all the rest. Why was it that the kind, generous-hearted man turned away from that rejoicing household with a dim pain in his own heart? He asked himself the ques- tion reproachfully, as he rode slowly homewards. It was not possible, he said to himself, that amid all his compas- sion for Barbara, and all his efforts to save his patient, he had still clung in his heart to some indefinite hope that this barrier between him and Barbara might perhaps be removed? It was not possiljle that in his heart he was a murderer? Yet, why that dull pain? The good doctor vexed himself sadly on his ride home over this horrible fancy, and at last gave the question up without finding its answer. For a practical solution of it he determined to take a twenty miles ride to get a medicine for Alaster, which he thought might be of special use to him ; and I do not know what better solution of the question he could have come to. Once begun, Alaster's convalescence went on quietly and surely. He slept a great deal, and when he was awake, he was very quiet and gentle and contented. It was obviously no time for exciting scenes, or strong 12 The A ttempt. emotions, and Barbara was quite content with things as they were. It was such a happiness just to be near him, to be allowed to tend him and care for him, and get the mute thanks of his grateful eyes, that she began to think that if she might only continue to be with him, to be a sister to him, that was all she would ask of happiness. She would put away those other possibilities which had disturbed their intercourse, and be a sister to him as she had begun by being. She had a right to be that, and she would wish for nothing more. She began to picture to herself a life of this kind, in which she should always be near him, hearing his voice and resting in his sympathy, and satisfied with that inner spiritual nearness which no one could take from her ; and she came to the conclusion that such a life would be both a possible and a happy one for her—if only Alaster could be brought to see it too. And Alaster should marry Nancy (she was quite content that he should do that, she thought), and Nancy should be the pet and darling of them both, and they would all be happy together. It was a pretty picture she drew before her mind's eye, and per- haps not an unattainable one, if all three could but have been brave enough to face the tinith, and be content with what it brought them. That was the one radical defect in Barbara's scheme, that she founded it on a lie. She founded it on professions of love en Alaster's part towards Nancy, which were not true, and so the scheme would not hold together. Had she been brave enough to resolve that they two, she and Alaster, should tell Nancy the simple truth, I think her scheme might have worked, and her pretty vision might have become a reality, but she could not make up her mind to that as yet. By-and-bye, perhaps, she might learn better.

CHAPTER XXVII.

" BARBARA'S FINAL DECISION."

NANCY was quite happy too in those spring days, every one of Avhich seemed to bring new strength and life to Alaster. He was so kind and gentle and tender to them all; so specially, wistfully tender sometimes to her, that the thought that his heart had gone from her never crossed her mind. She rejoiced in his recovery, and in the open- ing summer, just as the lambs and the little birds do, in the warm bright sunshine, who gambol and sing just The Attempt. 18 because they are happy without asking why they are so. Oh, that Bweet unreasoning gladness of morning, and spring, and youth! Does the deeper, quieter happiness of day and summer and riper years, ever quite rival its un- thinking, causeless gladness? Nancy danced and sang in the great hall, and down the long corridors, till the old house echoed with her merriment. She flitted like a sun- beam into the sick chamber, and Alaster's eyes followed her admiringly, and wistfully often. He was very tender with her, in a grave, protecting way. Barbara, too, was her old loving self once more; and Nancy was happy. Old Elspet w^as fairly thrown off the track, and began to think she had been an old fool, to lay any stress on the wild words of delirium, or the unspoken anguish in Barbara's eyes. It had all so completely vanished, everything seemed so right and common-place and proper; she came to the conclusion it had been all an illusion of her foolish superstitious fancy. She had con- trived to make out a theory too about the " shadow," which quite satisfied herself that its mysterious influence wuis over; it had meant Barbara's long fit of depression in the spring, and Alaster's wound and illness,—and now they might go on their way rejoicing, free from its blight- ing shade. No one who does not know the intense super- stitious belief in supernatural warnings, which existed in those days in the Highlands, can quite understand what an immense relief this interpretation of her vision was to Elspet. She propounded the new theory to Barbara, who eagerly countenanced it, and so helped to reassure the old woman greatly; though, to herself, " the shadow " had gained another and far deeper significance. One pair of eyes, however, were still undeceived. Dr Brown had understood the position of matters too thoroughly to be easily diverted from the scent. He saw Alaster's and Barbara's wistful tenderness to Nancy, and while it raised them both in his eyes, his own generous nature under- stood theirs too well for such tenderness to blind him for a moment. He was puzzled what the end of it would be, that was all. He was not so sure now, as in the first days of Alaster's illness, when the mute agony in Barbara's questioning eyes had first told him her secret, that she would marry this man whom she loved. That she loved him still—that she would love him to her life's end—he never doubted; but he saw that there was another force 14 Tlie Attempt.

at work—her strong generous sister-love, and that heroic instinct of self-sacrifice, so powerful in every generous heart. He could hardly believe it, and yet he sometimes thought, that the latter feeling might win in the struggle, and then came a gleam of personal hope. Perhaps—who should say—the wearied heart, worn out with the contest, miglit turn to the great love that was always waiting for her, as to a haven of refuge ? So the spring days ripened into summer, and the birch trees were green again at the burn side. It was not till Alaster's convalescence was nearly acomplished, and he was able to sit with the girls for a few hours, in sunny forenoons in their mother's little flower garden, that any reference was made to their last meeting. For some time the thought had been busy within him that the time had come when it was his duty to speak of it; but he was so content and happy as he was, he dreaded any allusion which might bring it all to an end. One day, however, towards the end of June, he made up his mind that he must speak to Barbara, and must understand the re- lations in which they were all henceforth to stand to one another. He and Barbara were sitting as usual in the bright little garden, with the great solemn hills looking clown upon them, and the clear sunshine all about them. Nancy had gone to see a sick woman in the village, and take her some little comforts, so the two were all alone. It was the very opportunity Alaster had been desiring, and yet, when it came, he shrank from using it. Barbara was reading to him from a book of old ballads, but her voice sounded in his ears without one idea gaining entrance to his mind. Suddenly, in the middle of a verse, he said, abruptly. " Barbara, I want to speak to you." She laid down the book in surprise, and looked up in his face; something in its expression told her at once about what he wished to speak, and the quick blood flooded her face as she sat silently waiting. " Barbara," he went on, "you can't have forgotten our last meeting, and what we said to each other then? " A half audible " No," was all the answer from the down- cast face. " Barbara, dear Barbara," he went on, taking possession of the little hand that was nervously pulling a flower to pieces, " you will reconsider your decision then ? You will not send me away from you?" The Attempt. 15

She looked up at him then with a quiet determined light in her great blue eyes, as she answered, " No, Alaster, I will not send you away, jou must stay here. You belong to Nancy; I have no right to send you away.'"' "Barbara, Barbara," he said half irapatientlj^ "I belong to you, not to Nancy. I have told you I love you, not her; you have said that you love me. We belong to each other." " Yes," she said quietly and sadly, " I have said that I love you, and it is true. I shall never love anybody as I love you, but I will not rob my sister." " It is not robbing her, or if it is, you have robbed her already—unintentionally, I know, but none the less truly. My heart is yours, Barbara, it can never be Nancy's now. Is it not a mere mockery to give her the empty casket when the jewel is gone—a mockery—and a lie besides?" She sat looking on the ground for some minutes with- out speaking, and when she looked up there were tears in the great blue eyes. " I do not know, Alaster," she said, " I cannot tell; I have thought it all over a thousand times, and I can't tell what is right; all I kno'U'' is, I cannot do this thing, I cannot take my own happiness at the expense of Nancy's. Do not press me, Alaster," she added, pitifully; "indeed, I cannot do it—-our mother left her in my care." He sat silent and gloomy for a few minutes, then he said, " Let us ask Nancy herself." "Oh no, no," exclaimed Barbara, starting iip, "that would be worse than anything, to make the poor child give the death-blow to her own happiness—why, it would kill her, Alaster." " But is it fair," he went on, " is it just or kind to marry her on false pretences?" He spoke hardly and coldly, and Barbara shivered as she turned away. " Do not ask me," she said drearily, " I can't tell; all I know is, I cannot do it." " Is that your last word, Barbara? " he said; " is your decision unalterable ? " " Yes, unalterable," she said, sadly. She would have turned and left him then, but he rose from his chair, and drawing her to him, folded her to his heart. " You must not leave me so, Barbara," he said; " if we must part, at least we may part as friends." He spoke quietly. In this interview there had been 16 . Jlie Attempt. none of the wild passion of that meeting under the birch tree. On both sides the sulFerings of the last few months had deadened the fierce agony of their first parting into a dull, deep, constant pain; the wild passion had spent itself, and both were too exhausted by its force to be able to renew it. He held her gently in his arms now, and kissed her brow quietly. She looked up, with a Uglit of hope shining in her tearful eyes. " Yes, let us be friends," she said eagerly, ' let me be your sister; I must be that, you know, to Nancy's husband." He smiled sadly, kissed her again quietly, and let her go. JEANIE MORISON.

airchon IIL MILAN, June 1859. JOY when it comes all anguish past surpasses. The sunshine floods the world and happy sky; Yes, call me to the window when he passes. And I will see the Emperor ride by. The narrow street is filled with people shouting, All the great palaces are scarlet-hung. The rippling tricolours above them flouting. And flowers and bays are on the soldiers flung. The city in one peal of sound rejoices, Yet weak the trumpets seem that rend the air, Feeble the clang of bells to myriad voices Telling of triumph following despair.

CHISELHURST, January 1873. Slowly the bells the minutes sad are telling, Dim is the low light in the wintry sky. The last procession leaves the lonely dwelling. And I will see the Emperor pass by. Cold is the hand of iron resolution That, as one stops a maddened horse's flight, Checked the wild fury of the revolution. And flung back anarchy's destroying might. The Attempt. 17

So soon forgotten all! BO soon forsaken ; The crowds that gloried in the gifts he gave, They foUow fortune, where new hopes awaken. They waste no thought upon the exile's grave. Forget, 0 France ! the weakened darkening hours, Remember still the love he bore his home; Spare from thy rescued paradise of flowers O Italy! a chaplet for his tomb. ^ ^ E. J. 0.

^h ^oml mid the |tou£ltst.

PART I.—THE NOVEL.

1. Its place in literature. We always find the voice of song earliest in the literature of a country. It seems natural to the early singer, in whom a great degree of enthusiasm is necessary to be kindled before expression flows; it seems necessary to the Ustener of these ruder times, whose sense must be impressed while his soul is being instructed. The favourite themes are the wonder- ful deeds of some great hero of his race, little more than the biography of one much admired. The wild hyper- boles of early figures, become in the repeaters' mouths mere exaggeration, and fable soon mixes with fact, until doubt is cast upon both. Anon a wider interest, a more national feeling, awakes, and the biography becomes a history. Unconsciously there appears a moral, and an illustration of the virtues as they appear to the singer in the concrete form of virtuous men. In the gradually as- cending scale of the ballad, the narrative, and the epic, we find an objective and subjective capability, which in later times split off, on one hand, into the dramatic or purely objective, and into the lyrical or purely subjective on the other, leaving the epic a narrowed but more definite sphere. In the dramatic, the author hides himself, and though his varied characters can speak no higher than he can, they do so seemingly on their own responsibihty, and without a suggestion of his presence. It takes a manly force to strike out characters thus ; lives that are spent in the ever-present, whose existence is a line returning into itself, and whose past becomes a present in repre- JAKOABI 1874. C 18 The Attempt. sentation, their words being ever ready for the doer. And the subjective or lyrical has its own peculiar charms. How its sweet singers feel! Swayed by every breeze, suffering from every wound, kindled into rapture by every delight, crushed into despair by every woe—they provide a fund of soothing expression to every pent-up passion. This, however, again splits off into two forms, the direct and simple expression of feeling ; and the indirect or half- hidden expression of bad-feeling—the ironical—the satire, to which, by almost general consent, the name of poetry is denied. During the period in which these forms of poetry have been developing, some philosophy has also arisen, which, mingling in all of these, finds its fittest expression in the epic. Parmenides and Xenophanes gave their concep- tions of Being in the form of an epic poem; and the scientific treatises of such times are all in verse. But a time comes in language when there is too much to say, and too little leisure to say it in, to allow all writers to attend to the intricacies of verse. Their good every-day speech is sufficient for expression, since it has been moulded into flexibility, and enriched by figures, by its use in verse. It is found after all to be superior in addressing the understanding, as it enters the avenues of sense in attracting less attention to itself. And so the historians, the biographers, the physicists, and the philo- sophers, all who wish to speak qiuckly, and to speak plainly, learn to speak in prose. But the imaginative writers for a long time retain the sweet leisurely expres- sion of verse, until the more highly-wrought language strikes them as a medium of greater vivacity and flexi- bility in its common order, and the fictitious narrative, last of all, appears in prose. And this latest novelty in litera- ture retains the name of the novel. But it has its own history of development. Late in all literatures, except Xenophon's Cyropcedia, the first Greek writers of prose fiction were after the third century, Helio- dorus, Achilles Tatius, and Longus ; though, in the second century, in Latin, there were the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter, and the Golden Ass of Apuleius. The modern lan- guages seemed to lose this power in their remoulding, and during the mediaeval period there was little narrative htera- tiire, beyond the lives of the Romish saints. It was not until towards the end of the fourteenth century, in Italy,, that the tales which form the Decameron were collected The Attempt. 19 and remodelled by Boccaccio; and Vaseo Lobeyra, a Portu- guese, wrote his famous Amadis de Gaul, " the Iliad of the Prose Romances of Knight Errantry." These two types had imitators, whose works have not lived so long, and they were forgotten in the Pantagruelism that Rabelais introduced in the fifteenth century. Li the sixteenth cen- tury, there was a return to the romance in a pastoral form, opened by the Diana of MontemaytJr, a Portuguese, who wrote in Castilian; and the novel of clever roguery, called Picaresque, was introduced by Diego Mendoza, a stateman in the reign of Charles V., who wrote the Life of Lazarilh de Tonnes. Cervantes united all the previous styles in his immortal Don Quixote, published in the open- ing of the seventeenth century. In Germany, meantime, had arisen some tales of Demonology and Satiric Fables. In our own country there were, even before the time of Chaucer, legends of King Arthur, which were compiled by Sir Thomas Malory, in 1485, into the Morte d'Arthur, or History of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, a mine of wealth for romancers. In the sixteenth century, appeared a number of short tales, travelling about in chap-books. These have been collected and edited by Mr Thorns, and have been called, " The Waverley Novels of the 16th Century:"—" The Legend of Robert the Devil," " The History of Thomas of Reading," " The Story of Friar Bacon." " The Story of Friar Rush," " The Life of Virgil and his Death," " The Tale of Robin Hood," " The Story of George-a-Green, the pinner of Wakefield," " The History of Tom-a-Lincoln," " The History of Helyas, the Knight of the Swan," and " The Life and Death of Dr John Faustus." Well known at the time were " The Seven Champions of Christendom," and " Jack the Giant- Killer." Then came a period of translation, in which all the foreign styles were introduced to our country, and their great influence can hardly now be realised. The political allegory, however, we may name an invention of our own Sii- Thomas More in his " Utopia," which could only have been suggested by Plato's " Republic." At the end of the sixteenth century appeared Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, the first native prose romance, which, suggested by the Diana of Montemayor, has a grace and beauty all its own. Though to modern readers it might seem intolerably tiresome, people in those days had time to get through a pretty long work before they found a change. It was nearly a hundred years before the next 20 The Attempt. new romance appeared, in the Parthenissa of Roger Boyle, Earl of Orrery, a sort of classic-heroic fiction, in which Greek and Roman characters uttered very English ideas. But a book, published almost at the same time, struck home to the hearts of the people, and of all people, not only more than all tales that came before, but than all that came afterwards,—I mean Bunyan's Pilgrims Progress. Allegory as it is, the wonderful personality of the charac- ters, the power of the style, the poetic ideality of the descriptions, have given it an intense interest in the realistic imagination, as well as the religious opinion. If More invented the political allegory, Bunyan may be said to have invented the religious allegory, though both have their antecedents in Holy Writ. Nothing written since, even by himself, has equalled the Pilgrims Progress. He is supposed to have been uneducated, except by the Bible; but I know one other book he must have read, and known, and loved, and that is Spenser's Faery Queene. Strange that the prose which most resembled Ihis poetry was the farewell outburst of the purely ideal; the next tales that appear, are those written by Mrs Aphra Behn, fit only to be popular in such a period as that of the Restoration. Just at the opening of the eighteenth century, in the year 1704, Swift, the English Rabelais, wrote his Battle of the Books, and the Tale of a Tub, and twenty-three years later appeared his Gullivers Travels, a new style of political satire. But in 1719 Defoe, who had written, only to be forgotten, some two hundred pamphlets, political and otherwise, published his never-to-be-forgotten Robinson Crusoe. Some other half-dozen tales he wrote, but surely we would have heard of them had they been half as good. The interest and probability of the plot, the clear forcible style, that fixes the very date, and gives the verisimilitude of truth, have made us much more interested in Robinson Crusoe than in his reputed original Alexander Selkirk of Largo. Later in the century we find Steele and Addison writing shght sketches, but nothing yet appeared like the novel proper of modern times, which satisfies the natural feeling that in trivial minds degenerates into gossip, and in great minds rises into the study of human nature. But in 1740 Richardson, hardly knowing what he did, became our first novelist proper. Like Columbus, he intended to do one thing, when he set sail, and he did more than one, though, mayhap, he failed to reach the golden land in I'he Attempt. 21 whose search he had set out. And Fielding came, an Amerigo to this Columbus, and bore away a palm-branch from his fame; for if Richardson commenced the novel proper. Fielding started the school of English humourists, and with him shortly were associated Smollett and Sterne. In 1759 appeared Johnson's Rasselas, whose tale was only intended to give a thread of interest to a series of Johnsonian ideas, and was rather a step back towards More's Utopia than forward to our modern style ; but in 1761 Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefieldwas put into the library of all ages, by the side of Robinson Crusoe. Its fidelity to nature, and its beautifully simple English style, have made it a model specimen of our literature. Walpole's Castle of Otranto, pubhshed not long after, " an attempt to blend the two kinds of romance, ancient and modern." had a host of imitators, and an admiration for its style has not yet utterly died out. Every kind of tale we have mentioned has numerous representatives in the present, and the historical novel of Sir Walter Scott is the only variety necessary to swell out the thirteen kinds of novel mentioned by Professor Masson. For the hundred years that follow this period, and bring us down to our own date, are the time of the flower and harvest of novels; and we cannot even speak of it without both space and time beyond what is allotted us. We have looked at the planting of the little seeds, and we would only remark further, the relation the developed plant bears to the seeds. The circle has almost returned into itself, or rather it has . returned towards its point of starting, as a spiral does, a little higher up. The prose novel arose out of the central thread of narrative that longest continued in the form of verse ; but as it developed further, it returned back towards its starting-place, and took in more and more of what it once had thrown out—religion, philosophy, science, history. It covers the whole sphere of what once was covered by early literature. But its chief differences are these—\st. Its abundance, regulated by the diffusion of knowledge and cultiu'e, rather than by the advance of intellect. 2d, Its form, prose and free, regulated by the advancement of the powers of language by that general culture. 3c?, Its spirit. Early literatures claimed truth for their facts, often without an appearance, and sometimes without a possibility of truth; modern novels do not claim truth in their facts, but in their generalisations from facts. Their tales need not be true, but they must seem true. 22 The Attempt.

4th, Its contemporaneity. The old literature looked always back on past timea; dead heroes, and old be- liefs attained grandeur in the mist of distance. But the novel has made the grand discovery, that the vital in- terest to living men is present hopes, fears, thoughts, and beliefs. That, again, has taught us that there is some- thing ill humanity that remains ever-present, the uni- versal, the unvarying element, by which we are human. And thus, whether written of this year, or of a thousand years ago, the novel cannot but take in the fullest life the present knows. Whether the novel can retain its place as a saturated solution of all thought and life; or whether, having be- come, under unnatural conditions, a super-saturated solu- tion of many elements, it will shortly crystallize out some of its contents, and remain a simpler and a purer form, like the epic of the middle ages, the future alone can tell. LUTE A RESEDA. {To be continued.)

§)M[ (l{hant of Ih^ ^^IIs.

RING out, ye glad bells, in this weary day— Ring out, though the storm is raging; Though the fitful air would silence prayer, Strong hearts will be found unchanging. Strong hearts will be found with their strength untried, Till the storm shall burst in wailing; And the strength of life shall be lost in strife, Till strength shall be unavailing. Tell us, sweet bells, the glad tidings that came In the years that are gone and ended; Remind us that peace, when the fight shall cease, Is one with strife unattended. And we will work on, though the work is hard, For the Master we serve is holy, — Till the light shall come from our upward home,— Though the dawn be breaking slowly. And over the land, and over the the sea, The chant of the bells is going ; The Attempt. 23

WTiile out on the deep, when Ave are asleep, The wonderful wind is blowing. Do they hear it and pause—those sailor-men. And think of its strange, grand beauty ? When the wild waves scream, in a terrible dream, Does it keep them true to their duty ? Ah! pray we it so, for the time shall come When strength shall be found in weakness ; And the proudest heart shall be torn apart. And taught the lesson of meekness. And science shall wane, and the world grow pale To think of her sin and danger, Wlien Cometh on high, through a tearful sky. Our GOD-KIXG, born in a manger. NAOMI S. SMITH. Chriitmas, 1873.

=4-=

§1 ffiltntir ^torg.

Deeds are done on earth Which have their punishment ere the earth closes Upon the perpetrators. Be it the working Of the remorse-stained fancy, or the vision, Distinct and real, of unearthly being, All ages witness, that beside the couch Of the fell homicide oft stalks the ghost Of him he slew, and shows the shadowy wound. WALTER SCOTT. Old Play. IN days of yore, when travellers were few and high-ways unfrequented, a single horseman was journeying along a lonely road. It was in the depth of winter, and the short December day had almost reached its close. On either side the pathway stretched a wild tract clothed Avith fir- trees, whose dark spectre-like trunks were sharply relieved against the pale frosty sky. A desolate scene it was, and so the traveller seemed to consider; for ever and anon he glanced here and there, as if to be certain that no enemies were lurking among the furze bushes, or behind the pine columns which bordered the road. He was a substantial citizen, to judge from his appearance, which betokened comfort and respectability without much heed to orna- ment. And those who knew Roger the merchant would have said that nothing short of important affairs could have roused him from the indolent life he loved so well, 24 The Attempt.

or caused him to undertake a long and toilsome journey at such a season. But self-interest was stronger than the love of ease, and Roger was bound to York, where the king then was keeping Christmas-tide, to petition against a vexatious enactment lately passed concerning the impor- tation of wool from Flanders. As he rode leisurely onwards, suddenly, through the stillness and falling gloom, there sounded in his rear the tramp of a horse. Sharp and clear came the measured beat of hoofs, ringing on the frozen ground, and gradually drawing nearer. Soon Roger could see the figure of man and horse looming unnaturally distinct against the hori- zon. A thrill of distrust came over him, for he was all unused to travel, and every little incident of the way dis- turbed him. The new-comer, whoever he was, had now nearly overtaken him, and shouted in a frank voice, " Good friend, lend me your company; it waxes late, and the roads are dreary. Nay, you need not think to escape me," he added, with a laugh, as Roger uneasily urged on his horse. " I mean you no injury, but I shall stay by you ; for two are better than one in these times." Roger looked back; the stranger was a few paces in his rear. Still doubtful of unknown companions, he hesitated to draw bridle ; when, in an instant, Avith a mocking shout of triumph, two men dashed suddenly forward from be- hind the trees, and flung themselves, sword in hand, on the strange horseman. For one second Roger gazed; he saw the commencement of the fray, the stranger dragged from his horse, yet defending himself gallantly; he heard his cry of " Help, sir traveller, help! the knaves are two to one." Then terror seized him—wild, ungoverned terror —and he fled. Fled fast and faster, not daring to look again; not daring to think of the cry which, in its fierce imploring agony, yet rang in his ears; but on—ever on— till the keen air whizzed by him like a shower of arrows, and earth and sky seemed to mingle in one mad whirl. His horse stopped at length, with a shock that nearly threw his master from the saddle, and he found himself at the hostel where he intended to pass the night. Dis- mounting, he strove to recall his scattered senses; but the impression of the scene he had just witnessed was too intense—his haggard looks and incoherent words betrayed the trouble of his mind, and Avhen he sougJit his couch, the same visions of terror haunted his slumbers that had well-nigh crazed his waking thoughts. The Attempt. 25

Morning came, and men rose up cheered and refreshed to their daily tasks, fortified against sorrow, stronger to labour or endure. But to Roger the morning light brought •no relief; rather, with cooler reflection, came the added torments of self-reproach. Was it not his frantic tiight which had robbed the victim of his last chance of life ? " Two to one—the knaves are two to one I"—those fatal words were ever sounding in his ears; reminding him that he might have made the numbers equal—might have changed the issue of the struggle. Was he not then a partaker in the guilt % Tidings of the murder were not long in reaching the hostelry. Men spoke in whispers of the terrible fate which had fallen on one well-known to them; for the slain man was a yeoman of mai-k in the neighbourhood. They knew, too, that he had incurred the enmity of a powerful and lawless baron, which but too well accoimted for the man- ner of his death. But all this was expressed with caution, by looks and hints, rather than in plain words ; for none cared to draw down upon themselves the vengeance of their dreaded lord. Roger heard, but took nn part in what was passing; listless and heavy-liearted, it was not till the day was far advanced that he summoned energy to call for his reckoning, and then continue his journey. Evening was drawing on apace, and nothing could be seen distinctly through the white frost-fog that enveloped the country, when again, through the silence, was heard the tread of a horse. Tramp, tramp came the measured Bound, as of some one steadily advancing, and yet, after a few minutes, it appeared no nearer than at first Trembling from head to foot, Roger looked back. As fai as he could see, the straight line of road by which he had come stretched away as if to join the darkening sky ; but along its whole length not a living creature was to be Been. Neither man nor horse could there be within a great distance, and yet that mysterious sound had not ceased, nor could it be mistaken for aught but the ring of a horse's hoofs. The unhappy man shuddered with a nameless horror; he paused—still the sound continued; he went forward—and still it followed him, ceasing not, nor changing. After a time, he looked back once more ; when lo! against the sky appeared the shadowy outline of a horseman seemingly close to the spot. The figure raised its arm on high, shook it with solemn menace; then with a flash of fire from the hoofs of the spectral JANCAST 187S. D 26 The Attempt. charger, vanished as suddenly as it had arisen, leaving Roger prostrate on the groiind, and well-nigh insensible throiigh remorse and fear. By slow degrees he learned the curse that had fallen on his life—the curse of the dead man whose fate he might have averted. Henceforth, wherever he might bs,— alone or mtli friends, on lonely roads or in crowded thorough- fares,—as surely as the shades of evening gathered round, so surely sounded in his ears the fatal tread, every echo of which seemed branded on his senses, as with a red-hot iron; so surely the spectral horseman stood threateningly over him, and vanished with a flash of flame. What marvel that Roger, overpowered with the burden that none might share with him, grew more haggard and ghastly day by day. Sleep forsook him, the presence of his fellow-men oppressed him, and his days were spent in fearful anticipation, and no less fearful retrospection, of the hour of his penance. Winter came again, and once more men looked forward to the joyful Christmas tide. There fell on Roger a strange restlessness, a craving to revisit the scene of his terrible adventure. He made up his mmd to yield to the impulse, almost feeling as if some hope might yet be in store for liim. This time he journeyed on foot; to him the tread of a horse was like a death-knell. About noon on the second day he entered the wild district so well remem- bered, where pine trees, tall and branching, skirted the road. On a stone by the way-side sate an aged man, with beard as white as snow, leaning both hands on a stafi: His countenance was majestic, and his eye rested on Roger with a glance of inexpressible tenderness and pity. " My son," he said mildly, as Roger approached, " thou art one, methinks, who bearest a heavy load of guilt or sorrow ? " " Of both, 0 my father," answered Roger. " But it is in vain you Avould seek to aid me; I am forsaken of heaven, and men also would shun me did they but know my secret." " Thou art never forsaken, 0 foolish one," replied the hermit; " then least of all, when thou art humbled to the dust, and abhorrest thine own unworthiness. Ever the night is darkest in the hour before the dawn. But follow me, that I may see what help or comfort may be found for thee." And Roger followed him meekly along a narrow pathway through the furze and heather, till they reached The Attempt. 27 a little lonely cell, beside which stood a small chapel, built with more architectural skill than might have been ex- pected in so rude a spot. The hermit seated himself on a bench at the door of his cell. Signing to Roger to kneel before him, he bade him, in the same tone of calm authority he had used through- out, relate his history. Roger obeyed, already feeling that a ray of comfort had pierced the darkness of his despair. " It is as I thought," said the recluse, when he had ended. " Great has been thy punishment, 0 my son; but great also was thy fault. For a moment the sacred gift of life was committed to thee; thine it was to bestow: but thou, poor child of weakness, didst fling the occasion tar from thee, and thy flight wrought triumph for the powers of evil I Be glad, then, that tliou art even in this life permitted to expiate thy guilt. And now, listen to what hath been revealed to me concerning thee. In my sleep last night, there appeared to me a winged messenger, and thus he spake: " Kuowest thou wherefore the merchant Roger, who shall cross thy path to-morrow, is tormented ? The shade of him, whose death he might have averted, hath power over him until the body is committed to the grave in peace. The voice of the unburied one cries aloud; let him sleep in consecrated earth, and the penance shall be ended I W^herefore. 0 Roger, thus must thou do, Seek out the remains of this hapless victim, which have lain unheeded from fear of the bold bad man who ordered his death Bear them to this chapel, and we will give them fitting interment, where the shadow from yonder Cross may fall on the grave." With folded hands, and eyes dim with thankful tears, Roger still knelt on ; words filled him, sight and sound and consciousness seemed absorbed in the unutterable rehef which had been granted to him, and he was like one entranced. Ere long he roused himself, and went forth to his task. His former feelings of dread and horror had left him, and he thought, with trembling pity, on the fellow-being to whom death brought no rest. But here, he felt, it was ordered that he should make reparation ; that his hand, which was never uplifted in life to save him, should yet be the means of rescuing him from the doom of the lui- buried. And thankfully he went on his way until tlie scene of the catastrophe was reached. Ay! sure enough 28 The Attempt. there yet lay the bleached and ghastly skeleton, exposed to the full eye of day, as though neither heaven nor earth had pity on the slain. Slowly and reverently Roger bore it back to the hermit's abode; then together they dug the grave, close under the walls of the chapel, and with solemn-sounding chants, audholy invocations, the mournful relics were committed to the earth, and rested beneath the shadow of the Cross. When all was over, Roger entered the chapel, and cast himself down in lowly penitence before the Altar. Evening came on, and now no spectral horse-hoofs broke the tranquil silence; but before Roger's awe-struck eyes there stood the figure he knew so well; not as hitherto, stern and menacing, but calmly smiling, with hand upraised to form the sign of the Cross. And these words seemed to float through tlie air: " Thou wert with me in the hour of my death—thou hast been with me in my awful penance—thou shalt be with me in this my dreamless rest." The form faded away, softly and gradually, and in meek acquiescence Roger bowed his head. At dawn of day, the hermit entered the chapel to seek him; he lay outstretched on the stone step before the Altar, his arms crossed over his breast, a peaceful smile on his countenance, from which all the lines of care and sorrow had departed. The spirit had passed away during the watches of the night; the prediction was ful- filled. The hermit scooped out another grave beneath the chapel walls; and on sunny days he loved to mark how the shadow from the Cross fell athwart the turf- covered mounds, and seemed to unite those in death whose lives had been so strangely mingled. And often as he sate before his cell did he muse over their mysteri- ous story ; in all humility reading therefrom this lesson— that neither virtuous intentions, nor after regrets, could supply the place of righteous action. ENNA. The Attempt. 29

^5 it strikes a Southerner. FROM time immemorial the very name of St Andrews calls to mind visions of red coats, long, undulating, sandy links, barefooted caddies, putters, and drivers, cliques and balls, with all the other paraphernalia of the royal game of golf. For, be it understood by Southern readers, that St Andrews is the capital of that ancient game. Let no one presume to go to that venerable city with any idea of entering its social life, if he be not prepared to do honour to the despot, whose emblems are, two golf clubs transverse, and ball couchant on a field vert, with the motto, " Far and sure." Formerly Scotland's ecclesiastical capital, the ruins of its ancient cathedral, and its archiepiscopal castle, stand built out on the rocks facing the eastern sea. As you wander at sunset through the remains of its glory, strange visions rise of cowled monks, haughty prelates, and white robed choirs; while the sound of bells heard far out at sea, and the rise and fall of chant and psalm, as daily matins and evensong by turns send up to heaven their tribute of prayer and praise, seem to strike upon the ear. Fancy paints the mariner looking grate- fully to the abbey, where, he trusts, his failure in devotion is atoned by those holy men, whose lives are sacred to God's service. But now the scene changes; the visions of peace pass away. Lurid from before the castle gate, rises the glare and smoke of burning faggots. The upturned faces of the crowd look fierce and stern, though here and there are visible the signs of pity and disapproval; but none dare to make plainly evident these marks of discontent. On the flat roof of the castle keep, stretched on luxurious cushions, arrayed in the full panoply of his order, and attended by his sumptuous court, reclines at his ease the Prince Bishop of St Andrews, A malignant triumph is visible on his face, as through the castle gate, to the faggot and the stake, is led George Wishart, a martyr to the Protestant faith. But again the scene changes. The castle is beseiged, the ! ^ Btronghold yields to the assault, and the cruel persecutor falls himself into the hands of his enemies—by his own violent death answering for the burning of Wishart. 30 The Attempt.

Still and solemn enough now is the spot where those visions rise. The only tenants of the sacred ground for many ages have been the dead. The enclosure of Abbey and Cathedral has long been used for the city burial place; and a glorious resting place it is, with the sea washing its base, and stretching far out towards the east, that land of returning light. Here, removed from the noise of the town, among the shadows of these ancient ruins, lie the men of the present day side by side with monks, prelates, and warriors of old, till time and sea shall be no more. You may long indulge your fancies in this spot with- out much fear of disturbance from the inhabitants and visitors, whose resort is on the other side of the town, where the sandy links, with their bunkers and golf holes, are much more attractive than all the historical associa- tions. St Andrews has been called the Brighton of Scotland, but it has very little in common with that fashionable resort. It is a quaint old town, with straight, regular streets, quiet colleges, and many schools. It is a seat of learning, and a great place for the education of boys, which is here good and cheap. Like most Scotch towns, it is not remarkable for cleanliness. By the Castle and Abbey the rocks are high and precipitous, but to the left the bay slopes inland, and instead of the rugged cliffs, there is a stretch of yellow sand, firm and pleasant to the tread, bordered with IOAV sandy downs, which form the " links," the grand battle field of St Andrews, where are fought the battles of golf This is essentially a Scotch game, and is of little interest to the onlooker, but Jias a great charm for those who practise it; they will tell you it is the prince of games. As is well known, it is played with a email hard India- rubber ball, and a club with a flat wooden or iron head. These clubs go by different names, but a correct list would require one to be more fully skilled than can be expected of an ignorant Southerner, as fifteen of these clubs constitute a set, and to the uninitiated there seems to be AJ-ery little difference between them. The game consists in driving this ball with the fewest possible number of strokes into round holes that are made in the grass. There are eighteen holes in the course of four miles, and the champion player has gone the round in about ninety strokes. The Attempt. 31

There is a club-house, which is very well conducted, and altogether St Andrews is the paradise of golfers. But it has one drawback, it is very difficult of access. The train from Edinburgh is extremely slow, and you have to make an immense number of changes in a very short time, for there is the Firth of Forth to cross at Granton, then you again catch the train at Burntisland, and have to change once more at Leuchars, about four miles from St Andrews. There is little interest in the neighbourhood, but in itself St Andrews combines much of what, with enter- prise, might make it a most attractive watering place. The air is fine and pure, the sands are superior to ahnost any southern resort, the bathing is good and safe, the grassy links and golf necessarily have an attraction of their own, and the old ruins and historical associations are surely not without their charm ; while the bolder rock scenery on the southern side, with the rough sea on a windy day, dashing, foaming, and boiling in a mighty tempest against their rugged cliffs, presents those sterner features more welcome to some natures. Venture, how- ever, to suggest to a golfer the advisability of starting a large hotel, like those foimd now in so many watering places, a promenade band, etc., and he turns from you with disgust, declaring that you will quite spoil the place. But surely he coiild pursue his golf with equal pleasure, while some amusement would be provided for those benighted individuals who do not sufficiently appreciate that ancient game to make it their whole occupation. But he will tell you " No. We don't want them.'' s.

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

Taines History of English Literature. Translated from the French, by M. VAN LAUN.

THIS book is well worth the attention of literary students. It is good for us occasionally '-to see our- selves as others see us," and it enables us with the more complacency to regard the representation, and accept the criticism, the thorough appreciation, with which our 32 The Attempt.

beauties are admired. One suggestive remark to the French nation may illustrate this : " Till we bury the M. Jourdain that lives in the breast of every one of us, we shall never understand Edmund Spenser."

A Trip to Skye. By BELL and TiNA. Though printed for private circulation, and therefore not strictly amenable to criticism, this little brochure may fitly be noticed here as the production of two young ladies, alias " unprotected females," who set off, with a resolution worthy of a nobler cause, unaided and alone to visit the beautiful island of Skye. The writer of this notice is personally acquainted with the principal dramatis personce of the book, and in that capacity can testify to the accuracy with which the characters of the two heroines, as shown alike in speech and action, are portrayed. Indeed, as was to be expected, the chief amusement of the book lies, for those initiated, in this. But the " true " adventures here narrated further afford us proof, highly acceptable, doubtless, to admirers of the Dickens school, that the ludicrous element is discoverable in the most trifling incidents. If those in search of light- hearted pleasure are but ready and willing to be amused with their surroundings, entertainment is never far to seek. Minerva herself, however, in the travelling dress and manners of the ninteenth century, might look a little less sage! And if we hint that the same may perhaps be. said of Bell and Tina, all oflfence is at least removed by such a comparison.

Waves and Caves. By BASIL MONTAGU PICKERING, 1873.

The work of a young poet, we trust this httle work will meet with the general perusal it deserves. We would specially call attention to " Marlowe " (prize poem, Edin- burgh University, 1873). From the vigour and freshness with which the subject is treated, we are led to expect that what lies hidden there in embryo will develope into greater and deeper thought. The A ttempt. 33

On ihi 4r£cdom of thf WiUl

THE history of all philosophy, and, we may add, of all religions, is full of this question. Is the will free ? is the inner directing power, of which we are all conscious, in virtue of which I now cause my thoughts to busy them- selves on this subject, is it indeed /, a certain definite individual, who exert it in truth, or do I only appear to myself to do so'? Is my present action and train of thought in any way within my own control, or am I merely determined to think and act in this manner, and no other, by the conditions of my birth, and the circumstances which have since then surrounded me 1 Am I, body and mind, soul and brain, a mere necessary product of what has gone before ? or am I indeed a person with something about me not derived, something original, which may be even in direct antagonism to the merely derived part of my nature, and the force of surrounding circumstances'? Have I power, and therefore responsibility ; or have I a mislead- ing consciousness of responsibility without any power. Do consciousness and experience assure us that we our- selves are beings; individuals, substances, forces ; or is there but one substance, one force, one power, one will, or necessity; and is this consciousness of individuahty a delusion that philosophy or revelation can dissipate i Let us glance at the alternatives, for there seem to be two—will or necessity. Although the fatalistic theories melt and co-mingle together, and some on the border-lands are hardly capable of being grouped under either of the two heads I have ventured to suggest; still, as far as I see, the division is practically useful, if not exhaustive. For under one the Theisms range themselves, under the other the Atheisms and other kinds of religious disbelief. Supposing then, that our wills are not free, and that our personality is merely an instrument f .r setting fa-th some other force or power outside itself—Avhat is this force or power? One answer comes ; the Absolute ; in- finite attributes of infinite substance, of which we and all the phenomena of the universe are but finite modes. The modification of this Absolute, the prime essence of which may be called God, is no act of will; it is an act of inherent necessity. We rejoice, we suffer under the law of inevitable fate. Man, a mere mode of this All, has therefore no hberty. His acts are all evolutions of the motive force of FEBRUART 1874. E 34 The Attempt.

a law, hidden from him, but utterly irresistible. " Nature," says a modern writer describing this theory, " projects him into the world subject to conditions he cannot evade, and when his little clockwork is run, he sinks back into her womb, and merges his personality in the life of the great All." There is no more real possibility of his guid- ing his own actions, than of a drop of water falling in any direction but that imposed by the laws of gravitation. The illustration will remind you that this form of fatalism is held by many who persist in applying the laws of phy- sical science to metaphysical subjects ; who confound the observer and that which he observes in the same category; and apply to that which can be touched, tasted, seen, and heard, and that which can be known only in the mind, the same methods of investigation. But materialism is not the necessary outcome of this theory, which has been held by many idealist philosophers. It has a certain fascination about it; it satisfies the craving for unity which lies at the root of much philosophical research,—there is a sort of calm in the contemplation of the vast sea of Being, of which we and all around us are but transitory modes formed by circumstances, as waves of definite shape rise from the abyss of waters, and vanish and melt into it again, when their brief period of divided oscillation is over. This theory was familiar to many of the old Greek philoso- phers, and Spinoza is its great modern exponent; it is the creed of many modern German thinkers, and of such of our educated or scientific men as have broken with Chris- tianity and adopted Pantheism. But those who deny Free Will are not all to be ranged with the idealists who recognise a great All without personality, will, or affections ; or the materialists, who refuse to look beyond the chain of physical causality, or phenonoma, to any noumena whatever. Where such would say Necessity or Fate, this second class would say £^[ an irrtsistible Divine Will, is the real power which mani- fests itself in all actions and modes of being. " There is one God—all in all,"—says the Koran. " There is no power or will, wisdom or pride, save his own." Palgrave tells us that in Mahommetism, "the sole power, motor, energy, and deed, is God: the rest is downright inertia and mere instrumentality, from the highest archangel down to the simplest atom of creation. . . . God is one in the totality of omnipresent action, which acknow- ledges no rule, standard, or limit, save His own sole The Attempt. 35 absolute will. . . . All are alike tools of the one solitary Force which employs them to crush or to benefit, ... to truth or to error, to happiness or misery, quite independ- ent of their fitness, deserts or advantage, simply because He wills it, and as He wills it. . . He burns one individual through all eternity, and sets another amid the enjoyments of Paradise, just and equally for His own pleasuie because He wills it." A parallel development iu Europe, is a school of divinity founded on that of St Augustine, but carried by others beyond the point of that Father, notably by Zwingle and Calvin, the latter being the greatest name to be found among the Deistic deniers of free will. The proposition asserted as the contradictory to those fatalistic theories, the free action of the will, has been obscured by such a mist of words, that I fear to approach it, except under good guidance. It is often confused Avith the act of deliberation and the act of judgment, which belong to the intellect. But after judging and com- paring, I am aware in many cases that I am able to follow a certain course, if I make a sujjjiciently strong effort; and that, should I not sufficiently exert myself, 1 shall not follow that course. And this effort, which may not extend beyond my own mind, over which alone I have any control, I feel I make myself, with s(')me power pecu- liarly and wholly my own, and not under coercion. '" We come here," says M. Guizot, "to a new series of facts, which liave their origin in the man himself, of which he looks on iiimself as the author ; which Avould be other than they are, if he chose to make them other than they are." Here we perceive where fatalists have one factor, the upholders of free-will have two. Call A the outer motives impelhng the man in a given direction, we have, in the first place, A again for the man himself, because what he is, settles his action in a given position ; md he is what he is by his derived nature, and by the irresistible action of former motives. He thinks himself free, because he thinks he does as he chooses, but he could not have done otherwise; his thought is' a delusion. But we assert another factor B, on which A acts—namely, the man himself, the personality, the ego, revealing itself in conscious action and effort. " And in the realisation of this," says Ferrier, " man finds the counter-law esta- blished to the law of causality. If the law of assent to man's derivative nature is known by tlie name of causality, tlie law of dissent, which in man clashes with 3G Tlie Attempt. causality is known by the designation of Will; this Will embodies itself in acts of antagonism against the merely natural being, and is the ground law of humanity." I have no space here to pause on Ferrier's beautiful philo- sophy, except to recommend all interested in this subject to read his " Introduction to the Philosophy of Con- sciousness." I proceed to assert, with M. Guizot, " that we have the same sort of knowledge of our freedom as of our existence; we feel and know we are free." Here he claims for this belief, that it is one of the facts given in consciousness. Of course it is open to any one to deny this, and assert he has no such belief. On the facts of consciousness there is no arguing—they are among the original premises upon which all argument is based: but the actions of men in general lead us to suppose that they dobelieve they are free agents, and fatalists usually concede that the belief is common, some say necessary, as a work- ing belief, but that it is a delusion that a clearer philosophy dissipates. If so, all moral government is also a delusion; all praise and all blame is illusive; and the robber who shoots you can no more be found fault with, than the pistol in his hand. This is all eo obvious, that of course those who hold to fatalism have exhausted themselves in efforts to explain away the difficulty, which is thus stated by Locke:—"By denying freedom to mankind, and thereby making men no other than bare machines, they take away all moral rules whatever, and leave not a possibility to believe any such, to those who cannot con- ceive how anything can be capable of a law that is not a free agent; and upon that ground they must neces- sarily reject all principles of virtue who cannot put morality and mechanism together, which are not very easy to be reconciled or made consistent." This J. S. Mill denies, saying it would make no difference to our admira- tion of certain clock-work paragons, or to onr abhor- rence of certain necessary monsters, if we knew that they were in both cases quite powerless to act otherwise. Here I can only say that I agree with Locke and not with Mr Mill. There remains the difficult conscious- ness of responsibility; indeed, the awkward word; for how, we may ask, did the word arise, if it correspond to no idea ? Mr Mill helps us thus—" Responsibility means punishment, expectation or fear of punishment," and he explains how gradually the necessity of abstaining from obnoxious acts has brought about the desire of abstaining The Attempt. 37 from them. But is that all ? Will any amount of punish- ment, present or expected, produce in me a feeling of re- sponsibility for a circumstance or act over which I have no control 1 Will entire immunity prevent me from feehng responsible to myself, for actions over which I believe I have control? Ko; responsibility, if we think it well out, means power, infers power, demands power, and without it, no one will acknowledge the burden of the response or the answerahility for something. Let us now contemplate this difficult question from a higher point of view, and endeavour to w^ork ourselves nearer to it by a discussion of some of the objections urged in the abstract against the possibility of free-will. First. Freedom supposes an actual beginning or initia- tion of action—inconceivable as being a beginning, and absurd as the attribute of a mere unit in the great all of Being. Secondly. Moral freedom is incompatible with law, as introducing disorder, caprice, and chance, into the uni- verse. Thirdly. Freedom is incompatible with the foreknow- ledge of God. The first two objections are urged by sceptic, and all three by Deistic, philosophers. 1 have no time to dwell now on the sceptical opinions; on what has well been caUed the "white despair j" of a certain school of philosophic thought. It is, we believe, but a half philosophy, insist- ing on applying the laws which it discovers in matter to mental phenomena. I shall pause longer on the Deistic objections, because I think a belief in a personal Deity removes some of the difficulties of the question. Fii'st, there is urged the impossibility of conceiving a beginning, impossibility of supposing that the source or initiation of any action should proceed from any individual unit in the linked chain of existence. To this objection tliere is the well-known answer of the equal impossibility of conceiving no begiuning at all. All difficulties about a beginning are merely postponed; far backwards as we may go, the question still presents itself at every point: and what is the cause of that, the cause of the cause of the cause? But to those who believe in a per- sonal Deity this difficulty is lessened. Why should not the Creator have made man in His own image, free, and a person; delegating to him a certain limited portion of His power, a flash of His life, a spark of His reality 38 Tlie Attempt.

of being? Do we then, in our search for Unity, find Dualism ? Yes, for it is in the temporary nature, if not in the essence of things around us; though we may hope that all is moving towards the triumph of free con- scious goodness, of full harmony, instead of barren unison. The second objection, that it is impossible to conceive of the universe as the sport of chance, must next be noticed. Those who believe in free-will, do not therefore deny God's overruling providence, or believe that any but a very limited power is in the possession of any created being. A power shown too, in its own selt- development and self-realisation, rather than in any dis- turbance of the order of things. The will of the Creator overrules the disorderly wills of men; and expresses itself also in those aspects we are Avont to call the laws of nature. We do not believe that any mischief wrought by man is more than temporary in its effects to all save him- self; it is his own fate, and not any other person's that each holds in his power. All events in time, however brought about, are, as we believe, overruled as a discipline, as a school, as a trial it may be, but not as involving any individual in permanent loss, save through his own fault. The third and chief objection against the possibility of free-will is, though very recondite, undoubtedly the most difficult to grapple with, because it deals with matters quite beyond the human understanding. How can a belief in the freedom of the will be reconciled Avith a belief in the foreknowledge of God? But is this not a destruction of the known by the unknown ? What do we mean by free-Avill? Briefly, that there is in man an original as Avell as a dcriA^ed element; that he has been created a being whose oAvn co-operation is necessary for his perfect development—a co-operation he may withhold, and then he misses this perfect development. At least, true or false, the notion is comprehensible. What do we mean by the foreknoAvledge of God? That Avith Him (succession, or Avhat we call time, is not; that there never was a time when He Avas not. All human reason staggers and fails Avhen it deals \Adth the Infinite. Pascal teaches us that, to be rigidly logical, the Deist should say nothing about God; for the idea of infinity, which rejects every limitation, is, when we think it out, the denial of all attri- butes. Infinite intelligence does not pass from one idea The Attempt. 39 to another, but knows all instantaneously. To Him past, present, and future are not, so He cannot remember or foresee. " He is infinitely incomprehensible, since, having no parts nor succession, He has no relation to us." It is to this infinite unintelligibility, that some thinkers sacrifice the belief in free will. Theologians tell us we cannot speak of God without falling into anthropomorphism ; but as Christians, we believe that the Creator has brought Himself into relation with us through the incarnation of His Word. However; infinite wisdom soars out of all relation to our wisdom; we cannot even apprehend what it is. But if wisdom, infinitely extended, surptisses our faculties, still wisdom, knowledge—it remains. Far more must holiness, however superhuman, remain holiness; far truer is the relation here. Some have asserted the con- trary, and lent honoured names to a theory which, beyond all others, has, I believe, driven men to infidelity. The goodness of the Creator, they say, difl^ers not only in de- gree, but in kind, from that of the creature. What would be intense cruelty in man, is righteous and good in His Maker, We should call a man a cruel monster who brought children into the world, intending, for u(j fault of theirs, and in spite of any effort they can make to prevent it, to torment them for ever. When we figure to ourselves an Omnipotent Creacor thus acting towards millions of His creatures, the thing is made none the less unrighteous because of the scale on which it is done. But interpose free-will, and once more we feel righteousness beneath our feet, and a gleam of light falls on all darkness. The creature who can ofier voluntary homage is, we feel, far higher in the scale of being than a piece of clock-work, however elaborate, that moves just and only as it is com- pelled ; but liberty is potential. " To create a free being is to place before it the problem of its destiny,"—a glorious possibility; a possibility also of failure, and, as long as rebellion lasts, of loss. But deny free-will, and God is responsible, not man, for man's worst acts. Nor have the leaders of this school of theology shrunk from the conse- quences of their theories. Calvin writes on the matter with the utmost clearness. " We assert," he says, " that by an eternal unchangeable decree, God has determined whom He will one day permit to share in eternal felicity, and whom He will damn. In respect of the elect the decree is founded on His unmerited mercy, without any regard to human worthiness; but those whom He delivers 40 The Attempt. up to damnation, are, by a just and irreprehensible judg- ment, excluded from all access to eternal life." Again, "man's fall into crime is ordained by God's providence;" and here is his answer to those who, as he says, complain that it is not just that they should be punished eternally for doing what he allows they can in no \vise help doing. "When the wicked hear these things, they complain that God abuses His inordinate power to make cruel sport with the miseries of His creatures." But " what is man that he should reply," and it is " perverse to measure divine by the standard of human justice." Zwingle says—" God is the author, mover, and impeller to sin; He it is who moves the robber to murder the innocent." And Beza tells us, the "Almighty creates a portion of men to be His instruments, with the intent of carrying out His evil designs through them." To this ghastly theology was Calvin brought by his denial of man's free-will, because, as his biographer M. Guizot says, " he imagined that man's free-will was opposed to the idea which he had formed of the omnipotence and omniscience of God." Before leaving the Theological side of the question, we may notice that the doctrine generally accepted through- out Christendom, is, that God is free, yet conditioned by the laws of wisdom and holiness ; He manifests his free- dom by creation. Man is made free, and ought to be conditioned by the laws of wisdom and holiness. God is the author of man's whole being, and gives him in potentia the faculties for manifesting his complete perscmality; and these faculties he is free to use or not. He cannot give himself animal life, for he is not the principle of life. But he may, within certain limits, maintain it or not; he needs food, or life will expire. He cannot give himself intel- lectual faculties, but he may develope them by assimilating the intellectual material around him, or let them perish by disuse. He cannot give himself a moral nature, but he has moral capabilities given to him. He has also the gift of grace; God's relation to his moral nature, as truth to his mental, and food to his animal nature. * In all these relations, man can employ his freedom to intensify or destroy the connection. He may commit suicide; he may prefer ignorance ; he may reject grace; or he may fulfil the purpose of his being, and lead a right life. But there is no constraint; the authority of the

* Abridged from Gould's Origin and Development of Christianity. The Attempt. 41

Creator is not here efficient, but moral; it is action on the conscience convincing men of responsibility. I have hardly space to glance at the argument against freedom, drawn from the general regularity in social matters proved by statistics. Could certain actions^ as marriages and suicides, be shown to vary with certain circumstances, beyond the control of the agents, in exact ratio, they say it might be proved they are cause and effect, and that all human actions are the necessary con- sequents of necessary antecedents. This, however, we cannot discover, will and circumstance are so inextricably entangled in the actions of men. At the same time, the order and regularity we observe, not only suggest an over-ruling power, but also give us reasonable expecta- tion that the same motives will, on the whole, impel a mass of men in the same direction. Freedom implies power, and power is, of course, limited by strength, opportunity, and position; and even a free man can only take one step at a time in one direction. To conclude,—let us glance at the facts of life, and see whether this belief in free-will seems among the truest things in it, or a mere delusion and source of delusions. We are told by many necessitarians that theirs is not a Avorking behef—that we must act indeed as though we believed it not. A large admission. It is true that, some hold this theory in a manner which does them no harm, as a dusty bottle of poison stands undisturbed on a back shelf. But take it dowm, take it to heart, act upon it, and it too often results in a dark melancholy, or worse, a kind of moral paralysis. It inspired the harsh and cruel dogmas of the Moslem ; it is answerable for the narrow bitterness which marred the work of some of the reformers; and its gloom has shadowed and depressed almost to madness, many of the finest spirits of ancient and modern days. Yet the arguments for it seem all drawn from the determination to see in man only the causality which is seen in the plant or the stone; or from the hopeless attempt to fit in all the great facts of the universe so as to suit each other, like a Chinese puzzle; and this with our purblind eyes and limited understanding. Happily, men in general have a consciousness of freedom beyond the reach of arguments. All government proceeds on the assumption that men can control and are responsible for their actions ; and there can be no society without government. Law assumes it, for it FEBEUAKT 1874. P 42 Tlie Attempt. punishes the malefactor for what he did when he could abstain, and spares the madman Avhose actions are not under his control, but impelled by irresistible impulse. Philosophy reveals it, save when it confounds man with the material universe, it recognises Will as the great fact of human existence. Morality demands freedom for its very existence. And religion, by all the exliortations to virtue, and the testimony to the perfection of the Creator it gives us. plainly declares it. The mystery indeed cannot be solved, but there is light enougli to show the truth, that ' Our wills are ours we know not how, Our wills are ours to make tlieni Thine." E. J. 0.

^hc Uaufl and the Uoucllst.

PART II.—THE NOVELIST.

WE have traced the novel, from its germs in early literature, through its meagre growth in the middle ages, to its rapid development in the past century. A mighty and fruitful tree,—its far-spreading roots now absorb the nourishment from the surrounding soil, and its thickly entwined branches shade less thriving plants from the invigorating sun of prosperity. This self-absorbing power makes it take almost the place of the early epic, which covered the whole field of literature, before the various subject-matters were portioned off to various styles of prose. It is peculiarly the literature of the f resent; it expresses not only contemporary fun and incident, but oontemporary research and discovery. It is the special outcome of all the thought, art, and feeling of the day. It is evident, then, that though some great things have been done by little men, a great novel will require a great novelist. What goes to make its maker great ? I. He must be an artist in the true sense of the word, an idealiser of nature. He has pierced to the heart of nature, and the surface will always recal the inner meaning to him. Art is not nature merely seen through sense; neither is it all nature ; but a selection of the important and significant. This selection must be care- The Attempt. 43 fully distinguished from caricature, which has no meaning in the roots of things, and is but a distortion of the superficial. II. He must be a poet. And though, in one sense, the poet and the artist are one, varying in the form of expres- sion, still the poet has the wider sphere, in the application of his genius to nature, both in feeling and expression. The novel is the prose form of many themes of verse ; narrative, for there is the chain of interesting deeds his people do ; dramatic, ft)r these people must express tit thoughts from their lips and his heart; and lyric, for the bursts of feehng and susceptibility are little subjective poems writ in prose. III. He must be educated up to the full measure of his own life and times at least; educated to a degree far beyond what is necessary for the execution of any par- ticular design. For no one ever can write out to the full circumference of his capabilities, no one can ever tell just all ho knows. And very greatly by his knowledge is a man's greatness measured. He cannot know too much ; and the due balance of the required poetic taste will keep him from telling too much, or from showing learning, otherwise than in its results of force, richness, and variety. IV. He must be a philosopher. No mere education can ensure this, though it may give him material and direc- tions. He must bo a logician ; for good so^^nd thirdiing is needed in a tale to keep from fallacies in thought and deed; a psychologist, for is not the sold the subject of tlie discourse, the cause of every action ; a metaphysician, for he must recognise the mysteries of being that lie beyond both soul and sense, and the effects of this superior world in the growth and development of char- acter below,—for otherwise the actions of his people would He together in a confused heap, like bits of broken glass, before the kaleidoscope shakes them into beautiful and meaning patterns. V. He must be a fine expresser. Loosed from the bonds of poetry, he is not the less dependent upon well- assorted diction. The beauty of expression in single words, in rhythmical and musically-read sentences, in suggestive figures, is as necessary to the great novelist as it is to the great poet; and though it is but a ctmse- quence of his other powers, it is one important enough to be noticed for its own sake. What fire, what vivacity is 44 The Attempt.

added, by nice adaptation of expression to description, and to varied character. I consider that George Eliot most clearly and most fully, of any in our days fulfilling these conditions, is our greatest novelist. I. As an artist, she is unrivalled either in figure or in landscape painting. Her representations of nature are faithful, though generalised; the breadth of effect mag- nificent; the depth of conception marvellous. Her figures live and move, and force a belief in their reality upon every mind. The only waiter who has drawn a life in like simplicity and force is Charlotte Bronte. But clear and intense as she is, she throws out her chief characters into relief by a mistiness and depres- sion in the background, which was doubtless forced on her by her narrow experience of life. George Eliot is not content with any singular interest, or egotistic development of one much-noticed individual. Her conceptions require space, and air, and light. She shows the whole village, or city, and times in which her chief characters are set, pourtrays the subordinate characters quite as distinctly, though less prominently, and gives them an interest in their own right, as well as frojn their influence on other lives. She has wide-stretch- ing horizons, and far-sighted vision, yet she never forgets the true perspective, the great never becomes little, nor the little great. The very atmosphere of the time and place breathes through her pictures, coming, as it does, in breezes from every side to modify the climate of the spot. She has no glaring colours or concentrated rays to attract attention, but over all she sheds a wholesome, clear, and steady liglit. The only one who has equalled her in breadth was Walter Scott; but then she far excels him in the depth of lier conceptions. I She penetrates to the hearts of her characters; and hers are no mere superficies or photo- graphs of men and women as they appear in drawing- rooms or promenades. Too many of the Society novelists of the day are content to draw people as they seem to be, not as they are; but in an artificial age, peojde are not seen in a mere arrangement of dress, position, and manner. Their faces have been trained to become part of that dress and manner, masks or mirrors, as the case may be, and not translucent windows opening into the soul. Even Thackeray has often rested content in the merely visible, accepting signs as if they were things. The Attempt. 45

But George Eliot finds both the signs and things before she estabhshes their connection, or asserts the one to be the meaning of the other. Hence, for the sake of artistic consistency, she chooses scenes not antagonistic to the appearance of character. And when she finds a unique character, her wonderful selective taste can give it a dis- tinct individuality, without sinking into caricature, as Dickens does, by working out a peculiarity till it becomes deformity, or throwing false lights on a feature till shadows make it an oddity. Above all artists, she treats her sub- jects calmly, clearly, justly. II. She is a true poet: a lineal descendent of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton. Her selections from English char- acter may become classic as those of the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. There is the same realistic imagina- tion, the same fidelity in detail, the same occasional wash- ing of her hands from the responsibility of their creation, as if they had come to her in spite of herself. She has much of the variety in character and thought of Shake- speare, and like dramatic energy. Kacy remarks on life, powerful generalisations, recognitions of the unseen in her works, are rivalled only by his; while she shares Avith Milton a classic learning, and a tendency towards the dis- cursive treatment of the causes of things. And scattered here and there are little lyric outbixrsts, that remind us of Wordsworth and of Burns; sensuous descriptions, that might have come from Keats; idyllic touches, that appear the very spirit of poetry; and suggestive thoughts, that spring from the recognition of the Ideal in every Real, of which certain recurrences show her fervours. Neither Thackeray, nor Dickens, nor any of their fol- lowers, are of her poetic school, but rather of the school of the versatile and satiric Dryden. It is her poetic sympathy with humanity that saves her from the satiric mode of treatment. Not even on Tito Melema does she flash the lightning of sarcasm, but faitli- fuUy and pitifully compares the past with the present, tlie possible with the actual. It saves her also from tlie unrealities of romanticism and sensationalism, for she finds interest enough in life without these. In the opening of the second volume oi Adam Bede, she gives a noble plea for the worthiness of truthfulness, though it is hard to be attained; for the duty of accepting otxr fellow- mortals as they are, finding interest in them, and ei)- couraging love for them, shewing the danger of imagina- 4() The. Attempt. tions that create a world so much better than our own, that we turn cold eyes from our common green fields, and cold hearts from real, breathing men and women that can be chilled by our indifference. Hers is not the worship of the ugly, which is only a new sensationalism suggested by Victor Hugo, as a refreshing change, after the long idolatry of the beautiful, but a 7'everence for the real. Her sympathy with the common lot of man, rather than with the sj^ecial lots of men, make her delight, as she says, in many Dutch paintings, whose truthfulness, perhaps, is expended upon an old woman watering her flower-pot. An adverse critic in an old a|uarterly, quotes this to show the cause of her dulness—he does not care for any amount of truthfulness coupled with old women ; he is displeased at the printing of Dinah Morris's sermons and prayers, and does not caro to know so much about Tom and Maggie TuUiver. And he represents a large class of modern readers,—those who must have a sensational element in their readings. It is true that George Eliot has not the dynamic energy of Walter Scott: she does not force you, with quick drawn breath, to race, unpausing over her pages. You can lay aside her books till the next day, partly because you have met so much you must think over ; and partly, also, it must be confessed, from lack of curiosity stimidants. She does not feel herself bound to drown character in a great flood of action; it is her people she loves, and their deeds only for their sakes. Her poetic and sympathetic temperament does not grudge delay or detail, and her deep thought has led her to study the motive to action, more than the action itself. Is not this very so-called defect the cause of her intense realistic power ? It is a noble reaction against the sensational style. Naturally, in avoiding Scylla, she goes just a little too near Charybdis, but I cannot feel it a dangerous " too near." Poetic temperaments of kindred feeling must appreciate, and all futurity recognise, how she has there- by distinguished the temporary and evanescent, from the permanent and tlie real. HI. Slie is Avidely educated. It is imposBible to con- ceive or execute what she has done, without a wide ex- perience of the thoughts of other minds in literature, politics, art. science, and philosophy, besides the speeiaJ education that comes thi-ough travel and observation. Perhaps the greatest witness of her learning is "' Romola,"' The A llempt. 47 as it is there expressed; but every boc'k she has written hnpUes much more than is expressed. Though superior to most novelists in general cultivation, I do not assert that she is necessarily, in this matter, greater than all. IV. But she is certainly the greatest philosopher among all novelists past and present. In three ways chiefly is her speculation shown—1st, In recognising Avhat is in the soul ; 2d, In recognising wliat lies above and around the soul in relations that affect it; Hd, In recognising that souls have no fixed termination cf development as our bodies have, but that tliey go on grcjwing for better or worse, as long as we are in possession of healthfu], intelligent life. And through her speculations she carries a true logical method, refraining from imperfect inductions. Thackeray, for instance, may have observed society, and may have seen many examples of the characters he has castigated. But can he educe a universal from any enumeration of particulars ? Can he turn and say. These are but given as examples, but you, and I, and every one else, are just the same. No; for many a reader may justly and indig- nantly exclaim. Thank God, it is not true! And we can answer thus to many of the waiters of the superficial and romantic schools. But, without prejudice and sloth, a simple, earnest learner, George Eliot explores the soul that is hidden from sense. She finds good and evil there blended in various proportions ; she neither flatters tlie one nor scorns the other, but notes both. When she does generalize, it is from the fundamental. Deep down she has discovered the true oneness of humanity, and found the similar in the dissimilar. The Society novelists are somewhat in the position of the botanists that stick to the artificial arrangements of plants. They can only classify them, under certain circumstances, as full-blown and normal flowers ; even then their classification brings together plaiils most unlike in other points, and must at last find help from the natural system to classify plants that have no floAvers. But George Eliot is indepen- dent of the flowering seasons of the plants, for hers is a natural system, and she has found the connection between types of root and stem, of leaf, of vessel of seed, though the efflorescence may vary indefinitely. As the result of her searching analysis of character, she chiefly, nay rather, alone among the great novelists of the day, has given its just place to religion, or at least to \4 4 ^^l^h^iffewJrC^^^ V/Te^^Hi^tk,^^

that hunger of the soul that can only find its satis- ^ j >' faction therein. We knoAV there are many Christian . novels, for the novel has been made the medium of the - inculcation of all truth. But these novels of a purpose l.- - \ J[ J must be classified differently from novels of observation, j " ^ ^ j "^ In Thackeray, Dickens, I?ulwer Lytton, Charlotte Bronte, U Jk * 4 Trollope, etc., there is no true recognition of it as a W "5>* psychologic force or motive power. Certainly it is ^ I TE •■ banished by etiquette frcjm the drawing-room couversa- _^ _j^ tion, along with all other earnest realities; it is banished - ^ by necessity from the haunts of vice ; it is often banished '••> by scepticism from the thoughts• j^iHO ofVJi toouww eagerv-coj^v students.^ ^r' AVhether these wanted tlie true talisman for its discovery f t »^ ^-^a clear comprehension of what it is, or Avhether they chose 3 ;? f-^v^^ to ignore it as inconvenient or unnecessary, cannot be^. f ,' ~ said ; but it remains a true fact, that it does not take its ^ \_ natural place among their forces. j(5U/V- <-- U ^SzU^ j j George Eliot, as a philosopher, canhot pick and choose J * •-^ the forces that aff'ect character. She cannot eliminate »^"^ , tlie religious element from the soul, any more than she can '^ eliminate love from the heart, or gravitation from matter. ■■ AVhatever be her own creed, her opinions and feelings are "^ not made the measure of a man's goodness. It may be with her as in her own remark, "justice is like the king- dom of heaven; it is not without iis as a fact, but it is within us as a great yearning! " But Ave may say of her what Romola said of her godfather Bernardo del Nero. " That seems to me very great and noble, that power of respecting a feeling which he does not share or understand." A confessed Christian is not synonymous with a knave or ■ a fool to her, as he is to Dickens. Thackeray's anti- .' snobbism is certainly much -more suitable to the super- "*, ficial school, than the anti-Piu'itianism of Dickens; for Z snobbism rises and flourishes nearer the surface than the ;^ heart. But the result of starting with any prejudice, is to - '..■'make us seek, and find the food that nourishes its growth, and increases its power of antagonism. Her freedom from prejudice is a great ineans of her ability to remain philosophic throughout. Imagine Thackeray attempting :^-: to paint Savonarola the enthusiast of the Romish Florence, ^V or Dickens meeting Dinah Morris, the pure young Metho- dist of the times near Wesley ! Thackeray woiild have found some snobbism in the man, and Dickens made a caricature of the woman—made her something other than she seemed or was; and tAvo of the most striking and The Attempt. 49 beautiful characters of modern literature would have been lost to us for ever. George Eliot knows how much of true human life touches on the supernatural, knows how many are restless and seeking a satisfaction for their souls beyond the narrow round of fashion, and gaiety, or fame, beyond even the sphere of learning and of art; hence her DincL.'- and Romola, her Seth Bede, her Dorothea, her Maggie Tulliver, And apart from the influence of revealed religion, ^ there is the recognition of the power of natural religion, of the natural hope in a glorifying ideal; which is always stru -k from the better characters or herself. Even in the company of two such unsuggestive associations as Nello the Barber, and Tito, she looked up at the Duomo of Florence, and " the Campanile led the eyes high up into , ■ the clear air of the April morning ; it seemed a prophetic ''*•'-* symbol, telling that human life must somehow and some- Irhu/:^ time shape itself into accord ^\atli that pure aspiring ^^j_^ *> beauty." And it may be noticed that her most wicked,' characters are just those that have not such elevating ''• -, ideals or saving beliefs—as Tito Melema. > ..r?tZr^A The natural effect of recognising the forces that act . on the soul, is to recognise its growth by them ; so that characters ere long are found in action seemingly quite ,,: inconsistent with their original description. Most novelists^,,. ' simply enumerate the 'jualitiesj of their individuals, and '\'' stick to the normal results of these qualities. If brave, "^ ''' ' they are always brave; if gentle, always gentle; if hypo- critical, always hypocrites; if cowardly, always cowards., _ , Which of them has ever pictured a character like \ ■ 'I'ito Melema,—not wicked, if by that we mean a prone-'^-i"*^'^'*^* ness to do wicked deeds. Soft, sunny, luxurious, but nof^^'-;^''"' t , , exorbitant in his demands; willing to let everyone share , his sunlight that did not shut it out from him ; admiring the good and the noble ; quick too, and learned, with subtle .'. ; perceptions of thought and things; not vain or self- asserting therewith, but gentle and conciliating the love ' his nature needed, not treacherous nor callous by nature ; yet what villain of the plays ever filled a blacker part than ^J^^ a__ - he—and all by simply drifting on the easiewt way. This ■ power of development she marks as empliatically in her fM>if^ women. Very few men have the gift of imderstanding or expressing women, and this advantage she'TrTay have, in her sex. It may be said, on the other hand, that women cannot understand the characters of men, and to a certain degree it is so, but not necessar^'.to such a degree. For rKBR0A»T 1874. _ ' . G 50 The Attempt. men hve in a more natural and consistent sphere—they are louder, and they strike themselves out more boldly both into action and speech, so that a faithful representa- tion of a perceived man is more likely to be true, than a mere representation of a perceived woman. There is a greater repression of woman's thought, and feeling, and individuality, and the connection between her thoughts and deeds is more hidden. Yet they too hastily judge the invisible from the visible, the unknown from the known. Their best women are the thoroughly repressed natures, their second best the shallow little souls like Tessa. AVhich man would have conceived the purity, and strength of Romola, the high-set ideals of Dorothea; the volcanic seethings of Maggie TuUiver, the outspoken, witty honestness of Mrs Poyser, the unswerving simplicity of Dinah Morris ? As a moral philosopher, she is firm in her belief that justice and kindness, honesty and right, are best, what- ever follows. She sees it is the way in life, and she does not try to apportion the suflFering to the sin, or the reward to the desert; but she reminds us that to do right is better than to be happy, though not always co-ordinate. She has been blamed for being a fatalist and a necessitarian; but greater philosophers than she have held the theory, which I do not think she holds quite fully. At least her necessity is that veiled form that lies within free choice. In Tito Melema's course, she noticed, " he was experienc- ing that inexorable law of human souls, that we prepare ourselves for sudden deeds, by the reiterated choice of good and evil that determines character." Most certainly she shows with power the force that presentations of good and evil, wherefrom to choose, may become in the moulding of character; and I fancy I can see with her the same natures reappearing, oh, so different! under differing circumstances. For she takes the elemental and the universal of humanity, and grafts on it the temporary and the cii'cumstautial; and while in the one she finds freedom and space to the extent of the recognition that man makes not the circum- stances by which he first finds himself controlled, nor those by which afterwards he is modified, she is a neces- sitarian. V. Her expression is beautiful. Full of rich words, powerful figures, and rounded sentences, her style is a fit etfluence and companion of her other qualities. Her readers are charmed unconsciously, as they would be by The Attempt. 51 perfectly suitable dress which they feel, but do not see— from its artistic congruence. It will be a classic test ere long, of the highest possibility of the language of the day. We realise most fully its charms in the few passages in which she falls into an unconscious imitation of other styles; and we are not pleased when the Featherstone connection remind us of "Martin Chuzzlewit" and it jars upon us to hear accents from " Vanity Fair," occasionally mingliag with the more natural expression of her larger simplex world. Her characters have each their native speech assigned them, which fits them just as well as her own style does their author. I know not one that fails, from high-souled scholastic Romola to Nello the garrulous barber of Florence; from stately Mrs Irvine to grumbling Lisbeth Bede, and old Grandad Poyser. The pithiness of her generalized remarks induce one to quote her as one does Shakspeafe, and the musical rhythm of her longer periods rings in our ears, along with harmonies from the Master-Expresser himself. LuTEA RESEDA.

^\\t UviXXi of the Itighi DYING in the night. The night is the time to die. Only the moon so white looks out of the blue black sky; Only her quiet light stealeth down from on high And they say, at the turn o' the night, my love will die. Dying in the night, as the flowers pass away, Tired with the rare delight of the sunshine and the day,— When the dew, with never a sound, falls still, and cold, and sweet. As falls on the sun-burnt ground, the print of Azrael's feet. Hush 1 for out on the night a spirit soon will go, SUent will be its thght as the silent fall of the snow. Out of the light of day into the dark unknown Wending its quiet way unlit, unseen, alone. Hush 1 for the pain of tears we will keep till night is past. For weeping are long long years for peace, to-night is the last. Hush 1 poor heart, for the light will come again to the sky; But they say, at the turn o' the night my love will die. R. 52 The Attempt.

Jnduslrial ©raininig fax %ixA\t%.

DOMESTIC ECONOMY.

IT is much to be regretted that women are not generally taught the principles of political economy, for in varioiis of its departments they are actually, though often igno- rantly, important agents. By their control of domestic expenditure, they affect, in a great degree, the wealth {i.e. surplus money) and prosperity of the nation; because, though not necessarily engaged in remunerative employ- ment, they can, so to speak, make money by saving it; and by well, and therefore economically, managing that department in which they more immediately preside, secure the best return for their outlay. Soyer says that the morals of a people greatly depend on their food. Reflection confirms this; and if we accept as a fact Count Rumford's assertion, that " the number of inhabitants who may be supported in any country upon its internal produce, depends aboiit as much upon the state of the art of cookery as upon that of agriculture," we must also concur with Soyer, that "it is to be regretted that men of science do not interest themselves more than they do on a subject of such vast magnitude as this ; for," he continues, " I feel confident that the food of a country might be increased at least one-third, if the culinary science were properly developed, instead of its being slighted as now." Man, unlike other animals, requires his food to be prepared, and on its due preparation depends its capabilities to be assimilated to repair the waste of the body. Badly prepared food is not only innutritious, but in many cases positively injurious, provoking indigestion, and all the bodily and mental evils which follow in its train. Universal experience also shows, that food properly prepared goes farther, and with less waste, than when bungled attempts at cookery are made. This holds true in every manual occupation. Tlie unskilful workman is the one who wastes both material and time. Skilled labour has its own value in the preparation of food, as well as in the preparation of all other articles required by man. It is, therefore, hardly to be estimated what the Baving to the nation would be in money, in food, in health, and even in life, if a thorough and systematic knowledge of the utilisation of food material were disseminated Tiie Attempt. 53

among women of all classes. If man, the bread-winner, has to devote time and energy to the learning of his trade or profession, surely woman, the bread-dispenser, should also bestow time and energy in learning her part of this natural division of labour. Such knowledge everyone will admit to be indispensable among the wives of the working classes, who require themselves to select and prepare the food for their hus- bands and families. I doubt, however, if the necessity for such knowledge is sufficiently recognised among those who have servants under them, and who are too often wholly dependent on their knowledge and skill. The % days are past,when the mistress of a house considered ■ {jjf^mQ[f'xQ%^OTisM.e for every detail of its management, ^rr and was able to direct her servants in the efficient execu- i w-'tion of every work assigned to them. The proper manage- • ment of a house, and the proper care of the preparation of .the food in it, may, in the long run, turn out to be an accomplishment as useful, and calculated to secure as much respect, as music, drawing, or the modern accom- plishments. I propose in this paper to consider First, the necessity for such training; and. Secondly, to suggest some means of supplying the need. It may safely be stated as a fact, that a knowledge of such matters is not included in the programme of girls' education, nor, in general, is it considered to be a necessary part of their home training. Of course, there is no rule without exceptions ; and this general assertion admits of many notable exceptions, as regards home training at least. Almost every woman, at one time or another of her life, is called upon to assume duties requiring a know- ledge of cookery and housekeeping; and great woiild be the saving in money, time, and even in temper, if this knowledge were imparted at the natural period for learn- ing, instead of being practically dispensed with, or pain- fully elaborated by experience alone. The majority of women marry, and are thus directly and permanently called to assume the cares of hoiisehold management. In Edinburgh a frequent preliminary to marriage is to take lessons in cooking and pastry. This is doubtless excellent in its way; but the mere learning to cook certain dishes is far from sufficient to qualify a mistress to regulate the supply, and direct the use, of the materials which pass through her cook's hands. Ignorance of these points S4 Tlte Attempt. places a mistress at her cook's mercy, prevents her from receiving due respect, and not only renders her unable to detect, but is practically a strong temptation to waste and dishonesty in her servants. The housekeeping difficulties and mistakes of an inexperienced bride are graphically described in many works of fiction, from David Copperfield to A Very Young Couple; and they have, alas! but too many originals in real life. No one can read the Questions in The Housewife department of The Queen newspaper, without being impressed, not otJy with the depths of ignorance, but with the honest craving for teaching shown by the majority of the enquirers. Knowledge of her household duties is requisite for the wife of a rich as well as of a poor man. If the establish- ment is a large one, the tact and discretion needed in its guidance are by no means the universal talent many as- sume them to be. Comparatively few have the power of efficiently managing a large household, made up of indivi- duals and wants varied, and often incongruous. If to the absence of this natural talent, is added ignorance of the principles and details of domestic economy, trying indeed is the situation in which the mistress must find herself. And to a conscientious woman, the sense of unfitness for her position must prove a soui'ce of much distress and self reproach. If, on the other hand, the establishment and the income are small, the need for intelligent superintendence is infinitely greater. This must be evident to all. To a mistress so placed, the prior training I have referred to is an absolute necessity; for the comfort and well-being of the family depend more directly on her, and ignorance of her duties may lead not only to discomfort and extra- vagance, but even to difficulties and serious financial involvements. But, in these times, when so great an outcry is made against women being ediicated only with a view to mar- riage, we must remember that these domestic duties devolve not alone, though chiefly, on matrons. A large number of single women are, from various causes, at the head of establishments, and to these training is as essen- tial as to their married sisters. Nor do these classes exhaust the number of ladies to whom a knowledge of domestic economy is essential. The sick room—an important province of woman's king- dom—is but partially served if the nurse, to a knowledge The Attempt. 55 of other duties, does not add that of cooking. All who have had any experience of sickness, must remember how often an invalid will turn from an uninviting dish, pre- pared probably by an inexperienced cook, when the appe- tite might be tempted, and a motive for effort given, if some palatable little dish were prepared and presented by the deft hands of a loving sister or daugliter. The refinement derived from tlie position and education of ladies, should show itself in their culinary performances as well as in other things. Before passing to the second part of my paper, I wish to draw attention to a new sphere opening to ladies, and one in which a knowledge of cooking is indispensable to all who take part in it. In our Education Act for Scot- land, provision is made to teach sewing to girls in the Board schools—funds and teachers being supplied for this. Permission is given to have other branches of in- dustrial training taught in these schools (subject to the approval of the School Board), but these other branches must be supported and carried on by local efforts. Now, the bramch which is most feasible and natural to teach girls, in addition to sewing, is cooking. This has actually been done in several instances; and should the subject of industrial training prove an acceptable one to my readers, I may, at a future time, give some account of these inter- esting and practical experiments. The point I wish at present to draw attention to, is that, in each instance, ladies have undertaken and successfully carried on this department of the schools in which it has been intro- duced, and to this fact those who have watched its progress attribute its success. It may be years before government may be induced to provide qualified teachers on this subject for every training school, but in the meantime, the teaching has been, and doubtless will be, undertaken by ladies, who, themselves qualified, are willing gratuitously to instruct others. This will, to some extent, provide for the preliminary instruction of cooks. If ladies themselves receive corresponding training, they will often be saved the distress of having to part with really excellent servants, by being able to instruct them in some simple, though indispensable part of their work, of which they were ignorant. It is probable that com- plaints of servants' incapacity will continue unabated, until ladies receive training in their domestic duties. Most social reforms originate with the middle classes, and 56 The Attempt. it may be confidently asserted, that if young ladies were systematically trained in domestic economy, the reform would speedily spread to the working classes; and we should hear less of the unreasonableness and extravagance of servants, if mistresses could more generally gain their respect and confidence, by justice, intelligence, and con- sideration. If it is acknowledged that this evil of want of training is so nearly universal, the question naturally arises, Is there a practicable remedy for it I If so, what is it i The first of these queries may unhesitatingly be answered in the affirmative. The second admits of several replies. The simplest and most effective mode of securing train- ing in domestic economy,isby home training in it becoming customary. A girl wiU naturally take greater interest in such teaching, and thus become best fitted for her own probable position in after life. But, as the mothers of the present generation have not themselves been taught, a comparatively small number are fitted to give intelligent and systematic teaching. Of this number some are unwil- ling to take the trouble, others j^rofess to have no time, and others again say, that with the " cook of the period," the thing is impracticable. It surely should not be so exceptional as it is for daughters to act, say week or month about, first as their mother's pupils, then her assistants, and then her deputies, in household matters,—thus gra- dually gaining important knowdedge and experience, which will in no small degree affect their subsequent lives. Failing this mode of instruction becoming general, the next feasible plan would be for all boarding schools to introduce teaching in housekeeping and cookery as a regular part of the cui-riculum for girls. It is the opinion of a lady, who is a high authority in Edinburgh in all educational matters, that this, far from overstraining the already well-taxed powers of a school girl, would prove a beneficial relaxation from more purely intellectual studies, and by the variety thus afforded, increase their powers of application. There would surely be no insuperable difficulty in the way of some simple scheme like the following:—Let several girls be told off each month to act under the lady superintendent. By devoting a limited time each morning, they would soon become acquainted "wdth the average necessities of the household, with the duties and requirements of the various servants, with the selection The Attempt. 57

and management of household linen. They would learn to choose and purchase provisions, to adapt expenditure to income, to keep and balance accounts, to order dinner, etc. Then, to provide instruction in cookery, it surely would not be a very difficult matter to allot one hour a week to this. A qualified teacher could easily and interestingly explain the effects of heat variously applied, the chemical combinations and effects of food (see John- stons Chemistry of Common Life, and Liehig's Chemistry of Food), the nutritive properties of food, etc. This might be varied by practical illustrations conducted by the pupils, and the course followed by examinations, an d prizes as in other studies. If a few boarding schools would lead the way by adopting some scheme such as this, they would confer a great boon on the community, and their increased popularity would speedily ensure a return for the extra trouble and expense.* There is still another method by which the general principles of cookery can be taught: which is by public lectures, with illustrations. This could not be so thorough as either of the other methods, but it would aid and supplement them, and has the recommendation of a much more extensive applicability. In the International Exhibition last spring, there was a school of popular cookery, organised by H. M. Com- missioners for the International Exhibitions. It con- sisted of a series of lectures delivered by the well-known Mr Buckmaster, with practical illustrations. These lectures embraced not only the practical art of cookery, but its scientific, chemical, and economic aspects. The handbook used was a small one, specially compiled, and only cost 3d. These lectures were honoured on one occasion by Her Majesty's presence, and never failed to attract crowded audiences of all classes, and of both sexes. They were continued, two a-day, for twenty-eight weeks, and the receipts not only completely covered the pre- liminary and current expenses, but produced a small net profit. These lectures so effectually roused the public interest in the much neglected subject of cookery, that it was found advisable and practicable to establish a national training school for cookery, which is at present in course

* Since writing the above, I have been informed that Miss Smith, matron of the boarding house in connection with the Moray House Training School, teaches her boarders domestic economy. FEBBUAST 1874. H 58 Tlie Attempt. of organization, the committee being headed by the names of the Princesses Christian and Louise. If there were a fair prospect of attendance, a local committee might be formed, and arrangements entered into to have a course of lectures on cookery in Edinburgh next winter, the experience of the London committee forming a basis for the arrangements here. The subject is one worthy of mature consideration,—and as Edinburgh prides itself on the advanced character of its educational institutions, it would surely be more consistent with that character to adopt domestic economy voluntarily as a branch of education, than to wait tiU it is forced upon us, as it will inevitably be, by the growing sense of its practical utility. ETA.

ilia J[t>i*i*^s: A TALE OF THE FOETY-FIVE.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

NANCY'S TRTST.

A FEW evenings after the interview recorded in the last chapter, Barbara, Nancy, and Alaster were all sitting round the fire in the hall. The day had been chilly and wet; and though it was now near the end of June, they had gladly gathered round the great fire-place as the evening closed in. Alaster was now nearly Avell, though still strangely weak and languid; and his face, disfigured by the long sword-cut scar, looked very pale that evening, under the black velvet skull-cap which he wore, till his hair should grow again. They had been sitting quietly for some time, the girls busy wath their needles, Alaster apparently buried in his own thoughts. At last he looked up, and turned to Nancy. " Nancy," he said gently; she looked up with the bright, ready smile that always greeted him, " come here, dear," he said. Something in his voice restrained the lively retort about his laziness which sprang to her lips, and she rose and went over quietly and stood beside him. He took The Attempt. 59 her hand gently and held it in his for a minute without speaking; then he said, in a low tone,— " Nancy, dear, don't you think it is about time this engagement of ours were coming to an end ? " Barbara started, and the colour rushed violently over her face. Nancy blushed too, but it was a quiet, happy blush— " To an end, Alaster f she said hesitatingly. " I mean, of course," he said, smiling rather sadly, " to its right and fitting end. Do you not think it is about time we were fixing a day for our marriage?—that is to say, if you still think you can make up your mind to marry such a poor disfigm-ed wretch," he added sadly. Nancy blushed brightly. " You don't think the scar makes any difference, do you ? " she said, looking up brightly in his face with her clear eyes; " why, you foolish old thing, I'm prouder of that scar than of anything else about you." He smiled and raised the little hand he held gently to his lips, but the smile was a very sad one. " Well then, dear," he said, " if you are content to take such a disfigured old fellow, when shall our marriage be ? " There was none of a lover's eagerness in his tone, and perhaps, for a moment, Nancy felt a sort of indefinite disappointment; but she remembered how ill he had been, and how weak he still was,—too weak, she persuaded herself, to seem very enthusiastic aTjout anything. The thought that he had ceased to wish for this marriage never crossed her simple, trusting heart, and there was no trace of pain or disappointment in her voice, as she answered, blushing and looking down,— " I don't know, Alaster, we must wait till my father comes back, must we not? " Then for the first time Barbara spoke, and her voice had a strange, hard ring in it. " No, Nancy," she said, " I am sure our father would not wish you to wait for that; who knows when he will be back ; he has determined to follow the prince." " But how could I do it without him, iJarbara ? " said Nancy, " it would seem so strange, would it not? " " Not in these times," said her sister. " Papa will be glad, I know, that you should have a protector as soon as possible, who can take you away from Milla Forres; for I know he does not think we are safe here. Let us write and ask him about it at once." 60 The Attempt.

" But you, Barbara, what will you do ? " said Nancy, " if Milla Forres is not safe for me, it is not safe for you; if we go away you must go with us; must she not, Alaster ?' " Oh, never mind me," said Barbara; and there was a suspicion of impatience in her voice. " I will take very good care of myself; the first thing to be done is to write to our father;" and so saying, she rose and left the room. Alaster and Nancy sat silent for some time after she had gone. Nancy was puzzled. Why had Alaster not responded at once to her suggestion about Barbara's going with them, should they leave Milla Forres ? It could not be that he did not want her, he had always seemed so fond of Barbara. She thought that her sister had been hurt by his not responding, and she felt inclined to be angry with him, and half-disposed to say that she would not leave Barbara for him; if Barbara were not to go, she would not go either; but she looked at Alaster's pale face that bore such traces of recent suffering, and she could not find it in her heart to be angry with him; besides, it was impossible, she thought, that he could really have meant that they should go and leave Barbara. " May I write, then, to your father, Nancy, and ask his consent to our being married immediately % " said Alaster, after a short pause. " Yes," she said, looking down and blushing; " but," she added, looking up in his face, " 1 cannot leave Barbara, Alaster; if we go away, she must go with us." '• That and everything else shall be exactly as you and she wish, dear," he said, drawing her towards him and gently kissing her brow. " Then you may write to my father," she said, and left the room. The following day the letter was written and despatched. It was doubtful when an answer could be received, as Colonel Forbes was following the Prince's wanderings, and no one could exactly tell when a letter might reach him. In the days that followed, Alaster was more than usually quiet and grave, very gentle and tender to Nancy, but without any of the exultation of a lover who sees his happiness approaching. Barbara, on the other hand, was restlessly active; she seemed never to sit down, or to give herself a moment's rest or leisure. She said, when questioned as to her sudden burst of activity, that if The Attempt. 61

Isancy's marriage was to be soon, the house must be got in readiness for it; and if they should have to leave Milla Forres, it was best to put things to rights first. So all day long she was turning out drawers, and hunting in closets and cupboards, unearthing all sorts of treasure and trash that had lain quietly side by side for generations. Elspet held up her hands in dismay at the " steer," and Nancy laughed, and said Barbara seemed to think that the world would come to an end when she was married, and was " setting her house in order" in anticipation. How often a hght word spoken in jest comes sadly near the truth! Alaster was the only one who made no remark about Barbara's sudden energy ; he said nothing, but he watched her closely, with a pair of sad, grave eyes. One day he was sitting in the hall, while she was restlessly emptying the drawers of an old bureau of the accumulated letters of generations, tying them up together and docketting them according to their various dates. Old letters, of which the ink had grown faint, and the paper yellow, records of thoughts and feelings that had once lived and burned in hearts that had long ago mouldered into the churchyard dust. He watched her for a time silently, as she went on tying up her parcels of letters with quick, nervous fingers. 8he had just tied up the last, and was rising to go away, when a low " Barbara," from the corner where Alaster sat, detained her. She turned towards him. He was sitting Avith his elbows resting on a small table before him, and his face buried in his hands. He raised his head as she turned, and there was a look of blank, hopeless despondency in his face that frightened her. She hesitated, then stood still. " Barbara," he repeated, in the same low, unvarying, despondent tone, " must this sacrifice be completed, is there no alternative % " " Alaster," she answered indignantly, " you shall not speak 80, you have no right to speak so about marrying ISancy." '• God knows I do not mean to speak slightingly of Nancy," he said, sadly, " she is far too good for me, but you know what I mean, Batbara; if you will not have pity on yourself, or on me,' have pity upon Nancy. Is it fair to let her throw away her young, fresh heart on a man who has no heart to give her in return 1 Do think of it, Barbara, it is not yet too late." Tears trembled in 62 The Attempt.

Barbara's eyes, and her hand shook like an aspen, as she looked up and said piteously,— " Do you think I have not thought about it, Alaster ? I hg-ve thought till I can think no more, till I don't know what is right and what is wrong. Have pity upon me, Alaster, and do not tempt me. I cannot think any more, or change my mind now." He made no answer, but buried his face again in his hands, and Barbara went quickly out of the room. JEANIE MORISON. (7b be continued.)

i^hc ^ija-{lr0|i and the |carl

Low in the shifting depths of ocean gloom. Where sunbeams reach not, and where light gleams dim, And glimm'ring through the greenness with a sheen Of inborn brightness, dashed with rainbow hues, Strange creatures dart, and slow athwart the sands, Pale things, scarce life-endowed, yet beauteous all. Float—rising, falling, ever wandering on, And ever languid swaying to and fro. Like opal-tinted flow'rs when gentlest zephyrs blow. A drop from out the waters' slumb'ring mass Had wept itself into a tear, and lay Close crouched within a crevice 'neath a frond Of sea-weed brown, that flung its arms afar, As yearning wild for aught to cling unto ; And " I, alas I " the crouching sea-drop wailed, " All useless am in this wide ocean-world; To it a drop,—naught but a drop am I! It thinks not of me ; knows me not,—ah, let me die I ^^'hat am I to those waves that shake the rocks % What am I to these ships that stately ride ? \\ hat am I to the spray clouds toss'd to heav'n ? Ah, let me die ! " Then tremblingly it slid From out the crevice; but ere yet it fell, A shell-valve gently oped and caught it in ; ' And, as love-sheltered in thai home it lay. Slow changed its nature as dark time went on, And, when the shell was rent, a gleaming pearl it shone ! The Atte.mpt. 63

Oh! doubting heart, that fret'st in thine unrest, Is thine not as the sea-drop's discontent % Dost thou not chafe to know thy Httle worth % Dost thou not faint to find thy feebleness ? Forgetful that in heav'n's all-reaching plan Marked is each atom's place, and must remain. Since work mosaic is marred -vvithout each part. Then wake, oh heart, to effort; leave thy dream I Thou, too, in life's dark shell, a glist'nmg pearl may'st gleaml MELENSA.

f he Isf of f ongs and other popular |oelri| to a §istonatt.

Dr ARNOLD'S definition of history, as the " biography of a society," is one that not only enables us to trace more definitely the life of a nation in its infancy, maturity, and decadence, but it likewise assists us to the materials the historian must use in order to complete the aggregate biography. Understand the type, and we grasp the whole; know the unit and the ten thousand will be recognisable ; realise the entirety of the individual, and we shall trace out the unity of the mass. It is natural to the human mind to compare, so far as it is able, the things which are above it with those that are within its ken. It sees the points of contact between the small and the great, and it rests the eye by turning away from the vast in its wide expanse, and dwelling on its reflection in a limited area. Thus a more definite idea is gained; even as with the traveller who, on a map, traces his road over the wide country he has traversed, or marks the bearings of the points which he has viewed from a lofty mountain. In applying this thought to the illustration of history by biography, we feel that, as we know a man not so much by the record of the events of his life, and of his personal action with regard to those events, as by an acquaintance with his thoughts expressed in words, either spoken or written; so we understand the character of a nation, not so much by its public acts, its changes of government, its declarations of war, its negotiations for peace, its commerce, its discoveries, its wealth, as by the writings and speeches that have made the profouudest 64 The Attempt. impressions, that have spread through the length and breadth 'if the land, that have been echoed back from amongst the people,—in other words, that have become generally and lastingly popular. Again, if the biographer wishes us to dive into the soul- depths of him of whom he writes, and to discover the Bprings of his action, and the impulses of his heart, it is not to the set speech nor to the studied writing he would refer, but rather to the playful or passionate words spoken in domestic life, to the light and easy conversation of the social circle, to the phrase of recurrence, so characteristic, that we know beforehand what is coming, to the unstudied ejaculations in the presence of calamity, or in the moment of unexpected success. It is by these we learn not only to admire the character, but to love it, on the one side,— not only to contemn, but to hate it, on the other. This likewise may be applied to the life of a nation. We know the character of a people, not by the finest oratorical displays in the senate house, nor by the volumes of philosophical research that shall endure for generations, nor yet by the poems, that become the property of the world itself; but by the novels and tales of the period, the satires in prose and verse, that have taken hold of the public mind, the songs and ballads that, with or without music, have been the delight of the school-boy and the charm of the aged, and the hymns lisped by the infant and murmured by the dying. These are the pulse of the nation. They tell its heart-throbs, whether fever burns in its veins, or whether circulation is slow. They are as the feathers on the breeze, small things in themselves, but marking the direction whence the great atmospheric ciu"rents are blowing. They are as the pittings of the rain, as the footmarks of the bird left in the sand of ages, that reveal those characteristics of weather and animal life which existed long before the intelligent beings, who should study meteorology or zoology, were formed. That circular progress so characteristic of the physical, intellectual, and moral government of the universe, by which cause produces effect, and effect becomes in turn a cause, till we can hardly separate the one from the other, is very noticeable in the connection between history and popular writings. Story produces the writings, and the writings give birth to story ; circumstances call forth the poet, and the poet produces the circumstances; thought IS the parent of words, and words are the genitors of The Attempt. 65 thought; the demand causes the supply, and the supply produces the demand. Thus the historian cannot always decide whether popular writings have produced national feelings, or national feelings popular writings; but he sees that they act and re-act, that history elucidates literature, and literatm-e, history. We will consider the literature of songs and poesy under the four heads we have already mentioned,— novels, satires, songs, and hymns, and try to discover what use the historian may make of them separately, in recording the sentiments of a people, in describing the life of a nation. I. Tales, novels, stories, works of fiction—these form, in quantity at least, the chief part of current literature. They are generally written by those who mingle in every- day Hfe, and are, therefore, a strong contrast to the monkish legends of olden time ; and to the historian they are of far greater value. These legends sought to satisfy man's natural craving for a story; but nearly all who could then write, were isolated from home and kindred, and spent most of their time in the retirement of the monastic cell. Then story and history widely diverged, and in most of these wild phantasies of the imagination, the only fact the historian can gather, is the morbid effect on the mind, of separation from the realities of normal life, whether public, social, or domestic. He can tell what monks dreamed about, what the people, in ignorant belief, listened to, but he cannot gain from legends what a diver into present day literature might S(jon discover—the habits of peer and peasant, of citizen and yeoman. As we leave the day, or rather night of monkery, and pass on through the dawn, when Chaucer sang and told the tales of his pilgrims to the Canterbury shrine, we feel that we have met with a man who lived in the real, and not the ideal world; and knowing how gladly his works were welcomed, the historian may read in them the rousing consciousness of the nation—the loosening of the chains of slavery, the breathings of a new life. In Wickliffe's works, the putting of the yeast iuto the dough is what the historian notes ; in Chaucer's, he observes the first symptons that it begins to ferment. Passing rapidly onwards, we find the great dramas in the reign of the mighty Elizabeth, These up- lift the curtain from the thoughts and manners of men in high life and low, Shakespeare's historical plays FSBBUA&T 1874. I 66 The Attempt.

do not throw light on the history of Julius Csesar, of John, and only scantily on that of Henry VIII., but they show how, at that period, such histories were regarded. ' His tragedies and comedies are very unreal in their incidents, and some of the characters purely creatures of the imagination ; but we feel that their marvellous power is in the reproduction of human nature, and it would not be difficult for the historical critic to separate what is true for all nations and all ages, from what specially , illustrates the thoughts and manners of the Ehzabethan era. With the strong rule of Elizabeth, and the death of Raleigh, the strength of poetic and inventive genius seemed to pass away. Dramatic and all kinds of poetry became increasingly licentious, effeminate, and artificial; and the historian may read the deterioration of the people under the Stuart dynasty, in the changed character of their literature. There was a reaction during the Commonwealth, and Milton's name stands forth in all the strength of its poetry and prose; but his immortal Paradise Lost was far removed from the popular poetry of the time of the Restoration: the nation gave no welcome to the grand creation of her most gifted son. A very different, and equally wonderful work, was produced at this period, the most remarkable prose epic that was ever penned,—popular now as then,—like Shakspeare's dramas of world-wide interest, but touching a deeper chord of human nature, the religion of the heart. Bunyan's Pilgrim^s Progress was the result of the Puritan's struggle for liberty of thought, and, apart from its deeper signification, the historian may find many allusions to the persecutions of those days, and the various phases of character they evolved. For example, we imagine the description of the court in Vanity Fair, before which Faithful was tried, to be true to the very life. If we pass on to the eighteenth century, we find another story that fastens itself in abiding popular literature, the Adventures of Bohinson Crusoe. It illustrates two pro- minent traits in the British character—love of adventure, especially sea-faring, and the indomitable "pluck" that ever makes the best of circumstances, that never says die. The modern novel or tale, which reproduces society in all the phases of Hfe, as faithfully as a painter of the Dutch school pourtrays the scenes he has witnessed, or Avliich describes the ideal of life with a halo almost more The Attempt. 67 than human, such as Raphael gives to the glorious groups of his imagination, is of comparatively recent growth. Those of the first school are invaluable to the historian, in describing, not only as they might be painted in a picture, the dress, furniture, physiognomy, scenery, and occupations that characterise the time, but also the maxims that govern, the manners that prevail, the language that is spoken, the sentiments that are cherished; whilst the writers who become popular—for popularity is in this an essential,—in their endeavours to paint society as it ought to be, are also of great worth. They tell the longings, the aspirations of their readers, they reveal the beau ideal to which they are stretching forward. II. Satires, political squibs, pamphlets, brochures, either m prose or verse, especially those of an allegorical, fanciful nature, may be classed as popular poetry, and are of immense value to the historian who wishes to de- scribe the life of a people. A priori, their frequency at a special time shows the nation is disturbed, but not by the deepest feelings. They are not the production of a time of real danger and crushing calamity on the one hand, nor of thorough contentment and jubilant triumph on the other. They rather testify to a feeling of annoyance, but not an annoyance so deep as to prevent an element of amusement; to use a homely illustration, the touch which has awakened the people, has tickled as well as scratched them, and half angiy, half pleased, they strike no heavy blow, but shoot the satire, playful or stinging, according to the proportion of amusement or annoyance they have experienced. Political, scientific, and ecclesi- astical controversy, will call these forth; also surface aspects of social life, and dangers standing at a respect- ful distance; not questions that are only answered by civil war, or determined over the bodies of the martyred, or settled by the fighting of international battles. We have had examples of this in very recent history. The great war between France and Germany did not literally touch us, but it roused the feelings of almost all the people, and in every family were those who sympathised with the Germans or the B'rench. Then were thrown out the brochure of Dame Europa's School, and the many replies that followed, and these were sold by tens of thousands. Had the sons of England been falling in the fight, and her towns desolated, we should have felt this 68 The Attempt. far too light a manner of treating the subject, and the pamphlets would not have been tolerated. Subsequently, a distant fear took possession of a large portion of the public, that triumphant Germany might turn her arms against England; something akin to the dread of earth- quake and Pompeian overthrow, that is lightly expressed when a neighbouring quiescent mountain has been declared an extinct volcano, that may again cast out its molten lavas. Then the Battle of Dorking appeared, and had thousands of readers. Had there been reality in the alarm, the Englishman would have repudiated fear, would have been the last to allow that his country was in danger. Still, these brochures marked a quickening of the pulse, a passing creep in the body politic; they registered the feehngs of the people, more sensitively than the speaking in parliament, or the record of diplo- matic negotiations. III. The third division, songs and ballads, is perhaps, more essentially popular poetry than either of the former. They form the traditional history of a nation, and are often the only records of very early periods. For example, that— " Kerty was a market town, When Exeter was a furzy down," proves the probability of the higher antiquitj' of Credition, though other records are wanting. Ballads are to the writer of medieeval history, even of more value than prose tales to the writer of modern. The " Battle of Chevy Chase," is one of the best descriptions Ave have of border warfare, and the misery it carried is pathetically described in the couplet,— " The child may rue, who is unborn, The slaughter of that day." We have before remarked that allegorical satires do not express the deep feelings of the people. It is the very reverse with songs. Their fervours, their de- pressions, their thankfulness and despair, find in song literature, a self-registermg thermometer, and the historian must consult it for changes in the political atmosphere, as carefully as the meteorologist observes the markings of his instrument. In the infancy of a people, songs precede written documents in the ex- pression of national thought, as naturally as speaking precedes writing with children ; and if the earliest songs, 2 he Attempt. 69 like the first words of babyhood, are common to all nations, they very soon assume an individual character; the Eastern separates from the Western, the Greek from the Gothic, the British from the French, the English from the Scotch. Of course, there are many points of contact, as there are in personal thoughts and ex- pressions, and the nations that have mixed much in the general family of man have not so many idiosyncrasies of song, as those who, from geographical or political causes, have lived a more separate life. Hence, we find that the Scotch, the Irish, the Swiss, have, on the surface, songs more characteristic than the English, the French, and the German; yet if the song lore of the more cosmo- politan comitries is searched into, we shall find there are the same differences in it, as there are in heart-feelings between men bearing the same outward polish. For example the national songs of Germany express devotion to a fatherland; of France, admiration for " La belle France," and the more sensational " Mourir pour la patrie;" of Britain, the religious and loyal " God save the Queen," " God bless the Prince of Wales." The English have not, like their continental neighbours, many war songs, BO far as the military service is concerned. Tennyson's " Charge of the Light Brigade," almost stands alone,—for their insular position removes them from the battle field ; but this cause gives full compensation in the animated sea-songs of the island descendants of the sea kings. From the stirring notes of " Britannia rules the Wave," to the solemn dirge, " Toll for the Brave, The Brave that are no more," or the pathetic plaint,— " There is in the lone, lone sea. A spot unmarked but holy, For these, the gallant and the free, In their ocean bed lie lowly," we feel that naval life has brought out the strongest martial feelings, and the deepest lamentations of the people. Again, if we look at two points of contrast between Scotch and English songs, we shall see they also are very characteristic of the national peculiarities of the sister countries. In comic song, we contrast the admirable dry humour of the " Laird of Cockpen," with the laughing merriment of " Johnny Gilpin," whilst in the pathetic, it strikes us, the most touching of the Scotch concern the aged, of the English the young. " John Anderson 70 The Attempt.

my Jo, John," " Auld Lang Syne," are examples of the first, "Mary the Maid of the Inn," "We are Seven," '• The Graves of a Household," •' The May Queen," of the second. Another feature of Scottish character, is personal attachment to the sovereign or chief of the clan ; of the English, intense love of home, and these feelings seem also illustrated by song, in the popularity for more than a hundred years of Jacobite poems, and of such clannish ones as •' The Campbells are coming;" whilst those that pre-eminently rouse and soothe the English- man, are the " Home, sweet Home" of the peasant, the "Dulce, dulce, domum" of the schoolboy. These are only specimens of many characteristics that might be named. Sometimes the nation has not produced the man, who can weave with his magic shuttle the entangled threads of thought into the beautiful and lasting M^eb of poetry, and she finds in another land the fabric she is wanting,— she brings it home, and uses it as her own. And the historian may consider it as such; its foreign origin is the accident of exigency, its national adoption is the voice of the people. Comparing, again, national life with individual, we may say the mythical element, the stories of giants and fauies, marks the childhood of a people,—the sentimental, sanguine, and passionate, its youth,—the historical, the philosophical, the didactic, its manhood,—the complaining, the wearied, the morbid, its old age,—and the return to nursery stories, its second childhood. Applying this to the popular poetry of the present day, we hesitate whether we should place that of England in manhood, or in old age. Tennyson and Browning, with some others, make us hope the former, but there is a school rising of croaking, dissatisfied spuits, the " Idle singers of an empty day," that makes us fear the querulousness of senility may be creeping over the country, and contracts painfully with the manly words of the American poet,

" Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing. Learn to labour and to wait."

The tendency also to reproduce and to copy (this is different to enquiring into) the myths of early ages, is not the tendency that reassures us in a nation that we trust The Attempt. 71 has yet a future of enhghtened manhood, and of calm, wise, and dignified old age. IV. One more department of national poetic hterature remains,—the hymns, the psalms, the divine songs of a country. No doubt a close search into these would reveal the shadings of colour that mark the differences of nations and of ages ; but whilst distinct and strong lines separate the hymns of diverse religions,—Greek, Norse, Parsee, Buddhistic, Brahminic, or Mahometan, only blending in the few exceptional cases, that seem the outcome of the religion originally implanted by God in the heart of man,—the chief thought that strikes us in looking over the hymnology of the Christian church, is not the diversity of the few, but the cathoHcity of the mass of religious songs. Does a church historian wish to write of the various polemical discussions, dogmatical opinions, and ceremonious observances of different sects and branches of the church ? He must go to the creeds and councils, to articles and catechisms, to dissertations and pamphlets; but does he desire to discover the founda- tion on which the whole church is builded,—the one Lord, the one faith, the one baptism, the one God and Father of all, the permeating influence above, and in, and through,— does he desire to detect the inner life, from which springs the family likeness among the people of God, whatever be their denomination among the churches of earth ? Let him go to the hymns and divine songs the church catholic delights to raise, to the book of psalms that, for nearly three thousand years, have been sung by the worshippers of Jehovah in every land,—to the glorious Te Deum that has sounded from the east to the west, and echoed onwards to the east again,—to the " Rock of ages, cleft for me," translated by Toplady from a hymn heard in a Greek service at Constantinople,—to Cowper's " There is a fountain filled with blood," or Montgomery's " Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,"—to the French Abba's " Jeru- salem the golden," or the English Elizabethan "Jerusalem, my happy home,"—to Martin Luther's grand old German hymns, or the beautiful paraphrases of Scotland. He will point to these and countless others, written in diverse ages, in distant countries, and by those whose minds were cast in very different moulds, and he will find that the whole Christian world is akin; that penetrate below the su^rface, reach the fountain whence religious life flows, and tli^re that unity is existent which shall only be fully known amidst the harmonies of heavenly song. 72 llie Attempt.

AVe have thus touched, but very lightly, each of these branches of popular poetic literature. One thought awakens another as to the service it may render the historian. Most interesting would it be, only space and time altogether forbid it, to carry out practically the idea suggested,—to take the history of a period, to eliminate all public documents and historical records, and to gather together its poetry in the four forms enumerated; from this, to frame our estimate of the progress or retrogression of moral and mental power in the soul of a nation, and then to compare the theories evolved with the record of actual fact. Such an investigation might prevent the startling surprises that so often occur in tracing the course of history. We should then perceive the swelling of the current before it broke its barrier; we should detect the polluted stream hastening to join the clear water, before we perceived that what so lately was pellucid and glowing, has become muddy, and choked, and stagnant; we should watch the gathering of the storm before we heard the thunder overhead ; we should mark the dawn before we were dazzled by the sunshine ; we should know the cause before we discerned the effects. ALIQU^.

Mature and ^otri!.

To Her I Love.

SUNSET bright with brilliant clouds. Fading into gray— Calls to me your various mood, Grave, and sometimes gay. Lilies fair and poppies red. Forget-me-nots so true, Violets, wood anemones. Make me think of you. All of loveliness and grace Seems to you allied ; My thought of you in nature's face Is intensified. NOLI-ME-TANGERE. The Attempt. 73

d^flrge OJUot's dfhararfers.

IT is hard to give any permanent definition of a thing that has not yet completed its development, so that a good novel would be described very differently, in different stages of its growth. Some people test its value as "the Indians judge their muskets, by the force of the recoil," that being considered the best which fairly floors the handler. But the strongly sensational, the horror-thrilling, is becoming a little old-fashioned in better circles. Baron Bunsen says it ought to be " a poetic representation of a course of events consistent with the highest laws of moral government, whether it delineate the general history of a people (the Iliad as a type), or narrate the fortimes of a chosen hero (the Odyssey as a type)." But there is another definition than "the representation of a course of events" contained in the development it has reached under the hands of George Eliot. To her it is a poetic representation of things, and not of deeds, specially of the most important things in the universe, her fellow human beings. She has grand descriptions of scenery too, but it is chiefly pi'esented as the fitting frame-work, or fragmentary education, of her characters. To pourtray them faithfully, suggestively, instructively, is to her the mission of the novelist. With this considera- tion in our minds, we shall not find her works so unequal as they seem when we consider them as perfect wholes, or in relation to their plots alone, The " Scenes from Clerical Life " only suggested her future successes, yet, in the little series of three short tales, she has revealed all the peculiarities of her concep- tion and treatment, her interest in ordinary and real humanity, and her searching analysis of its secret springs. " The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton" comes first. The eminent mediocrity of the reverend gentleman, —who can hardly be called the hero, so much as the subject of the tale,—is brought out so powerfully as almost to ^ create aversion for him. But his well-meaning insignificance is glorified to himself and to us by the self-sacrificing love of his devoted wife, Milly. There are other sketches of character in it that suggest a future and fuller treatment. The selfish and superficial Countess Czulaske might have come into Thackeray's pages, and KiRca 1871. K. 74 The Attempt. been worse treated; and Mrs Hackit is, I am sure, a first cousin of the immortal Mrs Poyser, "Mr Gilfil's Love- Story" is a beautifully suggestive way of seeking the romantic in the unromantic, and finding the causes of the present in the past. The passionate devotion of his youth had spent itself on one object; but healthy natures do not die of a broken heart—they live on and hide the scar often only too well, so that it is neither guessed or respected. The same scene and the same characters appear in it as in the " Rev. Amos Barton," earlier in type, later in period. " Janet's Repentance" is a touching description of the effect that one noble nature has upon another through its comprehension thereof. Janet, per- haps, would nevei have hoped, and without hope would never have tried to save herself, had not Mr Tryan revealed the secret of his self-devotion, and the depths of his repentance for past error. It was necessary that a deep sympathy should be established between these two, and we feel satisfied with the poetic justice that gives them a short period of such happiness. The less im- portant characters in the tale, powerfully and truly as they are described, do not touch us, or affect us much, we are so absorbed in what concerns Janet. But with all the marks of genius in the book, I do not think the author would have found much fame from it alone. I believe that voluminousness is in reality both a cause and an effect of a writers greatness. Certainly practice for himself, and continued attention from the public, are elements in winning fame, at least. But when the practice results in greater power, and the attention is rewarded by increasing interest, then a writer becomes truly great. And this George Eliot became through "Adam Bede," her first, though not her last great work. "Adam Bede" contains a marvellous description of the life of a country district. We must picture the village where the blacksmith laboured, and the green where Dinah preached; the cottage, a little to the east, where the Bedes lived; the substantial farm of the Poysers some fields off; the grand old woods of the Chase still beyond; and away to the west, the abode of Mr Irvin, the pluralist—the admiring son—the sympathetic brother— the affectionate pastor. The grand character of the book is Dinah, introduced as she is to the notice of Colonel Townley, " who knew but two types of methodist—the The Attempt. 75 ecstatic and the bilious." There is a wonderful charm in the description of her simplicity and unconsciousness as she mounted the cart on the village green, and turned her grey eyes on the people. " There was no keenness in the eyes, they seemed rather to be shedding love than making observations; they had the liquid look which tells us that the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects. She stood with her left hand toward the descending sun, and leafy boughs screened her from its rays; but in this sober light the delicate colouring of her face seemed to gather a vivid- ness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin, a fall but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of pale reddish hair. The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, and covered, except for an inch or two above the brow, by a net quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal, and firmly pencilled; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abundant; nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of white flowers with light touches of colour on their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty beyond that of expression; they looked 60 simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light sneer, could help melting away before their glance. Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in order to come to a new under- standing with himself, Chad Cranage lifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had the pluck to think of courting her." Then came the simple prayer, the natural address, during which the city traveller had been chained against his will by the charm of Dinah's mellow treble tones, which had a variety of modulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the unconscious skill of musical instinct. " The simple things she said seemed like novelties," " but the village mind does not easily take fire, and a little smouldering, vague anxiety, that might easily die out again, was the utmost effect Dinah's preaching had wrought in them at present," all except Bess Cranage—and the few who were of the society like Seth Bede, had heard her, wondering, but unmoved. The touching scene on her homeward way^ 76 The Attempt.

when Seth Bede pleads for love—but she found " her heart not free to marry;" she " seemed to have no room in her soul for wants and fears of her own, it had pleased God to fill lier heart so full with the wants and sufferings of His poor people;" and he begs even for hope to wait, lest there might be "a new leading," but still she answers,—" Let us leave that, Seth. It is good to live only a moment at a time, as I've read in one of Mr Wesley's books. It isn't for you and me to lay plans, we've nothing to do but to obey and to trust; farewell." And then " he chose to turn back along the fields through which he and Dinah had already passed; and I think his blue linen handkerchief was very wet with tears, long before he had made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face steadily homewards. He was but three- and-twenty, and had only just learned what it is to love,— to love with that adoration which a young man gives to a woman whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love of this sort is hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and worthy love is not so?" " Our emotion, in its keenest moments, passes from ex- pression into silence; our love, at its highest flood, rushes beyond its object, and loses itself in the sense of the divine mystery. And this blessed gift of venerating love has been given to too many humble craftsmen since the world began, for us to feel any surprise that it should have existed in the soul of a Methodist carpenter, half a century ago, while there was yet a lingering after-glow from the time when Wesley and his fellow-labourer fed on the hips and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after ex- hausting limbs and lungs in carrying a divine message to the poor. That after-glow has long faded away; and the picture we are apt to make of Methodism in our own imagination, is not an amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep shade of broad-leaved sycamores, where a crowd of rough men and weary-hearted women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary culture, which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their imagina- tion above the sordid detail of their own narrow lives, and suffused their souls with a sense of a pitying, loving, infinite Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too possible that to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more than low-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers, and The Attempt. 77 hypocritical jargon,—elements which are regarded as an exhaustive analysis of Methodism in many fashionable quarters. That would be a pity, for I cannot pretend that Seth or Uinah were anything else than Methodists— not, indeed, of that modern type which reads quarterly reviews, and attends in chapels with pillared porticoes, but of a very old-fashioned kind. They believed in present miracles, in instantaneous conversions, in revela- tions by dreams and visions; they drew lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at hazard; having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, which is not at all sanctioned by approved commentators; and it is impossible for me to represent their diction as correct, or their instruction as liberal. Still—if I have read religious history aright—faith, hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio to the three concords ; and it is possible, thank heaven! to have very erroneous theories and very sublime feehngs. And these sublime feelings carry Dinah through the book. Going always where she was needed, respected by all who met her, loved by all who knew her—the one girl Mrs Bede could bear about her—the one human being that could aid poor Hetty's shallow soul to form any conception of a Deity ; set almost too far apart from humanity by her high standard, at last the woman's heart found its hunger and its satisfaction in her love of Adam Bede. And this strong, true, manly Adam Bede was a man Avithout the visionary dreams of the Methodist, but with a consciousness of the Divine presence in all things that a Methodist would accept; as he said, " there's the speerit o' God in all things, and at all times—week day as well as Sunday—and i' the great works and inventions, and i' the figuring and the mechanics," and hoAv he believed " a good solid bit o' work lasts, if it's only laying a floor down, somebody's the better for it being done well, besides the man who did it," " for from very early days he saw that good carpentry was God's will, was that form of God's will that most immediately concerned him." A man so able to keep to his own ideal, that he gets just a little of the hardness of the elder brother in the parable—to his father and to his mother, and to Arthur Donnithome; yet a man, often taking himself to task for it, medi- tating—" They that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of those that are weak, and not to please themselves—there's a text wants no candle to ehow't • 78 Tlie A ttempt.

it shines by its own Hght. It is plain enough you get into the wrong road in this life, if you run after this and that, only for the sake o' making things easy and pleasant to yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the trough, and think o' nothing outside it; but if you've got a man's heart and soul in you, you can't be easy a-making your own bed, an' leaving the rest to lie on the stones." With all this Saxon ethical feeling, Adam Bede was a true Saxon in his relation to woman; watchful to his grumbling old mother; respectful to Mary Burge ; loving, Avith the timid reverence of a first love, the beautiful face that enchanted him; worshipping, with the deep love of a sympathetic soul, the woman he trusted and believed in, and yet found true, " Beauty has an expression beyond and far above the one woman's soul that it clothes, as the words of genius have a wider meaning than the thought that prompted them : it is more than a woman's love that moves us in a woman's eyes,-—it seems to be some far-off mighty love that has come near us, and made speech for itself there; the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something more than their prettiness—by their close kinship with all that we have known of tenderness and peace. The noblest nature sees most of this impersorial expression in beauty, and for this reason the noblest nature is often the most blinded to the character of the one woman's soul that the beauty clothes." "And good Adam had no fine words into which he could put his feeling for Hetty: he could not disguise mystery in this way with the appearance of knowledge; he called his love frankly a mystery, as you have heard him. He only knew that the sight and memory of her moved him deeply, touching the spring of all love and tenderness, all faith and courage within him. How could he imagine narrowness, selfishness, hardness in herl He created the mind he believed in out of his own, which was large, unselfish, tender." How his true nature suffered, but out of his truth how a light arose, a hope and a better love than the old—for it was no dream of his own, but had an objective reality to justify it. There is no doubt that Dinah brought him a deeper sympathy and an enlarged being. "And it's a feeling as gives you a sort o' liberty, as if you could walk more fearless, when you've more trust in another than y'have in yourself I've always been thinking I knew better than them as belonged to me. and that's a poor sort o' life, when vou can't look The Attempt. 79 to them nearest to you t'help you with a bit better thought than what you've got inside you a'ready." He deserved a second love, for he used his first one well. No wonder that the strong true man loved the frail shallow girl, for " Hetty's face had a language that far transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature charges with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the single human soul that flutters beneath them, but speaking the joys and sorrows of foregone generations; eyes which tell of deep love, which doubtless has been and is somewhere, but not paired with these eyes— perhaps paired with pale eyes that can say nothing, just as a national language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that use it." We must all have felt this strange incongruity between the outer and the inner man. Yet how gently we are apt to judge the beautiful, till they become quiet and graceful in the consciousness that their charms are fully acknowledged, and then we flatter them for new graces that we ourselves have given. Poor little Hetty! she was not so very wicked. She had not a thought of evil against any one—not even her plague, Totty, if she would only keep away from her. She only wished to be free from every disagreeable, embellished by every adornment, and lapped in every luxury. But others have had such day-dreams, and not been punished so. George Eliot traces it to the utter want of any religion to equahse and balance her one- sided nature, the utter absence of any appreciation of the moral sense—the entire idolatry of sense, and callousness to any higher thoughts. This is beautifully illustrated in the scene in the two bedchambers in the attic of Mrs Peyser's farm, in one of which Dinah felt it "borne in upon her " that Hetty might some day be in trouble and need her; and so she entered the other, where a suddenly extinguished candle enabled Hetty to hide, by a veil of darkness, her frippery and adornments. Then Dinah spoke the words of a true and loving friend, from the depths of her own heart; and Hetty cried, and Dinah thought she had touched her feelings. But the sweet voice responded querulously, " Don't talk to me so, Dinah! Why do you come to frighten me ? I've never done any- thing to you; why can't you let me be?" No wonder that Dinah went away, silenced but not estranged. And yet when "the trouble" came, the shallow soul did think of Dinah as the one human being she could face; and it 80 The Attempt.

was Dinah alone that in her cell moved her to confes- sion, and touched her with the first sense of personal responsibihty. Yet even then her material nature clung to the tangible friend, and her darkened soul cried rather to Dinah's spirit than to the Judge and Father of both, that stood in the Unseen beside her, waiting for her voice. Painful as is her ending, it is almost well that she died free before her friends saw her. Oh ! the shock they would have felt. The round, girlish cheeks, changed by the years and the toil into haggard hollows; the peach- bloom gone, the hair thin, and perhaps grey, and the great lustrous eyes left without the sunlight of hope and youth, like sunless tarns amid bare craggy rocks. And how they would have haunted them and followed them, for, let them be as kind as ever they would, she could not have been spared pain. Like one restored from the grave, she would find no place vacant for her. We must not miss that good-looking woman, Mrs Poyser, not more than eight-and-thirty, of fair com- plexion, sandy hair, well-shapen, hght-footed, with a suggestive family likeness to Dinah, that might have reminded a painter of Mai'tha and Mary. It is amusing to hear her pleading with her niece to stay with her, bringing forward a list of earthly woes that cannot be avoided without her,—" All because you've got notions i' your head about religion, more nor what's i' the Cate- chism and the Prayer-book." " But not more than what's in the Bible, aunt," said Dinah, " Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter," Mrs Poyser rejoined, rather sharply; " else why shouldn't them as knoAvs best what's in the Bible—the parsons and people as have got nothing to do but learn it—do the same as you do ? But for the matter of that, if everybody was to do like you, the world must come to a stand-still; for if everybody tried to do without house and home, and with poor eating and drink- ing, and was allays talking as we must despise the things o' the world, as you say, I would like to know where the pick o' the stock and the corn, and the best new milk cheeses 'ud have to go." " If you loved your neighbour no better nor you do yourself, Dinah, it is little enough you'd do for him." Forced at last to underrate herself, to try a last appeal to Dinah, she says she might stay with an aunt " who was none so good, but she might stand better- ing." Her racy remarks scattered through the book The Attempt. 81 we can only exemplify:—" Folks must put up wi their own kin as they put up wi' their own noses— it's their own flesh and blood;" and after the descrip- tion of the woes of farming, meant to turn away covetous eyes from her farm, the winding-up " at the end of the year, it's like as if you'd been cooking a feast, and got the smell of it for your pains." " It's all very fine hav- ing a ready-made rich man, but may happen he'll be a ready-made fool; and it's no use filling your pocket full o' money if you've got a hole in the corner. It'll do you no good to sit in a spring-cart of your own, if you've got a soft to drive you ; he'll soon turn you over into the ditch." " Wi' them three gells in the house I'd need have twice the strength, to keep 'em up to their work. It is like having roast meat at three fii'es ; as soon as you've basted one, another's bm-ning." " There's nothing you can't believe o' them wenches; they'll set the empty kettle on the fire, and then come an hour after to see if the water boils." Or to poor Molly, who spilt the tea— "You'll do no good by crying and making more wet to wipe up." " I know the dancin's nonsense; but if you stick at everything because it's nonsense, you wonna go far i' this life." " It's hard work to tell which is old Harry when everybody's got boots on." And her ready wit, even to the annihilation of well-educated, bitter-tongued, woman-hating Bartle Massey, who said sneeringly, " The women are quick enough, they're quick enough. They know the rights of a story before they hear it, and can tell a man what his thoughts are before he knows 'em himself." " Like enough," says Mrs Poyser, " for the men are mostly so slow, their thoughts mostly overrun 'em, and they can only catch 'em by the tail. I can count a stocking-top while a man is getting his tongue ready, an' when he outs wi' his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on it. It's your dead chicks take the longest hatchin'. Howiver, I'm not denyin' the women are foolish; God Almighty made 'em to match the men." The triumphant way in which she had her say out to the Old Squire, vocalizing the wrongs of her neighbour- hood and her family, and her clear understanding of all the fair-seeming plots of his narrow nature. Had her neighbours been of an enthusiastic temperament, they would have made a demonstration in her favour. Just, but hard in speech, her own husband and Adam Bede seemed the only two just perfect enough to make her KABca 1874. L 82 The Attempt.

keep the peace before them; yet there is a beautiful touch of character in the way in which she imexpectedly is found most lenient to poor Hetty in her disgrace. What a fine picture of a bachelor clergyman is Mr Irwin, with his magnificent mother and insignificant sisters dependent on him, and never made to feel depend- ency. " And perhaps he was the only person in the world who did not think his sisters uninteresting and super- fluous ; for his was one of those large-hearted, sweet- blooded natures, that never know a narrow or a grudging thought;" and though his conscience forbade him to deny the charge of '■ dumb dog " and " idle shepherd " that the once enthusiastic Will Maskery called him, yet not care- less or indifferent as to the cares of his parish, or the benefit of his hearers. So liberal to Dinah, so tender to Hetty, so gentle to Arthur. Poor Arthur! how his ordinary insignificant young life becomes tragic from one wrong deed—becomes, perhaps, ennobled however through thought and sorrow. Some souls need hard teaching, some never seem to receive any. But we cannot even mention all the characters in this book; each is a study—Bartle Massey, Lisbeth Bede, Seth Bede, the Poysers, father and son, and Mr Craig, the gardener, of whom Mrs Poyser remarked, " P'or my part, I think he's welly like a cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purpose to hear him crow," LuTEA RESEDA. {To be continued.)

flu Enltnouiu ^aini: A STORY OF THE LAKE OF ORTA. The Island of St Giulio lies in the Lake of Orta, the smallest and perhaps the loveliest of the north Italian lakes. It consists of a small cluster of houses terraced down to the water, dominated by a fine cathedral of the ninth century, containing the relics of St Giulio, Bishop, wlio in his youth is said to have slain a dragon which infested these shores. The interior of the church is decorated by a series of frescoes by Gaudenzio Ferrari and other artists of the fifteenth century ; and one of the finest of these represents a young knight in full armour, of whom further. PART I. PILGBIM'S SONG, " HAIL to thee, St GiuHo! Pilgrims from afar we come Singing to thy festa now. Floating to thine island home: The Attempt. 83

Where the dragon wrought such woe Long ago and long ago-:— Hail to thee, St GiuUo I

" When the sullen waters slept Undisturbed by flashing oar, And the slimy monster crept Glistening, on the shuddering shore, Victor o'er the fiend wert thou. There thy shrine is shining now,— Hail to thee, St Giiilio ! " Hail to thee 1 in forest brake Nestles now the village spire. And across the Garden Lake Peals the music of the choir; Corn is waving—flowers glow— Vines with fruit are bending low,— Hail to thee, St Giulio !" It was the feast of St GiuHo, Many a hundred years ago ; Orta's lake is blithe with song As o'er the waves the people throng; For St Giulio's towers arise From an island on the lake, Waves that mirror southern skies Round the the terraced margin break, Midway across the waters deep The purple mountain shadows sleep, That all the lake enclose; On lowest rocks the vineyards cling, And then the forests shadowing. And then the riven peaks that spring Up to eternal snows. The boat is by the marble stair. So white above the water shine It dazzles in the daylight glare ; The pilgrims seek the door-way fair And the cool shadow of the shrine. Within the massy ancient wall Only the wind's complaining sound They hear among the arches tall, And the low wavelets plashing round ; Through the crimson drapery flows, 84 Tlie Attempt.

All the sunshine, colour-stained, Through the windows, jewel-paned, On the marble's cool repose— On the walls' transcendent glory. For in lovliest hues they shine Bright with many a frescoed story. Still we trace those forms divine, Fair beyond the race of men. Fading now and waning fainter. But the pilgrims watched .them then Coloured by the eager painter.

Gaudenzio Ferrari's name! They love it still, these valleys lone ; Not for gold and not for fame Toils he in the church alone; Could he but make the dim wall flame With heavenly visions of his own, That blaze before his dreaming eyes Illumined from Paradise. The pilgrims passing to and fro Pause lingering where the frescos are; One peasant maid no more can go But gazes at them from afar; And still the master toils, but glances Adown the aisle, and seems to wait Until a youthful lord advances Attired in glittering arms of state.

" The Marquis comes !" the people cry, " Our brave young lord, so fresh and fair, So royal in his dignity ; Hail to the Marquis debonair!" " It is the Marquis, as I prayed," The painter muses, " he shall stand For the last fresco in the arcade, A prince to inspire a master hand: And then, farewell my pictures all! Live changeless in this sanctuary; Storms rage without and thiinders fall, Youtli fades and splendour passes by. But the old church stands firm and strong Like the great hope that bade it rise ; And, pictures mine, to you belong Art's wondrous immortalities ; The Attempt. 85

Give to this weary world for long Borne far faint glimpse of Paradise." " Marquis," he said, " my task is done, When thy fair portrait fills this space, The people will rejoice that one Of the old brave ancestral race, Whose SAvords were wont the land to ward Shall stand their patron's shrine to guard." " Yes," said the Marquis, " paint us here Some saint of warlike mien, Where dwelt the wife of Berenger, Gisla, the dauntless queen; She woke the island from repose With trumpet blare and crashing blows ; Defied the Pope and Emperor, And made this church a refuge for The bravest of their foes. Who blames her % Not St Giulio dread. Who smote the writhing dragon dead. A grimmer snake, with deadlier coil Assails our land to-day : How long shall it be only spoil For ravening things of prey? 0 Italy I our Italy! To fight for thee in toil and pain, To pant my young life out for thee Upon some dusty battle plain. Seems but a little thing to me— A life not all in vain." Beneath an arch the Marquis stands. In all his pride of youth and grace ; The painter works with rapid hands His image on the wall to trace. Fairly now the colour lies ; Years may come and go again, Generations fresh may rise, Still, the joy of other eyes Shall that frescoed wall remain. Where are those who watched it then ? Even their carved tombs, defaced By the feet of many men. Hardly on the floor are traced; Centuries have rolled away, 86 The Attempt.

Art has triumphed o'er decay, And that sweet, immortal smile Brightens still St Giulio's isle. In silence wrapt, the painter stands; Marta, the peasant girl, draws near. Holds her breath aud clasps her hands. Gazes as the forms appear. Till she dares to whisper low, "Isthesaint St GiuUo?" The master paused,—" My child, in truth What saint this is I cannot say ; St Giulio is no warrior youth ; He is a bishop, old and grey. And this is no St George, although His bearing is as brave and high, Unconscious yet of any foe, Or toil, or hard-won victory; Too joyous for Sebastian calm, Whose blessed memory can charm The pestilence from the land; Too young for Maurice, guardian now Of those great hills where, long ago, He poured his blood upon the snow. Chief of a glorious band. In truth, I know not; thou, my boy, Thou hast a glorious work to do. And noblest gifts, and high employ— Thou art thy people's hope aud joy, Be thou their honour too : Leave the fair fame that never dies; And so when other times arise. And these bright hues are faint, The people may have loving eyes For my poor picture, where they prize No more an unknown saint." The sun has set—the golden stain Dies on the convent height; On shadowy hill and vine-clad plain Descends the warm, blue night; And down the terrace to the lake The painter and the Marquis go. And there a gay farewell they take; And two light boats the mirror break That lies so calm below. The Attempt. 87

Across the widening water rings In mournful notes—prolonged, untaught, An old wild air, with sadness fraught, Some song from Tuscan vineyards brought, The peasant Marta sings; The two boats pause upon the wave. The friends are listening to the strain ; And then a light adieu they wave, And never meet again.

Song.

" Methought my love was noble, full of grace As the knight's statue in the market-place ; Yes, like the angels tliat the pictures show. To me seemed Giulio.

" I gave my love the ruddy generous gold ; My love gave me the lead so dim and cold, But I loved all his gifts, I loved him so, Was he not Giulio ?

" I gave my love a true heart beating warm, A prayer to guard him from all scathe and harm. The ring my mother left me long ago— It was for Giulio.

" My love gave me a careless word and glance, A hand to lead me to the evening-dance. An idle love song when the sun was low,— Yet it was Giulio.

" I gave my love carnations—roses true; My love gave me the vervain and the rue. Rank herbs he gave for sweetest flowers that grow ; Could it be GiuUo ?

" The statue, fair in form was marble all; The angels painted on the cold hard wall, I had but loved a shade—an outward show— There was no GiuHo I "

END OF PART TIEST. E. J. 0. 88 The Attempt.

ilia <^orri{s: A TALE OF THE FORTY-FIVE.

CHAPTER XXIX.

MBMACKAY'SHELP.

THE letter from Colonel Forbes came sooner than the little party at Milla Forres had dared to expect. It arrived in less than a fortnight after the despatch ot Alaster's letter to him. Its contents, however, were some- what different from what they had expected. Courteous and dignified as usual. Colonel Forbes wrote that nothing could give him greater pleasure than the fulfilment of his daughter's engagement to one for whom he had so much regard as Captain Macdonald (Alaster had attained to that rank during the late C9.mpaign), and who had so greatly distinguished himself in the good cause; but in the present dangerous and difficult aspect of public affairs, he thought it hardly prudent to allow his daughter to link her fate with one who, like himself, was almost an outlaw. As he saw at present little prospect of his own return to Milla Forres, and did not like the idea of his daughters remaining there without a protector, he begged Alaster to ask his cousin. Lady Macdonald, to give them and old Elspet house-room at Carrick Castle, where Alaster might see Nancy as often as he liked, till he should himself be able to return, and himself give away his daughter. A strange look of relief crossed Alaster's face as he read this letter. Barbara, on the contrary, seemed vexed ariH. impatient at the disarrangement of their plans ; she would have liked the thing over and done with, anything seemed more tolerable than this suspense and delay. Nancy seemed a little glad, and a little sorry; it was hard to tell which feeling predominated. Old Elspet looked grave. " It's aye an ill-willy thing pittin' afF a marrying," she said, " there's nae kennin' what slip there may be atween the cup an' the lip whan folks wait ower lang for their kail to cuil." She had never quite got rid of her fear of " the shadow " yet, and every delay seemed to her a confirmation of the dismal prophecy. " You see 1 was not so far wrong after The Attempt. 89 all," said Barbara, " in putting my house in order, as Nancy called it; it is just as well I did so, since we are to leave MUla Forres." " Ay, ay, Miss Barbara, it's a sair thoclit leavin' the auld bit, e'en for a month or twa; I haena sleepit outside its walls this forty years," grumbled Elspet. " But you know for whose sake we are going, Elspet, you haven't forgotten the Prince's ring ? " " Na, na, guid gang wi' him, he's a braw gentleman, an' a bonny, forbye bein' the lawfu' king o' Scotland, an' weel he kens a guid bannock when he sees't, an' gin I thocht it wad advantage him ony, I'd gang barefit tae John o' Groats, but whatna guid will't dae the Prince my sleepin' out o' Milla Forres, think ye ? " This question was more than Barbara could answer. She was herself more than unwilling to leave the old house to which her heart clung, Avith all the tenacious conservatism of her nature, especially just now, when she felt as if she would like best to creep quietly into some old familiar corner and die. She had not forgotten old Mr Mackay's sermon, nor given up her hopes of " over- coming ;" but the battle was raging hot about her, and the old longing to give it up and creep away and die, often came back to her. It was not yielded to as it had once been—she had it always before her mind's eye that it was a battle, and that she must fight it, but sometimes " flesh and heart " did " faint and fail ; " it was the old, old story of Christ's soldiers in all ages, '' the spirit was wilhng, but the flesh was weak." She particularly disliked also the thought of taking up her abode at Carrick Castle. Lady Macdonald was a kindly, hale -hearted, gossiping woman; and Barbara, with her whole heart sore and shrinking even from the gentlest touch, could not bear the thought of the good- natured, spying eyes that would be always upon her, and instinctively quailed at the thought of the agony which the rough fingers of her kind-hearted, but uncompre- hending, friend were sure to inflict upon her. In this dilemma her mind reverted to old Mr Mackay, and his offer of assistance, should she ever need it, on the day she met him at Peggy's grave. She had often thought of the kind old man's offer of help before. When in her dire pain she had felt as if she must speak to some one or die ; but, though once or twice she had even started on her way to old Mr Mackay's, she had always turned back MARCH 1874. M 90 Tlie Attempt. again. A feeling that to tell anyone, even kind old Mr Mackay, of the state of Alaster's affections, was a sort of treason to Nancy, had always restrained her, and she had turned back to consume her own heart in silence. But now she felt she might safely ask his help without telling him anything that could injure Nancy. She might tell him, without assigning a reason for it, that she wished very much to avoid going to Carrick Castle, and ask him to put her on some way of doing so. She knew that he would trust her, and ask no questions. A dim idea, too, kept hovering in her brain, that perhaps she might turn this new aspect of affairs into a means of fulfilling her promise to old Peggy,—if she could leave Nancy at Carrick Castle and go herself, or with Elspet, to see what traces she could find of the lost girl. It would give her occupa- tion, and interest, and change of scene. She would throw herself, mind and body, into the pursuit, and perhaps she might so run away from her own heart. Vain thought, when " care sits behind the horseman."' At all events, she made iip her mind that she would go and ask Mr Mackay. So the morning after the arrival of her father's letter, she set out to call upon the old minister. The glen was in all its full summer beauty as she passed along, and half-uncon- Bciously its sweet, peaceful influences crept into her restless heart, and soothed its pain. The soft hum of insect life, the slumbrous ripple of the burn, the fitful carol of a bird now and then, the soft, dreamy, sunny haze on the hills, the solitude and peace everywhere, enwrapped her, as in a robe of majesty and quietude. Insensibly the look of pain passed from the broad, white brow, and the soft, dreamy light came back to the eyes that suffer- ing had made so intense of late. Barbara's face had not looked so peaceful for many a long day as it did when she knocked at the old minister's door. She found him surrounded as usual by his books and papers, and he rose from a big dusty folio to greet his fair visitor with Highland courtesy. " Take a seat, my dear," he said, drawing forward the great easy chair, the one piece of luxury in his bare, Httle study, " it's long since I've seen you. You young people should remember that a look of you is refreshing to old eyes like mine, that have grown dim peering into musty old books. How's all with you at Milla Forres ? I trust Captain Macdonald is gaining strength ? " The Attempt. 91

" Oh yes, thank you, he is nearly well again," said Barbara, in an abstracted tone. "Mr Mackay," she went on, plunging at once into her errand, " do you remember saying to me that if ever I wanted help I was to come to you ? " " Yes, my dear, yes, surely," said the old man in a soothing, fatherly tone, for he saw that the girl was troubled, " can I help you now 1 Just trust me as if I were your father." Then Barbara told him of her present difficulty. That her sister's marriage was to be delayed till her father's return, and of her father's desire that, in the meantime, Milla Forres should be shut up, and she, Nancy, and Elspet should go to Carrick Castle, and, she added pas- sionately, " I cant go there," The old man asked no qiiestions, he saw there was some reason in the girl's mind for her aversion, which she did not care to tell him, and, with true kindness, he spared her all questioning, and set himself to consider how the difficulty was to be remedied without enquiring how there happened to he& difficulty. " Let me see, my dear," he said, "let me consider; there is no house in the neighbourhood to which it would be suitable for you to go, unless, indeed," he added, after a few moments thought, looking up at her with a kindly smile, "your father would suffer you to accept an old Presbyterian minister's humble hospitality." A bright colour flushed into Barbara's face, and she looked up eagerly as she answered,— " Oh, Mr Mackay, how delightful that would be." Poor Barbara; this quiet little manse, with its old books, and its kind, fatherly, old master, seemed to her a sort of haven of refuge where she might flee and forget, in its peace and quiet, all the passionate pain of the past. But in a minute the light of hope faded out of her eyes, and the impossibility of gain- ing her father's consent to such a project rose before her. She knew that he would never consent to her taking up her abode with one of the hated Presbyterian ministers; besides, what excuse could she make for declining Lady Macdonald's hospitahty and accepting his? The thing was clearly impossible, so she gave up the pleasant prospect with one long-drawn sigh. " I'm afraid it wouldn't do, Mr Mackay. I should like it, I can't tell you how much, \mi what excuse could I make to Lady Macdonald ? " 92 The Attempt.

She did not speak of her father's objections to Presby- terians, but the old man understood her. " Perhaps not, perhaps not, my dear; it would have been a great pleasure to me to have had your company, but we miist try to think of something else." Then Barbara told him of old Peggy's last words to her, and of the promise she had given her to seek for her long-lost daughter, and give her her dying blessing. The old man listened attentively, and when she had finished her story, he said— " I am rejoiced to hear it, my dear young lady, I am rejoiced to hear it; it was the one thing that greived me about that saintly woman, that I feared she had died without forgiving that poor, wandering child of hers, and now you have set my mind at rest upon that point. The Lord be praised for all his mercies!" He was silent for a few minutes, with a look of great joy shining in his kindly old eyes. The thought of the dying woman's forgiveness of her erring child had, for the time being, driven the thought of the practical bearing of Barbara's story altogether from his mind. In a few minutes, however, he recovered from his abstraction, and turning his eyes (which had been looking absently before with him a rapt expression during the last few minutes) with a look of kindly interest on Barbara, he said,— " Yes, my dear, yes; and you would fain fulfil her wishes." " Yes, Mr Mackay, I promised, you know, I could not rest without doing what I can, at least, to keep my word;" then she told him, as briefly as she could, wdiat old Lauchlan had told her of the particulars of Maggie's disappearance, and of her own wish, if possible, to find Maggie's old lover and learn from him where he had lost sight of the fugitive. Mr Mackay listened attentively, then, when she had done, he sat a few moments as if in thought. "Near Scone, did you eay, young Macdougal's farm was % " he said at last. " So old Lauchlan thinks, but I do not think he was quite sure about it, and then it is all so long ago ; he may have gone away or died years ago." " Very true, my dear, very true; it is but a slender chance, still, if you wish to try, I think I see a way to manage it." " Oh, do you, Mr Mackay ? I shall be so glad, and then The Attempt. 93

I shan't have to go to Carrick Castle at all," exclaimed Barbara eagerly. " Wait a little, my dear, wait a little," said the old man, " I think I see a way, but I must think the matter over; I will let you know in a day or two what can be done." " Oh, thank you, dear Mr Mackay. I knew you would help me; and, indeed, you have helped me before, more than you know," she added impulsively. •'How so, my dear? I am very glad if it is so." said the old man, taking her hand kindly, for she had risen to go. " Yes, indeed you did," she said. " You remember that sermon you preached a few months ago about ' over- coming? '" " Yes, my dear, yes." " Well I was just about giving up, and that prevented me, —that's all. Good-bye," she said, shaking hands with him hastily, and abruptly turning away before he had time to answer her. A look of serene happiness beamed in his face as he looked after her while she hastened down the garden walk, and he turned back into his bare, old study with a strange shining on his face, and kneeling down amongst his old dusty folios, he thanked the " Good Shepherd " who had allowed him to " feed His lambs." JEANIE MORISON. {To he continued).

% (J[^m Remark.') on the f uidish ^^kcnsing laitis.

So much has been written and spoken on the subject of the Swedish Licensing Laws within the last twelve months, that it might seem needless here to enter into a detailed account of their working, were it not that the writer finds this subject has as yet engaged the interest of but a com- paratively small number of ladies. A sketch, therefore, of what has been done and is now doing in Sweden, with a statement of what it is proposed to do in Scotland, may not be out of place in this magazine. It is not necessary that we should be total abstainers in order to admit that the- greatest amount of misery is caused to our country by the extent to which drinking is indulged in. Without pausing to draw pictures of the 94 The Attempt. degraded state of a large portion of the population of our towns, and some of our rural districts,—pictures, the originals of which are doubtless painted in the memory of most of my readers, whom errands of mercy have led at times into the squalid dens of our Old Town, or elsewhere, I think I may take it for granted that we are all agreed as to the advisability of something being done to lessen the consumption of alcohol. Indeed, it has been ascertained and certified by men of authority in the clerical and medical professions, and by others holding office as judges, magistrates, and poor-law guardians, that " two-thirds of the crime, one-half of the pauperism, one-third of the disease, and three-fourths of the insanity of the country can be clearly traced to intem- perance." A growing belief in the minds of many of our statesman, that some steps must, if possible, be taken to reduce this enormous amount of drinking, has already led to several amendments in our licensing laws, but there is still a great call for exertion. How this call should be responded to is the question. Shut up all public houses, withdraw all licenses for the sale of intoxicating liquors, make it illegal to sell a drop of spirits, wdne, or beer, except for medicinal purposes, say the total abstainers. Pass an act giving power to two-thirds of the rate- payers in any district to shut up all public houses within its boundaries, say the siipporters of the Permissive Bill. Educate the young, and bring all possible moral and religious influences to bear on the masses, till they shall be so convinced of the sin and folly of their ways, that they will voluntarily abstain from over-indulgence in drink, say some hopeful moralists. Introduce the Swedish Licensing Laws, says Mr Carnegie, of Stronvar, who has studied them deeply, and watched carefully their working and effects in Sweden, and is now exerting himself to aroiise the interest of the people of Scotland on their behalf. There is, I think, a great deal of good to be drawn from all these answers. Even from the total abstainers, the members of the United Kingdom Alliance, Ave need not scorn to draw some good. If, instead of shutting up all public houses, we modify their advice, and shut up some ; if, instead of withdrawing all licenses, we withdi-aAV some; if, instead of making it illegal to sell a drop of spirits, wine, or beer, we regulate the hours at which it shall be sold, and insist that whatever is sold shall at least be The Attempt. 95 unadulterated, we shall, while rejecting what is exagger- ated in their views, accept a great part of their advice. As to the Permissive Bill,—if we give to the majority of the ratepayers, not the despotic power suggested by its supporters, but the election of a board which shall have the right at once to shut up all unnecessary public houses, and so to bring those that remain under rules and supervision, that their power for evil shall be reduced to a minimum, I think we shall have accepted what is best, while we reject what is unjust in their bill. Then, as to the gentle moralists,—certainly let us take all their advice; let us educate the young, and try the power of moral suasion, and the sweet influence of religious teaching to the uttermost; let us, I would add, give the people many opportunities of innocent amusement; let us give them concerts, where their hearts may be cheered and their taste refined by the beautiful songs of their country; let us give them, if it be possible in these degenerate days, well-regulated theatres, where their moral nature may be raised and educated by scenes of true nobility and gentle virtue ; but, while we do all this, let us not leave other things undone. But, argue the moralist, you cannot make a people virtuous by legislation,—virtue is an inward growth of the soul, and will not be forced from without. True, to a certain extent, but legislation can do a great deal in paving the way for further improvements. It can say that every subject born within the last twelve years, or to be born in the future, shall be taught to read and write, and so raised to a platform from which he may rise to higher things ; and why may it not say, in like manner, that the sale of intoxicating liquors shall be so regulated as to lessen the temptation to which our poorer brethren are exposed at every step, and thus, at least, raise many to a platform of ordinary sobriety, from which they may rise to an enjoyment of the higher pleasures of life, which, in their present degraded state, they are unable to appreciate. To frame such a law, the provisions of which, while keeping its direct end in view, shall be perfectly just to all concerned, has much exercised the minds of our statesmen for the last few years. Sensible people will not only make their own theories on the subject, but will look about to see what other countries have done in this matter, and with what amount of success. It is this which Mr Carnegie, of 96 The Attenipt.

Stronvar, urges us to do. He bids us look at Sweden, which country affords us in Scotland a specially good example, for, in many respects Sweden resembles Scot- land. Its climate is cold, which, while rendering out-of- door amusement impossible daring a large part of the year, greatly increases the attractions of alcohol, to the consumption of which the Swedes, like ourselves, are much addicted. In Sweden, till within the last twenty years, the trade in liquor might fairly be called Free Trade ; and I think if those in this country, who are so very " advanced " in their views as to urge upon us Free Trade in this com- modity, will investigate what were its results in Sweden, they will pause in advocating its introduction into Britain. Every landowner might distil spirit for private use on the payment of a nominal fee, every buyer had the right of retailing spirits, while all and sundry might sell it in quantities of one kan, i.e., three-fiftlis of a gallon and upwards. It has been estimated that the amount of spirits sold annually was 30,000,000 gallons, or about 10 gallons per head of the population. Now, if we take from the population not only the young children but most of the women,—for I am glad to hear that in Sweden an intoxicated woman is a rare sight,—we shall have some idea of the amount of " brunvin," as their spirit is called, which was consumed by the men. Such a state of affairs at last called for investigation, and a committee for this purpose was appointed hy the Diet in 1853-4. I find the following passage from their report in an able pamphlet of Mr Carnegie's, to whose energy and enthusiasm the cause of licensing reform owes so much:—" Seldom, if ever, has a conviction so generally or unequivocally been pronounced Avith regard to the necessity of vigorous measures against the physical, economical, and moral ruin with which the im- moderate use of spirits threatens the nation. A cry has burst forth from the hearts of the people, appealing to all who have influence,—a prayer for deliverance Irom a scourge which previous legislation has planted and nourished." Acting at once on the promptings of this report, the ministry introduced a bill, which is the basis of the present Licensing Laws of Sweden. This Bill provided for the abolition of all the small domestic stills, and of the right of unlicensed persons to sell brandy in quantities under 15 kans (8f gallons); also provision in Tfie Attempt. 97 it was made for a large reduction in the number of licenses, which licenses were no longer to be had for a mere nominal fee, but were to be put up to auction by the town or county authorities, and sold to the highest bidder, the money thus gained being duly apportioned between the county treasury, the county agricultural society, the town treasury, and the parishes of the county. It was further enacted that no brandy should be sold in the country within a distance of three-quarters of a mile from any place where a large number of people are brought together as by a pubHc auction, mihtia muster, etc., except at meal times, and to tliose who are really eating solid food. No sooner had these laws come into existence than a most marked improvement took place in the drinking customs of the Swedes in all country districts, and, as Mr Carnegie remarks, " Since the country population of Sweden comprises -Jths of the whole, the new legislation ha8 succeeded in effecting a very great reform in the drinking habits of the Swedes, who may now be called, com- paratively, a sober people, instead of the most intem- perate in Europe." Certainly, if any approximate idea of the amount of drinking in a country may be drawn from its number of distilleries, we should be inclined to put entire confidence in the above statement, when we find that in 1850 the distilleries in Sweden numbered 44,000, whereas in 1869 they had been reduced to 457. But while this great reformation had taken place throughout Sweden generally, it was found that in the towns drinking was undiminished. This was not un- natiu-al, for though reduced in number, the public-houses were still there, opening their inviting doors, not only to the townspeople, but to all visitors from the country, whose only chance in many cases of a good carouse, since the passing of the new law, was an occasional visit to the nearest town. The first town which recognised the necessity of further steps being taken in the matter was Gothenburg. In 1865 the town council (as I may call it) of Gothen- burg, appointed a committee of some of its most active and philanthropic members to enquire into the cause of the widespread pauperism in the town. This committee found, as I think such a committee in any of our Scotch towns would find, that drink was the main cause of the misery of the lower classes. " They found," in the words of a writer in Macmillan MARCH 1874. N 98 The Attempt.

on this subject, "that the poorer classes were being preyed upon and demoralized by an inordinate number of liquor sellers, whose self-interest led them to stimulate in every way the consumption of strong drink, while at the same time, by combination and trickery, they con- trived to cheat the town of a considerable portion of the duty Avhich ought by law to have come to it from their Bales. A great deal of drink, too, was sold on credit, with the natural result that many an artisan, after settling his week's score at the pot-house, had not a farthing of his wages left to take home; and, still worse, many went BO far as to pawn clothes and furniture with the publican, and starved wife and children to satisfy their craving for alcohol." What was to be the cure of this dreadfid state of affairs'? It was clear that the liquor traffic must be entirely re-organised. To do this a system was adopted, based on the four following principles :— " I. lliat no private individual, either as proprietor or manager, under a public-house license, should derive any private gain froin the sale of spirits, thus abolishing all temptation unduly to extend the consumption.'' Notice, my readers, no individual is to be one penny the richer by what another man drinks, thus it will be no one's interest to tempt a man to take an unnecessary glass, or indeed any glass at all, though at the same time the liberty of the subject is duly respected, for a man may buy for himself, and drink on the spot as many glasses as he pleases, till he is, as the Swedes so well express it, " ofverlastad,'' (overloaded), when a subsidiary rule comes in forbidding the manager of a public-house to sell any more drink to an overloaded man. When you think of it, this principle, that no individual shall make profit by the sale of intoxicating liquors, involves a great deal. Its introduction into England would involve the buying up of immense vested interests, and in Scotland too, though to a less extent than in England, owing to the difference in the licensing laws of the two countries, con- siderable compensation would be demanded by the licensed victuallers. How such a demand could be met will be explained further on. II. " The sale of spirits on credit, or on the security of pledges, shall be stringently prohibited." It had before been the law that no debt incurred for spirits could be legally recovered; but this was not sufficient to put a stop to pawning for drink. Ihe Attempt. 99

III. ^'^ All houses in which the liquor trade is carried on to be well-lighted, roomy, airy, and cleans This at least secures that no man can, by reason of the darkness, hope to hide his disgrace; if he be determined to be drunk, he shall be so in the full light, and, let us hope, meet with some of the wholesome contempt which he deserves. IV. " Good victuals, at moderate prices, shall he always procurable in drinking houses." Thus no house would pre- sent only drink as a temptation to customers; for though at one end of the room a coimter would be spread with glasses of the purest brdnvin, at the other end, or in closely adjoining rooms, there would be tables spread with hot meats, bread, vegetables, tea, coffee, etc., the pleasant sight and savoury smell of which might well hope to com- pete with the brdnvin,—backed up, too, as they would be, by a polite host, whose interest it is to sell this tempting fare, for on its sale depends his profit, while he has no interest in pressing the sale of his brdnvin. These, then, are the four chief principles on which the Gothenburgers determined to act as soon as they could procure from government a charter giving them the power to buy up the licenses of all public houses, and to manage them by a legal company, in the usual form of a limited liability company, with the one slight exception, that while the company was to become answerable for the expenses, it was to receive none of the profits which might accrue in the future, but all such profit was to be for the good of the community. Not even for their time and trouble were they to be paid—these they gave freely for the benefit of tJtieir fellow-townsmen, as 1 am sure we should find some trusty burghers in every town in Scotland willing to do, were this law introduced. As soon as the royal charter was received, the company began its work. It at once took into its own hands all the licenses, excepting those previously sold by the town by auction to private individuals, whose licensing terms were not expired; but as these fell vacant, the company took them up also, so that, in the course of a few years, they had possession of all the licenses in the town, sixty- one in number, always excepting a certain number of grocer licenses, of which I shall say more presently. Of these sixty-one, it was determined to make no use of eighteen, thus at once reducing the number of licenses in operation to forty-three. These forty-three were disposed of as follows :— 100 The Attempt.

\st. Twenty-six Public Houses. 2d. Seven Retail Shops, for consumption off tho premises. 3c?. Eight Restaurants; and Two Clubs. I may pass over the second and third divisions, merely mentioning that the retail shops are under the manage- ment of women, who make no profit on what they sell, but are in the pay of the company, and receive from £25 to £55 per annum as salary ; and that the restaurants and clubs are in no way connected with the company, except in so far as they are bound to buy all their spirits and wines from it at the tariff" fixed by the company, and are only allowed to sell hrdnvin with meals. It is in the public-houses that the four principles of the Gotheuburgers come fairly into play. The manager of the public-house has no rent, and generally no heating or lighting to pay. He makes, as ah-eady stated, no profit on his sale of spirits, but is allowed to sell coffee, tea, soda-water, cigars, etc., on his own account, as well as the hot meals which he is bound to provide for his cus- tomers when asked for. This, in nine of the j^ublic-houses, is found to give sufficient remuneration to the managers, but in the other seventeen, less advantageously situated, the company pays the manager a small salary to make up any deficiency. The directors of the company, having the choice of managers in their own hands, select men of good character, and invite their co-operation in trying to keep down intemperance, and it is not, I think, too Utopian to hope that men will give this co-operation when they can have no possible private interest in withholding it. Mr Carnegie reports on the system thus,—" The results of the working of this system were at once apparent in a most striking reform in the conduct and habits of the working classes, exceeding the most sanguine expectations; and it is evident to all that a great social problem has been solved—a great success achieved. This is universally acknowledged. The governor of the pro- vince, the chief constable, the medical men, the clergy, the inspectors and visitors among the poor, the members of the town council, all whom 1 met during my recent visit to Gothenburg, all, without hesitation, declared to me that there is really no comparision between the former state of things and that now existing, and I was long enough there to see it myself." For the sake of those who put more trust in statistics than in the general remarks of even the most scrupulously correct. I may add that, in The Attempt. 101

1864, there were in Gothenburg 2164 persons fined for drunkenness, which number steadily decreased till, in 1868, there was only 1320 persons so fined; the cases of delirium tremens decreased in like proportion. Since 1868, the number of convictions for drunkenness has been slightly on the increase, which has given those who, for private reasons or from prejudice, desire to see this system put down, some excuse to point the finger of scorn at its promoters. In reality, however, this increase is more than accounted for by the combination of two circumstances : -1st, The great increase of the population of Gothenburg, which, since 1867, has increased 28 per cent., the new-comers, moreover, being mostly working people from the country, who, when first exposed to the temptation of easy access to pubHc houses, are apt to exceed. 26?, The great rise in wages which has taken place of late years in Sweden, as well as in our own country. These circumstances are of themselves sufficient to account for a greater increase of drunkenness than has taken place; but there is another circumstance which I must now mention, which has clogged the steps of the company from the beginning of its operations, and has greatly counteracted its good effects. This is the con- tinued existence of those grocer licenses to which I before referred. When the company started, it was thought sufficient to grant them the control of all public-houses, clubs, and restaurants where hranvin could be purchased in small quantities, but the grocer licenses were still kept by the town, and sold, as formerly, by auction. These grocer licenses only allow of spirits being sold for consumption off" the premises, and in rather large quantities, but when men Avant to drink, they become wonderfully ingenious, so perhaps it ought not to sur- prise us to hear that the consequence of this exception was the springing up of a system of " saining," greatly to the injury of the working of the company. " Saining " consists of a number of men clubbing together to buy at a grocer's shop the quantity which is beyond the means of a single man, this is conveyed to some secret corner, and shared by all. Unless the grocers in Sweden are unusually high-minded men, they will naturally encourage this system. However, I am glad to be able to state that, in April last, the whole subject underwent a thorough exami- nation in the Diet, when the good work done in Gothenburg was fully acknowledged, and an Act passed, enabling the grocers, as well as the public-house licenses, to be handed 102 The Attempt.

over to a company. This Act will come into operation next October, when the days of " saining " will be at end, and the Gothenburg company, and all other such com- panies throughout Sweden, will be relieved from its evil counter-influence. The results attained by the Reformed Licensing Laws throughout Sweden within the last twenty years, may be briefly summed up in this one statement,—the annual sale of spirits has been reduced from 10 gallons per head of the population to 2 gallons, and in estimating the drinking habits of the Swedes at 2 gallons per head, it is only fair to refer to the very usual custom in their country of ladies and gentlemen alike beginning dinner with a single glass of hrdnvin; this of itself accounts for a large amount of the spirits used, and leaves a comparatively small proportion to be drunk in a discreditable manner. Now, to speak of matters at home. When Sweden has done so much, why should not Scotland do at least as much ? By as much, I do not mean to suggest that we should reduce our drinking by 8 gallons per head, for a considerable smaller reduction than this would place us in the very novel position of drinking no spirits at all. What I mean is, Why should we not do as much in pro- portion—the Swedes now drink a fifth part of what they did twenty years ago—why should we not reduce our drinking to one-fifth part of what it now is, which would really make us a most respectable nation? At least, after seeing what has been done in Sweden, no one need say it is useless to legislate in the matter, only obstinate blindness and obstinate deafiiess can refuse to allow that a great work has been done in that country. In England, where the vested interest in the spirit trade is enormous, and the licensing laws are very different from those in Scotland, many difficulties (though not apparently insuperable) will arise on any attempt to introduce the Swedish laws, the chief being the immense compensation which would be rightly demanded by the spirit dealers. In Scotland, the case is much more hopeful, for spirit licenses are only granted for the year, and there renewal may be legally refused. Still " use and wont " has so established that licenses shall always be renewed, except in cases of misconduct, that the licensee would naturally consider himself unfairly used were the renewal refused. Therefore some compensation would be necessary in Scotland as well as in England. But a company, as in Gothenburg- p'-^^+qinino- in itself the whole spirit ti'ade, The Attempt. 103 with a right also of fixing its own tariff, is so profitable an affair, that not only reasonable compensation would be forthcoming for all persons injured by its means, but, in the course of years, a considerable surplus would arise, which, finding its way into the coffers of the local authorities, should reappear in the shape of man}- im- provements for the health and recreation of the people. In Gothenburg, the profits have been such as to cover all the poor-rates, and, as Mr Carnegie asks, " Is it not peculiarly appropriate that the local liquor trade should pay the cost of the local poor-rate ? " This does seem a most legitimate use of the profit on drink. It is drink mainly that fills our poorhouses, and, to a great measure, our prisons and lunatic asylums; surely, then, it is more fair that the profit made on this dire cause should pay for its most expensive results, rather than go to enrich certain indi- viduals, while the whole community is left to pay the cost. In short, I think the more we look at the Swedish Licensing Laws, either from the high, moral stand-point, or from the practical ground of the Utilitarian, the more we shall find them in every respect worthy of our support. I should like to go more into detail as to hov/ it is thought these laws could be best applied to Britain, but must content myself with a brief outline of the bill which Sir Robert Anstruther hopes to bring forward this session, if only a night for its second reading can be secured, from a government pledged already to the con- sideration of so many affairs. It applies only to Scotland, and is called The Spirituous Liquors (Scotland) Bill. It is in two parts, the first consists of compulsory clauses, referring to the restriction of the number of new licenses to be granted, and limiting the term of years, after which no grocers' licenses are to be renewed. The second part consists of permissive clauses, corresponding very much to the Swedish laws as adopted in Gothenburg; in them the necessity of compensation for all injured by the new laws is fully recognised, and the following rules for the division of the profits are laid down:—Two-thirds to be applied for the diminution of the debt incurred at starting, the third to be available for providing innocent amusement for the working-classes, sanitary and town improvements, public parks, or other objects approved by the local authority. On the extinction of the debt, two-thirds to be retained by the local authority for the above purposes, and one-third to be paid to the imperial exchequer. 104 The Attempt.

For further details I must refer my readers to the Bill itself. It is possible, when it comes into Parliament, that some of the voters in the late elections may find that it is in vain they have thrown their weight into the Conservative balance, and that the friends of temperance are to be found on both sides of the House. DES EAUX.

A CHILD was toiling in the dim grey dawn, He toiled, grew weary, then he sat and wept; And all his labour, joy, and pain appeared As phantoms that through gloomy caverns crept. Heartless and soulless all around him seemed, Reflecting but the glimmer of his brain. As ghosts of dismal dreams that he had dreamed, The way they wandered tracing back again. He almost thought himself a phantom too. And wondered if, as such, he could not die, When suddenly a ray of heavenly hue Showed him a face against the brightening sky. It was a face he might have seen before In that fair world where infant angels meet; Its glorious eyes into his spirit bore Long, voiceless messages of import sweet. He gazed unspeaking ; and that angel face, That looked alone primeval, infinite. Lit up a day about the darksome place> And nerved his arm, and made his heart grow light. Quick to realities the phantoms grew, The dawn's despair was merged in happy day, That angel love its light; he turned to view The vision ; it was vanishing away. " Part not!" he cried ; the eyes upon him gazed A speechless longing in their look expressed ; As if to fix then- meaning unerased In his fond memory and aching breast. Then vanished; " And was this a phantom too ? Ah, no I " he cried, " such joy was ne'er in vain ; Memory and hope will hold the heavenly hue Before my spirit till it come again 1" PROOLA. The Attempt. 105

PART II.

MAGGIE TULLIVER, of The Mill on the Floss,—the queer little dark-complexioned girl, who wanted to run away to the gipsies, because all her blonde relatives found fault with her brown skin,—is perhaps the most intensely interesting of all George Eliot's characters. The loving child, " with quick-eyed acumen and blind dreams," always falling into mischief, and blaming herself more than any other could blame her; without anything that might be called training or culture or guidance, except what was supplied, in a crude form, by her steady, hard, honest brother,—developes wonderfully, but consistently. " Maggie, in her brown frock, with her eyes reddened, and her heavy hair pushed back, looking from the bed where her father lay to the dull walls of this sad chamber, which was the centre of her world, was a creature full of eager, passionate longings for all that was beautiful and glad; thirsty for all knowledge; with an ear straining after dreamy music, that died away and would not come near to her; with a blind, unconscious yearning for some- thing that would link together the wonderful impressions of this mysterious life, and give her soul a sense of home in it. No wonder, when there is this contrast between the outward and the inward, that painful collisions come of it." The narration of these " collisions " is the story of the book, whereof come sad troubles, but she triumphed at the last. No wonder she was not comprehended by the slow minds of St Ogg's; her soul was fathomless to their measuring lines; her language and deeds were foreign to their ideas. Her very faults were more noble than their perfections. Her simplicity, truth, and tender- ness won her an adorer in the sensitive, deformed Philip ; her beauty, freshness, and honesty gave her a lover in Stephen Guest, her cousin's admirer. Poor Maggie! We know she had the struggle; but in the hazily-defined Stephen Guest, we cannot see the cause of it George Eliot has nowhere succeeded so badly in sketching a prominent figure, unless she meant to do so—unless she intended us to draw upon our imagination, and fill up AFEU, 1874. O 106 The Attempt. perfections, as Maggie did, from the fulness of her imagi- nation. Yet, after all, a girl accustomed to the censures of " the aunts and uncles,"—to the hardness of Tom, to the moodiness of her father, and the weakness of her mother,—might have felt all the charm in the one satisfied need of tenderness and strong support. What an antithesis was Tom ! " A character at unity ■with itself,—that performed what it intended, subdued every counteracting impulse, and had no visions beyond the distinctly possible—strong by its very negations." So he was strong in punishing his little flighty sister; in swearing to fulfil his father's will; in determined inde- pendqnce of aunts, uncles; in the resolve to pay the dividend of his fiither's debts, through self-denial and hard labour; in crushing his love for Lucy, when he knew it to be vain; in threatening, and finally, disowning his sister in her time of trouble. And yet there are gleams of brotherly tenderness, made possible only to him by the sweet, unquenchable affection of his ill-understood sister; and when the web of all their lives was tangled and knotted together, one almost feels content that they should go down to death in such a flash of resuscitated feeling,—brother and sister locked in one last embrace, so that, in their death at least, they were not divided. There is a remnant of old Danish superstition in the river that could be angry, and a trace of the Danish power of hate and revenge in old Mr Tulliver, with his proud, blundering honesty, and hatred of " Raskills." He found the modern world "too many for him," as his daughter did. They both came a thousand years too late into this scene of things. Had they tried the old- world simplicity, they would have been happier by far. The cumbersome mildness of his wife is a suggestion to men who seek mates "conspicuously their inferiors in intellect," and come of a good Dodson family. The history of this connection is sometimes named wearisome, but beside its power as a description of a well-known set of modified family resemblances and differences, it is necessary to illustrate the " circumstances" that had so powerful an effect on the lives of Tom and Maggie TuUiver. Bob Jakin is the only unique character that rises out of the background of spectators and subordinates. His firm adherence to Tom for his very slight kindness—his chivalrous devotion to Maggie, and affection for his The Attempt. 107 mother and Mumps, his wife and child,—give a charm to his story such as few packmen ever won. Silas Marner has a different plot and scene; but again appears the trusting, sensitive nature, loaded with unjust blame, disappointment and treachery, till all life was crushed out of his heart and soul; and he seemed to know not God nor regard man. The dawning light of life, that re-kindled with his growing gold, was quenched only to be re-lit by the golden curls that took its place upon his hearth, and thawed his long-frozen ice into a current of strong-flowing, happy, protective love. And the child that he took into his heart and home clung to him till the last; the attractions of her rustic lover could only be tolerated if they did not draw her away from him; the great promises of a wealtliy, high-born father were unheeded becaiise they must do so. Surely " the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest" some- time, even in this world; and the time came at last to Silas Marner. Squire Cass and his motherless boys—oh! "what is home without a mother." We can hardly wonder at the errors of the heir and the sins of Dunsey. And though one looks with mixed feelings at the quarry, whose waters held the secret of Dunsey's death for bo long a time, one cannot but feel a sort of retributive justice, both in his fate and his brother's. For though G od- frey did win the sweet Nancy Lammeter, through the free- dom that was opened to him by the death under the hedge and a new chance in hfe ;—for the disowning of his natural ties, he received a reward that he himself recognised as just, " his hearth was desolate for evermore." Though the good people round have their points of interest, Silas is the only powerfully-drawn character in the book. Indeed, as a whole, it does not come up either to The Mill on the Floss or Adam Bede. These three, indeed, descended in the scale. But ebb and flow shows no poverty in the sea; the writer was but gathering strength for the high spring-tide of Romola, which she has not yet surpassed. It was no chance choice that led her back to the Florence of that day, but the recognition of a crisis in life, the effect of the great wave that swept over Europe, after the taking of Constantinople by the Turks in 1453, when something fresh and powerful was mixed with the dustiness of mediasval life. She carries us back with her to the Florence of 1492, 108 The Attempt. the year when Christopher Columbus was finding new space for the lives of men—the period when the old, efiete life of Europe was awakened, and even the pagan Re- naissance seemed a revivification to better beliefs, as it was to truer thought, than the old see-saw of Scholasticism, so that men sometimes threw off" the semblance of belief in monkish Christianity in their satisfied pleasure in the theogony of Homer. But the stream of mysticism and asceticism, that had flowed apart from the turbid current of the polluted Church, had collected all its forces round the great Savonarola. He showed a living heart under the wrappings of superstition ; he swayed the people by his powerful voice; he caused a reformation in Florence, as great as Luther did on the larger sphere of Europe ; he believed in himself, and his belief spread to others. George Eliot has a firm grip of his character. Let me quote some of her analytical remarks : " The real force of demonstration for Girolamo Savonarola lay in his own burning indignation at the sight of wrong, in his fervent belief in an unseen justice that would put an end to the wrong, and in an unseen purity to which lying and uncleanness were an abomination. To his ardent, power- loving soul, believing in great ends, and longing to achieve these ends by the exertion of his own strong will, the faith in a supreme and righteous ruler became one with the faith in a speedy divine interposition, that would punish and reclaim." " His need of personal predomi- nance, his labyrinthine, allegorical interpretations of the Scriptures, his enigmatic visions, and his false certitude about the divine intentions, never ceased, in his own large soul, to be ennobled by that fervid piety, that pas- sionate sense of the infinite, that active sympathy, that clear-sighted demand for the subjection of selfish interest to the general good, Avhich he had in common with the greatest of mankind." Doubtless he believed in visions, in which his inferiors saw nothing but ordinaiy dreams. But " the relative greatness of men is not to be gauged by their tendency to disbelieve the superstition of the age they live in." The multitude appreciated them, " and no man ever struggled to retain power over a mixed multitude without suffering vitiation; his stan- dard must be their lower needs, and not his own best insight." Yet look at the firm way in which he sent back Romola to her duty and her ties, not accepting the conventual robe as a sign of the sacrificed heart, not The Attempt. 109 taking the Church's maxim as to worldly ties, but Christ's maxim. And her proud soul yielded to the truth he uttered, yielded to the force of his nature. " It Avas the first time she had encountered a gaze, in which single human fellowship expressed itself as a strongly-felt bond. Such a glance is half the vocation of the priest." Romola returned to her duties, but, hard as they were, how much simpler were they than his. His success could not last; he had ahenated the party whose vices he had exposed, he had excited the party whose hopes he had raised by promises of miracles, and his enemies had liim at bay. Excommunicated, offered the ordeal by fire, shrinking from it, he had nevertheless to die. And then he ques- tioned himself. He could not explain his conduct satis- factorily. " Our naked feelings make haste to clothe themselves in propositions which he at hand among our store of opinions; and to give a true account of what passes within us, something else is necesKary besides sincerity, even when sincerity is unmixed." No doubt he was sincere. " ^Vhatever falsehood there was in him had a fall, and not a purpose—a gradual entanglement in which he struggled, not a contrivance encouraged by success." But the torture wrung from him the dreams of worldly power that latterly had mingled with his better hopes—dreams, however, that were all to bless mankind. He confesses, " If I had been made pope, I would not have refused the office ; but it seemed to me that to be head of that work was a greater thing than to be pope ; because a man without virtue may be pope, but such a work as I contemplated demanded a man of excellent virtues." " The worst drop of bitterness can never be wrung on to our lips from without; the lowest depth of resignation is not to be found in martyrdom, it is only when we have covered our heads in silence and felt, ' I am not worthy to be a martyr, the truth shall prosper, but not by me.'" In his humility he said to himself, " Thy heart Avas lifted up at the beauty of thine OAvn deeds, and throiigh this thou hast lost thy wisdom, and shalt be to all eternity nothing." He had wished martyrdom, but he only noAV saw before him death, as he said, " I count as nothing, darkness encompasseth m e, yet the hght I saw was the true light." But was he less a martyr because the Avorld knew it not? He died, because he sought to make the world better. "Men were wont to chalk the sacrifices they offered to Jupiter, that the victim might seem unspotted 110 The Attempt.

white ; let us fling away the chalk, and boldly say—The victim is spotted, but, nevertheless, it is not in vain that his mighty heart is laid on the altar of men's highest hopes." A wonderful description of a man—a description that re- minds us of Kenan's idea of the God-inspired man of Israel, whose heart was lifted up in pride, and fell into falsity. The description, again, of the enthusiasm for the new learning in the upper circles of Florence, especially in Bardo, the bhnd old scholar that makes us think of Milton; but more blessed than he in his tender self-devoted daughter, the presence of whose beauty he knew only by the dim shining of her hair, as of a glory through his bhndness; the unrecognised devotion of her self-repressed and colourless young life, spent upon a father who mourned in bitterness for the son that had deserted him, and who lived to love only the treasures of learning that were hid from his sight; what wonder that a morning glory rose upon it by the appearance of the Avarm-tinted and beautiful young Greek, whose worshipping admiration satisfied her maidenly pride. The beautiful simplicity of the expression of her desire for marrying Tito. " I did not think I could care so much for anything that would happen to myself," show how unselfish she was. Tito loved her—her father loved Tito ; he would replace the lost Dino, and would help her father with the great work that was to bless posterity. Sweet, guileless Romola, with all possibilities of beauty, and hope, and truth wrapped up in her capacious heart,—was it wonderful that very soon an aching void was felt there ? How sadly she questioned herself,—had she failed in a duty? Did she want a charm % or had she any right to expect Tito to love the old man, her father, as she loved him I He was never unkind, always pleasant, always smiling, always attentive, yet she was disappointed. " Love does not simply aim at the conscious good of the beloved object; it is not satisfied without perfect loyalty of heart; it aims at its own completeness." Then came the horrid meaning of these hidden questionings, the father dead, the library was sold. Her words, " You are a treacherous man I" were no cry of passion, but the uttered reason of the death of her love. Some may think her just a little hard, but we may easily see that no submission, no tenderness from her could have saved him; he was on the glissade of a glacier, and could she have crushed her moral nature, and gone on loving him just the same, she The Attempt. Ill would only have been dragged with him into the abyss. One can guess the horror of the fallen idol that made her flee from him, yet rejoice in the struggle -with her con- Bcience before Savonarola, who bade her return. " You are seeking your own will, my daughter, you cannot break your bonds. My daughter, every bond of your life is a debt, the right lies in the payment of that debt, it can lie nowhere else." " Your life is not a grain of sand to be blown about by the winds." Then she goes back to Florence, finds herself helpless to aid her husband, but not powerless to aid her fellow-citizens. She submitted her nature to her advisers, and entered into communion with the church, because in this way she had found an immediate satisfaction for moral needs, which all the previous culture and experience of her life had left hungering. Fra Girolamo's voice had waked in her a reason for living, apart from personal enjoyment and per- sonal affection, but it was a reason that seemed to need feeding. And so all the sufferings of the Florentines became hers, and she did the work of the church, hoping that thereafter she might believe the doctrine, for she was of Pagan upbringing. But when her last personal human trust was taken away in the execution of Bernardo del Nero, and the inconsistency of Savonarola, she fled away once more, and tried to shut out existence in the little boat on a darkened sea. Drifting through sleep in a helmless bark, borne to a new mission of good, in the pestilence-afilicted village; after the one work is done, stirred by a desire to go back to Florence, where new human sympathies awaited her,—where Savonarola has need of strength, and his people of friends,—where her husband had met his fate at the same hands that had blessed his life ; and Tessa and her children were waiting for the padre, who would never come ; in the care of these, and the worthy Monna Brigida, Romola at last found a moonlit evening peace. " It is but once that we can know our worst sorrows, and Romola had known hers while life was new." But the most wonderful character in the book was Tito. Suddenly relieved from an unpleasant sense of gratitude, and the monotonous and exacting demands of a loving, but uninteresting old man, we can imagine him revelling in the very freedom of the streets of Florence. His kind receptions forced him to say something as to his ante- cedents,—" he had been shipwrecked, his father was 112 The Attempt.

drowned,"—then came good sale of his jewels, employ- ment at the pubhshers, employment with Bardo, delight in the sight of Romola. Was it necessary, after all, that he must give up all this pleasant, congruous new life, and go away and search for a man who, if found, (a chance hardly to be expected), would fill his life with incon- gruities and difficulties, and who was, very likely, dead after all. If ever anyone was lost by dehberation, Tito was. "Some madman, surely!" was his exclamation, when the living Baldassare unexpectedly clutched his arm. " He hardly knew how the words had come to his lips. There are moments when our passions speak and decide for us, and we seem to stand by and wonder. They carry in them an inspiration of crime that in one instant does the work of premeditation." A falsehood might have saved him, for Dino was dead, and he might have said he believed that Baldassare had been drowned. " But Tito was experiencing that inexorable law of human souls, that we prepare ourselves for sudden deeds by the reiterated choice of good and evil that determines character." " He would still have been glad not to have given pain to any mortal. He had simply chosen to make life easy to himself, to carry the human lot, if he could, so that it should pinch him nowhere, and the choice had at times landed him in unexpected positions. The question now Avas not whether he should divide the common pressure of destiny with his suffering fellow-man; it was whether all the resources of lying would save him from being crushed by the consequences of that habitual choice." " The motives wliich might have made him shrink had been slowly strangled in him by the successive falsities of his life. Our lives make a moral tradition for our individual selves, as the life of mankind at large makes a moral tradition for the race; and to have acted once greatly, seems a reason that we should always be noble." Tito sadly felt the effect of an opposite tradition, and sunk from bad to worse. " Our deeds are like childi-en that are born to us, they live and act apart from our own will. Nay, children may be strangled, but deeds never; they have an indestructible life, both in and out of consciousness, and that dreadful vitaKty of deeds was pressing hard on Tito for the first time." Wonderful touches suggest his character through- out, the very suggestion of the rough old painter, Piero di Cosimo, that he had the kind of face that would The Attempt. 113 suit a traitor, because a true traitor must have a face on which vice can write no lines; the timid way in which Romola tells Tito that her nature was less forgiving than his, but that even he would find it hard to forgive the brother who had left her father for conventual life, and then his answer, " You are right, my Romola, you are always right, except in thinking too well of me;" and the spark of genuineness that lay in the words, his pallor, his trembling, and his beauty, were largely interpreted by this large-souled woman. Ah! the time was yet to come in which the interpretation of signs would need another key than love, and she would see another being than the one lover of her youth. Do we wonder, then, at the attraction to Tessa ? " Tito felt an irresistable desire to go up to her and get her pretty trusting looks and prattle,—this creature who was without moral judgment that could condemn him, whose little, loving, ignorant soul made a world apart where he might feel in freedom from suspicious and exacting demands." " When all the rest had turned their backs upon him, it would be pleasant to have this little creature adoring him and nestling against him. The absence of presumptuous self-conceit in Tito made him feel all the more defenceless, under prospective obloquy, he needed soft looks and caresses too much ever to be impudent." Eighteen months show a great change in him. " It was that change that comes from the final departure of moral youthfulness, from the distinct self-conscious adoption of a part in Ufe. The lines of the face were as soft as ever, the eyes as pellucid; but something was gone—something as indefinite as the changes in the morning twilight." " Under every guilty secret there is hidden a brood of guilty wishes, whose unwholesome, infecting life is cherished by the darkness. The contaminating effect of deeds often lies less in the commission than in the con- sequent adjustment of our desires ; the enlistment of our self-interest on the side of falsity; as on the other hand, the purifying influence of public confession springs from the fact, that by it the hope in lies is for ever swept away, and the soul recovers the noble attitude of simplicity." It was in consistency with this opinion that she makes the failure of Tito's attempt at conciliation, in the outhouse of Tessa's home. He went with a lie in his hand—it was not possible that lies could now smooth his pathway—and therefore he failed, and left it worse than APRIL 1874. P 114 Tlie Attempt. t was before. He often wished he had done otherwise, wished everything had been different. "But he had borrowed from the terrible usurer Falsehood, and the loan had mounted and mounted with the years, till he belonged to the usurer, body and soul." And yet, but a few years had he spent in Florence. He entered it at 23—and he was little more than 28— when he meant to escape from the toils he had woven round himself, and begin a new, and perhaps a better life, elsewhere. But punishment overtook him. The Baldassare that had fed him, loved him, educated him, that he had neglected, denied, scorned—the Baldassare that nursed his waning faculties, to feed his bitterness with revenge, at last attained him—a surer destiny than the river, because a conscious one ; and the last deed of the embittered life was to crush out the life he had fostered. They died and were buried together, and Florence mourned not, and Romola wept not, and only the ignorant little Tessa suffered and grieved for a little while, for the fraction of his better self had been enough to satisfy her. little short-sighted heart. But she became happy too, in her wonder at the genius of the children. We should have noticed the good-hearted fun of Nello the barber; the gossipy interest of Bratti; the moodiness of Piero di Cosimo ; the large-hearted nobility of Romola's godfather, Bernardo del Nero—a whole host of Florentine individualities, but we cannot now. LuTEA RESEDA. {To be continued.)

A STORY OF THE LAKE OF OKTA.

PART II. A FEW of all the many years That hide from us these days of old Have gone, with all their hopes and fears; The old are dead—the young are old. The frescos have a mellower grace, The old cathedral knows no change. Though other pilgrims throng the place, Beneath the changeless mountain range. The Attempt. 115

But she is in St Giulio's nave, The aged Marta—lone and poor, She has no joys nor quiet, save Within St GiuHo's sculptured door; But when the organ peals out brave. And the sweet voices heaven-ward soar. And fragrant clouds of incense roll. The dim roof mistily caressing. She is not poor, her mind and soul Are filled with radiancy and blessing.

In poverty she dwells alone. Strange to her youth the people are, Husband and children all are gone. Her grandson sails the seas afar ; But the familiar frescos seem To haunt her solitary days, Their lovely forms, as in a dream. Hover about her lonely ways; Through the dim woods at eventide For her the bright winged angels glide; Or—guardian of her lonely road. When evil things are all abroad. And she is worn and faint, The visioned champion comes victorious. In form the youthful warrior glorious They call the " Unknown Saint."

She watched that picture's beauty grow Beneath the master's hand. Long has it rested, still and low— 'Tis fifty weary years ago; The Marquis is forgotten now. And wandered from the land. The land is vexed, the harvests fail. And battle smoke broods o'er the plain. Thro' vineyard foliage glimmers mail And chargers tramp the ripening grain; Scathed by the murky torch of war Are field and hamlet, tower and town,— Would that the Marquis from afar Would come again and shield his own ! In panic with their treasures now Across the lake the people row. 116 The Attempt.

Within the island shrine they crowd And fill with wail and clamour loud, The arches of St Giulio; For Hugo, Wolf of Appenine, Is come to gather spoil to-day, He will not pause for saint or shrine, Or baulk his blood-hounds of their prey; In cruel wars beyond the sea. Known as a champion fierce and bold, He leads a band of lances free, Who sell themselves for gold. And see! his men have seized the boats, The band are crossing o'er— Wild trumpets fling their scornful notes From startled shore to shore. And shout and shriek the isle arouses, As fire by night in sleeping houses Bursts forth the wild uproar.

St GiuHo, St Giulio 1 No storm of earth can break his rest, It is so far to Paradise, Tho' in the crypt his body lies, A skeleton with empty eyes. In gorgeous raiment dressed; And precious jewels roimd him shine, But he has little care, Tho' Hugo, Wolf of Appenine, Has torn them fx-om the costly shrine. And all is wild despair.

A fierce old man, with whitened hair. Yet vigorous and strong, He whirls his flashing sword in air. Pursues the trembling throng ; But sudden, by the frescos fair He stops and pauses long. Then draws the aged Marta near. Forgot her lowliness and fear. For she recalls the attitude— The blazoned arms with gold engrain, The air of grace and hardihood; Her youth is brought to life again ; She sees again the warrior bright Of fifty years ago ; The Attempt. 117

And in a flash of withering light He, too, recalls St Giulio. Sinks on the floor his threatening brand, The gems drop from his nerveless hand, A silence grows o'er shout and brawl. Before him does the woman stand And points the frescoed wall. Calm in the queenhood of her age She dominates his headlong rage,— " Strike there," she says, " that pictured face. Let it no more our church disgrace— Ah well Ferrari never knew, A robber in this holy place, 'Mid holy things he drew."

There stood before him like the ghost Of one long buried, one whose grave Is overgrown and sunk and lost, His former self, his boyhood brave ; So strong and fair he used to be, A vile thing now to look upon; Shuddering he turned, and feared to see, A dart above him threateningly Poised by a fleshless skeleton. He dared not glance, in panic fear He left the church and sped away, The trembling crowd a passage clear, And the wild plunderers quit their prey.

f He went, but still was haunted by The old bright self that he had slain, And deeds of ghastly memory That could not be undone again. And when he slept, above his bed The long dead friend Ferrari leaned, And in a fearful whisper said— " 'Tis strange how hard I strove to paint The image of a warrior saint, And lo ! a mocking fiend."

Oh! bright ideal, oh, dark decay ; How had he wandered far away I Now in the idle drift. Now in the current's head-long sway, Resistless, furious, swift— 118 The Attempt.

Hurling its captive down and down. Gone steadfast faith and fair renown, His arm and honour given for gold, His knightly falchion bought and sold : Lost every glorious gift. And now among the saints for ever, His portrait stands alone, Only a portrait there, for never That chivalry of high endeavour Will such a recreant own; And the long night draws on apace. But yet it pleads, that beauteous face For all that's lost and gone.

At last, by Orta's convent gate, A wrecked and worn-out man he stood. And craved to be received so late In the secluded brotherhood ; And there they hid his broken pride Within their grim monastic wall; The days wained dim, and eventide Narrowed and calmed and darkened all.

Yet evening is a blessed time. The daylight cares and toils are o'er, The church bells from the village chime. The boats are drawn upon the shore. The sheep within the fold are pent. The red lights twinkle in the shade. The soldiers sing before the tent. The lovers linger in the glade ; The mother lulls her child to rest. The father chats his cares away; The sunshine looks its lovliest. Before it fades in twilight grey : T'is of all hours the sweetest, best, To those who work all day.

And sweeter is life's even-time To brave hearts that with ill have striven. The shadows black of noon-day's prime. Are softened now with blue of heaven ; Old frets and sorrows hurt no more. The fields are cleared, the harvest done, The Attempt. 119

The fruit is garnered in the store, The battle-field of life is won ; And passion's storms have lost their power, A radience hghts the gloomiest past, The storm-wind sinks at sunset hour,— The brightest hour and last. And even when on the wasted day, The still sad night descends. Yet, touched with gleams of youth's bright dreams, The last low evening twilight seems, "When vain disquiet ends : The evening brings all home at last, The birds to nest, the beasts to lair, Night gently hides the broken past, Hope, deathless angel, hovers there ; Though all below is wrapt in gloom, And quivering in a brief despair, Is there not time, is there not room, Long ages—endless vistas fair ! So thinks that monk, who waits the bark To gain his cloister on the shore. In sunset glow a shadow dark, He stands beside St Giulio's door ; The oldest monk—yet last professed— Of Orta's convent white that shines Ablaze with sun-beams from the west, A light amid its shadowy pines ; The convent bells to compline call. The ferry-boat is drawing near To bear him to the cloister wall; The boatman's song is sweet and clear.

" Listen!" the aged Marta says. Who sits upon the marble stair ; Her hands that ward the sunset blaze Are rough with toil of many days. Her face is lined with care. Yet all her words vibrate with joy— " Listen, it is my sailor boy. Come home from Genoa and the sea. My grandson—all that's left to me, Now is my old age satisfied. Oh, holy friar, your bounty free 120 The Attempt.

Has given me light at eventide. He sings so sweet, that earth and air Seem listening to the strain. The maidens say the sirens fair Have taught him on the lonely main; But I sang in the days long gone, That you remember still, With even such a voice that won Music from every hill. Gone with the days, but soon in truth My voice may come to me once more, Where blooms for us eternal youth ; And that fair form you had of yore, That in our chapel still endures. Though no one knows but me. It once was yours—may yet be yours— When death has set us free."

Song. She sailed away in the month of May— Ships sail well when winds blow fair— We watched her gliding far away. Her sails were rounding to the air ; Her pennons fluttered bright on high. Like ebon and gold her bulwarks shone. She dashed o'er the water gallantly— Away o'er the seas our ship is gone. So long away,—on a wintry day, A missing ship at the harbour bar,— The winds have torn her pennons away. The waves have wasted hull and spar; All her pride and grace are gone. Yet we welcome her joyously ; We whose eyes have weary grown Straining over the desert sea. She has come back, oh, leave the rest. Let the bells of the city ring. When happier ships from east and west. The treasures of far-off countries bring; She has come back, in safety now. Battered and poor she has gained the shore. Turn to the port the wandering prow. Furl up the sails, the voyage is o'er. E. J. 0. The Attempt. 121

A TALE OF THE FORTY-FIVE.

CHAPTER XXX.

BARBARA'S JOUBNET.

IMMEDIATELY on receipt of Colonel Forbes' letter, Alaster had made up his mind that after seeing the girls fairly settled with his cousin, he would himself return to Castle Ronald. His father's death at Culloden had left him master there, and there were many arrangements to be made. The pursuit after those who had taken part in the rebellion was too hot for it to be safe for him to go there openly, but he had many friends among his humble neighbours, in whose cottages he could conceal himself, while he transacted the necessary business. He felt, too, that lingering in the neighbourhood of Carrick Castle might expose his kindly cousin there to annoyance and trouble; also, perhaps, like Barbara, he dreaded the spying eyes and uncompromising tongue of his well-meaning kinswoman. So, all things considered, he decided that as soon as all arrangements had been made for Barbara and Nancy's comfort, he would liimself return to Perthshire. Perhaps the impossibility and hypocrisy of pretending to make love to Nancy, ivhile his heart belonged to her sister, weighed with him too in this decision. He had resolved, as Barbara thought it right, that he would keep his word and marry Nancy ; but his whole truthful nature shrank from the necessity of making protestations of affection to her, which in his heart he knew to be false. When they were married it would be different he thought; all that would be taken for granted then, there would be no need for him to tell lies. Of course he would be kind to Nancy, poor little, pretty thing, he could not be other than that; besides, he was very fond of her in a way, only it was Barbara he loved. He would keep aloof as much as possible in the meantime, and after they were married there would be no need for love-making. He saw at once that Barbara did not much like the prospect of her sojourn at Castle Carrick, but it seemed to him there was no way in which it could be avoided. He was quite taken by surprise therefore, when, a few days after the APRIL 1S74. Q 122 The Attempt. arrival of her father's letter, she came into the room one morning with a look of quite unwonted gladness on her face, and an open letter in her hand. " See here," she said, " dear old Mr Mackay has written to an old lady, a cousin of his, who lives in Stirling, to ask her to receive me, and I am going to pay her a visit." " To Stirling, Barbara," said Alaster, " what do you want to do at Stirling'? are you not going to stay at Carrick Castle till your father's return % " " Oh, I forgot you did not know about it," she said, " I forgot you were away when old Peggy died." Then she told him the story of poor Maggie, and of her own promise to find her, and of her interview with Mr Mackay, and the kind help he had given her. Alaster listened uneasily. He did not like the idea of Barbara risking herself on so long a journey in the unsettled state of the country, and yet be could not help confessing to himself that perhaps it would be good for her. He saw that in spite of her brave heart, the girl was restless and unhappy, and perhaps change of scene and society, and an engrossing pursuit, might be the best restoratives; but he would have been more than human, if the thought that the change and interest of her new occupation might drive him from her thoughts had not sent a jealous pang through his heart. " You will write to my father, will you not, Alaster, and tell him it can be done safely % " she said entreatingly. " Yes," he said gravely, " on condition that you take old Elspet with you, and let me see you safe to your journey's end." She hesitated. " I had thought of taking old Elspet," she said, " but"— " You need not be afraid of me," he said, smiling sadly ; " I am your brother, you know." " But will it be safe for you f " she said. " Oh yes, safe enough, safer than it would be for you to go alone. I will only write to your father on condition that you let me see you safe to Stirling." " Very well, if you wish it," she said doubtfully. " I do wish it," he replied, and so the matter was settled. A week later saw Nancy comfortably established under Lady Macdonald's wing in Carrick Castle, and made as snug and happy as that fussy, kindly housewife's best care could make her; and it saw Barbara, Alaster, and The Attempt. 123

Elspet on their way to Stirling. The idea of the journey had been a very terrible one in Elspet's eyes; that she who had never before been ten miles away from Milla Forres, should be called upon at her time of life to set out upon an expedition so formidable, in the midst too of such troublous times, when every road was beset with soldiers, and every traveller ran no small risk of being taken by one or other party for a spy, and suffering according, almost overpowered the old woman's courage. It was only her loyal devotion to " the fiimily " that prevented her declining the mission, but " it shall ne'er be said as a Forbes o' Milla Forres had nane o' her name to do her biddin' among the south voners, while auld Elspet kens her recht hau' frae her left," said the old clanswoinan, and so. in spite of her fears, she followed her mistress. She did not do so, however, without first making all preparations as for a journey from which she never expected to return. She astonished and alarmed Nancy the day before they started, by coming with a mysterious air, and giving into her hands a curious, old-fashioned blue bag, containing twenty sovereigns and two keys, accompanied with the explanation, that " Gin she ne'er wan back to Milla Forres, she hopet Miss Nancy and Miss Barbara (gin s^e wan back) wad tak' the money atween them, for a' her kith an' kin was deid an' gane, an' she wad like the bit siller to stay i' the name ; an' as for the twa keys, the ane was o' the kist wi' her blue flannel kirtle an' her scarlet cloak, an' four pair o' brau-new, blue worsted stockings, an' she wad like them gien to Meg Macfarlane, an' the kirtle to auld Jean Macintosh, an' the cloak to Chirsty MacLauchan; an' the ither key was o' the wee box that wad be fand under her bed, wi' her deed-claise in't, a' o' her ain spin- ning, an' she wad like to be berrit in them, gin sae be the Lord was pleased to let her dee no ower far frae Milla Forres." The idea of the possibility of returning to Milla Forres alive never seemed to cross her imagination, and she seemed almost insulted when Nancy said she hoped she might live to give her own legacies in person, and turned away with a solemn shake of the head, as if she looked upon Nancy as an extremely light-minded young person. In spite, however, of old I^lspet's fears, the travellers made out the really rather dangerous journey without adventure, and at the end of two days and nights of wearisome travelHng, found themselves safe under the 124 The Attempt. shadow of Stirling Castle. Those were not the days of luxurious first-class railway carnages, and all three sat side by side in the coupe of the jumbling old stage coach. Alaster and Barbara were very silent in the enforced com- panionship of this journey, so much so, that Elspet began to wonder if they had " fallen out," and more and more called herself an old idiot for the fancy she had taken during Alaster's illness. Elspet's presence had something to do with their silence, no doubt, but I think the real reason of it lay deeper. These two, who had so much to tell each other, and who f3lt that they dare say nothing of what was really passing within them, how could they talk about the passing trifles that would amuse and interest ordinary acquaintances ? So it was that they, who mutually spent so many of their happiest hours of soHtude in imagined conversations with each other, when they actually sat side by side, had little or nothing to say ! Both looked forward -wiih a sox-t of dreary pain to the parting at the end of the journey, and yet I do not know that they greatly enjoyed the intercourse of the present. Something had come into their relations, which had destroyed the frank pleasure tliey had once had in each other's society, Mdthout substituting anything warmer and closer in its stead; and the feeling that warmer and closer relations would have been possible between them, interposed a restraint and barrier on the innocent enjoyment of the existing relationship. So they travelled on in silence, and Elspet marvelled at the folly of her late siispicions ! The cousin to whom Mr Mackay had consigned tliQ care of his young friend, was an old maiden lady of his own name, who lived in a small house under the very shadow of the castle rock. She was one of that class of old Scotch ladies, alas, now nearly extinct!—shrewd, quaint, and original, with many acute angles, even for the days when people were allowed to have their own peculiar angles, and were not all rubbed smooth, and even, and common-place, by the constant friction of modern life,— at once snell and kind, with a sharp tongue and a warm heart,—a good friend, and rather a terrible foe. But we must leave further accounts of Barbara's hostess till the next chapter. The Attempt 12 5

CHAPTER XXXI.

MAGGIE'S LOVER.

" CO:ME your ways ben, my dear, ye must be sair for- foughten wi' a' this travellin'," said a little neat old lady dressed in black, with a spotless cap, and equally immacu- late kerchief folded over her bosom, as Barbara alighted, tired and dusty, at the door of the little house under the shadow of the castle rock. Alaster had left her before they entered the town. It would not have been safe for him to be seen in Stirling, so he had a horse waiting for him at a cross road a little out of the town, and there he had left the coach, committing Barbara and Elspet to the driver's care to put them down safely at Miss Mackay's door. The parting had been very quiet, and almost cold ; a simple " goodbye," as those two, whose lives were bound up with each other, took each their separate road. Both felt dreary and chilled to the heart, as they went their ways alone, but for both, for the time at any rate, the possibility of anything like strong feeling seemed paralysed. The night was cold, and Barbara shivered, chilled outside and in, as she landed at old Miss Mackay's door. Everything seemed dark and hopeless to her that night; her mission itself, in which she believed so enthusiastically in her brighter hours, took now very much the aspect of a " wild goose chase;" and as she saw old I'jlspet also looking cold and miserable, she reproached herself for putting the old woman to so much fatigue and incon- venience in so very doubtful a search. It was the first time, too, that she had gone among total strangers quite alone, and a numb feeling of despondency seemed to be settling down upon her heart. Miss Mackay's bright, withered old face, and the cheery fire burning in the grate of the little parlour, where a cosy tea was laid out on a little round table, covered with a spotless home-spun table cloth, somewhat revived her drooping spirits. The kindly, brisk, old lady fussed over her young guest, whose journey from Aberdeenshire to Stirling seemed a more formidable undertaking in her eyes than a journey round the world would seem to us now; and by the time the tea was over, and they sat down together by the bright little fire with their feet on the fender, Barbara felt as if she had known her hostess all her life. Miss Mackay had many questions to ask about the state of affairs in the north. 126 The Attempt.

and the Prince and those who followed his wanderings, and also about her cousin, the old minister whom she had not seen since he was, as she told Barbara, " a muckle hafflin's laddie." She was evidently both touched and pleased by Barbara's enthusiasm for the old Presbyterian minister. Miss Mackay was a Presbyterian also, and like all Presbyterians in those days of recent persecution, much more emphatically Presbyterian than in these present times of universal toleration we can easily understand. The idea of having an Episcopalian and a Prelatic as a guest under her roof, had been a terrible " exercise " to her mind for some days after the receipt of her cousin's letter asking her to receive Barbara, and it was only the strong Highland instinct of hospitality, joined to the fact that Barbara came accredited by a Presbyteiian minister, who was into the bargain her own " first cousin only three times removed," that induced her to consent to receive her as a visitor. When she did come, the sight of the girl's pale tired face called out all her hospitable instincts, and almost banished from her mind the fact that she was a " Prelatic; " and when Barbara spoke in glowing words to Miss Mackay, of her cousin and his preaching, the ice melted altogether, and the stern Presbyterian, who in the abstract looked upon all Episcopalians as the specially accredited emissaries of the devil, to be shunned as we would shun their master, was willing to take this little concrete bit of Episcopacy into her very bosom. So it is we misjudge each other when we stand aloof and look from afar off, and so such misunderstandings melt away when we stand heart to heart! Before they went to bed that night, Barbara and Miss Mackay were fast friends. Next morning Barbara began her mission. Brisk Httle Miss Mackay, in spite of her seventy years, was all interest and excitement in the search. The first thing, clearly, was to find out where the farm of Margaret's Clench, to which old Lauchlan had said Maggie's lover had come after he left Aberdeenshire, was situated. A few enquiries soon elicited the fact that there ivas such a farm about fourteen miles from Stirling, in the direction of Scone; and the milk woman, who was their informant, added, that there was " an auld man leeved there o' the name o' MacDougall; she kent little aboot him, he keepit himsel' to his sei', an' wasna thick wi' ony o' his neebors; he wasna muckle likit she thocht i' the country side, but he The Attempt. 127 aye gied her guid milk, and a guid pennyworth o't. so she had nocht to say agin him." So the following morning Barbara took Elspet with her, and carrying with them many instructions and good wishes from old Miss Mackay, besides a Avell stuffed basket of provisions, they set out to drive to Margaret's Cleuch. It was the height of midsummer, and the glorious Perthshire hills stood out in all their majestic beauty against the clear deep blue of the sky. In spite of the constant sadness at her heart, Barbara's spirits rose as they drove through the lovely scenery, all so new to her. She was young, and life is strong and hopeful in the young. She could not believe under that bright sky that life was to be to her such a hopeless and dreary thing as she had pictured it to herself during these last months, not even perhaps altogether a battle. Might there not be for her even yet, without that supreme happiness which could never be hers now, some pleasant quiet days, enjoy- able enough, perhaps, in a placid sort of way % Barbara's face had not looked so like its old self for many a day, and old Elspet began to think that perhaps her young mistress's " daft-like " expedition might have some good in it after all, if it began by making her so like her former self. About noon they reached Margaret's Clench, a pretty farm house nestling under the shadow of the mountains. The situation was picturesque, and the house looked clean and comfortable, but there were none of the little niceties, outside or in, that betray a woman's hand. Outside, the farm yard was scrupulously clean and orderly, but there was no little patch of bright flower garden. Inside it was the same; on Barbara asking for Mr MacDougaU, the sonsy farm lass who opened the door shoAved them into a stiff, tidy parlour, well furnished and neat (for Mr ]\IacDougall w^as a " been " well-to-do man), but prim and cheerless, for want of the little homely touches that only a woman can give. After they had been seated for a few minutes, in this grim apartment, which felt chill for want of occupation even on that bright midsummer day, the master of the house entered—an old worn man, with snow white hair, and stooping sadly as he walked—a man coming on to seventy, as old Lauchlan had said, but looking ten years more. He saluted his unexpected guests with all the ease of his race, and in toaes which nearly forty years absence from 128 Tlie Attempt. his native shire had not robbed of one whit of the northern dialect. Barbara could hardly believe, as she looked at this old, bent, worn man, that he was the same person that had sought for poor Maggie so wildly, and mourned her so passionately. She began to explain her visit, by telling him who she was. When she- mentioned " IMilla Forres," she noticed the old man start, and a taint colour flush into his cheeks; and when she spoke of old Peggy, he clenched his hands firmly together, as if repressing strong emotion. When she told him further of Peggy's death, and her dying charge to her, and that she was here now—had come all the way from Milla Forres—to see if he could help her to keep that charge, the old man broke down entirely. His whole bent frame trembled like an aspen leaf, and big tears rolled down his withered cheeks. " My poor Maggie, my poor bonny Maggie," he sobbed at last. " Thank God her mither cam' to forgie her, or the end; as for me, I hae forgi'en her this mony a year. I hardly think I ever needed to forgie her, I loved her thatmuckle." Barbara could believe it now,—this aged man, with the gray hair and the faded eyes, was Maggie's lover still, as much her lover now, as when he had striven to woo her for his bride under the shadow of Benvorlish. She questioned him as to that sad search of his, and how he had lost sight of the fugitives ; and he told her sub- stantially the same tale that old Lauchlan had told her already, that he had traced them, step by step, to Aber- deen, and there they had disappeared, and he could track them no further. " But was there no clue; nothing to give you any idea where they had gone ? " The old man shook his head sadly, " There was a ship sailed that day for France, but I could hear o' naebody like them on board," he said. " Still it is possible." said Barbara, " they might have disguised themselves." " Ay, I thocht o' a' that at the time ; an' gin I could hae gotten a ship, I wad hae gane ower to see, but just then there was a stoppage o' the traflic, on account o' war, an' afore that was ower, there wad hae been nae hopes o' findin' them, e'en gin they had sailed in her, an' I had nae reason to think they did." " Well," said Barbara, rising and shaking hands kindly with the old man, " It is a very slender clue, but it is all The Attempt. 129 we have, so I must try to fallow it. Do you remember the name of that ship, Mr MacDougall %" • " The Mary Jane," he said. " The Lord bless you, my dear young lady," he added. " I fear it's a bad job, but He'll no forget that ye tried to find my poor Maggie ; an' as for me, I'm an auld man noo, Miss Forbes, but gin an auld man's blessin' can do ocht for ye, ye hae it frae the bottom o' my heart. My bonny Maggie," he went on, as if talking to himself, " my wee, bonny lamb, I think gin I could see ye ance afore I dee, I could say like auld Simeon, ' Lord now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.'" JEANIE MORISON. (To be continued).

(Bxhibiliou of the |lopl ^cottislt Jtntdfimn.

PART I. THE Exhibition this year seems to be considered by many as hardly up to the usual average. This may partly be caused by some large inferior pictures occupying impor- tant places, and distracting attention from numbers of meritorious little landscapes and pretty bits of genre. In noticing the pictures, however, we find a few prominent ones, that stand out from the rest, and at once command our admiration. " Oskold and the Elle Maidens," Sir J. Noel Paton's only contribution, is perhaps the more inter- esting from being about the only picture of the ideal or higher imaginative school this year, the Exhibition con- sisting almost wholly of genre pictures, landscapes, and portraits, with a very small sprinkling of historical sub- jects. And in this picture there is a wonderful beauty, which we think can hardly be fairly realised in the crowd and light of its present situation. It needs isolation, and even looking at it through a tube brings out much more of its latent loveliness. How spiritual are the faces of the maidens, even through the disappointed fury of those the knight has left behind him, and the deceitful sweet- ness of those who still hope to bar his way. Wonderful is the prismatic play of elfish light round the floating figures, contrasting so wildly with the calm of the fading twilight, beyond the great old trees. The painting of the knight's armour seems simply perfect, and tlie roughened ATKIL 1874. 1^ 130 The Attempt.

coat of his charger, showing against the mingled lights, is masterly. The harness is stiff with encrusted gems, burning and glowing in a radiance all their own, that recalls the power over pure rays of light which charac- terizes the early Italian school, and which has seemed for centuries well nigh lost. The intelligence and fire of the horse's head, and the ascetic energy of the knight's ex- pression, should also be observed. But this is essentially a cabinet picture, and at a distance loses its effect, which would, we think, be greatly enhanced, were it in a smaller room. Quite otherwise is it with Herdman's " Conventicle Preacher," 361. The clever grouping, and pleasant har- monious colouring, are especially effective at a distance; nearer, we confess to feeling something of conventionalism and want of individuality about all the figures, except that of the old Covenanter himself—a regular personifica- tion of mingled pride, temper, defiance, and honesty. One cannot but respect him, while feeling what a very disagreeable member of society he is likely to be. " The Fair of St Olaf, or Extremes Meet," 204, is another remarkable picture. The contrast between the sombre old cathedral, that has changed so little with all the changing centuries, and the fleeting fancies of the evanescent fair beneath its towers, is repeated in the quiet, pure evening sky, still luminous with the long northern twilight, and the glittering flaring candles in the many coloured booths. In fact, not only is this a beautiful landscape and figure picture, equaUed by very few, if any, in the Exhibition, as a painting, but, in vigorous power and poetry of idea, it stands alone and unapproached among the landscapes this year. The management of the different lights is a triumph of skill, and the solidity of the solemn towers rising above the flimsy follies of the fair, is beautifully rendered. Taking the pictures more in their order, and beginning in the northern or Avater-colour room, our eye is soon attracted by the truthful 750, " St Andrews," S. Bough. But it must be confessed it is a shivering truth. Mr Bough has been out in tlie rain of late. His solitary oil picture, 215,—alas, that we should have but one from him this year ! —represents one of the worst days that ever drove ordinary mortals indoors. Why drag us out in such weather ? It is as clever as possible; the tossing of tlie tormented trees, the mad dance of the whirling The Attempt. 131 leaves, the wretched wind-bufFeted passers by, the positive motion that seems quivering across the picture, are most powerfully rendered ; but we are disposed to question the real beauty of all this. Of course there is spottiness and want of repose in the picture, it is perfectly natural that it should be so, but is it delightful ? Can realism in landscape not be carried too far ? Even more miserably depressing is 806, " A Wet Village." It is far too true. There may indeed be people who have such irrepressibly high spirits, that they enjoy decorating their walls with these melancholy scenes, or they may be destined to feast the eyes of inhabitants of the plains of India during the hot season, on sloppy pavements and running gutters ; but we trust Mr Bough will not wield his powerful brush too often for them, but touch his mists as he well knows how, with sunny gleams, and let a little light cheer up his far wistful cloud horizons. Close to the dripping village is another cold, clever, miserable sketch, 809, "Loch Ard." 1014, "Gathering Storm," 1023, "Loch Achray," and 817, "Cottage on the Moor," also dreary and disconsolate, but all so natural, one might catch cold by looking at them. No. 12 is another fine example of bad weather, and there are a good many more grim climateric effects, only not so well painted, scattered through the Exhibition. In inferior hands, such subjects are simply ugly, though it is much easier to load on a heavy horizonless sky above a dark muddy landscape, than to play with the subtle light, which is the real business and domain of painting. 966, A clever head called " Tito." But is this, except in colour, the right type ? Was not Tito's face of the pure straight-lined Greek cast, whereas this is decidedly Italian, with a slightly Roman nose, and a firm pronounced chin. 98, " The Open Window." We can imagine how long the wise, noble-looking Newfoundland has been watching and waiting on the steps, growing anxioiis now as he listens in vain for the " footsteps of the children." There is much pathos in the silent deserted look of the house, and in the little garden tools that will never more be wanted, tossed aside beneath the steps. Not far off is a delicious terrier's head, " Skye," full of life and spirit, easy and eveille, painted with wonderful dash, and apparently without an effort, by S. Bough. There are many nice dogs this year in the Exhibition ; indeed, we are inclined to think them often more fortunate in their 132 The Atteiiipt. portraits than their masters and mistresses, but we think, in some respects, we prefer little " Skye " to them all. In the next room, we find. No. 33, " Trawlers Waiting for Darkness," a remarkably fine piece of sea painting. It is like opening a window that looks over a twilight sea. The ripple of the water is charmingly rendered,— we almost hear it lapping and plashing among the low rocks and sea-weed. There is the feeling of life and motion, and yet of quiet repose that calm weather brings to the vast expanse of the sea. The tone of the colour is very fine, ranging through neutral greys from dark sea green to golden saffron yellow; not a discordant tint anywhere to break the complete harmony of sea and rock, boats and sky. No. 40 we would venture to call the best portrait in the Exhibition. The face is full of character, and the flesh-tints are really very fixie; trans- parent and glowing with life, yet with no touch of coarseness or smudginess. Some of the other portraits look as if they had been drawn and painted in exact imitation of waxwork models, so dead and opaque is the colouring, so hard and conventional the outlines. " A Ravelled Hank," 41, a picturesque old woman, whose weary, withered hands are hopelessly tangled in her yarn. Her house looks bare and dreary. Altogether, though very well painted, the picture seems another of the too numerous class that are not altogether pleasing; we like old women in pictures to be quite cosy and comfortable, though this is a much more interesting dame than the old body winding up her clock, with her back turned to us, or the witch at the wash tub (No. 304), and various others that may indeed exist, but have no reasonable claim to be painted. " Bargains To-day," 72, John Faed, is, on the contrary, a most pleasant picture. There is a struggle on the comely old dame's face between tlirift and admiration of the pedlar's store ; but we can read, in his insinuating countenance, his hopes that he will do a good stroke of business before leaving the pretty cottage room. Of course, critics might say that the whole scene is too pretty and smart, and especially the pink short-gown of the dark haired lassie; but when years have somewhat melloAved Faed's pictures, will they not, with their delicate hues and graceful feeling, be worthy to rank with the more refined of the old Dutch pictures which have now such a fabulous value ? The Attempt. 133

83, " The Graves of our ain Folk," we observe is much admired, and the light falling on the solitary bxn-ial place among the hills seems very well managed; but there is a good deal of waste ground, pictorially speaking, so barren of interest, that we cannot help thinking more concentra- tion, and more depth and variety of background, is much wanted. In 92 also, " The Fisherman's Haven," the sentiment and general feeling seem superior to the execution, which is rugged and unfinished; but there is much charm in the contrast of the restless sea, with the little old church in the foreground—whose walls are built like a fortress against the wear of wind and weather on the Avild coast. A pretty effect of misty noon-tide sea and wet sands is hit off in 102, "Bait Gatherers;" and near it is a power- fully executed little picture of an inveterate old gambler— a man-at-arms,—sitting at ease on a table, " Calculating the Chances." The good work here contrasts well with the sketchy carelessness of a somewhat similar subject in 105. We may observe the fine broad touch in "Peasant Girl Knitting," 115; the nasturtiums grow most naturally, and are neither laborious copies of separate leaves, nor mere vague hints of vegetation. " The Pet Lamb," No. 5, is a very pretty little picture, the child unaffected and innocent, the colour soft and waiin. The quiet saffron light of early morning is well rendered in 22, " Shaking the Nets," a very telling picture when seen, which is not altogether eatsy, from the right point of view. The " Parting of Guinevere and Lancelot," 125, is also not well placed, but as far as we can make out, has real poetical feeling. The rougli ways, and uncivilized-looking trees, recall the days when knights "rode endlong and athwart wild forests seeking adventures;" and the low colouring and melancholy- looking solitude, are in harmony with the two lovers riding so sadly away, parted for ever. " Our Ain Fireside," 23, is a very pleasant picture of domestic bliss. The importance of the dog of the house in this country finds frequent expression in Scottish art. Abroad, the dog is generally represented as a hunter, or as a mere appendage to other pe(.)ple, but in Scotland the collie or the terrier appears as the family friend, the trusted guardian, and is indeed often the hero of the picture. Such a one is the bright-eyed " Foxie," 32, and still more emphatically, 120, "Oscar," by Gourlay Steell. 134 The Attempt.

We are inclined to envy his proprietress; both dog and picture must be delightful possessions. His wise expression and dignified manner seem rendered to the life; he looks so sagacious, one would like to ask him if he approves of his own portrait. Comment on the staring picture beneath him, placed curiously enough in one of the best positions in the rooms, is really unnecessary. Let us pass, with a sense of relief, to 137, " The Hinteesee," under the archway, by a foreign artist, and see what a conscientious landscape ought to be. Of course, there is the advantage here of a very beautiful scene. But in this the trees in the foreground are worked out sufficiently for us to look with interest at the details of their form ; the grass and the rocks are not mere conventionalisms, to suggest such objects to the mind, but really like enough for the eye to rest on them with pleasure; and the same may be said for the mountain details, in the distance. The peculiar greenish blue of these mountain lakes is very finely rendered, and we feel we are looking at a real view, and seeing more and more in it as we look, not at an " effect " dashed in with evident paint. In the corner of the " Great Room " there is quite a group of pretty little pictures—" Lola," by Mrs Charretie, cannot be passed over; "The Milk Maid" is a sweetly painted little cabinet picture. There is an admirable " Portrait of ]\Iajor Fraser," 151, above ; we think one of the best in the Exhibition, and two very pretty little things by Farquharson, 153, "Resting," and 160, "The Trysting Tree." One, a lady reclining easily on a sofli. the other a pretty girl seated on a fallen tree in a wood, with a glint of sunshine shining on the mossy trees and her light dress. Both figures have a charmingly un- conscious ease and grace—they represent thorough ladies, and the indoor shadow of the one, and open-air brightness of the other, are well rendered. " John Anderson my Jo," 156, a most pleasant old couple, happy in all their surroundings, and especially happy in each other. The delicacy with which all the various textures are rendered, make one forget entirely the means by which the charming effect is reached. Such pictures teach us that the language of painting, the power of representing surface, ought by many aitists to be more studied, and more fully acquired, before they attempt The Attempt. 185 such little genre subjects as this, which become full of interest and beauty in the hands of Faed. Mr Cassie, in 159, well recalls the soft, relaxing, misty summer days by the western sea. It seems too hot to do anything but bask. Tlie whole scene is somewhat idle and sleepy in effect, but none the less expressive of one of nature's moods. In 178, "Beating to Windward," all again is breezy and active; the pretty picture is very hke many others by Crawford; as 173, " Age and Infancy," is like others of Cameron's. He is very fond of depicting old women, and does so witli great skill; but we greatly prefer this granny, leading the blooming child so tenderly, to the " Study," 179, which is, however, of acknowledged merit. There is something in the face of the old dame sitting before us, with crossed hands, of faihng and senility; there is the quiet, but not the dignity of age, which latter is its most valuable characteristic in a picture. Conspicuous among the portraits is the charming idealised group of " Three Sisters," 240. Though very original in treatment, there is nothing strained or affected in the attitudes and expressions of the two pretty girls and rosy child, who seem wholly occupied with each other, and not, as is often the case in portraits, posed with a view to spectators. The white muslin dresses are most skillfully painted, and the dim woodland back- ground is pleasantly suggestive of light and space. The artist has, we think, arranged the costume in accordance with the real principles of beauty, so that it will never look awkward or outre; and the whole picture has about it a kind of airy grace that reminds one of the works of Angelica Kaufmann. E. J. 0. {To be continued.) 13G The Attempt.

MY sister, since God haa so blessed thee, Should we deter thee ? or say " God speed thee! " Thou hast strength, and because thy hand is strong, Shall it less tenderly dry the eyes that weep I Or less softly close those which God has dried ? Nay, we will trust this hand so strong, so pure,— Let it go forth to bless, and to be blessed,— Let the fever'd, the trembling, the stain'd ones Of thy sisters rest gently on this palm,— Let soul and body know the healing of its touch. The strength that flows to weak and weary frames From out a strong, true woman's sympathy.

There are who upbraid thee, who misjudge thee, Ever the greater they upbraid, not the lesser : For lo ! she passes, the " busybody," the " tattler," And she, the busily selfish, and th' idly selfish ; And she, the man's toy and plaything. These all tread their narrow way mid'st silence, for thee. Thou wilful chooser of a broader path, The world reserves its bitt'rest term, " unwomanli/J'

And some there are who blush for thee, my sister, But, when thou standest by tlie sacred dead. As thou must oft, eyeing God's workmanship With wond'ring rev'rence, with holy rev'rence. Shall not thy feet then rest on higher ground Than that where lies earth's blushes and impurities. With knowledge beck'ning thee, with sufTring pressing What ear or time hast thou f )r lower voices'? [thee,—

And some there are who wait for thee, Ardent and brave thou answ'rest to their call. And if the Christ within thee brightly shine. Uniting strength with tenderness, All knoAvledge with all purity, AVho can deter thee ? Who will not join the cry Now issuing from many lips,—" God speed thee ! " FRUCARA. The Attempt. 137

A TALE OF THE FORTY-FIVE.

CHAPTER XXXII.

STRICKEN.

THE bright summer day had become overshadowed before Barbara and Elspet left Margaret's Clench; and old Mr MacDougall would fain have supplied them with haps of all kinds, in case of a showier, but Barbara, thinking of the inconvenience to which it might put Miss ]\Iackay to return them, and not greatly caring for a few drops of rain, declined to take them. As they drove on, however, they began to perceive that they would have been "wise to have followed the old farmer's advice. A steady down-pour began when they were little more than two miles on their way, and continued with unabated violence till they reached Stirling. Bar- bara, who was dressed in thin summer muslins, was soaked to the skin. Elspet"s clothes were thick, but even they were hardly any protection from the drifting rain. Barbara was anxious about Elspet, who was rheumatic, and much regretted her obstinacy in refusing the old farmer's repeated offers of plaids and wraps; for herself she had no fear. With a grand natural constitution, and hardily brought up among the hills, what was a little wetting to her ? Miss Mackay was shocked, however, at her thoroughly drenched condition when they arrived, and wished to order her off at once to bed, Avith a tumbler of hot toddy to take the chill off her. Barbara drank the toddy submissively, and changed her wet clothes, but laugh- ingly declined to be put to bed, " like a naughty child," as she said; and when she had changed her dripping clothes, she sat down and wrote a long letter to her father, telling him of the slender clue she had found to Peggy's lost daughter, and begging him when he went to France, where she knew he meant to accompany the Prince, to allow her to go with him, and there prosecute her search. The letter t(jok some time to w-rite, for young ladies, in those days, were not in the habit of scribbling off half-a-dozen notes of a morning, as girls do now, and when it was done, and sealed up, she turned from the table to take up her work; but a sudden shiver- MAT 1874. S 138 The Attempt. ing and dizziness seized her, and she was obliged to hold on by the table for support. " What's wrang wi' ye, lassie ?" exclaimed Miss Mackay, looking up from the other side of the table in alarm. " I—don't—know," said Barbara, faintly. " J am cold, and I can't see right. I think—I'll go to bed." Thoroughly alarmed, Miss Mackay rang for Elspet, and between them they helped her to bed, and sent the little maid-of-all-work in hot haste for the doctor. Before he came, Barbara was in a high fever and quite delirious. He looked at her and shook his head,—" There is violent inflammation," he said. " I fear it may go hard with her; you had better send for her friends at once." Elspet wrung her hands in despair. From the first moment when the doctor shook his head she gave up all hope. " Aye, aye, it's the shadow, it's the shadow," she muttered. " Oh ! to think o' her deein', an' her sae far frae Milla Forres." " What d'ye mean, Elspet, gangin' on that gate, an' talkin' o' deein'," exclaimed old Miss Mackay, impatiently. '" Dinna let me hear sic a word oot o' yer mouth. Deein' indeed, quo' she," she mutiered defiantly; but her own kindly, withered old face was pale, and her hands trembled nervously as she took down the doctor's directions, and then sat down to write short notes sum- moning Barbara's father and sister. " An' Maister Alaster," said Elspet; " ye maun send for him; I'm thinkin' she wadna dee easy wantin' liim." So a letter was written to Alaster too. None of the letters could go till the following morning, when the northern coach Avould take the one to Nancy, and also that to her father, which must be sent to Nancy's care. Alaster's would be sent by a messenger on horseback, for there was no direct communication otherwise with Castle Ronald. "I'se warrant he'll be here the first o' them a'," soliloquised Elspet. Somehow the old instinctive con- viction of the real feelings of these two towards each other, which her observations of late had partly dissipated, returned in full force now that Barbara was stricken down. It seemed as if Alaster were the first and fittest person to be sent for. They watched by her bedside through two weary nights and one long summer's day, while the girl's mind wandered through scene after scene of the past. Now, she was among the courtly society that sur- 27ie Attempt. 139 rounded the Prince in Edinburgh, and snatches of Jacobite songs, sung in a weak, tremulous voice, were mixed with courtly compliments and brilliant badinage. Again, she was in the little Presbyterian kirk, at Milla Forres, listening to Mr Mackay, and the faint voice had a ring of triumph in it, as over and over again she repeated " Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world." Again, she was at Margaret's Cleuch trying to find out from old MacDougall some clue to the lost girl. Again, she was at Milla Forres, under the great birch tree by the burn, and she clasped her hands in entreaty, and the cold perspir- ation of agony stood upon her brow, as such words as these broke from her parched lips, " Do not ask me, do not tempt me, 1 cannot do it." It was strange how through all the wild vagaries of delirium the girl kept her secret. The " ruling passion" seemed strong to keep the poor wandering mind from betraying what, in its reasonable hours, it had so jealously guarded, as it is said to be "strong in death." The doctor came in twice .during the day, and the last thing before he went home at night; but each time it was only to shake his head and turn away. The fever was as high as ever. "Slie is young," he said, and it was all the hope he gave them. At day-break, on the morning of the second day, a hot and dusty rider alighted from a hard-ridden, reeking horse, at the door of the little house under the Castle Rock. It was Alaster. He had got Miss Mackay's note at Castle Ronald late the night before. Ten minutes after its receipt he was in the saddle, and he never drew rein till he reached Miss Mackay's door. Like Elspet, from the moment he heard of Barbara's illness, he gave up all hope; his only thought was, would he be in time 1 It was his first question when Elspet opened the door to him in the dim morning twilight. "Ay, ay, Maister Alaster, ye're in time," sobbed the old woman, as she led the way upstairs to the sick-chamber. Barbara was tossing uneasily on her pillow as they entered ; she had been tossing so all night, and the visions of her delirium seemed to have been more than usually painful. Many and many a time during the past hours the hot white hands had been clasped as in an agony of supplication, and the big drops of anguish had stood upon the broad white brow. But the moment that Alaster entered the room, a change seemed to come over the troubled spirit of her dream. The little feverish hands gradually re- 140 The Attempt.

laxed their convulsive clasp, the fair knit brow unbent itself, and over the intense burning eyes there seemed to fall a soft dreamy haze. She turned her head quietly on her pilllow, and a soft half-smile hovered about the scarlet lips. She was utterly unconscious, but it seemed as if there were electric power in his presence, which, unconscious as she was, quieted and soothed her. She began to speak rambling words again, but now she Beemed to have left the painful scenes that had haunted her during the night, and to be back again as a little child, playing with Nancy at Milla Forres. By-and-bye the sweet eyes opened wider, and a bright smile broke over her face, and stretching out both her hands, she eaid, *• Yes, mamma, I've been a good girl, and said my prayers ; I'm not frightened in the dark, good-night, I'll go to sleep," and she closed her eyes, and lay quietly on her pillow. Alaster stood by the bed watching her; he was very quiet and calm, but there was no light of hope in his face. The doctor came in and looked at his patient, and said, " The pulse is much lower, and the fever is leaving her, it may all be well yet, if only her stiength holds out;" but no word, or look of eager questioning came from the silent man by the bed. or broke for a moment the quiet, settled despair in his face. From the instant that Miss Mackay's note was put into his hand Alaster Tiad felt that this was the end ; and no hopeful words of the doctor could alter the settled conviction that had taken possession of him.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE VICTORY.

ALL the long hot hours of tAvo summer days, Alaster sat by her bedside, and his presence seemed to act as an anodyne. If for a moment he left the room, she became restless and uneasy, and whenever he returned to it, the quiet contented look came back to her face. She was quite unconscious, and did not seem to know him or any one else about her, yet his presence seemed to have a sort of mesmeric influence over her. The long hot hours had worn themselves out at last on the second day, and the cool of the summer's evening had set in. The doctor had been in and looked at her, and felt her pulse ; he The Attempt. 141 looked distressed and puzzled. " The fever has quite left her," he said: " if only she had a little more strength—the Dulae is strangely feeble after so short an illness, in one so young; it seems almost as if her constitution had been severely tried before this illness began." He looked inquiringly at Alaster, but he made no response. He was thinking bitterly enough of the mental strain of all those months, so bravely borne at the time, but which seemed so likely to weigh down the wavering balance now. The doctor had come and gone, the sun had set in gold and purple behind the Castle Eock, the sunset colours had almost faded from the sky, and the first star was twinkling in the far-away heavens. Since the twihght had crept into the room, Barbara had seemed to doze, as if the coolness and darkness of evening were refreshing to her after the long hot summer's day. Seeing her so quiet and comfortable. Miss Mackay and Elspet had gone away to snatch a few moment's rest, before the watching of the night began, and Alaster was left alone in the sick-room. He was sitting with his elbows leaning on the table, and his face buried in his hands, lost in bitter thought, when he was disturbed by a faint whisper from the bed. " Alaster,"—the tone was so low that he hardly knew whether it was Barbara's living voice or a voice in his dream. He looked up, how- ever, towards the bed, and met the great blue eyes looking at him with a gaze of love unspeakable. He went up to the bedside, and bending low over her, he said, "Do you know me, Barbara?" The feeble arms went round his neck, as she answered— " Know you ? of course I do, my own Alaster." A sob broke from the strong man as he held the feeble form to his heart. " Don't cry, dear," she said, " it's better so, it could never have come straight in this world, perhaps now it will—up yonder," and she pointed to the darken- ing blue of the sky, where the evening star was growing brighter and brighter in the deepening twilight. " Oh, Barbara," he moaned, " my darling, my darling, how can I live without you 1 " " Oh yes," she said, " you will, dear ; you will be brave and strong for my sake. Remember I give over my charge of Nancy to you, you will have to give me an account of it when we meet up yonder. You will take care of her, will you not, for me ? " 142 The Attempt.

" Yes, yes," he sobbed. She lay quiet for a few- minutes with her eyes shut, and a gentle contented smile playing about her lips. Then she opened her eyes, and laid her little transparent hand on Alaster's. " Alaster," she said, " there's one thing I think I was wrong in, and you w^ere right. I didn't see clear at the time, but many things look clearer now,—or perhaps it's only that now it is possible, and it wasn't then. I think 3^ou should tell Nancy the truth, Alaster, before you marry her. The truth, I mean, about you and me. I don't think Nancy will be angry, or let it make any difference; perhaps it wall hurt her, poor little Nancy, I am sorry to do that, but then it is the truth, and truth is always best. You will tell her, Alaster ? " " Yes, my darling, yes." " Poor little Nancy," she'went on : " if I had been going to live, I don't know whether I should have been brave enough to tell her. It would have been the right thing to do, I think, even then, but it would have been very hard. It is much easier now-, now that it need make no difference." " Oh, Barbara, don't talk in that way, you will break my heart," sobbed Alaster. " No, my dear," she said, tenderly stroking his clasped hands with her own little feeble fingers. " It won't break your heart, dear, God will keep it from breaking. I thought mine would break last winter, but He didn't let it. He sent old Mr Mackay to preach to me, and to makq me see that we aren't sent into this world for our own pleasure, but to fight and to ' overcome;' He has over- come already, and He wall help you to overcome too." She paused a little, and then went on,—" I thought the battle would be very hard, but you see He has not let it last long; He has given me the victory very soon, perhaps He will give it you soon too. At any rate, it will be all straight up yonder. One thing more I w-ant you to promise me," she said, after a little pause, " I w^ant you to help me to keep ray promise to old Peggy. I got a sort of clue to poor Maggie—I can't tell you about it," she added feebly, " but I told papa in the letter I wrote before I got ill; will you follow it out for me when I am gone 1 " " Yes, my darling, yes, I will do anything you wish," he sobbed. She drew a long breath of satisfaction, and said, with a faint smile, " You see I am leaving you all my unfinished The Attempt. 143 work to do—to help me to keep my word to my mother and to old Peggy, to take care of Nancy, and to find Maggie," She shut her eyes with a satisfied smile. The next time she spoke she was wandering again, and her mind was away back to the old days of her childhood, when she and Nancy were plucking flowers by the burn at Milla Forres. Next day Nancy arrived, and with her Dr Brown. Instantly, on hearing of Barbara's illness, he had offered to escort her sister to Stirling, and they had posted all the way. Poor Nancy's grief was simply frantic at first, when she saw the terrible change in the beloved face, but by and bye it quieted down into a sort of dazed bewilderment. Dr Brown came and looked at her sadly,—this woman whom he had loved so truly. His practised eye saw at once that hope was past, and that all the most loving skill could do was to watch the last faint fiickering of the feeble taper. His sorrow had nothing selfish in it; she was as near him now as she ever would have been had she lived, and yet it seemed to him that, when she should be gone from it, this world would have lost all interest for him. All through that day she was insensible, and Elspet and Alaster began to fear that she would pass away without one word of recognition or farewell to the sister she had loved so fondly. But it was not to be so. During the early hours of the night the feeble pulse had grown so much feebler that Dr Brown said quietly that those who wished to be with her at the last had better not leave the room. So they were all assembled there,—Miss Mackay and Elspet, Dr Brown, Nancy, and Alaster. About midnight, the great blue eyes opened widely, with a look of recognition in them. They fell at once on Nancy, and a bright smile lighted up the dying face, on which the death dews were already gathering. She put out her hand to her sister, and as Nancy drew near her, sobbing, she put it tenderly on her head, and said, " My little Nancy, don't cry—it is better so—Alaster will tell you—he will finish my promise to my mother—he'll bring you safe home to her and me up yonder," and the blue eyes looked away out of the window to the distant starry sky. Then her eye caught Dr Brown standing by her, and she said, " Dr Brown, are you here ? you are very kind,—thank you, and goodbye." She put out her hand 144 The Attempt.

silently to Elspet and Miss Mackay; then the death film began to cloud the lovely eyes. " It's dark," she said,'' I can't see. Alaster!" He went to her and raised her in his arms, and her head fell back upon his breast. "Rest, rest," she murmured, "Alaster, take care of Nancy for me, and teU her—the—truth; don't forget. * Be—of—good cheer—I—have —overcome—the world.' " The last words Avere lost in the failing breath ; the fight was over—she too had " overcome."

CONCLUSION. IT only remains now to tell in a few words the sequel of the little fragment of a life which I have been trying to bring up before your minds. Colonel Forbes arrived the day after his daughter's death; the letter had not reached in time for him to come sooner. In his quiet dignified way he grieved for her, and he at once acceded to Nancy's request, suggested by Alaster, that she should be taken home and buried at Milla Forres, beside the mother whose dying wishes her life had been devoted to fulfil. So they took her back, and laid her down in the bright sunlight of an August day iu the little churchyard by the side of the burn, under the shadow of Benvorlish. At Alaster's suggestion, also, old Mr Mackay assisted at the funeral. Mr Bennett read over her the solemn words, " I am the resurrection and the life," and the old man concluded the service with an extempore prayer, that faltered as it ended with her own last triumphant words, " Be of good cheer, I have over- come the world." Alaster and Dr Brown were tfie only mourners invited by her father, but all the poor people of the neighbourhood had gathered round that youthful grave, and many a tear fell upon the upturned sod. Alaster kept his word, and told Nancy the truth; and dear, humble, trusting, loving, little Nancy only clung to him the more, because he had loved Barbara and Barbara had loved him. She looked on him now as more than Alaster,- as Alaster and Barbara in one. No thought of jealousy of the love that had been given to the dear dead sister, the love that was that sisters still, and would be hers for ever, crossed the generous, trusting, simple child- like heart. And for Alaeter, he too loved Nancy, not passionately, as a lover, but with a quiet, grave, protecting, fatherly love—had not Barbara left her to him as a legacy! The Attempt. 145

About a month after Barbara had been laid to her long sleep, Alaster and Nancy were quietly married. They knew she would have had it so, and that was enough for both of them. After their marriage, they went with Colonel Forbes to Paris, and Alaster set about keeping the other half of Barbara's commission, to find Peggy's Maggie. After long search, he succeeded in finding in a wretched hovel in one of the lowest parts of Paris, an old decrepit woman of sixty, who had once been Kob MacDougal's "bonny Maggie." It was the old story,—ruined, betrayed, deserted, then dragging out a weary life of poverty, and want, and hard work. Deserted by her faithless lover, she had toiled on and earned a precarious livelihood by needlework, till sickness had deprived her of the power of working; and when Alaster found her, famine was staring her in the face. Those long years of distress and poverty had not, however, been without their blessing; they had brought the poor wandering outcast to the blessed Feet that long ago were bathed with tears by a " woman that was a sinner." Old Peggy's silent prayers had not been unanswered: her wandering lamb had come back to the fold. She wept tears of joy and sorrow when Alaster placed the old well-worn Bible in her hand, told her of her mother's dying commission, and of the young life that had been nipped in the bud when trying to carry out that commission. Some months later, Alaster and Nancy returned to Scotland, taking Peggy's Maggie with them, and leaving Colonel Forbes at the Prince's court. Shortly after their arrival, the bells rang for the strangest marriage ever witnessed in Milla Forres. The bridegroom was an old bowed man of seventy, and the bride a care-worn decrepit woman past sixty. But there was a look of quiet happiness on both the worn faces as they stood up to plight their troth to each other, which is not always seen at younger and fairer weddings. It was old Rob MacDougal taking his " bonny Maggie " home at last. Dr Brown never married, nor did he ever leave Milla Forres. He had off"ers of preferment elsewhere, which his friends marvelled at his declining. He gave no reason, but he was firm in his refusal. Perhaps, if his friends could have followed him day by day, as he went when his work was done and stood beside a little grassy mound by the burn-side, they might have divined his reason. Alaster and Nancy lived much at Milla Forres, and by MAT 1874. T 146 The Attempt.

and bye there were children's voices ringing again through the long corridors. The eldest had great blue dreamy eyes, and hair with a thread of gold in it; and her name was Barbara ; and I think the hearts of both her parents, and of old Elspet, now nurse to the third generation, clung to her with peculiar tenderness. And so I think my story may end. It is the story of a little fragment of a young life, cut short long ere its noon-time, with all its high purposes unfulfilled, its work ' left for others to finish, its aspirations unattained,—just the sort of story that puzzles one as to why such things should be. May the answer not perhaps be found in the beautiful words of a contemporary writer,—" In- complete because immortal, unfinished because scarcely even begun." JEANIE MORISON. THE END.

^ 0 n n u 1. On a Statue of Ariadne in an English Garden. FAR from the myrtles, and the purple skies— 'Mid the dim verdure of an English grove. Where branches twine, and fleeting shadows rove— Fair relic of the art that never dies, A Grecian maiden stands; and to our eyes Her simple garb, serene and noble face, Show the pure lineaments of antique grace. The stranger views her with a sweet surprise; And all things love her; autumn winds and rains Have touched her softly with grey weather-stains; Long trails of ivy kiss her garment's hem. And e'en the saucy thrush—as on some stem Of woodland growth—has poised upon her hair. As though the sculptor's hand had fixed him changeless there. ENNA.

INDIFFERENTISM is at a discount. Earnestness is one of the foremost watchwords of the day. And this earnest- ness in one of its phases is obviously set forth in the eagerness of the universal query, How can we accumulate the largest gains ? It is asked in public and private, by The Attempt. 147 men and w^omen, by petty tradesmen and merchant princes, in the corridors of banking-houses, in the news- rooms of clubs. All that can even remotely bear on the answer is scrutinised with matchless acumen. During the working day, when a crowd of engagements jostle one another through its livelong hours, the business man yet finds time to study the monetary articles of the papers. And in reply to the anxious question, commerce daily projects fresh schemes of enterprise, offers tempting investments to capital, and increased advantages to skilled labour. As the results of our enthusiasm for finance, we point to the ships that bear our merchandise to every corner of the globe,—to our railways, our tele- graphs, the wealth and luxury of our cities. And as the crowning reward of indomitable energy, we are by universal consent enthroned monarchs over the world of matter. Labour is man's duty, and the fruit of labour his right; and rational men cherish no grudge against the march of material progress, but in quiet moments the question thrusts itself into the mind. Whither does the influx of our prosperity tend % We who, in the centre of the shouting crowd, strain every nerve to gain a livelihood, or make a fortune, are in no position to give an impartial reply. But let us suppose the denizen of another planet, where the science of finance is unknown, to alight upon this earth. The eyes of the stranger are undazzled by the rise and ■fall of commercial enterprise. His judgment is unbiassed by the prospects of net profits, in which he has neither part nor lot. Let us do our best to identify ourselves with the dispassionate intelligence of this onlooker as to him we put the question, AVhither tends the tide ? " As I stand on your wharves," he replies, " as I visit your warehouses, and walk through your crowded streets, viewing the ministers of this vast temple of commerce, and moving in ceaseless restlessness from its banks to its exchanges, from its treasures in specie to its treasures on paper, I am filled with admiration for the fruits of intelligent toil. But when, from the great arteries of industrial life, I pass to the heart of the commonwealth, there I find moral decay manifesting its presence in the phenomenon of a hand-to- hand struggle for larger incomes, larger factories, larger investments,—not as an end to something beyond them, but as an end in themselves. 148 TJie Attempt.

" No longer attracted, but repelled by surface splendour, I am taught by the unlovely spectacle of the production of wealth, regarded as the supreme object of existence, that in gaining the world you have lost the dominant qualities which entitle you to possess it,—have becomes the slaves of matter, instead of its masters. On every side I see long trains of the inhabitants of this planet, with their eyes fixed persistently earthwards, until, in obedience to the law of assimilation, they lose the power of looking up, and all caring for the brightness above and the beauty around. The mud and filth in which their treasure is hid suffices for them, and when they die rich old men they have only known this fair world as " a dirty road to pick up money as they walked along." As a people, you profess to believe that in the next world there is no buying and selling, but that there will survive the souls of buyers and sellers ; yet, to the majority, the material interests of the day are of paramount importance in comparison with the individual destinies of a measureless future, and every- where ineradicable self-interest keeps churlish watch over the out-goings of the pockets, although each one knows that the " robe without pockets" is spun and fashioned, which wiU inevitably enfold him at no distant day. Again, as a people, you point to the Bible as the secret of England's greatness, but in practical life that famous dictum resolves itself into empty bombast of the declama- tory type that tickles the ears of the multitude. For, in daily life, such Scriptural axioms and commands as militate against pre-arranged rules of life are discarded without comment. The social theories of the Gospels are treated as sentimentalisms, too fine spun to bear the action of the shrewd thought of hard-headed men in this busy day. The enthusiasm of humanity as set forth in a genuine sympathetic bond of nobly dependent brother- hood, is derided and trampled under foot; while indepen- dence, in all its artificiality, is set on a pedestal as a virtue men may almost Avorship. But, to my view, there is nothing intrinsically great or good in this vaunted inde- pendence ; which I regard as a morbid growth of over- wrought materialism, and the fruitful source of the class- feuds that spread over the land as a tide full of future menace in its advancing encroachments; as well as of the pauperism that defies your efforts to overtake it, and keeps pace at one end of society with the growth of luxury at the other. And let it be remembered that, The Attempt. 149 although poverty is a necessary element in the life of a people, pauperism is not. " There were great differences of rank in Israel,* when every man sat under his vine and under his fig-tree, but there was no pauper class, properly so called; and pauperism is a much more serious thing than the exist- ence of an unpropertied class at the base of the com- munity. It means an absence not of the comforts, but the necessaries of life; it means a despairing acquiesence in want as something inevitable ; it means the existence of a class that feels itself disinherited—so incapable of the duties, as to be deprived of the rights of society ; and thus, in the long-run, it means not only class misery, vast and untold, but general disorder. Political concessions do not readily heal wounds which are felt daily and hourly in a struggle, if it still be a struggle, for existence; and a sympathy, only issuing in the elaboration of a com- munistic paradox, is no more calculated to grapple with pauperism, than the amateur director of a festive perform- ance of county miHtia is fitted to conduct a campaign on the Gold Coast." But the whole-hearted dependence, the one upon the other, of the brotherhood of man can arrest the advance of the consuming cancer of pauperism, that poisons the well-springs of the land, and trace a sharp frontier line between it and the masses of honest poverty that are perpetually shading off into its fatal embrace. And this dependence, in its noblest, highest sense, is also, in my apprehension, the solution of the vexed question of class- antagonism. One need only consider the harsh discipline required to enforce the lesson of independence, to ascer- tain that it is a quality foreign to humanity. Let a man, by a series of misfortunes, be reduced to beggary. Obeying a natural instinct, he stretches out his hands imploringly for help; but no sooner has the cry for succour burst from his lips, than cruel words are pelted at him from all sides, until his heart bleeds. Even the brothers, who have gathered round the same mother's knee and Usped " Our Father" in concert, join in the cry of contemptuous upbraid- ing, and scout him for the degradation of depen- dence. Thus he learns it is easier to die outright than obey the impulse that prompts him to ask help of his fellow. And even when the help he prays for is vouch- * Vide Liddon's Pauperitm and the Love of Ood. 150 The Attempt. safed, he loses caste in accepting it; or is laid under a weight of obligation that cripples his manhood (that there are exceptions to such cases proves the rule). And when the bitter knowledge, that nothing alienates the nearest and dearest. sooner than clamant poverty, becomes a part of the poor man's creed, he learns to con- ceal his penury as a badge of shame, under a surface- decency of dress and talk. Ah I the conventional type of pauperism, dramatic and self-advertising, that caters for sympathy, exhibiting its emaciation in the streets, is sad enough, but not so sad as the pathetic reticence of independence. Secret, silent, unrepresented to the senses by rags and tatters, or a whining tale, it is found in many a pastoral home in these islands. Week in week out, the minor clergyman of one of your voluntary churches feeds his flock with the finest of the wheat, while they on their part refuse him sufficient maintenance. In the financial march of pro- gress the clergyman has no share. The golden flood is partial, fertilising the rich man's broad acres, but leaving the poor man's field bare as before. Prices rise, and the incomes of masters and servants increase proportionally. On all hands it is admitted to be the right of man to demand full wages for a full day's work, but, as society is constituted, the minister is refused this common privilege ; his congregation are cowardly enough to take advantage of his silence. The stipend remains at the old inadequate standard; and under the folds of his preacher's gown, care eats away his heart,—care looks out of the eyes of the house-mother,—care is suggested by the faces of his ill-clad children. In the course of his lectures he comes to the text, " It is more blessed to give than to receive," but the charity sermon is preached in a hopeless spirit; more often than not his impassioned appeal has resulted in his richer hearers buttoning up their pockets all the tighter, grimly suspicious the parson is trying to " do " them out of money. And so the harassed life goes on until death comes—a messenger of joy, to convey his weary soul to the country where there is neither profit nor loss, but unmeasured gain,—and his family of half- educated sons, and helpless daughters are left to fight their way as best they can, through a world of closed doors, that only open to golden keys. No candid mind pondering such cases can hesitate to conclude, that the boasted accumulations of national The Attempt. 151 capital, and increase of individual wealth, serve to show the moral loss incurred in storing them, and to point to that unloveliest form of penury—poverty of heart. For who can challenge the assertion, that the heart of a people is very poor which, in the midst of external abundance, refuses a suitable maintenance to many of its clergy, deifies the sickly independence of national corruption, and crushes out of sight the noble dependence of true brother- hood which recognises the obligation of bearing one another's burdens, and by the universality of the recog- nition overmasters the pseudo independence that silently starves % But how vain to point to the social theory of the New Testament as the antidote to the banes of humanity, when men speak of commercial and industrial enterprises as of a " last sacrament of regeneration to renew national life;" when the higher wages of the workmen are devoted to deeper potations, and richer living, while his daughters ape a class above them, in the showiness of their attire, and the customary penny of hard times is dropped into the plate at the church door, but not an extra farthing is given to relieve God's poor; how vain, when the handsome profits of the commercial man are lavished in the increased gor- geousness of his home, and the costliness of his entertain- ments, so that when the collector for some charity calls for a contribution, he learns that the scale of the family expenditure leaves an infinitesimal margin to give away. Disappointed, he turns from the rich man's door, sadly reflecting that the superabundant wealth that rolls on every side, like the waves of an inexhaustible ocean, is in reality a mirage unblessing and unblessed. But again, I take heart, and am persuaded I do not plead for impossibilities in imploring you to carry the im- patient contempt which the sight of poverty provokes into practical action, by thrusting its presence from your hearts, where it is most of all out of place. And to obey the generous impulse that prompts to relieve distress, is surely no such hard method of ridding you of the incubus you most of all despise. But there is a higher law to obey in regaining the ascendancy over matter, than obedience to the broad principles of benevolence; namely, the obligation that lies upon each to distribute surplus income, after the wants of the household have been fairly supplied. On this point St Augustine expresses himself without 152 The Attempt. limitation, " Whatever remains, except for reasonable purposes of food and clothing, let it not be reserved for luxuries, but laid up in the heavenly treasury of alms- giving. If we fail to do this, we invade other people's property." And Gaudentius writes,—" We are stewards of our Master's goods for our own moderate use, and for distribution among our fellow-servants. Hence, it is not lawful for us to alienate them by any super- fluous expenditure ; since of our mode of spending them we must give account." And St Th. Aquinas holds, that the obligatiim men lie under to give alms rests on two principles, either of them sufficient to.bind the conscience; on the side of the rich man, from his abimdance ; on the side of the poor man, from his need. " The poor man shall never cease out of the land, 0 rich man, that thou mayest always have somewhat to do with ^thy wealth, some sluice to exhaust thy plenty, and prevent the access of thy fever. See, then, the genealogy of alms- giving. Covetousness, oppression, and rapine brought in beggary and want. And God willed to continue it there, to employ the treasures and exercise the charity of others; thus charging a suitable provision for the poor upon the surplus found in the rich man's store, as He charges the provision for the stars upon the deluge of light wherewith He hath enriched the sun. Hence the obligation to give rests not so miich on the poor man's necessity, as on the rich man's abundance." But here is the difficulty, you reply. Have we this abundance? The world has reached so great a height of luxury that we find even with doubled incomes it is a hard matter to live as befits our station. And if the demoralised state of society as regards dress, costly entertainments, fine equipages and palatial houses, is taken as a rule of life, there will be no balance left for almsgiving. The sublime lessons of the world's Reformer, in which He forbids over-solicitiide about food and raiment, are contemned, and spiritual life is extinguished under the mass of materialism, which is virtually declared to be " far better." Beyond question, it is the rich man's duty to maintain his position with due credit. But it is one thing for him to conform to luxurious practices, which his candid judg- ment reckons abuses, and another to appropriate to his use all that is needful for the generous support of his household, reserving nothing for mere purposes of aggrandisement. The Attempt. 153

And while the obligation to give their superabundance rests on the rich, an obligation equally pressing rests on those Avho are not rich. When even but a crust remains, the duty is clear to share that crust with him who has none. Then you give what is your own. So long as you give the surplus only, you give what is not your own. The superfluities of the rich, says St Augustine, are the poor man's necessaries— " Give! as the morning that flows out of heaven ; Give ! as the waves when their channel is riven ; Give ! as the free air and sunshine are given ; Lavishly, utterly, joyously give. " Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing, Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing, Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing ; Give, as He gave thee Who gave thee to live." " You have asked me," concluded the stranger, "whither tends the tide of your material prosperity; and from unbiassed obsei'vation I have drawn the inference that it tends to poverty,—from which internal penury I pray this country may be delivered, or ever, to its everlasting shame, it becomes hopelessly bankrupt." M. A. PALMER.

(Hxhibitiou of i\\i lloiiat Scottish Jiratlcmu.

PART II.

TAKIXG up our remarks on the pictures at the point where we left oif, Faed's " When the Day is done," 261, though it has already appeared in London, is too salient to be passed by. Were it the first of the kind, how we should admire it! But we, the ungi-ateful public, know the cottage, and the man, and the old woman, and the sentimentality, and the dirt, well already; and while acknowledging the technical skill and harmonious effects, we would like some new ideas. 260, " On the Beach, Holy Isle," a most un- ambitious study of a coloiu-less English day, a boat drawn on a flat shore, and a woman sitting by it, quite success- fully represented. " For the good of the Church," 268.— The old monk, who has been poaching, probably, for that especial branch of the Church he represents in person, is walking through a copse, simply painted, yet suggestive

MAY 1S74, U 154 Tlie Attempt. of the depth and mystery of dim underwood. A Httle further on, 279. "A Sea-bird." By a sweet, sunny sea, tM'o (•harming chikh-en play with the hmg wing of a dead sea- bird, the dog lookiug on with great interest. Amid much mediocrity, this picture shines out as a little gem. In the next room, 379, " After you," a picture of the genteel comedy class, should be noticed, for its good drawing and colour, and thorough expression of exagger- ated etiquette. And here we may mention three comic Irish scenes by Vallance,—245, " Irish Whispers ;" 967, "Bothered;" 989, "A Home Ruler/'—all, though very slight in execution, possessing true humour. Of some comic pictures in this exhibition, the less said the better; but 399, a very cleverly-drawn dog and donkey, may be con- sidered a successful joke. Beyond it, in " Muerte del Matador," 416, we come to a fine picture. The subject is so painful that, unrelieved as it is by any noble feeling in the personages, it may be a question if it is well chosen; but of the power and skill of the painting, we think there cannot be two opinions. The man lying in his death agony; the good-natured, sympathetic, yet somewhat per- functory priest, listening to his last words; the indifferent surgeons, aAvare that all is over, and there is no use taking more trouble about him; the agony of the woman's face, all painted in the shadowless clearness of a light interior ; while through the door we catch a glimpse of the arena where the brutal sport stiU goes on in the daylight glare, without interest, without even splendour ; each and all of these details are given witli a masterly vigour Avhicli compels oiu' admiration, even if we would not care to dwell long on the scene. 435 is a well-painted, dirty old man, " Past work," and past painting too, we think ; for were we in the beautiful scene, that squalid figure would be to us the blot in the landscape,—though, doubtless, to some tastes the painting might redeem the subject. In the South Koom (485), a very pretty girl is " Think- ing of the laddie that lo'es her sae week" She seems but a lassie yet— very young for such thoughts. Near her are two rather ugly, but very natural, children " Going for Bait," 488; and in 489, " How he kepte hys tryste," we have a glimpse into dreamland in the stately mediasval sentiment of the picture, trifling as the subject is. Rich eastern colouring is given us in 550, '' Water-seller of Morocco;" and 541, the half comic " Street Sermon," has much good drawing and point in it. But there are The Attetnpt. 155

few pictures in this room that call for remark; perhaps fewer in the Octagon Room, where, among the best, are two pictures by ladies,—673, " La Belle Bouqueticre," a ftuished beauty, surrounded by flowers as smoothly and highly painted as herself. Surely her half sad, half anxious expression, cannot be for want of the custom, such a stall and saleswoman would be sure to attract. 681, " Wreck of the Hesperus," represents well the stormy dawn just lighting up a tm-bid sea, while the pretty drowned child is swept in to the feet of the fisherman. The painting may be a little timid, but shows feeling, and great promise, if by a young artist. The terra cotta statuette of "Venerable Bede," 582, represents well the languor of approaching death, and the quiet dignity of the old monk, still engrossed in his best-loved occupation. The shadow thrown by the cowl (jver the wasted features is very effective. There is another fine animated statuette of " Minna Troil," 586; and 584, " Magnus Troil," is a good companion to it. Such small-sized statuettes, when spirited and truthful, form such excellent ornaments for our dwelHng-houses and entrance lialls, that we are glad to see that our artists are lately devoting more attention to their production, instead of giving us only busts or full-sized statues, more generally suitable to public buildings. The ideal bust of Viola, 600, represents a remarkably sweet face, and, with the reserved pose expression we would imagine to be characteristic of that heroine. In a short notice of a large gallery, we feel, wherever we leave off, we have a great deal more to say. Many pictures are passed over that our readers' attention ought to be drawn to, many criticisms omitted, because we feel it to be somewhat presumptuous in us to offer them. But as far as in our power lies, Ave have picked out those pictures in which we find most to admire. How if we were to try the reverse?—if, like those toys of our child- hood, which showed off a different set of prints according to the Avay in which you turned the first page, we were to review the pictures below par,—should we not give a voice to the disappointment that many feel in this Exhibition '. We allude especially to the figure subjects. It is seldom tliat a landscape attempt does not give us some interest- ing fact or effect, even if the general result should not l)e successful. But there are some figure pictures here tliat seem really not well enough drawn or coloured for |iuMic 156 Tiie Attempt. exhibition, and others whose worst faults are not even being out of drawing and ill coloured, but a poverty and a vulgarity of conception, that makes perhaps their want of pictorial attraction not to be regretted. Some of the worst type of Dutch pictures have an almost unfortunate fascination about them, for the power of the painter in depicting surface; and the beauties of light and shadow, make us delight in representations of drunken boors and other kindred subjects. From this danger the pictures I allude to are free. The great example of Wilkie has perhaps induced Scottish artists to aim frequently at painting half-humorous, half-sentimental scenes of peasant life,—excellent when successful, but dangerously difficult of achievement. Something of Wilkie's charming taste and thoughtfulness, if not of his genius, is necessary for the conception, apart from the realisation of such subjects. Doubtless, in French or German exhibitions, we find, among many successes, many failures in colour and in interest; but we question whether such failures in figure drawing—the part of the art which can really be acquired by study,—or such failures in artistic instinct and feeling for beauty, without which painting is no art, would be tolerated in a high-class picture-gallery elsewhere. Cer- tainly, our best artists are sometimes apt to show their chief strength in London; but it is not of the want of good pictures, but of the presence of very bad ones, that we complain. There must be something in the artistic, as distinguished from the natural conditions of the country, which is partly the cause of this; but be this as it may, it is certain that the enjoyment of the numerous good pictures this year is, to many, somewhat marred by the inferior ones that hang alongside. E. J. 0. The Attempt. 157

Jesus talld a little child unto §im."

HE. " WHEN autumn in her glory stood Crowned by her sister queen, Who, passing through the blushing wood. Left tears where she had been ; When faint, soft roses, fell and died, And leaves grew ruddy to their prime ; When gentle breezes came and sighed A thought about the winter time,—- A little child was born on earth, Born from the angel band. And we were thankful for its birth In this our waiting land."

SHE. " But when there came a chilly air That froze the river bed. And, trembling till they rested there. Sweet forest leaves lay dead ;— We thinking of the angel's hymn. And that first Christmas long ago When in the darkness soft and dim A Perfect Life began below;— Our httle child was born again Back to the angel land, Rescued from sin and care and pain. Safe in the Father's Land."

BOTH. " Safe in His Hand—and so secure— Our child utill—jet living where The very atmosphere is pure And sinless as the dwellers there,— Our little one—who, maybe, stands To watch the heavy gate unrolled, Wlien he may stretch his bab^y hands, And welcome tis within the fold." NAOMI S. SMITH. 158 The Attempt.

PABT III. —CONCLUSION. THE novel of Felix Holt, as a whole, does not rise to the level of the rest. There is an exaggeration, unusual and unnatural to George Eliot, in the descriptions of character, a prominence in peculiarities, and a slight confusion in the tout ensemble. Mrs Holt's peculiarities are rather too much for us, on other pages than Dickens; and there is a sug- gestion of "superficial", treatment in Harold Transome and Lawyer Jermyn. Three types of Radicalism are brought before us here, painted in strong colours : the blind unreasoning mass, swayed by pots of beer and stump oratory, moved by blind unreasoning feeling; the cold reasoning gentleman, Harold Transome, sitting in a luxurious arm-chair, and " very particular about his sauces," moved by hidden calculations of political possi- bilities ; and the grand ideal type, where feeling and reason corrected and enlarged each other, where there was plan, patience, and self-control. In spite of a thorough conviction that there never was a Felix Holt (a conviction seldom possible to retain long in the company of any of George Eliot's characters), we become much interested in him. How different he is from the Barnaby Rudge type of men! He descended to the level of his fellows that he might be able to raise them to his own; and he remained there freely, though wealth lay within his grasp, and love promised to cheer him in a new and easy life, opened before him in a tempting vista. But he resolved to keep his mmd simple, his purpose single,—the wealth was flung away, and the love only welcomed when it became a help and not a hindrance to his plan of life,—that he might do as much good as in him lay, by precept and example, to the great masses of the ignorant, the oppressed, and the self-oppressing. There is a great charm in the simple, rusty, con- scientious Methodist preacher, Mr Lyon, with his high thoughts and poor success; with his one romance of passionate love locked out of sight, at once his glory and his shame; with his self-questioning affection for his step- daughter Esther, who unconsciously betraj^s inherited thoughts and tastes little akin to his. But her little feminine fripperies .and vanities, sentiments and imagina- tions, are remoulded by the power of the stern masculine The Attempt. 159 resolve of Felix Holt, the Radical. She met him at the right time. Riches, refinement, ease—the longing of her life—when in her very grasp, she flung away, because her hand could not retain his love along with these. Women can do these things at times; and Esther, un- likely as her previous education was to fit her for such a sacrifice, did it freely and open-eyed, and never named it sacrifice at all. There seem to be grounds given here for Mr TuUiver's fixed opinion, that all lawyers must be '' raskills," for they are painted so, in all shades, from Jermyn to Johnson. One cannot but admire the skill in painting the character of Mrs Transome, and the retribution that was weighed out to her. We feel glad that Esther spoke kindly to her, and yet we might have felt it hard to have done so ourselves. There was a fierceness and hardness, resulting from years of self-repression and loneliness, that might have petrified kindly interest at once. And yet this " grey-haired Eve," with the misery of twenty years looking out from her haunting eyes, had once been young and queenly, admired and loved. A touching proof of the attraction of the better side of her nature may be seen in the faithful affection of her admiring waiting maid, Mrs Dennis. George f]liot's last great work, Middlemarch, would take a volume fully to discuss. It shows still the same power of analysing character, of range of thought, and of vivid expression; but there is a dissipation of interest which alFects even her ardent admirers, a direct inculcation of opinion that attracts attention to itself, and an occasional return to the flippant and satirical style of writing that is so unsuitable to her and hers. Amusing as is the Featherstone connection, it reminds us rather too much of Dickens. And whether she has given up questioning in despa,ir or not, there is much less of the religious element, or appreciation of religious motive, in this novel than in any previous one. Life does not seem now like " a campanile rising to the bine sky,'' but a wheel revolv- ing in weary monotony or enforced trammels on the dusty highway. One good advice, however, she still holds out to all in time of doubt, and that is the power of work, and the safety that lies in the path of duty, endurance, self-control, and benevolence. The two characters freshest on her pages, are those of Mr Bulstrode and Dr Lydgate. What a careful analysis 160 Tlie Attemj)!.

of character, motive, and circumstance is shown in the first! One seems to grow into a strange sympathy with the man, who was not so much a hypocrite as a self- deceiver ; a man who longed after things great and good, but could not strip himself of the heavy weights that clogged his aspirations,; a man to whom remorse came always too late, when " there seemed no place for repentance." Many a more hardened sinner has flourished blameless in the eyes of men. It was his vacillating desire to make, like Balaam, the best of both worlds, that wrought his disgrace and fall. Who knows but that this fall was his best good t When " the hope in lies is for ever swept aAvay," men may rise, through new steps, to a higher and a simpler life, especially wlieii aided by a faithful wife. " Strange piteous conflict in the soul of this unhappy man, who had longed for years to be better than he was,—who had taken his selfish passions into discipline, and clad them in severe robes, so that he had walked with them as a devout guise, till now that a terror had risen among them, and they would cliaunt no longer, but threw out their common cries for safety." " The quick vision that his life Avas after all a failure, that he was a dishonourable man, and must quail before the glance of those towards whom he had habitually assumed the attitude of a reprover,—that God had disowned him before men, and left him unscreened to the triumphant scorn of those who were glad to have their hatred justified—the sense of utter futility in that equivocation which now turned venomously upon him, with the full-grown fang of a discovered lie;—all this rushed through him with the agony of terror that fails to kill, and leaves the ears still open to the returning wave of execration. The sudden sense of exposure after the re-established sense of safety, came not to the coarse organism of a criminal, but to the susceptible nerve of a man whose intensest being lay in such mastery and pre- dominance as the conditiims of his life had shaped for him." No wonder that he shuddered specially at the nnveiliug of liis shrunk proportions before the eyes of the woman he had taught to honour him as something greater and better than herself. " But this imperfectly taught woman, whose phrases and habits were an odd patchwork, had a loyal spirit Avithin her. The man Avhose prosperity she had shared through nearly half a life, and Avho had unA^aryingly cherished lier—noAV that The Attempt. 101 punishment had befallen him, it was not possible to her in any sense to forsake him. There is a forsaking which still sits at the same board, and lies on the same couch as the forsaken soul, withering it the more by unloving proximity. She knew when she locked her door that she would unlock it, ready to go down to her unhappy husband and espouse his sorrow, and say of his guilt, I will mourn and not reproach. But she needed time to gather up her strength; she needed to sob out her fare- well to all the gladness and the pride of her life. When she resolved to go do^^^l, she prepared herself by some little acts that might seem mere folly to a hard onlooker: they were her way of expressing to all spectators, visible or invisible, that she had bc^gun a new life, in which she embraced humiliation. She took off' all her ornaments and put on a plain black gown, and instead of wearing her much-adorned cap and large bows of hair, she brushed her hair down, and put on a plain bonnet-cap, which made her look suddenly like an early Methodist." But we cannot but be touched by the scene in the parlour, when she said, " Look up, Nicholas !" and their eyes met, and no further word of excuse or blame was said. Of very different material was Dr Lydgate, who inte- rests us in a painful degree, when we see his high hopes defeated, his stainless honour impeached, his tender love paralysed. A worshipper of science, the siren Rosamond charmed him away from his single-minded devotion; but bravely he struggled under all disadvantages to be a helper to the suffering, an honest man to the world and himself, and withal a tender husband to Rosamond. Yet when he discovers the unlovingness and shallowness of her nature, the self-will, the deceit, who can blame his passionate feelings ? " There are episodes in men's lives in which their highest qualities can only cast a deterring shadow over the objects that fill their inward visions. Lydgate's tender-heartedness was present just then only as a dread lest he should offend against it, not as an emotion that swayed him to tenderness. For he was very miserable. Only those who know the'supremacy of the intellectual life—the life which has a seed of ennobhng thought and purpose in it—can understand the grief of one who falls from that serene activity into the absorbing, soul-wasting struggle with worldly annoy- ances." Poor Lydgate! ,what a man he would have been with Dorothea, when he was man enough not to be MAT 1874. X 162 The Attempt. ruined by a Eosamond. Pity 'tis, that in the world are so many of such fair-seeming exteriors that have no heart within, no worship but of self We would almost say that it was a strange providence to have given Rosamond to Lydgate, had it not evidently been tlie providence of the bo.tk that men and women should not marry the being others would have chosen for them, but the being that needed them most. This is expressed in words when Fred Vincy tells Mary that " Farebrotlier would have made her ten times a better husband than he could," and Mary answers serenely, " Of course he would, and so he can better afford to do without me." Middlemarch specially shows that marriage is not the end of life, but the beginning of a new life, which can never more be simple and independent. The element of complexity may have varying proportions, according to the consistency of the partners, but there always must be a resolution of forces, a reconsideration of the aims of life, a modification of its hopes, for " character is not cut in marble, it is not something solid and unalterable. It is something living and changing, and may become diseased as our bodies do." No doubt ]Mr Casaubon's character even was changed by his marriage, which he did not find so entirely charming as might have been expected, considering what Dorothea was. What a grand nature was hers! a St Theresa, a Romola,—strong, self-devoted, single-minded, even to peculiarity, faithful to all duty to the last. How should we wonder that the strange course of circumstances should have led Will Ladislaw to love her, and to be ennobled so by his love, that his better self Avas ahvays chosen for her sake, till he made himself worthy of his love 1 There is a strange pathos in his interview with Bulstrode, where he scorned to touch the money that he thought unclean; where he strove to keep free of stains in connection, but "he found a stain he could not help," and adds, "it ought to lie with a man's self that he is a gentleman." And when this woman, worshipped afar off, descended from her pedestal, gave up rank and riches to share his life and bless it, even his heart, so long kept hungering after love and home, and rest and peace, must have been satisfied. " Dorothea herself had no dreams of being praised above other women, feeling that there Avas always something- better which she might have done, if she only had been The Attempt. 163 better, and known better. Still, she never repented that she had given up position and fortune to marry Will Ladislaw, and he would have held it the greatest shame as well as sorrow to him if she had repented. They were bound to each other by a love stronger than any impulses that could have named it. No life would have been possible to Dorothea which was not filled with emotion, and she had now a life filled also with a beneficent activity, which she had not the doubtful pain of discover- ing and marking out for herself." It was a wise touch, this reduction of her fortune, for it satisfied Will's pride, and occupied her in '* learning what everything costs." As powerful for good, though in a different way, was the influence of Mary Garth over Fred Vincy, both before and after marriage. One example of a marriage of two equable tempers, and delightfully agreeable common- place dispositions, is given us in the happy union of CeHa and Sir- James Chettam. With the lady's uncle and guardian, that characteristic Mr Brooke, I can only conclude, saying,—" I have had ideas, you know, about all that sort of thing; but ideas are troublesome, and when one has gone mto a thing, it is rather hard sometimes to get out; one can say too much, you know." LuTEA KESEDA.

^\\t 1 aun11?d |iOfhs.

A CHILLY, uninviting morning, a ghostly fog hanguig over sea and land, accompanied by soft drizzhng rain. Tom Kelly is loath to leave his warm fireside to begin his day's work ; but " there's little to earn and many to keep," so he pushes away his chair and steps to tbe door of his cottage. There he stands, leisurely hghting his pipe before starting; a fine-looking man he is, over six feet in height, with great broad shoulders, and a face tanned with exposure to the weather, Hght brown curly hair, and fearless Saxon eyes. A picturesque looking man, too, dressed in his long fisherman's boots, his blue trousers and jersey enlivened by the red braces across his shoulders and the red knitted cap on his curly head. But we must not keep Tom standing there in the cold, but follow him awav over the drearv shore. He 1ms 164 The Attempt.

flung his creel across his back, and is stepping easily over the slippery sea-weed. Tom is not, however, walking so gaily and hrmly as he usually does, but slackens his pace from time to time, as if uncertain whether to proceed or not. To tell you the truth, he is afraid to go on I A great burly man like that afraid % 1 know you scarcely believe me when I say so, and you would be more aston- ished if you knew all the tales that are told of Tom Kelly's valour. When the winter winds have lashed the waves into ungovernable fury, and they come rolling into the bay, bearing along with them some unfortunate vessel, which they dash upon the rocks and triumph over as their new victim, then a little band of fishermen meets upon the beach, and they try to launch the life-boat,but fear to risk their lives in it. They stand gazing at the awful waves, and think how many little ones will be left father- less if the life-boat should be swamped. Tom Kelly steps from among them, saying—'Will none of the Haven men come with me ? I have led you through many a storm, and with strong hearts and arms we will easily save that ship. Come on, the town life-boat will be in before us, and say we were afraid." Many a crew Tom has saved by iirging the other men on to their duty; and once, when a steamer ran on the Ness rocks, at a place where no boat could reach her, he climbed the jagged rock, threw the rope, and saved the passengers. Brave man as he is, there is one thing he gives way to, and that is superstition. Tom has often sailed from the Haven when other fishermen would not have dared to do so ; and yet, when wind and tide were most favourable, he has stayed on land because a cat jumped across his path when going down to his boat. Across the shore, to which in the cold early morning he was steering his steps, some grey rocks may be seen looming through the mist ; those rocks of late have got rather a bad name, for some have said they are haunted. Tom had set his traps there and caught many large lobsters, but a whisper about the rocks being haimted had reached his ears last night; so that is why Tom is afraid to proceed. He walked along medi- tatively for a time ; then having come to the conclusion that some one who is jealous of his getting such a high price for his lobsters has spread those reports, he made Tip his mind to proceed. He knocked the ashes OTit of his pipe, flung back his shoTildere, and whistling a merry tune. The Attempt. 165 set off' at a brisk pace for the Haunted Rocks. He soon reached them and drew in his lobster pots. Great was his delight on finding three of the finest any fisherman could wish for, and as he prepared to bait the traps again he thought how he would send his little Ned over to the Point House, as the mistress there had promised him as high a price as he got in the market for them. A pleasant smile lit up his face as he thought how proud his boy would be of the money, and very thankful he was that he had come. Suddenly, however, his face changed, the smile fled away, and a scared look took its place. He was bending down on one knee baiting the last trap, when his acute ear caught the sound of something grinding against the rocks. What is it! Tom looks cautiously round and sees a black object creeping along the shore towards him dragging behind it a long chain ! With a cry of fear Kelly hid his fa<;e in his hands, and a dreadful thought took possession of his mindo Why had he ever come to those haunted rocks! Oh, had he not heard old Moore say that the Devil would come with chains to bind any man who fished there ? And the prophecy had come true, for he heard the dreaded being give vent to a loud growl of dehght, and spring from rock to rock, clanging the chains behind it. Tom had sunk on his face on the stones a cold perspiration breaking out overhim ; those few moments seemed hours to the prostrate man, till witli another growl he knew that the black object stood beside him, he felt its breath on his neck and something cold sniff'ed at him. A new idea sprang into his mind, he leapt from his lowly posture in despair, and with doubled fist Jht his black enemy, then turned and fled for dear life. Quick, Tom, quick ! one false step now and all is lost. Never before did man fly over the slippery sliingle at such a pace, for fear lent speed to his strong limbs. Ever behind the black demon kept; clang! clang! clang ! echoed the heavy chains on the rocks. Just as Tom reached the door of the first cottage in the haven it sprang on him, and tore away the sleeve of his jersey. Another step and Tom is saved! the door of the cottage barred and Kelly gasps out his story to the astonished inmates. The news that Tom Kelly had been chased by the Devil from the Haunted Rocks soon spread through the hamlet; a party of men at last took courage and ventured forth to reconnoitre. The mist had cleared away now, but nothing could be seen but Fury, the Point House watch-dog, rushing about in a 166 The Attempt. very excited manner, and dragging behind him a long piece of chain. It happened that about a week before, while Fury was taking his constitutional swim, an acci- dent had happened to his chain, and it had been very insecurely mended. Early next morning a great cackling arose in the hen-house, and Fury came out of his kennel to see what the noise meant. Fearing lest some tramp should be about he lay down, and only pretended to be asleep ; but when pussy, returning from a good night's hunting, came within the bounds of his chain, the dog- made a dash at her, and she only saved herself by scramb- ling over the garden wall. The chain, unable to withstand the strain put upon it, gave way, and Fury found himself free. Some wise people tried in vain to convince Kelly that it was Fury and not the Devil that chased him over the shore ; but the lobsters, if they only knew it, might feed and play in perfect safety under the Haunted Rocks, for never again will Tom Kelly or any other Haven fisher- man set his traps there. E. V. LYNNE. 2Vte above is founded on fact.

II in b in? I hi s.

How frequently you find among people who have a predilection for making observations about the outward man, that they are apt to assume its status in life may be pretty accurately defined by one special adjunct of its general " get up," and that a most important char- acteristic of man's individuality, viz., the umbrella he carries about with him. According as it is fine and soft in make and material, or of homely and substantial gingham, universally designated " Gampish," so these differences of manufacture, we are told, are more or less indicative of the social differences which exist between their owners. If you wish to discover whether a man is a close and vigilant disciple of " Mrs Grundy," whether he is careless of the position he may possibly attain for himself in the eye of favour which the fashionable world has it at her option to bestow, or whether again he is so secure in worldly or learned renown, that he takes a peculiar pride in making that eye affect to wink at his The Attempt. 167 iudifference to its withering potency, you have only to notice, with ready acumen, the manner and style of folding or unfolding, furling or unfurling with which he manipulates his umbrella into the smallest possible compass, or strapping it carelessly round, leaves it to bulge out in an ungainly fashion that sets all criticism at defiance. You never find one of this latter class in the tenderly nurtured hand of the " lady-killer," or the more seasoned palm of the " man about town," nor in that of the parvenu, who is awaiting the "open sesame"into society as he treads upon the balance of its opinion,—no, they are only too careful about the right adjustment and the smooth envelopment of the spokes of their umbrella, as they hold it with all the necessary soup^on of swagger and display of well-fitting glove, which it is incumbent upon them to exhibit if they would acquire a certain studied air of following in the wake of the beau monde,— they cannot afford to lose the prestige which this im- portant part of their equipment lends to their appearance. Have you ever watched for the business man of early punctual hours, when you have been looking out of your window over the morning newspaper %—the man with the stout square-toed boots and small shiny leather bag in one hand, and a thick double-twilled umbrella in the other (except on a very bright warm day in summer you never see him with a walking stick), who is as careful to hold it firm and fast as though he were engaged in some lucrative negotiation with a promising client. Then there is the little dapper old gentleman, who always carries his hidden in a long black case of shiny American leather, seemingly newly purchased at the umbrella-maker's, and looking as methodical and precise in point of wrappage as you feel sure he must be in every respect himself. Also the big, burly, genial man of our acquaintance, who swings his recklessly along with such hazardous evolutions in the air, as nearly cause it to come in perilous contact with the heads of people of lesser frame and build, and passing it through the bend of his arms, keeps it in the same horizontal position while he arrests your progress for a few moments, looking for all the world like a trussed fowl of pantomimical pro- portions. You may be quite sure that this genus is of the thorough-going, practical sort, calculated to inspire any young " Tite Barnacles" with no small 168 The Attempt. amount of wholesome dread by his non-observance of order and convenance. Once more, there is the pedant, the man of pro- fessional repute, who is as much a part and parcel of the town he lives in, as the College and High Street are its centre and backbone. His umbrella usually lags in the rear of his advancing footsteps, and sometimes even drags along the pavement in such moments of absence of mind, when its possessor may be generally surmised to be lost in a maze of problematical solutions. Seldom or never is there a button or elastic—unless it might be a piece of coarse twine or tape—to gird the flapping folds in seemly order together. You may have likewise observed how almost invariably this erudite portion of humanity is addicted to the obsolete fashion of wearing large gaiters. Should there be a button or two amissing from these, as if their defalcation countenanced the loose deportment of the umbrella, you may make a tolerably correct surmise as to his being an unmarried professor—disdaining the kindly and efficient offices of a wortliy helpmeet's administration in his domestic affairs, greatly preferring to maintain his own single course, to say nothing of the unshackled umbrella. Let me add, for the benefit of those of my readers who are given to the solution of every-day problems, a remark which an old friend of mine, of professional notoriety, once put to me, and for which I have never yet found an answer. I had been wondering during a quarter of an hour's unbroken silence on his part—which I had done my best to dispel—what had occupied his thoughts in such an engrossing manner^ " Is it a very knotty point," I iirged at length, " that you cannot be prevailed upon to come out of this terrible fit of abstraction ? " " My friend," he replied, gravely, almost reproachfully, at my persistent importunity, " can you tell me why umbrellas—no matter what their form or size—have never more than eight spokes ? " SEMPER IDEM. The Attempt. 169

I. OLDEST PERIOD.

THE ancient Greeks took beauty for their ideal; the Romans worshipped order; and we may say of the Germans, both ancient and modern, that they have had for their ideal, profundity,—profundity of heart and mind, with an utter disregard of the external conditions of form or beauty. These, in their eyes, form not indispensable accessories. In contrasting the ancient German poetry with that of the Greeks, we at once see a proof of this. Homer first wins by the immortal forms of beauty in which his verse is clothed; through these we pass as through marble vestibules, to contemplate, and to be won by. the heroes whom he enshrines in classic fame. But he who would admire the ancient German poems, must already have their heroes in high esteem. The unity ot the national heart presupposes a kindred pulse in every reader. Strength was the companion of profundity in the com- position of those works; and by strength of language and of lung their form was determined. So rich was the ancient Saxon language in forms of expression, that one word was not enough for each common object; thus, for the idea mari, there were eight different forms of expres- sion. Adjectives were equally numerous and equally ex- pressive ; and, compared with those old forms, the present language seems weak indeed. Yet the language, if enervated, is also refined. We must take into considera- tion that the ancient poems were composed to be sung, or rather to be declaimed. The accent was invariably laid on the principal words in each line, which were as often as possible connected by alliteration. Often the poems were declaimed into hollowed shields, that the mighty reverberations might give force and weight to the expres- sive language. And of what state of mind were those ancient lays the expression ? Of a state which has perhaps had a share in the creation of every heart-stirring poem the world has seen,^—namely, hero-worship. Hero-worship was then tied down to limited conditions. Uncivilised man is man limited in occupation, in idea. What men want in variety is compensated in unity. The nation is one, its interest is JUNE 1874. Y 170 The Attempt.

one, and one poem suffices for all. It flows out of one heart straight into the heart of the many, and there it remains and satisfies. There is hardly to be found an early poem of a barbarous, unchristianised age in any country, that has not warlike deeds or field-sports for its theme. Muscular barbarism was the universal fashion then; muscular Christianity, or indeed Christianity of any kind, was as yet unknown. The unity of barbarism was followed in Germany by the unity of Christianity. Heralded by a struggle, it embraced the whole nation, gave it new life, inspired the writings of its first classic period. But ere this, there was a long period during which the unchristianised poetry of a barbarous age luxuriated, like the flowers of a vast prairie, in undimmed and unmitigated splendour. From the middle of the fourth to the middle of the twelfth century, this ancient period of German poetry extends. Across this long era, the migration of nations cast its broad shadow. The Huns came like a sirocco, subduing only to subdue, and exercising no elevating influence over the tribes they conquered. Their cruelty is well pour- trayed in the " Lay of the Nibelungs," that time-hallowed possession of the nation. Then came the reign and the christianizing influence of Charlemagne, A similar influ- ence was exerted by his son, who showed the zeal of a novice in destroying all the old heathen romances and poems his efforts could reach. The time was not yet for the blending of the pure element in nature with the leaven of Christianity. All good things have a forerunner and a herald, and in the very beginning of this period, there sounded forth a voice which was to find an echo at its close. The light of three successive centuries, during which appeared no other like him, was Ulfila, an Arian of Maesia. He translated (360-380 A.D.) the Bible into Gothic,—a lan- guage superior to the German of the present day in all but fluency and variety of construction. Not till the sixteenth century were his manuscripts discovered; of the Old Testament in his translation, only a very small fragment is preserved. The oldest piece of Gothic rhyme occurs in his translation : it is, literally rendered, " We mourned to you, ye have not wept; we piped to you, ye have not leapt." Next in antiquity to the writings of Ulfila, are two legends that are well known stiU. Belonging to the fifth The Attempt. 171 century, or to an even earlier date, they are at the present day as deeply ingrained in the mind of the nation as they were then. One is the story of the horned Siegfried, who, whUe yet a boy, made for himself a sword at a magic forge in the centre of an ancient forest. With this sword he slew the dragon Fafnir, and liberated the amazon Brunhilda from a burning castle, afterwards falling himself by treachery. All this tells of imagination and national pride, as yet unchecked by the inroads of foreign oppression. And this legend, modified afterwards by the sway of the Huns and of Christianity, became the first part of the Lay of the Nibelungs. The other of these legends, Reynard the Fox, lives now in the version of the greatest German poet. It tells of the tendency inborn perchance in some, to idealise animals, and to make them act a human part. This tendency arose from the almost childlike intimacy which existed, in those remote ages, between men and beasts. That this legend of Reynard is of German, and not of French origin, is proved by the name Reynard or Reginhart, which, in old high German, means a counsellor, and which has, in the French language, completely super- seded the old word goupil. The many tales in which animals are made to speak and act like men, are all relics of Reynard the Fox and similar old legends ; and the stories of the Three Bears and Little Red Riding Hood may have been told for the first time round the blazing fagots in a primeval forest, where wolf and bear ven- tured near to enjoy the warmth, in common with their superior, man. The time of noble beneficent heroes like Siegfried, and of wonderful animals like Reynard, passed away ; and now come the ninth and tenth centuries, with their migration of nations. Foreign heroes come to attack the liberties of Germany; and German heroes arise to defend those liberties. They all have poetic lays framed about them, and Charlemagne and the convents collect these and write them down, along with the older ones. But many of them are lost, partly owing to the religious efforts of Louis the Pious, partly to the ravages of time. Of that period, we have now but three of these songs remaining, belonging to the ninth, but in the dress of the thirteenth, century. One of them is in old high German, one in Latin, one in Anglo- Saxon. The first (about the year 770), Hildebrand and his 172 The Attempt. son Hadubrand, shows how the warrior makes fighting his glory and liis one idea. Hildebrand has been thirty years absent with the king of the Huns, and had left a young wife and an infant son at home on his departure. On his return, his son Hadubrand meets him, and immediately prepares to knock him down, thinking that the best thing to do with an old man. Hildebrand tries to convince him of his identity, but the son is determined to believe that his father his dead. So the old man is obliged to fight, and while they are in the middle of a terrible combat, piercing each others' shields, the poem breaks off". Yet the end of the story is well known ; the wife of Hildebrand rushes in and separates the combatants, compelling the eon to recognise his father ; and they go home peacefully together, and atone for all over a banquet. This legend has been reproduced in several forms, one of the best known of which is called " the father and the son," by Caspar von der Roen. The next, in Latin, dating from the beginning of the tenth century, is " Walter of Aquitaine." Hero-worship revels here in the description of an invincible hero, and blood-thirstiness delights in the wounds he inflicts. Single-handed, he defends a narrow pass against twelve Burgundian foes in succession, and conquers them all. Different weapons, and a different mode of attack, are employed each time. At the end King Gunter has lost a foot, Walter a hand, another an eye and part of his teeth; but these losses, far from rendering the heroes miserable, only give them a theme for amusing comments. Thus the absorbing adoration of the god of combat can make every loss, even that of life, seem sweet in his service. The poem, after this stormy beginning, has a peaceful end. Walter spends the last thirty years of his life in quiet, maintaining the laws, and thus showing that he esteemed the god of War as but a guide to the temple of Justice. The third of these lays is in Anglo-Saxon. "Beowulf" belongs rather to English than to German literature. The ancestors of the practical English did homage in verse to a practical hero, who helped his country by ridding it of a terrible dragon. The poem is remarkable for its poetical delineations of nature, and faithful descrip- tions of the hero and his achievements. In spite of translations, it remains in many parts obscure. The period of the Carlovingians, from the year 800 to 919 The Attempt. 173

A.D., embraces the transition from heathendom to Christi- anity. The first introduction of Christianity into a country, welcome as it must be to all, when viewed in the hglit of religion and morality, is, from a purely hterary point of view, a cause of grave apprehension. For its first feeling towards the existing literature is that of disapproval; its first action that of repression. This we have already seen exemphfied in the efforts of Louis the Pious; we have now to look at the rehgious poems which, at his command, were substituted for the destroyed legends. They do not cast off the classic forms of the older epics, but clothe themselves in them. Alliterations, old epic forms, strong, manly expressions, are rife in the prayer of " Wessobrunn," and in " Muspilh,'' a poem on the end of the world. The beginning of the former sounds like a poetic adaptation of Scripture. "This I have heard among men as the greatest of wisdom: when the earth and the heavens were not, nor sky, nor tree; when the sun shone not, and the moon shed no light; when there was no sea, no end, and no bound, then was Almighty God." The other, too, is a sublime poem, though but a fragment. Superior to both is a Gospel Harmony, written at the command of Louis the Pious, by several Saxons. This poem is evidently penned by recent converts to Christi- anity, so warm are the expressions of feeling, so com- pletely are the terrors of the law eclipsed by the tender glories of the gospel. The beginning of the Sermon on the Mount is thus described :— " Close around the ruling Lord, God's Child of Peace, stand the wise men whom He, the Son of God, chose for Himself; farther down, the hosts of the people are en- camped. The faithful await the word of their King; musing they await, in reverent, expectant silence, that which the Kuler of the Nations shall declare to the assembled tribes. And the Shepherd of the land, God's own Child, sits opposite the men, to teach the praise of _ God in wise words to the people of the kingdom of this world. He sat there and was silent, and looked long at them, and was friendly in His heart towards them, and in His mood, the Holy Lord of the people; then He opened His mouth, the all-ruling Prince, to those whom He had called there together, and taught who are they among the nations of the earth, who are the most precious to God: blessed are they who are poor in 174 The Attempt. this world by humility, for God will give them in the fields of heaven, on the green meadow of God, unfading life." In this extract, and in other parts of the work, we find the Messiah Germanised. The ardent heart of the Saxon, in endeavouring to bring nearer to itself the image of the Saviour, has commissioned his fancy to clothe that image in the garb of those with whom he (the Saxon) daily associates. The few vivid touches of reality which he finds in the gospels must be supplemented from his own imagination, and thus we find these histories con- siderably enlarged and spun out, while the actions of the Messiah are like those of a highly idealised Saxon. Such an appeal to the sympathies of the nation was enough to make the work a great one; it bore an analogy in this respect to the old epics, which had sprung from the heart of the people. The newer, or subjective style of writing, was fore- shadowed in the Gospel Harmony of Otfrid, a Bene- dictine monk. This work appeared thirty years later. It is less natural, more artistic, more self-conscious, and even more spun out, than the other. The repu- tation which its contents failed to acquire, was secured by its form and language. In it, for the first time, rhyme is substituted for alliteration ; and on this ground alone it stood forth as a model to later writers. So ends this oldest period of German literature, which heralds, in tones more or less distinct, the brilliant outburst which is to follow it. It has an interest and a mystery peculiarly its own, as the dawn of a day the splendour of which seems to follow naturally such an auspicious beginning. PROCLA. {To be continued.) The Attenipt. 175

National Gallery^ London.

GrVE thanks, Murillo, for thy glorious art, As now I thank God for thy art and thee,— As now I thank Him for the scene I see. Which wakes strange musings in my hidden heart.

Oh, holy Child-Christ, touching with each hand The links that bound Thee to the human race. Thy foot on our earth, but Thine upturned face Gazing with love into Thy Fatherland.

What dost Thou see there ? Glory ? angels ? God ? Ay, more than ever mortal brain could dream. The depths of being in one vision seem As in one mighty scroll unrolled abroad.

The twelve years have not passed o'er Thy young head W^hen startled doctors bow before Thy lore, And still far off the thirty years before Thou turnest priest and dost Thine own blood shed.

Peace is upon Thy brow while Thou dost wait The tit time that Thy Father will decree, That Thou, by death, the restoration be Of those that owed Him death as their due fate.

Thy mother, the first Christian on the earth. Gazes on Thee with deep-set, reverent eyes, Waiting for each new wonder that doth rise Still to attest the wonder of Thy birth:

Gazing in awe on Thee, proved still her son Through birth, through life, in every filial way ; By love, by meek obedience day by day. Her Son and Saviour—Judah's Promised One.

Thy foster-father, clasping Thy left hand, Looking upon the world, with manly face. Where comfort, joy, and holy pride have place, That he should thus be chosen from the land. 17(> The Attempt.

To labour for His Lord, to give Him food, To find Him clothes, to build o'er Him a roof, To teach Him by example and reproof How in his trade to be a workman good. His eyes wear not the shadow of the sword That pierced his Mary's heart, his pleasant mouth Wears yet the simple, manly smile of youth, He knows not ihe full secret of His Lord. But who can know it % Can God be a child ? Have all His vast resources by His side, And be a tempted human soul beside'] Yet so it is—and that no fable wild. He willed to lay Omnipotence aside. His Omnipresence chained to one small spot, His Providence is taken from His lot. But His Omniscience, dreadful gift, how hide ? Does that young Child see all, hear all, know alVl Is all His woe kept ever in his heart"] Are all His sorrows of each breath a part ? Do past and future to His present call'? This seems to me the greatest mystery, Yet for that too we must accept His word. That in assuming flesh the mighty Lord Became a very man, as weak as we. Drank some strange Lethe, and forgot the heaven Absent from which He here sojourned a space. And, like a mortal, for His daily race Prayed for His daily help, and it was given. Ere Adam fell might have been men like Him, After He rise such men may be again, And purer, cleansed by Him from earthly stain, Than if no sin had breathed their mirror dim. In God's own image man had first been made. Yet in that image all our woe begun, So God put on the image of a man. To temper its full powers that need not fade. He was a Child, and hence all children learn From Him how childhood can be good and sage, A youth, a man, and though He reached not age, Old men may in His youth their guide discern. LUTEA RKSEDA. The Attempt. Ill

Js it \\\i, guti| of ^oman to gai) gwat attention to 'Qn^s ?

DEBATE PAPER—NEGATIVE SIDE.

THIS is a question on which we cannot fail to feel an interest, on account of its great practical importance. It concerns the current of our thoughts, as well as the apparel of our persons—therefore what makes character as well as appearance. I feel strongly that, when considered in its full bear- ings, I can only answer it by an unqualified negative, for great attention to dress has ever marked the ages and countries whose people were frivolous in their habits, circumscribed in their views, and little in their acts. Great attention to dress, whether in man or woman, is the characteristic of the little, not of the enlarged mind ; it is the weak, not the strong point of an individual. At first, you are inclined to demur as to my position, because you feel that the neglect of dress is a glaring fault, discover- ing a want of propriety, and destroying the symmetry of a well-ordered nature. I grant it. 1 give no quarter to those who neglect dress on principle. It is unwomanly— disorderly. But more unwomanly and more disorderly still—for it displaces the dictates of the higher, rather than the instincts of the lower nature—is the paying great attention to that which is intended to hold a sub- ordinate place. I know that the great majority, perhaps all, present, are ready to support the opposite opinion; but let us proceed in the question, step by step, until we discover where we are not agreed. First. As to the legitimate meaning of the enquiry— Is it the duty of woman to pay great attention to dress 1 The words are carefully chosen, and avoid all ambiguity. The subject is placed on high ground ; it is not made a question of pleasure or of profit, it is one of right, and more than that, it is a question of right, as it affects our own practice, in one word, of duty. It is duty as it concerns woman, distinguished from man, women of all orders and degrees, from the Queen in her palace to the drudge in the scullery. The question is not one of general attention to neatness, order, and propriety in every department under her charge, but it is that of JI7NE 1874. Z 178 The Attempt.

paying great attention to DRESS. Dress may be, I think, fairly distinguished from clothing, as being clothing in the order and orderliness of its arrangement, in its {esthetic aspect. When we say a person dresses well or ill, we do not mean is clothed in abundant or thread- bare garments, but is dressed tastefully, becomingly, neatly, fashionably, or the reverse. I do not think that interest in Dorcas societies, or physiological en- quiries into what is sanitary in the way of dress, is the subject of our discussion, for had it been so, clothing would have been the more appropriate word. Then, as to the relation between woman and dress. It is the duty of paying great attention to it. Attention is a quality of the mind, which loses in intension as it increases in exten- sion. If we want to pay Paul, we must rob Peter. In proportion as we give attention to one thing, we with- hold it from another. Is it then woman's duty to give a great proportion of this non-elastic but most valuable quality of the mind to dress f That this is the clear legitimate meaning of the question is a point on which I think we are all agreed. There is no extreme mentioned or necessitated on either side. I am sure neither my opponent nor any one here would for a moment say that dress should be the fiirst object of a woman's life, and, on the other side, I am far from allowing that she should give no attention to it. The opposition is between great and moderate. If she gives moderate, she cannot give great; if she gives great, she cannot give moderate. I contend that a woman is perfectly justified and ought to give moderate, but is not justified in giving great attention to dress. I would first argue the question on the higher ground of rightness, and then descend to the lower one of utility. Why then is it not right of a woman to pay great attention to dress ? First, Because there are many things that demand and ought to receive greater attention. I shall not dwell on the duties we owe, to our God as responsible, immortal beings,—the objects of a love we cannot fathom, bound by every feeling of gratitude to devote ourselves wholly to Him. The God of Christianity permits woman's service •of love, and none of us would theoretically make sub- servient to dress this our bounden duty. Neither are we isolated beings, standing alone in a world where we have no wide sympathies, no general interests. Humanity is a large brotherhood. As Cln-is- The Attempt. 179 tians, we may be called the elder childi'en of that human family,—those who have been taught their Father's will, and for whom there is an absorbing interest, an incum- bent duty to help the weaker. The whole world is at present agitated in a way we can hardly realise. Japan and China are throwing off the traditions of unknown ages, and are learning from the west her religion and her civilisation. India,—with her 300,000,000, our fellow subjects, as well as fellow creatures,—is awakening to fresh energy, and urgently calling for our help, as British women, to forward the education of our many eastern sisters, who have hearts to love, and minds to understand, but who are morally degraded, mentally neglected, and spiritually unmoved. Central Asia, too, is shaking herself from the lethargy of ages. Never till now did Persian sovereign visit Em-ope since Xerxes crossed the Hellespont, in that mighty struggle between oriental despotism and the freedom of the Greek. Turkey has begun to care for the education of her daughtei-s; and Africa is explored, not only in the interests of science, but in those of civilisation, and Christianity. The whole earth seems ready to spring into newness of life. It is not with her the day of nature's rest, when winter breathes his icy breath, and each new form is a crystallisation that shall dissolve and pass away. No, this is the day, when the " winter is past, and the flowers appear on the earth, when the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land;" it is the day when the breath of spring tide is felt, and on the bare trees of the forest the young green appears in budded lovehness, which shall unfold in the fulness of beauty, till ten thousand times ten thousand leaves shall clothe the branches with their summer glory. We are living in this crisis, watching, it may be, the dawn of the day " foretold by prophets, and by poets sung," and our help, the help of British women, is needed. Have we time, with such realities enacting, to give great attention to dress ? But we will naiTow our view, we will think only of our own land. Is it sleeping now ? Are the masses of society slumbering? Are there not rather great movements at work, which are gathering in force, and are ready to pour down either in blessing or in devastation over our island-home % Is not the grow- ing influence of woman one of the great questions of 180 The Attempt. the day ? Do we not feel, whether we desire it or not that an impetus has been given that must raise her pohtically and socially, that she must henceforward take a governing part in the education of her country, and have a voice in its legislature, that her education must be different to what it has been, that occupations shall be hers that were not thought of a few years ago % We cannot help these things. We need not determine whether we wish them to be otherwise; but are we not resolved to be found worthy of the fresh opportunities awarded % Are we not resolved to show that we have the capacity for what shall be placed before us as a dutyl And would we that great attention to dress should inter- fere with this ? Think we that it demands more thought than the mighty movements of which we cannot see the end ? If we do, surely we are like the child that plays with its castle of sand, and does not observe that the advancing tide is separating it from the shore all around, and is ready to overwhelm it. But there is a yet narrower though not less important field of duty, which demands far more attention than dress. I speak of our domestic ties. We are almost all placed in families (artificial sisterhoods seem to me to have no war- rant, either of scripture or of nature), and in these families, there is husband, or child, or parent, brother, or sister, or friend to whom certain obligations are due. Is the wife to give great attention to her dress before she thinks of cheering her husband"? or the mother, before she tries to influence her child ? the daughter, before she gives her parent the help that needs, or the sister, the com- panionship that her brother requires ? In the neglect of any of these duties, is it sufficient excuse to say, "My dress required greater consideration ? " I am sure in this also we are agreed. There is hardly time to touch on the question, as it affects women in different positions in life. The amount of fortune makes a great difference as to the style in which Ave should dress, and the amount of money we should spend, but very little as to the question of great attention. The slatternly servant, who goes with stock- ingless feet and unkempt hair, is not more reprehensible, than the lady whose negligence of attire is a subject of annoyance, sometimes, we may almost say, of disgust, to those around her; nor is the attendant, who thinks of flowers and flounces, and, giving great attention to dress, The Attempt. 181 is not able to do her proper work, neglecting her duty more blameably than the young lady who gives up what are incontestably prior duties for the vain show of fine apparel. It sounds paradoxical, but we know that these two extremes, slovenliness at home and fine dress abroad, often co-exist. That milliners, dressmakers, and ladies' maids should pay it great attention, because it is their livelihood, the duty they have undertaken, we are all agreed. The practical question is, what should we our- selves do ? we, who have leisure at our own command ? Are there any other pursuits, not in the position of duties, that may demand from us greater attention than the fashion of dress ? Surely all branches of intellectual improvement may, as has already been implied in the question of social advancement. Surely the mind is better worth garnishing than the body ; surely know- ledge is of more consequence than satins, and wisdom of more value than rubies. And is there not more of true sesthetic charm in music, in painting, in sculpture, in architecture, than in dress ? If there is time for these things, are they not the higher art % Do they not elevate the soul to a higher level % do they not gratify the taste in a far less self-engrossing manner ? I really know of nothing, in moderation right, to which great attention is more objectionable, except eating. The gourmand is a character for whom I have less sympathy than the votary of fashion. Are we not, then, all agreed that there are many things which demand, and ought to receive, greater attention than dress % Second, Another argument I would bring forward is, that it induces the direction of much thought to what is comparatively vain and frivolous. The love of beauty, whether in things material or spiritual, is right. It bears upon it the stamp of His image, who spoke Kosmos out of Chaos, and pronounced the work of His hands very good. Some have con- tended that beauty is the highest standard of perfection, and though we may not agree absolutely in this, yet we feel that where right is, there is beauty, and where beauty is, there is right. Therefore, as the arrangement of dress is one phase of beauty, we do not deny that attention to it in some degree is right. But in what degree? What is its worth % How does it weigh with the beauties of virtue,—with patience, kindness, truth, benevolence, gentleness, prudence, industry ? 182 TJie Attempt.

Again, how does it weigh with the excellencies of the understanding—Avith good information, clearness of judgment—a sound mind ? Or does it hold the scale in comparison with the beauties of creation, ever teaming with fresh objects for our admu-ation—with the starry heavens, flooded with aurora rays, or silvered with the beams of moonlight,—with the spotless snow, sparkling with a brilliancy no fuller on earth can attain—with the plumage of the flitting bird, or the painting of the gorgeous flower f " Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow,'"' and He who formed them, who knows their design, the delicacy of their texture, who sees the costliest raiment to be in comparison but as sackcloth, has with unerring wisdom pronounced, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Should, then, attention be great to what at best weighs so lightly in the scale of beauty % But it is not only that dress is vain—it also leads to frivolity of mind. As the stream cannot rise above its course, so great attention to dress leads the mind to what is only outside beauty, to what ministers to vanity, self-consideration, jealousy, and envy. We value a thing according to the attention we give it, and if, by this means, dress grows high in our esteem, will it not re-act upon our thoughts and tempers ? By much attention we have reached, as we suppose, excellency in our style of dress,—is not such conscit)usness likely to lead to vanity as to our personal appearance, and vanity to self-consideration, or, if others come in the way of this, to jealousy or to envy? Again, does not much attention to dress induce much conversation on the subject, and what discourse, except scandal or untruth, is more unprofitable than a discussion on the varied attire of those with whom we meet ? Does it improve either head or heart? He Avho valued the lily above the rarest clothes, said, " Take no thought for your raiment, what ye shall put on, for after these things do the Gentiles seek." St. Paul, the greatest of His followers, has penned more regarding woman than any other writer in Scripture. He knew her weakness and spoke no words of flattery; he knew her value, and gave her truest dignity in mentioning her amongst those who laboured with him in the gospel; he, recognising her high calling, and knowing her greatest dangers, said, "Let women attire themselves Jlie Attempt. 183 in modest apparel, not with braided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array, but which becometh women professing godliness, with good works." And St. Peter's language is similar, when he sj^eaks " of the ornament of the meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price." Is there not in these verses an antagonism between great attention to dress, and what God values'? We do not lay stress on the gold and pearls and braided hair, but we do on the magnifying the importance of attire, whither it be the nun's sombre hood, the quaker's russet bonuet, or the extravagant costume that must be of the latest fashion. If you have gone with me so far, no more words are needed, but we can aiford to take lower ground. There may be some who, unable to argue that great attention to dress is right, are still persuaded that it is useful, that it is ajsthetically beneficial, that it does in some points exalt Avoman's character, and that it raises her in the estimation of the stronger sex. Is it aisthetically beneficial? Are the people who pay greatest attention to -dress those who dress with the greatest taste ? The primary requi- site for good dressing is good taste, and without this neither a great expenditure of money, of thought, nor of time will secure tasteful, becoming attire. Why is it that the taste of one-half of the world is offended by the dress of the other ? Why is it, when we look back on the style that prevailed ten or twenty years ago, we say, is it possible people ever dressed in such frightful costume % And yet it was not want of attention. The wonderful head- dressing of our great-grandmothers was one of the chief occupations of their lives, and much personal inconvenience did they suffer that the adornment might not be disturbed. Fashion, not artistic rule, is the usual standard of dress, and fashion does not endorse the truly aesthetic and often quoted, but" seldom practised judgment of the poet, " When unadorned, adorned the most." The artist feels its truth. Ho seldom adorns his beauties in the earrings, necklaces, frills, and furbiloes that occasion so much anxious thought. We do not often hear what people say about OTir own dress, but the various remarks passed on others, often on those whose dress shows great attention either to art or fashion, are of so disparaging a character, that we may well exclaim, " What guerdon when their work is done ? " Every one makes their own taste in this matter the 184 The Attempt. standard; and, if it be often true, what is one person's food is another's poison, so what is one person's admiration is another's abhorrence. And does attention to dress, in any way, exalt a woman's character? We have seen that it does not raise her out of female weaknesses and foibles; that it does not deaden vanity, envy, and jealousy, but you allege it increases self-respect. Is it not rather that good dress is the natural product of self-respect, industry, and orderliness, and not the cause ? Surely we must respect ourselves for what we are, rather than for what we wear. Does attention to dress place us on a higher level than the Indian squaw bedizened ^vith feathers, or the African queen with her necklaces of beads ? Is there much difference between the civilised lady, who has set her heart upon a new and exquisite dress, who has teased her husband, or saved her own money to purchase it, who has worried herself, because after all the sleeve was not of the right cut, nor the skirt of the requisite length, or because another lady is dressed in a costume provokingly like or still more provokingly handsomer,—is there much difference between her and the captives of the harem, who give the long day to dress as their great consideration, and who seek to vie with each other in the beauty of their attire I You will not, cannot say that in any way great attention to dress exalts the character of Christian, civilised woman. And does it raise her in the estimation of the stronger sex % Yes ; of such as themselves think much of dress, but whom force of public opinion has forbidden to sport ruffles and embroidery, and who, bending to necessity, wear the conventional black coat and beaver hat; and of such (there are yet too many) who would look on woman as the child looks on her doll—who thinks she is made to be his plaything, to be dressed up. Such do measure women by dress; but would we that they should ? Do we not want something better than dress to raise their estimation for us ? Do we not wish them to feel we are their companions, not their toys ; that we have interests as high, occupations as important, as their own % that if it is a question they would not entertain for a moment— " Should men pay great attention to dress ? " so is it one that we will throw overboard without hesitation; and while we will not neglect that moderate attention that is fit for a man as well as for a woman, we will not be the The Attempt. 185 vexed votaries of fashion,—we will not concern ourselves greatly about the raiment we put on ; but we will allow religion and benevolence, domestic duties and social enjoyments, intellectual interests and artistic occupations, to be our chief pursuits,—those things in which there is virtue and praise, on which we may well think, and to which it is woman's duty to pay great attention. ALIQUA.

Is gouih the iapifst iimc of life?

POETS have sung to us of the joys of spring time, both of the spring of the year, when all nature is budding into beauty, and the spring of early manhood, when all the faculties are opening to influences from without. They bid us look back on the joys of youth, they paint for us scenes of early happiness—scenes which are indeed very fair when beheld in the subdued light of distance, with all the hard outUnes softened by the touch of time, and the very defects endeared to us by the associations they suggest of people and places who have passed out of our lives. It is only in very exceptional cases—and how unutterably sad those cases are—that youth, regarded from a distance, does not look like some joyous, beautiful, sacred time. Even the man who has had a prosperous, happy life, who in public has been honoured and in private loved, cannot look back on his early days but with a tender feeling of half-regret. When he meets a comrade of his boyhood, with whom he competed in the class-room and fought in the playground, his heart glows vdth pleasure, and he gives him a welcome such as he accords to few of his friends of later days. When a woman surrounded with a family of loving children, for any one of whom she would gladly lay down her life, whose pleasures and duties are so well proportioned that her cup of happiness seems full to overflowing, whose wide-reaching interests are not limited to her home affairs, Avhich, though forming the centre, are yet not the circumference of her circle,—when such a one meets, in middle life, the companion with whom she studied Lindley Murray and Whately in the schoolroom, or Avith whom, a few years later, she shared the pleasures of her first ball, what happy talk of past days ensues! how tenderly all the little incidents of by-gone years are JUNE 1874. 2 A 18G The Attempt.

recalled ! It is as natural for age to look back as it is for youth to look forward. As middle-life seems to the youthful mind a goal much to be desired, when, with full powers and perfect freedom, such deeds are to be per- formed as will make the world resound with applause; so youth seems to the matvtre mind—weaiy, sometimes, with perpetual Avorking—an enchanted era. In all this there is much sentiment, true natural senti- ment, but still such as casts a halo round matters of fact, dazzling our sight, and confusing our judgment. Let us look at the question in a calm, judicial sort of a way. Is youth actually the happiest time of life? You see the question is not—Is youth as happy a time as any other ? but is it the happiest ? If I can prove that middle, or old age, is as happy, I shall be satisfied, though in the course of the few following remarks I may aim at a little more. Novelists, by giving us so many pictures of charming young girls, endowed with every conceivable virtue and talent—who, by the way, are generally set off by the presence of very silly mothers, and weak aunts—have spread the popular fallacy that young people are more interesting than old. In novels it is generally the young people who are long-suffering, patient, brave, wise, and forgiving, while the old people are selfish, silly, and stupid. Why this strange perversion of truth should be so general, it is hard to say. Is the ordinary young girl, prettily dressed and pleasant-looking, as interesting a companion as one who is her senior by twenty or thirty years ? Is her innocent little life of gaity, tempered with a few hours daily devoted to keeping up her accomplishments, more happy than the fuller, freer life of her who has " put away childish things," and is following out a hfe of active work? The young girl may be, and often is, bright, intelligent, and good; but if so at tAVenty, Avhat may she not become at forty? John Stuart Mill Avrites as follows of his wife, who. when he first met her, was in the twenty-third year of her age :—" It is not to be supposed that she Avas, or that any one at the age at which I first saAV her could be, all that she afterwards became. Least of all could this be true of her, with AAdiom self-improA^ement, progress in the highest and in all senses, AA^as a law of her nature; a necessity equally from the ardour Avith Avhich she sought it, and from the spontaneous tendency of faculties Avhich could not receive an impression or an experience without making it the source or the occasion of an accession of The Attempt. 187 wisdom.* What is true in this respect of a woman, is even more strikingly so of a man. 1 know there are many manly young men, who, if any great occasion called for it, would buckle on their armour and do valiant work; but in ordinary every-day life, I think all must allow that the young men whom we meet are less interesting than those who are either in the midst of their toil, or who, better still, having rowed hard, sometimes with the stream, but oftener against it, are now resting on their oars, ready to cheer on a younger generation with advice and sympathy. It seems to me that in youth we may be more joyous than in later years, certainly our animal spirits are higher, the intense joy of existing, the feeling of the young, strong life within us, which can scarcely be re- strained from making us run when we should walk, and dance when we should run,—this exuberance of joy is ar characteristic of early years, though in some enviable cases it lasts longer than in others ; it is generally, I think, changed into a more sober gladness by the advent of the first sorrow of life. But this extreme liveliness, though in itself a joy, does not constitute happiness, it is a part of happiness, but only a small part; to put it logically— the notion happiness contains this joy, but they are not not co-ordinate. Another characteristic of youth is its disposition to look at things in a very strong light; what is good, seems to it to be very good, and what is bad, to be very bad. Youth knows no medium, recognises no extenuating circumstances, allows for no differences in disposition and education, calculates on no mixture of motives—thus, the most generous youth is apt to be a harder judge of his fellow-creatures than a man of mature years. As years pass on, the mind enlarges and sees regions far beyond the youth- ful ken; what before seemed isolated facts of great beauty or of deformity, gradually fit into their places, the beauti- ful becoming more beautiful by the recognition of their true place in the divine harmony of things, and apparent defects prove to be only such when taken singly, apart from what precedes and follows after them. Does this gradual recognition of order, this growing belief in a Divine Mind working throughout the universe, ordering all things aright, even though only partially understood by us—add nothing to our happiness? Youth may not have perplexed itself with questioning as to the govern- * Autohior/rapliy, chapter vi., page 185. 188 The Attempt. ment of the universe, it may have been content to sun itself in the joy of existence without asking the purpose of that existence, what should be its aim, and will be its end. Still when youthful troubles come, as they will come even to those happy young creatures, do not these troubles seem very hard to bear, very strange, very unaccount- able, just because the mind has not grasped the idea of a Perfect Being ruling all things? Does the youthful spirit not rebel angrily at being thwarted, does it not fight furiously against its destiny, as though, with its impotent arm, it could throw aside an authority it cannot under- stand % In youth there is an intensity of joy and an intensity of sorrow,—the world either looks very bright, as though no cloud could overshadow the sky, or very dark, as the light could never again penetrate the gloom. Gradually the feelings become more equal, and if we can no longer trust in the perfect joy of anything in this world, if, in our very rejoicing, there is mixed some trembling, at least we can acknowledge that no sorrow is for ever, that even the darkest " cloud has a silver lining." Does this add nothing to our happiness? Some people speak of the hardening effect of years spent in the strife of this working- day world, of the loss of generous impulses, of warm affections, of faith in one's fellow-creatures, of the gradual wearing away of the poetry of youth in the realities of middle life. But is all this the necessary result of living the life which we have been given to live, and which must be meant for our improvement, and not for our detriment? In some cases, where youth has been spent in trifles, and worst trifle of all, in trying to preserve itself beyond its natural term, middle age may present a hard, xinlovely appearance; but where, as is much oftener the case, youth has given place gently and naturally to advancing years, as the blossom gives way to the fruit, as morning to mid- day, we find a wider charity, a greater depth, if, perhaps, a less display of feeling ; the character is altogether richer and more mellow than in early years, or, to quote from one of the writers in this magazine,— " Oh, greet na for the dawnin' Grown into day, Greet na for Spring-time ripenin' To Simmer gay ; Spring's made but for the Simmer, Dawnin' for day. Youth's Apri I's the forerinner O' riper May." The Attempt. 189

Had you need of a friend to help you in doubt and difficulty, with patience and sympathy, would you turn to one just entering on manhood, full of untrained feelings and untried theories, or to one who had learnt by years to allow for your weakness, and to sympathise with your doubts I I think you would not hesitate, but go straight to your elderly friend, who, though busy with a thousand affairs, would think it no loss of time to turn aside and give a hand to one just entering on the work of the world. Does this giving of sympathy, this imparting of strength to the weak, add nothing to happiness—is it " more blessed to give " or " to receive % " Of course, I do not mean to assert that any time of life is without its draw- backs. I know that middle age, though happy in the earnest pursuit of what is best in life, is often wearied and over-driven, at times almost despairing of seeing its work prosper, and tempted to sit down on the wayside and let the busy traffic go on unheeded; the road seems so steep, steeper than when looked at in the morning light, and the end so far away. But a gentle upbraiding voice is heard, " What, wearied out with half a life? " and ashamed, we rise to pursue our way. It is the middle-aged who do the work of the world; the young, by their hopeful, unflagging spirits may infuse new vigour into it, and the old, by their tried experience and gentle sympathy may do much, but it is the middle- aged who "bear the burden and heat of the day." Surely there is more happiness in doing, than in only looking forward to do. The aged, as having done their active work in the world, rightly deserve the large share of happiness that falls to their lot. It is right that they who have done should be more loved and honoured than those who are only doing, or hoping to do. That they should have " love, obedience, honour, troops of friends," is their due—a tribute rendered most gladly, most lovingly, most reverently, by those who, in the midst of their work, love to snatch a quiet hour for converse with men and women, on whom the glad, bright light of heaven seems already shining. To some young people, old age seems a time to be dreaded; they shrink from the thought that some day they will lose the strength they glory in, and have to sit still while others move around them; they have yet to learn that bodily strength is not all happiness, that as it fails, the spirit is often brighter and purer, the heart 190 The Attempt. softer, the affections deeper, the whole mental vision clearer than in former years. What seemed in middle- life hard to understand, is now bright and beautiful; doubts have been cleared away, and faith in our fellow- creatures strengthened. " Would ye be young again ? So would not I ; One tear to memory given, Onwjurd I'd hie. Lite's dark flood forded o'er, All but at rest on shore, Say, would you plunge once more, With home so nigh ?" Speaking on this subject the other day to a con- temporary of my own, and expressing my admiration for people considerably older than myself, I received the rejoinder, that she was sorri/ for old people. Sorry! the very word seems almost an impiety ; surely an old age crowning a long and well-spent life is very far removed from our pity. I can imagine how, from the haven of rest which the old have reached, they could smile to hear us speak of pitying them, something as those who have passed to a higher state of existence might smile to hear poor mortals pitying them; but it would be the kindly, gentle smile of those who are looking on us with " larger, other eyes than ours, to make allowance for us all." If advancing years are dreaded as coming to steal from us some mere outward graces, if we look with horror on the advent of a few white hairs, if we cannot, as a novelist has well expressed it, " grow old with dignity," then indeed our youth has been misspent, we have trifled away our early years, and can only look for a small portion of the happiness of age. Lovely, loving, loveable old age did not seem to the poet Wordsworth a time to be dreaded, as he penned these words,— " Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, Nor leave thee when grey hairs are nigh, A melancholy slave ; But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave." DES EAUX, The Attempt. 191

3fhc %ttt\\\ djhurrh dfonurfiss,

EDINBURGH has within the last month been the scene of a gathering of unusual interest. The Scottish Episcopal Church, following the example of her English sister during several years past, has held her first Congress, and has laid the first stone of her new Cathedral. This ceremony has been looked forward to for a considerable time, and as it was certain to bring together a good many persons from a distance, and to unite in a common work many who seldom cross each others' paths of life and lines of thought, there occurred to some one the brilliant idea of holding a Congress, which should band them to- gether for longer than the purpose of a day, and which might produce for the Church at large some perma- nent and valuable results. We do not know to whom the credit of the idea is due, but we think he may really lay some claim to the possession of genius; for even if, in anticipating the success which has so abundantly justified the experiment, he only made a lucky guess, such a guess, as Miss Austen's "Emma" truly says, has always some talent in it. He has shared, with the other promoters of the scheme, the fate of many other people in advance of their times. Cold water has plentifully besprinkled it, dismal predictions and sarcastic remarks have not been wanting, and even those well-inclined to the project have been chary of anything more encouraging than Punch's celebrated Advice to those about to marry—"Don't!" But the Congress has taken place, and the result must be such as to gratify completely the hopes of those who proposed, and carried out so well, what seemed to many a hazardous, unwise, and even a presumptuous experi- ment. This is not the place for a defence of Congresses in general, nor do we propose to give a detailed report of the proceedings, which may be read elsewhere; but we should like to suggest to the readers of this paper, comprising, as we know they do, members of various religious communions, some thoughts on the meeting which has just closed among us, with the humble desire of furthering, in our own small circle, some of the good work which we believe the Congress has done, and will do, with a larger public. And, first of all, as many have probably felt already, what a change does the mere fact, even apart from the 192 The Attempt.

success of which we have spoken, show in the temper of the times. May we not look upon it as really a landmark in history? In this respect, its interest is unique and unrivalled by any English Congress, because of the utterly dissimilar present circumstances and past historical asso- ciations of the sister churches. Such a gathering, as we witnessed on the 21st ult., would have been utterly impos- sible less than a generation ago, when Scottish Churchmen never dreamt of bringing their Church's tenets or cere- monies into prominent view, knowing well that, though legal penalties were no longer to be apprehended, public opinion would grant them a rough, and probably very unfriendly, reception. The reasons for this change are so obvious as scarcely to need mention. The increased intercourse in modern days of the many minds of many men with one another, has much to do with it, but we believe that English people have little idea how complete and hoAV recent it is. The present writer well remembers the indignation, scarcely twenty years ago, of an old Presbyterian nurse, at her young ladies' patronage of a poor woman, who joyfully accepted the washing of what she termed " thae rags o' Popery," in which the choir boys, of a newly-erected church near Edinburgh, were arrayed. What would have been the good woman's feelings if she had beheld the white-robed throng gathered on the cathedral site % We can guess that they would not have been of the most pacific description, and they would once have been shared by most persons of her class. The absence of all unfriendly manifestation, and the quiet and orderly demeanour of the people at the evening meetings of the Congress, as well as during the ceremonial, proves what a change has come over the spirit of Presbyterianism,—partly through the enlarged intercourse of which we have spoken, which is doing so much, in conjunction with other influences, to recast the national beliefs and forms of worship, and partly, may not Scotch Episcopalians fairly say, through the good work which has quietly and unobtrusively been carried on for many years by the once despised and persecuted remnant. The troubles of that Church, her early rise, her gleams of prosperity, her dark days of trial, her fallen condition and almost total extinction up to a very i-ecent period, form a page in our country's history which is little read,—even well-informed persons, who would be ashamed of not knowing all about the Huguenots or the Lollards, often The Attempt. 193 betraying an astonishing degree of ignorance concerning matters much more nearly connected with their own country and times. This is true of persons on both sides of the Border; and some of our late visitors at least have probably had their minds greatly enlightened by the two very interesting addresses on the Past and Present Position of the Church, with which the Congress opened. Those who listened to Dr. Stuart's account of the Church in mediaeval times, must have felt that the fearful state of corruption which he described deserved the bitter retribu- tion which was afterwards endured. That retribution bore, with crushing severity, on comparatively innocent sufferers; but it was instrumental, under God's good providence, in purifying her from such hideous evil, as fully accounts for the utter revulsion of the most active and powerful minds among the reformers, from the Church in her ancient form. This detestation of " Prelacy," which is so fast dying out, had a natural and most reasonable origin, and though of course it has long ceased to be deserved, such feelings often survive for centuries the events which gave them birth. It has often astonished many people, who have harshly condemned it, not knowing, or having forgotten, that while the English Church inherits the veneration of ages,—shame, contempt, and hatred were the portion of her Scottish sister. Dr. Grub took up the subject where his predecessor dropped it, and brought out clearly the fact, which is ignored in popular histories, based as they are on the false or inaccurate information of Covenantmg authorities, that, at the time of the Revolution of 1688, there was no such pressure on the part of the nation for the establishment of Presbyterianism as is commonly supposed. The audience which listened to the simple account of the Church's suffer- ings during the century which succeeded the Revolution, probably contained few non-Episcopalians. To the descendants of these sufferers for conscience sake the tale may have been a familiar one (though we doubt if all Scottish Churchmen are as well informed as they ought to be in their Church's history), but we believe that, to many of our English visitors, it was as new as it is certainly touching. Even outsiders may be moved by a feeling of generous 8.ympathy for those who, counting the Avorld but loss, clung to the ministry of their Church and to her worship, with a steadfastness and loyalty which has never been surpassed. The evil spirits of sloth, JDSE 1874. 2 B 194 The A ttempt. avarice, and ambition must have been thoroughly purged out of the hearts of those who, seventy years ago, took Scottish orders, for though, after the repeal of the severest statutes in the year 1792, they had no longer the fear of prison and banishment before them, there can, as a historian of the Church has obsei-ved, have been no worldly inducement whatever to lead them to accept a position which involved the loss of all temporal gain and honour. Bishop in the Church of God, and the humble pastor of a despised few in some obscure corner,—such was the position of many who might have played a distinguished part on other stages, had they sought honour one of another. Not that they were wholly without that best honour, which is based on reverent affection; " The memory of the just Smells sweet, and blossoms in the dust ;" and the names of Jolly, Skinner, Low, and Torry are still remembered with the love and respect which their blame- less lives won from all who knew them. There seems, in the present day, some decay of their spirit in Scotland's sons, who, as was observed more than once in the Con- gress, prefer apparently the ease, prestige, and more brilliant possibilities of the English establishment, to the obscurity which is still the lot of a Scottish pastor. May the inspiration of some, with a different and a better spirit, be one of the results of this and of future Congresses. The attendance in the hall ebbed and flowed, after the opening papers were read, according to the expectations which people entertained of being interested, and Church Finance was probably considered a painful subject in these days of stationery incomes and high prices; but Irish- men can get some fun out of most things, and the Arch- deacon of Lindisfarne and the Dean of Kilmore certainly enlivened a dry topic very successfully. We hope that many interested in work among the masses were present during the meetings of Tuesday afternoon and evening. To whatever religious body they might belong, they must have gained valuable hints from the very striking address of the Rev. Erskine Clarke, who, if he comes near to his own ideal of a well-worked parish, must certainly be the model of a parochial clergyman. In the General Assembly of the Establishment, the same sort of needs and difficulties are discussed under the Report of the Committee of Chris- tian Life and Work, and no one who has listened to those debates, or concerned themselves, to however small an The Attempt. 195 extent, in Avork among the poor, could have failed to be interested. Organization and matters of practical detail were the afternoon's topics; the evening meeting struck a deeper note. The work of the Church in fulfilling her Master's last command,—the preaching of the everlasting gospel,— the conflict of the powers of evil,—the extension of His kingdom over the world which He has redeemed: the large audience listened fer into the night with the closest attention to the speakers, who addressed them in glowing words on this great subject. Three of these were engaged in London's great Twelve Days' IMission, early in the present year, and gave their experiences of the great and blessed effects produced by such missions. We hope that the beautiful and thoughtful addresses of Mr. Pigou and ^Ir. Maclagan will be widely read. A still graver and more earnest spirit seemed to pervade the Assembly during the first discussion next morning, on "The Quickening of Spiritual Life," aided by a few timely words from the President, the Bishop of Edinburgh. On questions concerning the most cherished inward convic- tions, there will always be differences of opinion in minds differently constituted and educated, but the real concord which may, nevertheless, exist among those who press forward to one goal, was unmistakeably felt and appre- ciated. Once more we refer our readers to the full reports for the warm and stirring words by which the Rev. W. Maclagan and other speakers moved the hearts of those before them. The deliberations of the Congress on education drew a large audience, as the subject was sure to do, and the merits or demerits of School Boards, the desir- ability of only secular teaching in schools, were discussed vdth great earnestness,—the one thought running through all being the question,-—How is the Church best to fulfil her mission to the young % How may she most success- fully maintain her hold on the rising generation ? It was a. very practical conclusion at which most of the speakers arrived, namely, that the best way to command success is to deserve it. Let our schools be made thoroughly efficient, and there is no fear that they will not be filled. The evening of the second day filled the large hall with an attentive audience, who followed, with unflagging interest, the very weighty addresses which were made on a subject of the highest importance. If among that 196 The Attempt.

crowd there were any of doubtful mind, who, without weapons of defence at their own command, are perplexed and troubled by the voices of unbelief around them, to which none can be wholly deaf, who cannot see how the attacks from which they shrink can be turned aside, or faith in the Living God, His word, His work, or even His being, preserved from loss, they must have been encouraged. There may have been such, rich or poor, young or of ripe years, man or woman, Avho must have felt gladdened and strengthened by the manly undaunted tone of every one of the speakers, who, with no timid concealment of difficulties, and with the utmost readiness to accept all the ascertained facts of science, showed how intellectual progress is perfectly compatible with Christian faith. We must hasten to a conclusion. Although, as we have said before, we are not concerned to defend Congresses, in general or particular, from their detractors, we may suggest some answers to several of the questions which have lately been asked. What is the use, say some, of any euch meetings, and especially of a Church Congress ? Lord Cockburn, in his recently published journal, tells us that he was contemptuously inclined towards the first meeting of the British Association held here some forty years ago, but, like a sensible man, he was not ashamed to own himself mistaken when experience had shown him to be so. His sagacious mind discovered in that gathering three uses which, with slight alteration, we think Church Congresses may also claim:—\st, the promotion of inter- course by the mere assembling of men, sharing a common interest in one class of subjects, and the convenience of opportunities for conference; 2J, the real progress towards useful results, more readily attained by an hour's conversa- tion, than by weeks of study or volumes of explanation; and ?>d, the diffusion of a growing taste for the subjects treated of by tlie gathering of an evening crowd which, if not instructed, was at least interested by what was said. Let us hope that the aff'ectation of science which he detected, calling it the sting in the tail, is avoided by Church Congresses in matters concerning religion. A Congress claims and possesses no legislative j^owers whatever; it simply aims at the promotion of brotherly intercourse and free discussion among those who have mutual interests, and individual experience, which may be useful to their neighbours, and who are likely to be all the wiser The Attempt. 107 by understanding one another better. It has been a great pleasure, and something more than a pleasure, to many, to see some of those whose names are before the world, and whom they are not likely to meet under any other circumstances. Some have formed new and pleasant acquaintances, and enjoyed an innovation on the ordinary routine of society ; while our English visitors have seen, some of them for the first time, Edinburgh in all the loveliness of an unusually lovely May ; and that that is a good result of the Congress, no loyal citizen, not even the sternest opponent of " Prelacy," will surely be disposed to deny. IRENE.

|l a i I at a g ^ o b.

A TRUE STORY. I HAVE often wondered that I have never seen a history of " Kailway Bob " amongst the lives of remarkable dogs. Everybody knows hoAv " Peeler," the dog of the police, devoted himself to the profession of policeman, out of gratitude to one of that body for having saved him from being worried at Kingston. " Bob," of Her Majesty's Scots Fusilier Guards, is also well known. He had a mania for a soldier's life, and attached himself to the regiment, accompanied it to the Crimea, was present at some of the greatest battles, and, in the words of his biographer, speaking of him after death, " he sits in a glass case, wearing a collar of white leather, such ae soldiers' belts are made of. On one side is Napoleon's horse " Marengo," and many another relic of battlefields lie all around him." " Bob," the firemen's dog, is another •well-known character. He "had a nose for a fire like another dog for a rabbit," and always accompanied the engine whenever it was needed. My hero was named, like many an illustrious dog, Bob. Who was his master, and where he came from, has never been discovered. He is supposed to have journeyed south with his master, a drover, to assist him in keeping the sheep and cattle in order at a fair. Perhaps it was because Bob had spent all his life in the country, and being unaccustomed to the bustle and trafiic of the town, that he got confused and lost his master. He wandered 198 The Attempt. about for some weeks looking for him, and at last found his way to the railway station. While standing dis- consolately there, he attracted the notice of a kind-hearted guard, who, stooping down, petted him, saying in a cheery voice, " Well, old fellow, you have lost your master, have you? Here, take this bread if you want it, and come along with me to the refreshment room, and see if we can get any scrape there." Gladly did the poor half-starved Bob obey the kind invitation, and very thankful he was for the plateful of meat his new friend procured for him. Bob took such a fancy to his benefactor, that he persisted in following him into the van, and when the train had left the city far behind. Bob was lying curled up at the guard's feet, thinking what was to be done next. He soon made up his mind that the best thing he could do, was to get out at the next town, and continue there the search for his master. Poor fellow ! how could he know that the drover h;vd gone north again, mourning over the loss of a well-trained dog. After making this resolution, our hero's life was very unsettled for several months. In a short time he had searched all the principal towns in England for his master, going between them always in the train. In this manner a year of Bob's life quickly flew by, and at the end of it, we come upon him again Ij'ing basking in the sun on the railway platform ; judging by the lazy way he is stretched out, you would imagine that he is sound asleep; he is not asleep, however, but thinking on the events of the past year. He has come to the conclusion, that it is useless ti^ try any longer to find his master. All his diligent searching has been in vain. What is he to do % To teU you the truth, in journeymg from one town to another, a great love for railway travelling has been growing in Bob's heart. In fact, I believe he would hardly care to go back to sheep-driving again, and he has firmly made up his mind to devote the remainder of his life to the railway. He thinks he cannot do a better thing, as he has now no master, and has always been treated with kindness by the railway ofiicials, wherever he has met them. Bob is a dog who, when he has once made up his mind to do a thing, sticks to his determination; so he rises up, shakes himself, and humming in dog language, keeping time with his tail,— " Rattling fast and rattling free, A life on the line is the life for me !' The Attempt. 199 waits patiently for the next train. From that day till his death. Bob faithfully served the iron steed. Soon, up and down the line, from the station-masters to the merest menial, Railway Bob was known and loved. Sometimes he sat in the van, sometimes on the engine, just as it suited his fancy, being sure wherever he went, of meeting with a kindly welcome from all. If he had a particular fancy for a station, he would remain there for a week at a time, but he generally preferred changing from place to place, so as to give everybody the benefit of his company. He has altered greatly in personal appearance since we first saw him. He is transformed into as fat and glossy a collie as anyone could wish to see,—very different from the lean, mud-be-spattered, stray dog who owed a meal to a kind-hearted guard, and 1 may add, never forgot it. One cold wintry night, a gentlemen was pacing wearily up and down the platform of one of the largest stations in England. He did not care to go into the waiting rooms, as they looked cold and cheerless, so preferred loitering along the platform. In his walk, he several times passed the lamp-room, in which porters, engine-drivers, and stokers were warming themselves, before they dispersed on their night duty. They talked and laughed merrily, as they sat round the blazing fire, and the whole room looked so cosy and cheery, when compared with the world outside, that the gentleman could not resist the temptation of join- ing the circle. He was well-known to all present, as he travelled much on the line, so they give him • a hearty welcome, and the best seat by the fire. " What were you all talking about so merrily when I came in ? " asked the traveller. " Oh ! " replied one of the engine-drivers, " we were wondering where Railway Bob is now, as none of us have seen him for so long." " Who is Railway Bob %" asked the gentleman, in astonishment. " Why, sir," exclaimed the man, " surely you who travel so much on this line must have seen our Bob. Have you never noticed a black and tan sheep-dog going on the engine or in the van ? " Then he went on to tell all he knew of our hero since he had joined the line, and how they all loved and petted him; how he never wanted a meal, as they were always ready to share their dinner with him. 200 The Attempt.

Bob's life so amused and interested the traveller, that after he returned to his home, he told it to us all again. They were still talking of Bob and his ways when some of the porters were called away on dnty. " Going on by this train, sir?" asked one with an eye to business. " I'll see all the rugs safely in, and get a foot- warmer for you. No need to leave the fire yet, sir, they wait here for fifteen minutes." So saying, away bustled the porter, just as the train came thundering into the station. The people streamed out of the carriages, and hunted after their luggage, wondering why the porters, instead of attending to their duty, were gathered round the engine, listening to the driver, with scared, sad faces. FoUow the tall guard into the lamp-room, and hear him tell his tale. It is the same guard who once so kindly fed Bob, when he for the first time appeared on a railway platform. He steps into the room and stands irresolute, on the threshold, as if unwilling to break into the cherry circle there. " Why, Brooke, what is the matter ?" cried a stoker, as he caught sight of the guard's distressed face; " Not been any accident, has there ?" " Accident! accident enough," replied Brooke, " we'll never have Bob to cheer us again in the lonely nights." "Whatf they all ask, "is Bob hurt?" Is he killed?" "Poor Bob!" sobbed the guard drawing his coat-sleeve across his eyes, " he was coming with ou]' train and somehow got into the crowd, and as it was starting, he made a jump for the engine, missed it, and was run over!" The cruel train was waiting impatiently to start again, and the traveller was forced to leave the warm fire to take his seat in the carriage. " Well, sir, you have heard the first and last of our Bob," said the porter, as he shut the door, " we will miss him sorely." At every station where they stopped the news of Bob's death was received with sorrow. Soon all his friends knew of his untimely end, and mourned much for him. Poor Bob! it does seem hard, after he had served the iron steed for so many years, that at last it should crush him beneath its iron hoofs, and hurry on A\dth shrieks of triumph. E. V. LYNNE.

A Prize is offered for the Best Poem appearing in the August, September or October No. of The Attempt. The A ttempt. 201

flu (Biirli) (g^irs uf (B^rmann.

II. OLD PERIOD : FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE TWELFTH TO THE MIDDLE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. First Classical Period, 1190-1300.

THE LAY OF THE NIBELUNGS.

WHERE poetry does not flow from the heart aud brain by inspiration, it proceeds from the brain alone, and is pur- sued no longer as a divine impulse, but as a mechanical art. The periods during which it is produced in this form, though in themselves of less importance, are useful as a preparation for those more brilliant periods which are to follow. They originate and render familiar the forms in which future genius is to clothe its works. While the form is being prepared by patient labour, the poetic impulse is, at the same time, waiting to clothe itself in that form at the earliest beck of circumstance. Though the genius of Christianity had seemed only to graft its works upon the stem of the older literature, it was destined to form the very root and impulse of the new. Never did poetry boast of a happier era, than that in which religion aud knight-errantry met on common ground, and animated with their spirit the Crusades. Religion, to the German nation, was then simply a matter of the heart. It was new and life-giving. Doubt was considered sinful; not one of the steps that lead from childlike faith to full- grown rationalism had yet been trod. This poetic and elevating element overspread the whole nation, and seemed to give rise to new national epics. For this new literature a new language had been framed. Heinrich von Veldekin, a poet of the transition period, was one of the first to use short rhyming lines instead of the old alliter- ative strophes, and also a middle Low-Rhenish dialect, less perfect than the modern tongue. A version of lieynard the Fox and the Song of Roland belongs to this transition period, the poetry of which still resembled that of ancient times more closely than it did modern poetry. As the poetry of the oldest period consisted chiefly of heroic epic and sacred epic, so that of the old period may be divided into the nature-epic and the art-epic. The source of the epic may be traced to the intercourse which JLLT 1S74. 2 C 202 The Attempt.

man, in his primeval state, holds with nature. No influ- ence has as yet spiritualised his ideas ; sight, sound, form the elements of his creed; great feats of nature are ascribed to living heroes, fabulous beings. The greatest epics are those which combine the feats of the several heroes of a country. The heroic epics of Germany have no hero above the rest, because they are composed of a number of shorter poems, which gradually become one in the mouths of the singers. There are also the traditions of animals, which we have already mentioned as descend- ing from primeval times. These are exclusively German. Thus the first classical period in German Hterature had its nature-poetry and its art-poetry. The nature-poetry sprang from the heart of the people ; the art-poetry was chiefly the result of the solitary meditations of courtiers and nobles. The second classical period, which occurred in the latter part of the eighteenth century, had only art-poetry,—that of pure nature had been left far behind. Each race of ancient Germany had its own cycle of tradition. Four of these cycles flowed together to form the Nihelungenlied, or Lay of the Nihelungs. These were :— 1. The Rhenish cycle of tradition, with Siegfried for its hero. 2. The cycle of Burgundy, with Gunther, Gernot, Giselher,—all kings,—their mother Uta, and their sister Chriemhild; also Gunther's wife Brunhild, and their vassals Ilagen and Volker. 3. The East Gothic, with Dietrich von Bern for its hero. His dwelling at Bern, or Verona, obtained for him the title of Dietrich of Bern. His chief vassal is Hildebrand. 4. The cycle of Attila, or Etzel, king of the Hmis. Etzel lives at the Etzelburg in Hungary, now called Ofen. These four have flowed together into the Nihelungenlied. Before giving an account of the story of it, we shall briefly mention the other two cycles of tradition, viz.:— 5. The North-German, or Frisian-Danish, representing sea life. Its scene is Friesland; its heroes King Hettel, King Horant, his follower and uncle Wate, and Hettel's daughter Gudruu. The Song of Gudrun is, next to the Nibelungen, the noblest piece of German epic poetry. 6. The Lombard.—King Rother, King Otnit; the scene, the Lago di Garda. It is supposed to be the youngest cycle of tradition. The story of the Nibehmgenlied, or Lay of the Nibelungs, The Attempt. 203 is a faithful picture of human life, manners, and opinions; a possession of which the Germans are proud, and of which they never speak without enthusiasm. Some of the characters are historical,—as, for instance, the three Burgundian kings. The destruction of a whole race of kings by Attila is also true. The drawing up of the poem in its present form t')ok place about 1210. The best version of it is by Karl Simrock, who has done much to throw light on its composition. The story runs as follows :*— In Burgundy, in the ancient palace of the kings, there dwelt a noble king's daughter, who, after her father's death, grew up into a blooming maiden, full of grace and loveliness. Dreams of foreboding hover around the thoughtful head of the lovely Chriemhild in tliat silent solitude, in which, according to the custom of the time, she spent her childhood and early youth. She dreamt that she had brought up a falcon, and kept it under her care for many a day, when suddenly two eagles swooped down, and squeezed the tender bird to death with their claws. Awaking in sore distress, the maiden tells the dream to her mother. " The falcon," so the mother explains the anxious forebodings of her daughter, "the falcon is a noble man for whom thou art destined; may God preserve him, that thou mayest not lose him early." " Why do you speak of a husband, dear mother ? " replied the daughter. "I will rather live without the love of a hero, than have my love rewarded only with suffering." "Be not so hasty," returned the mother; " cast not away thy happiness ; for if thou art ever to be made glad at heart, it will be through the love of a man. Thou wilt become the wife of a noble hero." Thus, as a gentle whisper from afar, the first presentiment of futui-e unutterable woe sounds forth from the heart of the tender maiden, and the shadows of this dream stretch themselves henceforth across the cheerful sky of her life and of her love. Darkly and ever more darkly they hover over the spring days of the first and only love; darkly and ever more darkly over the cheerful wedding-feast. With a pale, sickly gleam, the sun of her life shines through the unearthly twilight, until, red as blood, he sinks towards the horizon, and at last sets in blood-red splendour, leaving an endless night behind. Strong in his ycnith and manly courage, Siegfried has * Adapted from Vilmar's "Deutsche Literaturgeschichte." 204 The Attempt. in the meantime grown up at 8anteu on the Rhine. He is the son of Siegmund and Sigelinde, and the boy is already a hero. He has traversed many countries to try the strength of his gigantic frame, when at length he hears of the lovely maiden at Worms, on the Upper Rhine; and the bravest and manliest of the youthful heroes of his time leaves his home with his followers to woo at Worms the fairest and the most graceful and virtuous maiden to be found in any country. With his father's warnings and his mother's tears, and laden with rich gifts from both, the son departs with his retinue. The strangers arrive at the gate of the king's palace at Worms, giant-like in their strong manly youth, unrivalled in the splendour of their accoutrements and the beauty of their horses. No one knows who they are, nor who is the kingly youth, their leader. Then Hagen of Tronic is sent for, who knows all strange lands; but even he has never seen these heroes; they must be pi'inces, or the envoys of princes; they are certainly noble knights. Then he adds,—" True, I have never seen Siegfried, but I believe that none but he could ride in so stately a manner; it is Siegfried, he who has conquered the race of the Nibelungs. who has won from the stern race of Schilbung and Nibelung the costliest treasure of jewels and gold, and taken possession of the lands and vassals of the conquered; who, in the thick of the fight, snatched from the dwarf Alberich the tarn-cap, which can make him invisible; the same Siegfried who killed a dragon, and bathed in its blood, until his skin became invulner- able as horn. Such a hero we must receive kindly, lest we draw down upon us his terrible hatred. So Siegfried was courteously received and entertained with splendour. During the tournament which is held in the court of the palace, Chriemhild secretly looks out at a window, and iaecomes so enamoured of the youthful Siegfried, that she forgets all her maidenly occupations, and even her com- panions. Yet Siegfried has spent a whole year at the court of Burgundy ere he has once beheld the maiden of his choice. Under the banner of Burgundy, as a servant of the king, he goes to many a combat, passes from the Rhine, through Hesse, into the land of the Saxons, whose King Liutger, with King Liutgast of Denmark, had declared war against the Burgundians. Siegfried is the mightiest and the most victorious in battle; he takes prisoner the Danish king; and the Saxons, awed by his The Attempt. 205 courage, surrender to his arms. Messengers come to the Rhine to announce the victory, and one of these appears before Chriemhild, " Now, give me good news," says Chriemhild, " and if you tell me true, I will give you all my gold, and will be your friend for life." " No one, says the messenger, " has ridden more bravely to battle than he of the Netherlands; Siegfried has gained the victory; his hand was first in the combat; the hostages, whom you will see arriving from Saxony, have been captured and sent hither by his valiant arm." The royal maiden gave the messenger ten marks ojF gold and ten suits of splendid clothing for his tidings, which were welcome to all, and to none welcomer than to the secretly enamoured maiden. Then she stood silently at the palace window, to watch the return of the heroes to the Rhine. At last the victorious army appears, and the maiden sees the joyous commotion at the palace gates, and among the many heroes, him who is honoured and admired abt)ve all; but not yet has the eye of Siegfried beheld her; modestly she remains in her narrow chamber. At last a great tournament is held, and two and thirty princes come to the court of the king of Burgundy. Now at last, by the side of her mother Uta, guarded by a hundred sword-bearing chamberlaiiis, and a InuKlred richly dressed ladies and maidens, Chriemhild is allowed to appear for the first time in public; and she comes forth like the dawn from dark clouds, in the gentle bloom of youth, beauty, and silent love, as the moon, in tender radiance, shines with the stars through the cloiids of night. Sieg- fried stands afar. •' How could it be," he says, " that I should woo thee ? That is a vain hope, and yet I would rather die than leave thee." Then, in courtly fashion, Gunther bids Siegfried advance and greet his sister. And the knight steps forward and bows gallantly before the maiden; they are drawn to one another by adoring love, and exchange secret glaijces. But yet no word is spoken, till, after the mass with which the tourna- ment has begun, the maiden thanks the knight for the valiant help he has given her brothers. " That was done for your service, Lady Chriemhild," replies the knight ; and now, " after the tongue has trusted itself to speak," he remains twelve days, the whole time of the tourna- ment, near the lovely maiden. Then the strange guests depart, and Siegfried also prepares to return home, " for he trusted not himself to ask for that which he desired," 20G The Attempt.

Yet he was easily persuaded, by the entreaties of young Giselher, to remain longer, where, as the poem naively says, he loved best to be, and where he daily saw the lovely Chriemhild. Now there was a queen who dwelt beyond the sea; glorious in wonderful loveliness, and in almost unearthly strength. She challenged the men who sought her love to throw the lance, to hurl the stone ; she sprang, wath bold and active speed, after the stone which she had hurled; he only who should surpass her in these three feats, was destined to win her hand. He whom she con- quered must lose his life. Many a hero liad vainly gone to seek the love of the strong amazon Brunhild, and had never returned; then KingGunther of Burgundy resolved to venture his life for her love, and challenged Siegfried to help him in his wooing. Siegfried agreed, on condition that Gunther would give him his sister Chriemhild to wife; Gunther vowed to do this, as soon as he should have won the fair Brunhild. This agreement was con- firmed by an oath, and the ship was prepared for the voyage. Gilded shields and rich garments are carried to the shore, and from the windows the eyes of loving children watch the heroes, who, under swelling sails, sit at the helm of the ship on the Rhine. For Siegfried, the skilful sailor, guides the helm, and Gunther also seizes the rudder. After twelve days sailing they arrive at the Isenstein, where Brunhild reigns. In strange, mysterious splendour, eighty-six towers rise from the sea shore, enclosing three vast palaces and a large hall, all built of green marble. To Siegfi-ied alone is this distant land, with its wonderful palace and its proiid mistress, already known. Andthe haughty maiden knows the hero who approaches her only too well. " Welcome !" she says, without asking who he is, " welcome, Sir Siegfried, into my lands ; to what end your journey ? that I would fain learn." " There," answered Siegfried, " stands Gunther, a king of the Rhine, who wishes to gain thy love ; he is my master, I am his man; for thy sake we are come hither." Then the trials of skill begin ; but Gunther, un- able to maintain his ground against the superhuman strength of the maiden, allows Siegfried to take his place. The latter envelopes himself in his tarn skin, (the covering which makes him invisible), so as to fight for Gunther unseen; Gimther is only to appear to fight. The queen Brunhild calls for the gigantic lance The Attempt. 207 which she used in combat, with its heavy handle and broad steel, which cuts with its three sharp edges; into the scene of combat is also brought a round hurling stone, which requires twelve knights to cany it. She rolls up the sleeves on her white arms, seizes the shield, raises the lance, and the combat begins. Gunther, to whom Siegfried is invisible as well as to the others, trembles before liis terrible, yet sought for opponent, then Siegfried approaches, and taking Gunther's shield, directs him only to appear to fight; and how glad Gunther is when he observes the helpful presence of Siegfried ! The amazon now hurls the spear, and sparks, like flames driven by the wind, fly from the shield of her opponent, which she strikes with the spear; Siegfried staggers, but he quickly regains his footing, and hurls the spear still more violently towards the maiden. She receives it on her shield, but falls. " Thanks for the blow, cries the mighty one, springing at once to her feet, thanks, noble knight Gunther!" And angry at being conquered, she seizes the stone, and hurling it to a great distance, springs after it, and far beyond it, so that her armour resounds. But immediately Siegfried seizes the stone, and throws it far beyond his adversary, springing with Guuther under his arm, still further than the amazon had done. She then turns at once to her followers. " Maids and men, come hither, ye shall all be subject to King Gunther." They then prepare to return home, aud after Siegfried has visited his kingdom of the Nibelungs, to collect his treasures and his men, the heroes journey back to Worms, Siegfried going first to announce the victory. The object is gained; Brunhild is betrothed to Gunther, Chriemhild to Siegfried ; the lovely maiden sinks into the arms of the hero, and, in presence ef the kings and numerous followers, the bride gives and receives the kiss of betrothal. Brunhild sits opposite to them, aud weeps ; and on. Gunther's asking the reason of her tears, she says that she is weeping because Chriemhild has been given not to a king but to a vassal. Gunther consoles her with the promise, that some day he will tell her how it is for his sisters happiness that he has given her to Siegfried, The real reason of Brunhild's distress is, that she has formerly been attached to Siegfried, and that her old love is now reawakened. Hel-e, and here alone, in the whole Kibelungenlied, do we find traces of more ancietit tradi- 208 The Attempt.

tions. Brunhild is one of the Walkyriae, or warrior maidens, of the God Odin, who, by his powerful wand, has cast her into a sleep, and as a punishment, surrounded her with flames. Then approaches the powerful god of the sun and of spring, Siegfried by name, who awakens the imprisoned beauty from her trance, and espouses her. But their happiness is short-lived; Siegfried parts for ever from hie young bride, as the year leaves its spring behind, to wed the summer, its second love. This same legend, after undergoing great trans- formations, has survived until now in the form of the tale of " The Sleeping Beauty," which the Germans call Dornroschen, and which Tennyson has, with the wand of poetry, again invested with the charm of novelty. Brunhild is now conquered; but herjealousy is awakened, and her spirit is untamed. Even after her wedding, she continues to fight with Gunther, who calls in the aid of Siegfried to conquer her. The sight of Siegfried in- creases her jealousy, and her vindictive spirit resolves on his death. She engages Hagen, during a visit of Siegfried and Chriemliild to Worms, to do the deed. A false rumour of war is spread, and all the heroes accoutre themselves. Before they go, Chriemhild beseeches Hagen to protect hei* precious husband, and innocently betrays to him that Siegfried is invulnerable, except in one place. Hagen begs her to make a mark on Siegfried's garment to show this one place, and she unsuspectingly does so, thus sealing her husband's doom. She sews a silken cross on his garment just between the shoulders behind. And now, instead of going to war, the men are invited to a great hunt. Siegfried and Chriemhild part sorrowfully from one another. The hunt is over; and the weary huntsmen, arriving at a brook, seek to quench their thirst, Siegfried stretches himself by the side of the brook, first laying aside his weapons; and while he is drinking, Hagen seizes the hero's own lance, and pierces with it the cross upon his back. Siegfried, feeling himself mortally wounded, seeks his weapons, but the orafty Hageu has removed them; only his shield is at hand. With this he deals heavy blows at his adversary, and knocks him down. Then his strength begins to waver, and after a few words of scorn exchanged with Hagen, he dies, with the name of Chriemhild upon his lips. The cruel Hagen is inhuman enough to leave the body of Siegfried before Chriemhild's window, so that she may The Attempt. 209 see it when she rises in the morning. The sight of her husband's bi)dy is almost maddening to her devoted heart; and on the ceremony of the Bahrrecht being gone through, Hagen comes forward and touches tlie body, and the wounds bleed afresh at his touch. Chriemhild now knows who is the murderer, and her whole being is concentrated in the one thought of vengeance. She re- mains at Worms,—the scene of the beginning and the end of her love,—leaving her only son to grow up without a mother's care, so devoted is she to the memory of her husband. To effect a reconciliation, her brothers present her with the whole of the Nibelungen treasiire which Siegfried had won, sending it in twelve waggons to Worms. Chriemhild is reconciled to her brothers, but not to Hagen, their vassal; that can never be. Slie expends the newly acquired wealth in charity to the poor. Hagen's jealousy is thus awakened ; and, fearing that she will gain too many friends, he casts the treasure into the Rhine. The frequent mention of red gold in this part of the Lied, shows what weight was laid upon it in those times, as its name was even identified with that of a king : ring-giver, gold-spender, are ancient names for a king. Here, too, we again stand on the threshold of mythology. Gold was anciently held to be the pro- perty of subterranean powers, and from this the name of the Nibelungenlied is taken. Nibelungen means the sons of mist, and Nilflheim, the kingdom of mist, is, in northern mythology, the name of the kingdom of death. ^Vhoever, therefore, gives himself up to the love of gold, becomes subject to the spirits of the lower world, and becomes a Nibelung, doomed to death ; and the treasure is not destined to remain in the possession of men, but is sunk into the Rhine, to be again claimed by subterranean powers. Such a profound idea of the powers of nature lies at the root of the northern mythology, and forms a dark background, against which the figures of the ancient epic are more clearly seen. After thirteen years, Chriemhild marries Etzel, or Attila, King of the Huns. Her one motive in this step is vengeance, now the sole aim of her life. The story ends dismally. Gunther, Gernot. and Giselher, the brothers of Chricmhild, and her uncle Hagen, are all invited in seeming friendship to the court of Etzel. After a few days' stay there they are murdered. No one having dared to take Hagen's life, Chriemhild seizes the sword of her JULY 1874. 2 D 210 The Attempt. husband and strikes oif his head. The old Hildebrand, seeing this, says,-—" Such deeds shall not go unavenged," and immediately wounds Clixiemhild in the side, so that she falls down dead. Thus ends this tale of life and love, hatred and envy. As ■ full of passion as many more modern tales, it has in part a deeper foundation in truth. The three Burgundian kings, and also Dietrich and Attila, are all real characters. The time of action reaches from the year 451 to about the year 500. The best rendering of the poem into modern German is that by Karl Simrock. During the 14th and loth centuries, it was thought to have been held in small repute; but, by degrees, twenty manu- scripts of it have been discovered in various places, so that it must have been one of the most popular works. Long before it was written dcnvu, it was in the mouths of the peojjle, rendered familiar by travelling minstrels. An edition of the Nibelungenlied, published by Miiller, a teacher in Berlin, called forth from Frederick II. the following adverse remarks:—" You have by far too favourable an opinion of these things. In my estimation they are not worth a shot of powder, and I would not suffer tliem to bo in my library, but cast them out." These words are to be seen in Zurich, in a glass frame, forming a sad proof of the benighted condition, not only of Frederick himself, but of thousands of others at that period. Under the romantic school, the mind of Germany Avas tlioroughly awakened to the value of these treasures, and the researches which Freidrich von der Hagen began, lave been pursued, with great success, by later scholars. PROCLA. ( Jb he continued.)

Piss 'I jr s 10}?.

WHEX it became known that a marriage was contemplated between Miss Hyslop and Walter Langham, several astute young men of his acquaintance decided that Langham liad done not a bad thing for himself in securing Miss Hyslop; which would seem to argue, that he had been actuated by prudential motives, or at all events, that in his position, there lay a clear advantage. Miss Hyslop was a lady of great worth, and handsome also; but, then, The Attempt. 211 imperatiye and decisive in manner and speech as she was, she had no charm for Walter Langham, no grace in his eyes. Miss Hyslop had thirty thousand pounds of her own, with the chance also of inheriting another fortune. Xow, although men are agreed to call gold dross, filthy lucre, and other hard names, there are still left some people, a few eccentric individuals here and there, who have a favour for it; but Langham, of his very nature, could never be of this number. So her money had not influenced him, it had had no part in bringing about the existing state of things. In truth, he had simply drifted idly into this engagement, through want of will and purpose; the same force had been at work which settled most of Langham's actions—circumstances. He had come to the town a young man not very well known, and Mr. Hyslop, thinking well of and liking him, had befriended him, helping him when it lay in his power, and had, moreover, always made him welcome at his house. The two young people, j^retty well dependent on one another for entertainment upon the occasions that Langham was there, had become great friends; and finally, one evening as they stood under the rose- mantled verandah, in the sweet dusk and hush of a summer night, they had grown sentimental, and Lang- ham soon had spoken words which settled his future. Partly the subtle influence of the hour and scene weie to blame; and partly with his susceptibility to the opinion in which he was held, Langham had felt instinc- tively that he was by no means regarded with aversion by his companion. Again, Miss Hyslop had been that evening unusually gentle and agreeable ; and all working together, the poor fellow had got himself involved.—had flung about himself a chain, which then in its new assumption had seemed pleasant and easy to wear. But as the days went by, that light chain came to weigh more and more heavily upon him. Every week he felt the tie, which he had forged so thoughtlessly on that summer night, growing more intolerable. Oh, terrible tongue ! most potent instrument for working woe, why are we poor ignorant mortals left helpless with ye ? The roses were gone, and snow held possession of the earth, when, one evening in early winter, Langham, going to dine with the Hyslops, was being slowly driven in his cab through Hilbury. The roads were clogged and heavy, so that his advance was exceedingly slow, yet he took the 212 The Attempt. delay with a toleration rare and admirable,—human nature haying its limits of endurance in a man on his way to his beloyed's presence, and his dinner. But with time, eyen that deliberate method of progression landed him at his destination—a large house, set a few rods back from tlie road, which road was known as Sumner Road, and which house as Sumner House. In answer to the man's pull at the bell, the gate swung itself open, apparently without human interyention, in a manner quite in keeping wath the still and shrouded scene, the ghostly cheerless- ness of which Langham soon exchanged for the comfort of a warm and bvilliantly-lit drawing-room. The windows of that great room were now thrice barricaded in defence from the cold; but were those curtains, blinds, and shutters swept aside, it would haye been seen that although the front of the house was divided but by a very small territory from the common road, the back commanded a fairly large garden; on to which the principal rooms looked, and when in summer the windows of the ground-floor sitting-rooms were open, the verandah was almost regarded as a portion of them. Langham came to hate that verandah, and cast quite a grateful glance on the intercepting screens even now as lie waited with his back to the fire; remaining in solitude f)r a moment or two, and then the rustle of a silken gown was heard, and Miss Hyslop stood before him,— Miss Hyslop looking handsome and majestic, dressed in a heavy, somewhat sombre dress. She was always so clad; and her taste in thus arraying herself was indis- putable, for it resulted in a pleasing and harmonious appearance. Langham himself would often watch her approvingly as she swept across the room with erect head, stately in her rich substantial robes. She was handsome undoubtedly, but her beauty consisted wholly in excellence of form, the element of grace was wanting in face and figure. They greeted one another quietly,—Miss Hyslop rarely condescended to sentiment. She inquired about his day, and told him the events of theirs, both remaining the while standing before the fire. Even so simply talking, their dissimilarity was patent, but in this fact, merely of their unlikeness one to anotlier, was little to be deplored ; it was in their relative feeling that the entanglement and sad confusion rested. She laughed at him, dictated to him, differed from him on every possible subject, and loved The Attempt. 213 him. He behaved towards her with the utmost kindness and ccmsideration, and rarely showed the profound weariness that occupied his heart. But on this special occasion they had not very long to try one another, to agree or disagree, for presently a servant brought in a note, which he handed to Langham with the information,—" James said, sir, as messenger said you must have it iramejiate." Langham took the note, opened it, and having glanced at the contents, inquired,—"Is James waiting? Ask him, please, when it came." " He mentioned, sir, d'rectly you had started," said the man, closing the door. " It's an awful worry, dear," said Langham in the most cheerful voice, addressing himself now to Miss Ilyslop ; " it is a summons I must attend to." '' Oh ! impossible! who is it % What nice writing: it is a lady's," exclaimed Miss Hyslop, looking with frankest curiosity in the direction of the letter. For reply, and for her satisfaction, he held the open sheet of paper before her. She read in an instant every word of the brief note :—" My dear sir, the child is worse to-night, I fear; I should be greatly obliged if you would call and see him. Regretting to trouble you so late, yours very truly,—E. N. Coates." " I see nothing very pressing there," said Miss Hyslop, turning her gaze from the note to Langham's face. " But should you feel obliged to go, after dinner we will —" " I must go at once ;" he interrupted her to say. " I did not think, dear, your rule was pleasure first, business anytime." " Nor is it," said Miss Hyslop quickly, anxious to vindicate the soundness of her principles. " If the case be serious, go by all means without delay." Langham, having gained his point, declined in warmth, " I do not know that I can do much, but they will be looking anxiously for my presence ; people will beheve that we doctors hold the threads of life in our hands." " A much better and wholesomer belief than your belief in no manner of doing being of much use." " I hope, Katherine, no one can prove indifference or neglect against me," he answered gravely. " I would not hold so great a trust as I do to abuse it." " I do not suppose so," she retorted ; " it is only your way of talking, as thoiigh you held that everything in the 214 The Attempt. world would come right, if we do not spoil the arrange- ments with meddling, and it exasperates me." " All because I cannot"—think as you do, he was going to say, but midway altered his speech, framing it less personally—" because I cannot share the comfortable conviction of some people, and believe that one is indispensable to the world." " But that is just it, one is indispensable to the world,— or ought to be, so long as one is in it." " That decides the matter," said Langham, smiling; but he knew what her trouble was, what she was striving to give expression to. For with his greater habit of analysing emotion, he comprehended how they acted and reacted upon one another; how her practical turn of mind and intense energy had the effect of enfolding him for the time being in a complete suit of quietistic opinions ; and again, how his coolness and easy sentiments reacted upon her, producing the more feverish eagerness and activity. " Who are these people ? " she enquired, as her eye again fell on the note which had originated the late discussion. " I do not know much about them : Mrs Coates is a widow, and terribly wrapped up in this sickly little fellow. She came here to see what the air would do for him ; they are in lodgings in Clarendon Place. She is remarkably handsome," he answered, ringing the bell to order his cab. " Remarkably handsome ! " Miss Hyslop exclaimed, her mind flying back jealously to the consideratit)n Langham had expressed for her anxiety. " Yes, something quite out of the common. You rarely see such beauty," he replied, with the unguardedness of supreme innocence. "Ah! under such interesting circumstances, your con- cern is easily understood." " Don't be absurd, Kitty! Do you know that she is forty, if she is a day old, possibly more." " Why did you not say so then at once." said she with some irritation, conscious that she had been on the verge of making herself ridiculous. " I did not know that you were interested in the poor lady's age, else I would have been prepared with reliable information upon the subject," said he, enjoying his advantage over his bride-elect, but peacefully disposed on The Attempt. 215 the whole, in thankfulness for having got so easily off duty for the night. " I think the cab must be waiting. Make my excuses to Mrs. Hyslop." " How soon can you be back, Walter ? " " I shall be too late to return here, dear. I shall have to put up with a bachelor's chop to-night." " Nonsense, you must return," she said, resting her hand upon his arm to detain him. " Your dinner shall be laid for you in the morning room." " Upon no account shall so much trouble be taken. I will see you to-morrow." " It will give no trouble; be back as quickly as you can." " Thank you, dear ; but I should be too long." She still insisted though upon his return, and as usual carried the day. Langham sighed and yielded, then made his preparations for departing, while his victor issued her final mandates.

CHAPTEE II.

MISS HYSLOP was vexed and disappointed at Langham's desertion, yet contrived nevertheless to make an excellent dinner. He, meanwhile, had reached Clarendon Place, and was entering the prim lodging-house parlour with the indifference of a man thinking solely of his work, and all unconscious that he was about to meet his fate. But on his entrance his eyes were greeted with a vision of such sweet and girlish loveliness, that he, expecting only to find the staid figure of Mrs. Cootes, or a tenantless room, was startled for an instant. The fair apparition itself, however, quitted its seat at the table, and advanced towards him, and immediately the mystery of its occupancy was dispelled, "Mr. Langham ?" He acknowledged his name, and the girl went on,—" My sister, Mrs. Cootes, is expecting you; I will call her." But he had recovered his senses by this time, and felt tempted to seek to detain the unknown beauty a minute or two. " Is the child worse % " he inquired. " I think not," she answered. " I see no change, but my sister believes there is some." " She is too anxious, but it is a critical time with the httle fellow." That effectually arrested her ; the pretty innocent face 216 The Attempt.

saddened with the idea his words suggested, and she asked with childish simplicity,—" Is he dangerously ill ? " Langham explained to her that the present illness was not so much, as it was the boy's delicate constitution which made the case serious. " Poor little Sidney !" she murmured, and the sweet mouth and eyes looked none the less sweet for the gravity resting on them. But Langham cast about to find some consolation for the tender heart. " We shall pull him through this, though," he said, " and he will very likely be much stronger than he has ever been." She looked up comforted and radiant; at his confident tone the sunshine was restored to the guileless face. " I will see where my sister is," she said, smiling prettily and frankly from the doorway, and then she was gone. That was all; and next Langham had to attend to his work, which he did, and in due time was back at Sunnier House; but throughout the night there dwelt with him a clearer recollection of those blue eyes and that sweet face than was by any means necessary, considering that the regal Miss Hyslop—and a very fair share of womanhood she was too—was all his own. And the w^orst of the matter was, that as time went on, that fair image only took deeper hold of his imagination. Not that his fancy, his sentiment for her, was reared upon much tangible food, for on bis subse- quent visits to the house, he rarely saw more of her than on that first occasion. He learnt her name—Helen Bath ; sometimes won a sweet smile and a few gentle words; sometimes had no more than a glimpse of the bright young face; sometimes she was not visible at all,— and these were marked as very dark days in his calendar. Such was the scant fare upon which his love fed and thrived. Now, while he was thus preoccupied with another woman, Miss Hyslop could hardly advance in his favour. Indeed, he began in these days to be careless about many attentions he had always yielded her. She was aggrieved at these omissions, and he chafed more and more under the yoke, so that they were often upon the eve of a qviarrel, which hitherto had never, owing to the completeness ot her love, and the soundness of his temper, occurred. But at this time, when he felt daily more rebelhous, and she sat at home, vexed and dis- The Attempt. 217 appointed, a serious division seemed imminent. Not that a ray of the truth dawned upon her,—she accepted as a fact his plea of having "no time," and only questioned its necessity. " No time!" she would exclaim ; " of course you have no time, nor ever will have, while you liave so little despatch in you. I can guess how jo\i go mooning about your work, loitering and talking on, and finally turning round on the doorstep to ask the only question of importance." " Of whom ? the footman or the housemaid, as the case may be ?" In her speech had been the little grain of truth which it is imparts bitterness. It was his weak point : he was clever and an enthusiast in his art; but he was a man of no business capacity, and he knew it. So it was with a little more sharpness than usual that he spoke. " If you would profit by my remarks, instead of criticising them, it would be of advantage to you and myself," quoth she. " Well, never mind, dear, you have energy enough for both of us." That " us," tliat association of themselves, always struck as fresh sweet music upon her ears, and a soft and tender expression came now into her eyes, and went not unmarked by Langham. But she resumed his amend- ment with laudable perseverance; not her worst enemy could have accused Miss Hyslop of ever neglecting an opportunity of setting peojile right, or of using any ambi- guity or mistaken gloss of speech on such occasions; but perhaps she was harder upon Langham than upon anyone else,—harder, to cover the weak tenderness she was conscious of feeling. "You have energy enough if you would only use it ; but you are so light-minded, you get absorbed in every passing matter." " Why should one take things so terribly severely'? I cannot see." "Life is short," she told him, as though it were a fresh truth she had discovered; and many thousands of human beings had not said it over with their lips, and disbelieved it in their hearts—until its ending. " So cme should go posting through it ^ I shall remem- ber. How different we are ! Do you know, dear, that you and I ought to think one another perfect"?" he added, sadly. JDLT 1874. 2 E 218 The Attempt.

" Nonsense ! but be so, and I will give you all credit for it." " We are very unlike ! I think sometimes it would be best for your happiness if I gave you up," said he, mak- ing a wild effort at freedom, as he would occasionally, in his disquiet,—seizing a reed to knock off his strong fetters. •' Ridiculous! Besides, you are steadily improving under my charge," Miss Hyslop made reply, with spirit, yet a little startled at the dismal idea his words had suggested ; and then she melted, being betrayed by the mere thought of a separation, into unwonted sentimental- ism. "Do I seem unloving and hard? you need never doubt my regard though, dearest."' '• I can never awaken her," thought he, " she has not the smallest suspicion of the truth." He answered nothing ; audibly, and she went on in her softest tones, " I know, dear, that I am not always very pleasant—that I am given to be too harsh ; but it is all outside, and I love you—ah ! it is no use saying hftw truly. Be patient with me for the sake of my faithful love," she said, trying to smile, but her mouth was tremulous Avith emotion, and her' eyelids drooped to hide her gathering tears. When j\[iss Hyslop did unbend, her tenderness appeared most pathetic, her humility was most touching. What could Langham, remorseful at the scantness of his own love, do, except lull her with kindly words, with professions of aftection ? But as he walked home, he wondered what would be the end of it. " I suppose the farce must be played through now ; what a fool I was to get into such a dilemma !" Sometimes only were his reflections on the matter as just as this last conclusion. At other times, he would nurse a sense of his wrongs, and fall into reverie about sweet Helen Bath. Ah! how blissful it would have been had he been free to have sought her. Surely it would not have been hard to have taught so young and gentle a creature to have loved him,—, in the interval he had considerably improved his acquaintance with her. But he had a conscience, and he would make no sign to Miss Hyslop, but would see the play out; and if he went through his part a little stiffly and formally, it must be remembered that it was very credital)le in him to hold to the engage- ment he had so rashly made. Ah I many of us can make The Attempt. 219 a sacrifice, can carry out a hard matter, but it takes veritable generosity to go thrmigh with such with grace. The end came, when least expected : an apparently trivial circumstaijce brought it about. Langham and ^liss Hyslop were returning from a walk one bright morning, when, as they were skirting the last square before turning into the quiet road in which Sumncr House was situated, they perceived advancing in their direction the figure of a slight young girl. No need for a second glance at the countenance for Langham to make sure of that blossom-like face; and it was noticeable enough, in its youthful loveliness, to arrest Miss Hyslop's attention. A little enthusiasm even was kindled in her practical mind, and manifest in her tones, as she exclaimed, " What a beautiful girl." By this time they had got level with her, and the pretty creature had bowed to Langham, and smiled one of her radiant smiles, with the same innocent frank gladness of exj)ression with which a child might recognise a friend, and had passed on. "Who is she, Walter?" " She is a ]\Iiss Bath." Helen Bath it was, looking as fair as a rose, with the blue eyes shiniug from exercise, and the pretty pink flush deepened with the fresh cool air. " Bath, Bath; I don't recollect the name. Where have you met her ? " said Miss Hyslop, turning looks of simple enquiry upon Langham; but something in his expression she straightway distrusted. "Who is she, Walter?" she asked peremptorily, in sharpened accents. The colour Avas mounting steadily in his face ; he was conscious of it, and answered irritably,—" I don't know ; how can I tell ? I have seen her in a house where I have a patient," " Walter, there is some mystery about that girl. You have betrayed your own secret." " There is no mystery nor secret, Katherine." " Why deceive me ? " " I am not deceiving you; Miss Bath and I are very slightly acquainted even." Miss Hyslop kept silence, an ominous silence ; but by this time they had reached the gate, and Langham calmed himself to bid her farewell. "No," said slie> otherwise ignoring his outstretched hand ; " come in," " I wished to speak to you," she said, when they had gained the refuge of the drawing-room; and by her manner 220 The Attempt.

Langham knew that a storm was brewing. He made no attempt to avert it, perhaps, did not even wish to avert it. '* Now, tell me all." " Tell you all what ? I don't know what it is you wish to know." " I want to know about that girl," she persisted. " Miss Bath ? " said he. " I will get up her bi igraphy for your satisfaction. I have no doubt she will be only too glad to furnish the necessary data when she learns that Miss Hyslop honours her by being curious respecting her history." She made an effort at self-control, although stung by his mocking tone. " Don't make me angry I Don't be foolish, AValter; the happiness of both ot us may be at stake. This is not an entirely fresh thought of mine ; somehow this occurrence flashes back a light upon the past, and makes clear a good deal which puzzled me, and 'which, perhaps, I gave too little heed to,—too little heed to," she repeated mournfuhy. " Don't let us talk any more about it, Katherine," said he, smitten to the heart by something in her tone ; " a trifle ouglit not to divide us after all these months." " Better get right late than never. Look at me, Walter, and tell the whole truth,—in mercy to me, in mercy to us all, the whole truth. Do you love that girl?* and have you ceased to love me 1" He'had better have spoken out at once, and for all; but his weak and tender heart failed him, and he equivocated,— " How strange and mistrustful you are, Katherine. In what do I not satisfy you I " " Walter, Walter," she said, smiling slightly and pain- fully, " it is your Avay ; but what is the use of crying- peace, peace, where there is no peace ? Speak out! this suspense is hard to bear," she went on in quickened, trouble-laden accents ; her awakening seemed as thorough, now that it was come, as it had been slow in its approach. " Speak out, and save us both misery. Did you never love me ■? Answer me; answer quickly." She was gazing up, with eager eyes reading every varying shade of emotion as it swept over his face. At this last appeal his head drooped, and he turned away to avoid looking at her, as he slowly gave his subdued reply. " I think we made a great mistake." There was a chair near,—instinctively she sought for it, and sat down, as one who had suffered a blow and was The Attempt. 221 hurt. Presently she lifted her two hands, and in them hid her face. Langham watched her with mute concern and self- reproach. Afrer a few minutes of such watching he ven- tured to touch her, and gently to clasp one arm. At that she shivered all over, and at last spoke to him. " Go! " she said, speaking hoarsely, " go ; I will see you to- morrow." So dismissed, he turned away, and without attempting word of remonstrance or farewell, took his way slowly and with careful stillness from her presence. Once outside the house, he could pause to collect his thoughts. AVell, it was all over, and he had his freedom, without seeking on his part, or the shadow of dishonour ; he had his freedom, and yet he was not altogetlier happj'. Ah! wliich of us having his heart's desire, finds it altogether what he anticipates. Then suddenly, as he pursued his Avay, there swept across his mind's sight a fair blossom- like face, with innocent blue eyes, but he thrust back the tempting vision. Then, fresh from the presence of the woman whom he had wronged—no, hardly wronged ; the woman Avho had suffered through himself, he could not straightway revel, even in fancy, in the smiles of another. Only, somehow, while meditating with due remorse and penitence on that lonely figure sitting, in its silent misery, on the chair beside the hearth, there would intrude a passionate, tumultuous gladness, that now he might seek fairly and honourably, and might win for his own, that other fair, sweet Helen Bath. The morrow came, bringing the inevitable interview which both dreaded, but which Miss Hyslop had awaited "with a sort of impatience. In the interval she had passed tlirough various phases of feeling, but perhaps the reign- ing sensation was one of indignation ; and this was her frame of mind when, about noon, Langham was announced. She felt indignant with him, but she reserved the chief of her wrath and contumely for poor innocent Helen, and before their council had proceeded very far, she had said some hard things of her. Now Langhom had come pre- pared to soothe her, to heal, as far as might be, the wound to her self respect, but the line she took made him angry, and he forgot generosity, and was chiefly intent upon shielding Helen. " Then you mean to say," she said, wlien she was beginning to comprehend that Helen liad small share, 222 The Attempt.

and that an innocent one, in the issue of this business. " Then you mean to say you do not care for her." " No," he answered, '' I do not mean to say that, for I do love her, like my own life ; but I tell you tlie truth, the actual truth, in saying that no word of k)ve has passed between us." She scanned him curiously, then curled her lip, and said half scornfully,—" You are very far gone indeed, Walter." Afterwards she added, in a different voice,— " I suppose, if the whole were known, you never- cared forme?" " I think we were unsuitod one to another." " That is no answer. \Yere you once sincere ? " she asked, with quiet pertinacity. " Why do you drive me to it, Katherine? I mistook my own feelings for a time, I believe." " What an injustice you did me! And you would have gone on and completed the wrong " " I regret it bitterly, Miss Hyslop; more bitterly than you can do." She smiled to herself, and held out her hand in token of ftirewell. •' Forgive me, at least." " Oh ! I forgive you, if I have anything to forgive," she said coldly; and then the colour came rushing into her face, and burned there with an inward struggle going forward. "Walter, I hope you will be happy; she looked an innocent little amiable creature; not good for"—the queer honesty or perversity of the woman put in,—"not good for much use, or wear perhaps, but an innocent little amiable creature. I hope you will be happy,—I hope," she concluded after a short pause, speaking with great sweetness, " I hope you will both be happy." Well done ! Miss Hyslop.

CHAPTER III.

ALTHOUGH Katherine Hyslop had so clearly taken for granted, and so plainly inferred his irresistibleness, Langham was to speed none too successfully with his new wooing. He had the grace to take no step for a short while in the direction of the new love; giving the three days immediately following upon the foregone conversation to the due mourning and decent bmial of his old love. But The Attempt. 223 these expired,—his conscience permitted him to pay a visit in Clarendon Place. His heart beat high as he ascended the staii-s. It was impossible not to feel exultingly glad ; not to be conscious that his position towards Helen Bath was a new one ; not to wonder how it would feel to be free to note all the grace and sweetness of the pretty young creature ; to give himself up to the charm of her innocence; to resign his imagination unchecked to the witchery of her sunny smiles. Thus his heart beat high with expectation, as he neared her presence,—but once more a surprise awaited him on the opening of that door. He found the number of the members of the little household augmented by the addition of a tall fair young man, who was commended to his attention as " Mr. Mattox." Concerning this alien addition, Langham quickly, with a little observation, conceived something of his relation towards them. He was helped to this con- clusion by his own feverish passion and jealous regard ; but some subtle change in Helen, her brightened colour, her quickly drooping eyes, and a sort of tender agitation or subdued excitement of manner, gave room for mistrust. But he would leave the matter in no doubt, he would put an end to suspense. So presently, when the obnoxious young man, who had come so early and so suddenly to dispel his dream, had made off on the plea of " post," Langham found an opportunity of taking Miss Bath aside; and then and there declared his passion. " I know I have no right to speak in this sort of way to you, Miss Bath ; but if you would only give me a word of hope. Suspense is very hard upon one : I do not expect an answer, but if you would only give me a word of hope to hve on." Miss Bath was looking fixedly at him, with the most disconcerting blue eyes of calm wonder; she offered not the least remark, and he went on. " You are thinking I ought not to have spoken," the poor fellow resumed, very much in earnest, and very much in love, despite somewhat of a failure in eloquence ; and Miss Hyslop would have wondered, could she have heard the tongue which had made such fluent love to her, go stumbling over the sentences. " You are thinking I ought not to have spoken, I have known you such a short time ; but I could not keep silence longer. If you would give me one word of hope, a single word of hope 224 The AttemjA.

I have not known you very long, but all that time I have loved you." " Oh hush ! you do not mean it," said she, raising her hand also to enjoin silence. " Do not go on ; oh, I am so sorry." " If there is no one else, give me a chance, that is all I ask. Let me try and win you ; have some mercy. I have taken you by surprise, I will wait." " No, Mr. Langham, it is best that I should explain to you at once. I hope I am not to blame for this. \V e looked upon you as a friend : you were so good to poor little Sidney, we can never be grateful enough to you, I hope I have not misled you in this way ; but you know sometime I am to be married to—to Mr. Mattox; not for a long while, not for ages,"—she put in as an important extenuating circumstance,—" but still, still sometime it will be," and then she flushed up crimson and finished. " That is enough. Miss Bath ; do not put yoiu'self to the pain of saying anything more; I thank you for being so candid. Good-bye." " Good-bye," said she, putting out her hand, and raising her lovely eyes over-brimmiug with tears. " I am so sorry." Miss Hyslop was avenged. She never married; but whether that were due to a cherished remembrance of the blighted romance of her youth ; or that she never had leisure enough in her busy life for an undertaking of such frivolity as matrimony, does not appear. Probably the latter, for she was a woman of many hobbies, which she exercised well; but she was also a woman of much influence and helpfulness; in part through her abimdant means, but in a greater degree from weight of personal character. A warm friend to many, Langham's wife and cliildren (when in due time, after all his misadventin-es, he secured those advantages) had no better friend than Miss Hyslop. She was far from being unhappy; it was but a slight dift'erence. In the one career she would have been despot of a small realm; in the other, she held a mild presidential sway over a wide republic. SARA. The Attempt. . 225

g utn ;in (I Jillt in i r^£ s s.

Is it the Duty of Woman to Pay Great Attention to Dress ?

THIS question, which was answered in the negative in the preceding number of this Magazine, is, we think, possibly more fitted to call forth an answer in the affirmative. If such an answer can enable us to look at an old practice in a new light, we shall undoubtedly gain something by it. The question seems plain enough at first sight, yet it is metaphorical. " Is not your very attention, says Carlyle, a stretching to ? " Tliat is, a figurative leaning over to examine an object, in order to obtain a thorough knowledge of it. But this meaning is merely preliminary to that which the word has gradually acquired. It has come to apply also to the course of acti(m to be adopted towards an object which we have previously examined. And thus, as in the case of many other words, its primary has been merged in its secondary meaning. The word as it stands in the above question, gives an emphatic illustration of its modified meaning. If it be the duty of woman to pay great attention to dress, woman is surely doing that duty very well, if we take the word attention to mean a series of actions with regard to dress. But, if we take the word in its primary significa- tion, the answer is not so satisfactory. How often is dress bought and worn without any previous examination of its use and suitability? Forethought is a great economiser of time : five minutes of it will often save hours of labour. And thus, great attention may be paid by means of a great effort of mind, extending over a short space of time. The plan is made by the master mind; it remains for paid workers to carry it out. The degree of attention of this kind is sure to find its equivalent in the resulting degree of perfection ; and if women are to think of their dress at all, why should they not do so thoroughly, deeply, and practically ? At this stage of the inquiry, we are met by the word duty. Does that " divine messenger and guide " acknow- ledge this matter to be under his sway ? Has duty at any time hinted to us, that we are to consult him on the subject? Yes;—and on our taking or not taking these hints, hinges all the difference between the true and the false in dress. But the question contains something more : it is a JOLT 1874. ^ F , 226 7'he Attempt. question of the day. /*■ it our duty, at the present day in particular, to attend to this matter? Yes, for many reasons. There are great abuses in the matter of dress. Nature and art are, in many cases, alike neglected in it. Many pay it great attention, it is true, but of the wrong kind, and in the wrong kind;—that is, in action regarding it, with no earnest thought beforehand. Such persons are changing themselves into clothes-screens, as Carlyle calls the devotees of dress. In them, as in the dandy whom he describes, " the immortal is sacrificed to the perishable, eternity is blent and identified with time, but in the reverse order." Ill almost nothing are we greater slaves to custom than in dress, and it requires thought, insight, and courage, to discover and to rectify the mistakes that we and others have made in the matter. AVhile there are many who would do well to divert their already great attention to dress into another and a truer channel, there are, on the other hand, not a few who have not yet had their judg- ment convinced that such attention is in any great degree necessary, or binding upon them as a duty. Woman, they say, is coming more to the front in the battle of life ; the widening of her existence by varied culture must also widen her influence. " While taking a governing part in the education of her country, and having a voice in its- legislature, she must also lend a help- ing hand to those benighted creatures, who, on far distant shores, are yearning for a share in European civilisation, and in the blessings of Christianity." If, then, she is indeed to come to the front, and to take such a conspicuous place, I think it is all the more neces- sary that she should be properly dressed. If she is to take' part in politics, she must be aware of the " individuality, distinctions, social polity," given us by dress, and of the influence it exerts in political economy. If she is to lend a helping hand to pining barbarians, she must also offer them a type and an example of one of the victories of civilisation over barbarism, namely, the substitution of tlie useful and the artistic combined, for the " painting and tattooing which supply to barbarous men their first spiritual want, namely, decoration." These objectors may again come forward with the remark, that woman (representative woman they mean, evidently), cannot afford to give much time or thought to what is comparatively vain and frivolous. 77ie Attempt. 227

I answer, Is attention to dress a vain and frivolous pursuit? Is it not even more essential to a representa- tive, typical, improved woman, than to her dear, amiable, humdrum sister? In its narrow and self-centred aspect, decidedly it is frivolous ; but in its wider and world- regarding aspect, it is certainly not so. This aspect will be best seen by looking at dress,— first, with regard to some of its essential characteristics. Carlyle's clothes-philosopher tells ns that all clothes are emblems. " Clothes, from the king's mantle downwards, are emblematic of a manifold cunning victory over want." He then goes on to tell us that all visible things are but emblems of things invisible : man himself is an emblem ; his body is the clothing of his divine Me. " Language is the clothing of thought;" and, carrying this train of ideas to its utmost limits, the Earth-spirit in Faust calls Nature, the living, visi/de garment of God. " 'Tis thus at the roaring loom of Time I ply, And weave for God the gamient thou seest him by." After dilating for some time on this sublime philosophy of clothes, the philosopher stops short, leaving to each reader to glean fjr himself, from the chaotic heap of hints thrown out in the book, some intelligent system of thought and practice. And surely we have gleaned now, if we had not done BO before, the belief that visible man is the emblem of the spirit that animates him. Sometimes he is only a mask, to waylay all tokens of that spirit; but in his true state, he is its emblem. Such a thought cannot but inspire him with self-reverence. Supposing that nature has done her wonderful part in always putting the right soul into the right body, man has his meaner part to perform in providing that body with a suitable dress, of which the inner soul may have no reason to feel ashamed. As the human being in his elemental form is a thing of beauty, and every woman, hoM-ever unlovely, should give nature credit for some elemental ideas in her creation, she must strive to clothe that form in such a way. as not to mar the lines of beauty, nor to distort its expression. Some of Coleridge's remarks on beauty might be trans- lated into a whole chapter of rules for dress. " Beauty," he says, " includes, in its most comprehensive sense, expression and artistic interest. These are referred to two elements, viz., lines and colours. The first belongs to shapely (forma, formalis, formosus), thus to law ; the 228 The Attempt. second to lively, free, spontaneous, self-justifying. Recti- lineal lines are lifeless, cycloidal express function; these are the language of nature." The idea of dress having any expression may perhaps excite a smile; but if lines and colours can produce expressi(^n, and even interest, we have both, ready to be disposed of at our will. There is no garment more expressive than a Spanish cloak; it can vary its folds to suit the mood of its wearer, and express every note in the scale of feeling—from the deepest grief to the highest exultation. It can give artistic interest too,—veiling its wearer in mystery; making the stout man seem slender, the short man tall. Why should not the representative woman of the present day adopt some such garment as the Spanish mantle or the cloak of Boadicea? She might hold her pamphlets concealed in it, as Boadicea held her dagger, and veil in mystery fi-om the vulgar gaze that countenance lit Avith passion from a heart that beats in unison with the pulses of mighty empires. And would she not glory in a garment, which in its cut would need no alteration,—in its adjustment, only very moderate attention ? For all, however, whether they are typical beings or not, dress has a double function to perform, viz., to express us physically and mentally; if possible, it should do so artistically too. The lines should reverently copy nature, hinting at, not contradicting, her graceful curves. The colours may express the tone of mind,—whether gay and lively, or gloomy ^iid Puritanical; soberly dutiful, or ardent and impulsive. But it may be objected, that in order to attain to such perfection of taste in dress, we must study it as an art, and that such a study would be a waste of time. Pro- ficiency in any high art will render comparatively easy one so low down in tlie scale as dress. According to the theory of Comte, " the arts may be classified by the decreasing generality and increasing intensity, which involves also increasing technicality, of their modes of expression." Comte places poetry in the first rank, because it is the most general and the least technical. We suppose that the word general applies to the subject dealt Avitli, the word technical to the manner in which it is dealt witli, by the art. Music comes second, being equally general with poetry, hut having more technicality. Next in the scale comes painting, then sculjpture, and The Attempt. 229 then arcliitecture. Dress certainly possesses the virtue of being general, but in a very material way ; and its technicality is so great, that it must inevitably rank very low among the arts. Its only prospect of rising is by a decrease in technical uniformity, and a corresponding increase in artistic individuality. And this can never be accomplished unless reflective and able minds arc willing to devote to it some considerable share of time and thought. Why should they not do so ? The still lower art of cookery is having its whole system expanded and improved by the energetic efi"orts of Lady Barker and others. The stimulus given by the school for cookery which they have founded, Avill not die away until its effects have been felt in every part of Great Britain. It would be a great benefit could a similar training-school be formed, not for milliners and dressmakers, but for dress inventors. Some prospect of escape we might then have from the tyranny of ignorant fashion. These drcss- inventors might be taught the elements of design and colour, with their adaptability to various specimens of the genus humanum. Ought they not also to acquire some knowledge of anatomy, in order that they might design shoes and other pieces of dress which would not be injurious to the human frame ? After having gone through the necessary course of instruction, they might receive certificates of merit, with the permission to practice their art. These functionaries ought certainly to exist both as men and women; for men also, at the {)resent day, would not suff"er from a good deal of attention paid to their dress. Could they only know how refresliing it would be to ladies, and to all artistic people, to see them walking about in a Vandyke costume, or in any- thing not hideous, they would certainly adopt some alteration without loss of time. To return to the dress- functionaries above mentioned. Their duty would be, in return for a small consulting fee, to plan for any in- dividual, who had neither leisure nor invention to devise his own dress, an artistic and thoroughly suitable toilet, in which he might mirror himself forth, body and soul, to the admiring gaze of a public, daily becoming more apprecia- tive from the increase of opportunity. Need I say that these useful individuals must also have some knowledge of the human mind and heart ? Second. The accidental characteristics of dress may be 230 The Attempt. of use in throwing hght upon it in its wider aspect. One of these characteristics is fashion,—caused mainly by the love of novelty and the desire to excel. A new fashion would remain for ever absurd and fantastic, were it not for tlie diversity of taste produced by the association of ideas. Thus the accidental circumstance of fashion is the means of forming our taste for the moment, and the mode in which it influences us, is mainly determined by the elegance of those by whom the fashion has been adopted. In the case of those who are rough and inelegant, the incongruity which we perceive to exist between their persons and their apparel is enough to disgust us with the new style of dress which we see them wear. The sceptre of fashion is thus wielded by those who are elegant in appearance and manner. Let us hope that they may, in the future, wield it more Avisely than they have hitherto done. In spite of many faults and absurdities, costume has improved greatly in Britain since the time of Boadicea, with her coloured tunic and torque of gold ; nay, even since the time of Queen Anne. The Saxon gunna or gown, which the Normans called a robe, has, by its shortness, gained in practical perfection, though it has lost iu beauty. But the long robe will never become extinct. The bonnets of the present day, though much abused for their size, are much less deserving of ridicule than the horned head-dresses of the time of Henry V., and the steeples or fontanges which adorned the female head in the days of Edward IV. It is thus a great mistake to fancy that, by copying ancient forms, whether Greek or Roman, or old English, we should attain to greater per- fection in dress. Past generations have not saved us the trouble of thinking on this subject, any more than on any other. Excessive attention to dress seems to have prevailed equally in bygone times. Of the want of atten- tion to it we hear less, though it is upon the whole a more unusual quality. Great attention of the right kind, was, and remains still, the most unusual of all. Do the remarks which we have now made upon dross in its wider aspect, in its essential and accidental qualities, throw any light upon attention to it as a duty ? If they tend to self-respect and regard for others, they do. Two moral qualities such as these are necessary to real per- fection in the art of dress. Tlie Attempt. 231

Self-respect can never permit us to despise externals, nor to ignore their importance. The mission of art is to transcend reality, not by spurning it away, but by making eternity shine through time, and spirit through symbol. She therefm-e, who, "thinking little of dress, is occupying herself solely with religion, benevolence, intellectual and artistic pursuits," is, though a praiseworthy, yet an incom- plete human being ; because, in attending to the soul, 'she is neglecting the body, the soul's emblem, and dress, the emblem of both. The shabby careless dress of the pious and benevolent, is often a means of shocking the artistic soul, who would fain be of their number, and placing in an unfavourable light their noblest efforts. Thought and art have also a tendency to abstract the mind, and make it indifferent to dress. Such abstraction we may forgive, nay even admire, in a man. But woman, alas ! meets with no pity if she falls into these habits ; for it is of the essence of womanhood to be carefully dressed. And is it not for tliis, in part, that she has been endowed with quicker per- ceptions and truer instincts than man, that she may be able, on all occasions, to perceive quickly, and to carry out perfectly into details, the ideas of beauty and of fitness. Regard for others is, or ought to be, an equally strong motive with self-respect. Coleridge tells us that " refined pleasures have, by the fficility in the means of their enjoy- ment, a pre-eminence over all others; but when we bring in moral feeling, a larger sweep of thoughts will ac- company the enjoyment, which will thus become more a pleasure of the whole being." The sight of perfectly ordered and tasteful dress is, without doubt, a refined pleasure, yet one of such a kind, that its contemplation should take place in an almost insensible manner, so as not to draw away our thoughts from higher occupations. We should like it—in harmony, in tone of colour, in grace- ful lines—to be to us, in a lower degree, what a true picture or a noble strain of music is,—something that satisfies our idea of the pure and the true in colour and in tone. And our wishing it to be so, is a moral reason why the wearer should make it so. Yet it is even more to us tlian this. A picture represents to us a distant scene, perhaps, with something of the artist's own thought and feeling thrown into it. if he be a true artist; and a strain of music, too, must, by the spirit of melody, prove itself to be allied to the sister spirit of feeling. Yet these are distant scenes, 232 The Attempt.

and fictitious or bygone feelings, and their influence is not so great as that of one or more people in whose society we are at the moment. Our companions speak, they smile, they frown, or look sad,—and instantaneous echoes of these moods arise in our breast. So powerful is the spell of society, that everything about it must influence us. Its dress cannot fail to do so. Are we with a person dressed from a purely utilitarian point of view % Our artistic eye is pained, and roves around dissatisfied. Or is it a votary of fasliion % The result is still less edify- ing. Or is it a nun or a quaker ? She is too bizarre to ])lease us altogether; though we admire her neatness, we shrink from her peculiarity. Something is wrong in morality, as well as in taste, in the dress of all these persons. Setting their particular errors aside, the general error among women is, that they are too self-regarding; they forget that they dress more for others than for themselves,—their dress is more seen by others than by themselves, and thus it cannot fail to form a constant source of either pleasure or dissatis- faction. Those who wish to study in detail the moralities of dress, and the practical remedies for the mistakes of fashion, will find these subjects exhaustively and amusingly treated in an article in St. PauVs Magazine for January 1873, by M. E. Haweis. The foregoing remarks may now condense themselves into the following: If we love our neighbours and our- selves truly and intelligently, that love will not fail to show the degree of its intensity even in the article of dress. Great attention to dress for the sake of others, as well as for our own, cannot fail to put an end to all vanity, and to give this subject its true position, both in our own opinions and in our practice. PROCLA.

A Prize is offered for the best Poem appearing in the August, September, or October number of The Attempt. The Attempt. 233

%\\t (BarIII (Bjjics JJ{ djjjrmani).

III. OLD PERIOD : FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE TWELFTH TO THE MIDDLE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY—continued. First Classical Period, 1190-1300.

G U D R U N.

OF the third, or East Gothic cycle of tradition, with Dietrich of Bern for its hero, we have two smaller epics, dating from the thirteenth century; namely, Ecken Ausfart, or the Adventures of a Knight named Ecke, and King Laurin. The first of these is compiled in what is called the Berner Ton, a strophe of thirteen lines, in a rapid and lively metre, and contains, in its traditions of giants, some passages of real poetic merit. The story is simply that the giant Ecke, hearing of the great exploits of Dietrich, resolves to sally forth against him, and is slam by him in single combat. The poem is still extant in the form in which it appeared in the thirteenth century, and in which, until the seventeenth century, it still remained in the mouths of the people. The other. King Laurin, is a story of dwarf life in Tyrol. Laurin, a king of the dwarfs, had a garden enclosed by a silken thread instead of by a wall. Whoever dared to break through this thread was doomed to have hand and foot cut off. Dietrich resolves to attempt it, and is cast into prison by Dietlieb of Stiermark, a compulsory vassal of the dwarf. He escapes, however, conquers the dwarf, and carries Laurin captive to Bern or Verona. This romance furnished Fouque with the subject of his romance of the Magic Ring; almost the only German romance which enters thoroughly into the life and feelings, joys and sorrows of the Middle Ages. We come now to the northern cycle of tradition, which has its scene on the shores of the North Sea, in Friesland, and which boasts of the only other poem worthy to be placed side by side with the Nibelungenlied, viz., Gudrun. These are both epics of the highest order, woven out of the oldest and grandest traditions, which have owed their origin to the depths of the deepest minds. Yet we must keep in view that these were as yet barbarian minds, and were inspired by nature with a wonder and an awe ACODST 1874. ^ Q" 234 The Attempt.

which ignorance fanned into a flame of blind and undis- criminating adoration. The story of Gudruu embraces three generations, and runs as follows:— Hettel, king of Friesland, wishes to marry Hilda, the daughter of llagen, king of Ireland, and sends ambassadors to woo her. The ambassadors are Horant, Frute, and Wate. AVate, after his arrival, is seated in a room with the queen and her daughter, when they ask him, in jest, whether it is more agreeable to him to sit beside ladies, or to fight in open battle? He answers, unthinkingly, it is good to sit in the presence of beautiful ladies, but much better and pleasanter to fight in the thick of the battle. Then the queens laugh aloud, and ask if this man has wife and child at home ? Thus the wooing begins to find favour ; and in the evening, Horant sings so beautifully, that the royal maiden says, "Dear flither, bid him sing once more." And again, the next evening, he raises his voice so that it sounds clearer than bells; and while his song was heard, the labourer ceased to work, the sick no longer felt their sickness, the cattle in the forest left their pasture, and the worms in the grass, and the fish in the wave, ceased their restless wanderings. And the singer gains the maiden for him who has sent him to woo her, and she steals aAvay, goes with him to the ship, and becomes the wife of Hettel. Their children are Ortwin and Gudrun. The latter is wooed by Hartmut, the son of a Norman king; but an old enmity between the races destroys the success of his suit, and Herwig, the king of See- land, \vins the love of the fair Gudrun. She is be- trothed to him; but soon afterwards, her father and her betrothed, having gone, on a warlike expedition to a great distance, the Norman Hartmut, with his father Ludwig, comes and carries off Gudrun. Her father and lover pursue them, and overtake them at an island in the North Sea. Here a bloody fight ensues, during which Hettel is killed ; and Wate, enraged at the fate of his master, makes a new sunset after the sunset in the sky has disappeared, by means of swift strokes of the sword on the helmets of his enemies. Meanwhile, the darkness of the night causes friend to attack friend, and the combat is decided. During the night, the Normans fly with their prey; the king's daughter is threatened with immediate death in the waves if she suff"ers a cry of complaint to escape her. No forces are left to The Attempt. 235 pursue the enemies, and Wate is forced to return in silence to the forsaken castle, which he has so often entered with shouts of victory. " Where is my dear lord? Where are his friendsf" asks Queen Hilda in dismay, on seeing Wate re-enter so silent, and Avith his shield hewn in pieces. " I will not deceive you; they are all slain," is the short answer of the stahvart hero. " Wheu the children of the countrys are grown up, then will come the time of vengeance for Ludwig and Hartmut." Sadly Gudnm gazes on the coast of JS'ormandy, and the castles on the sea-shore. The old king says Iviudly,— "If thou,,noble maiden, wilt wed Hurtmut, all that thou belioldest shall be thine." But Gudrun answers,—" Sooner tlian wed Hartmut, 1 will die. Had it been so ordered Avliile my father lived, it might have been ; but now 1 will rather yield up my life than break my troth." She spoke in earnest, and the fierce Norman commander became so angry, that he seized her by the hair, and threw her into the sea. Theieupon Hartmut sprang into the sea, and drew her by the hair again into the ship. The mother of Hartmut, named Gerlinde, receives Gudrun kindly at first, but when slie finds that persuasion is of no use with the maiden, she proceeds to threats and violence. Slie who ought to wear a croAvn, must perform the duty of the lowest servant, light tlie fire and wasli linen on the sea-shore. T3ut her heart remains patient and faithful, even through many years of humiliation and ill- treatment. At last the time comes when, in Gtidrun's native land, an army can be raised for her deliverance. After a long voyage the Frisian heroes reach an island, from tlie high trees of which they can see the Norman castles. Gudvun, as she has for years been used to do, goes to the shore every day to wash linen, Avhen an angel in the form of a bird appears to her to comfort her; and what comfort does she ask for % To be delivered from servitude, and from hard usage and blows, "Lives Hilda yet," she asks, " the mother of poor Gudrun ? Is Ortwin my brother yet alive? and Her wig, my betrothed? and Horant and Wate, the faithful servants of my father, do they yet live ? " Yet no hope of her escape; she talks all day to her companions about the dear ones at home. On her return to the castle she is upbraided by Gerlinde for spending the whole day over her washing; and the next morning, though a. deep snow 236 The Attempt. has flillen dnring the night, she is obhged to go at dawn barefooted throngli the snow to the wild sea-shore,to finish her washing. On this very morning Ortwin and Herwig come in a small bark near to the place where the king's daughter, trembling with cold, her fair hair streaming in the March wind, is occupied in washing. The two wamors approach the maiden with a friendly greeting, such as she has not heard for long, for dame Gerlinde is sparing with her kind words. They do not recognise Gudrun in her present mean attire, and learn from her, in reply to their questions about the country and people, that the country is well defended, and that the people live in dread of only one enemy, namely, the Frisians. During this long conversation the maiden stands trembling with cold, and, on the warriors offering her their cloaks, Gudrun answers,—" God forbid that any one should see man's clothes upon me I " Then her brother Ortwin asks if one Gudruu had not been caxried off and brought hither, and Herwig repeatedly compares the features of the poor maiden with those of his former bride ; he also calls Ortwin by his name. " Ah," said Gudnm, if " Ortwin aud Herwig still lived, they would long ago have come to release us; I am one of those who were carried off; but poor Gudrun has long been dead." Then the king of Zeeland holds out his hand, and says, "If you are one of the captives, you must know the ring that I wear on my finger; my name is Herwig, and with this ring Gudrun was betrothed to me." Then the eyes of the maiden sparkle, and though she would fain have concealed her servitude, yet she is overcome. " Well do I know the ring, for once it was mine; so do I also wear this ring that Herwig sent to me." Yet the brother and the betrothed do not doubt that she has long been Hartmut's wife, and are horrified at her performing such menial offices. Wden they hear, however, why she has for so many years had to perform these duties, Herwig wishes to take her away at once. Bvit this is not permitted. The manners of a time which we think barbarous, are too severe and noble for that. " What has been taken from me in war," replies Ortwin, " I will not carry away secretly: rather than steal that which I must win by the sword, I would, if I had a hundred sisters, let them all perish here." The two princes return to their fleet, and prepare to attack the castle of the Normans. Gudrun, in her joy at The Attempt. 237 what had happened, and in glad expectation of being saved by the hand of a hero, instead of washing the linen, throws it into the sea. Gerliude's wrath is stirred at this ; and, to escape blows, Gudrun consents to become the wife of Hartmut, knowing very well that in the morning, things will look very different. When Herwig and Ortwin, on their return to the army, proclaim the ill-treatment of Gudrun, the heroes all cry out loudly against it, but AVate bids them serve the king's daughter in another way,—by dyeing in red blood the clothes that she has washed; and in the middle of the night, by moonlight, the attack upon the castle is commenced. The morning star is still high in the heavens when one of Gudrun's companions looks out at the window, and sees the fields glistening with helmets and shields ; and immediately the watchman cries out from the tower,— " Ho ! ye brave heroes, to arms ; ye knights, to arms; ye Norman heroes, up, ye have slept too long!" The figlit begins; the Norman king, Ludwig, falls beneath the sword of Herwig ; the wrathful Gerlinde would fain have slain Gudrun for this, and already the sword gleams over her head, when Hartmut, who sees from below the mur- derous purpose of his mother, nobly prevents the crime. Hartraut is taken prisoner, and the angry Wate makes his Avay into the female apartments to take vengeance on Gerlinde. Gudrun w^ould fain prevent him, but in vain; Wate finds out Gerlinde, and cuts off her head, and that of a servant of Gudrun's, who had tormented her mistress to please Gerlinde. " He knew," he said, " how to manage women ; for that reason he was chamber- lain." Tlien follows the journey home, and a threefold marriage takesplace,between Herwig and Gudrun, between the Norman king Hartmut and flildburg, one of the companions of Gudrun, and between Ortwin, Gudrun's brother, and Ortrun, the daughter of the Norman king, who alone had been kind to Gudrun, and comforted her under her deep humiliation. The character of gloom, which is so largely present in the Nibelungenlied, is scarcely found at all in Gudrun. Even the idea of a northern people dwelling on the sea- coast gives an air of cheerfulness to it; and as we advance into the story, we find the various characters very dis- tinctly marked. The constancy of Gudrun is the pearl of the whole; the firmness with which she refuses to 238 The Attempt. become Hartmut's bride, and her patience in bearing the privations and hardships to whicli she is subjected,— these give to the story its chief interest Its happy ending gave rise to a naive division of German heroic poetry into two principal parts.—(1.) with a sad ending, as >»'ibehmgen, etc.; (2.) with a happy ending, as Gudrun, The promiscuous marriages at the end suggest a decidedly confused state of mind in the heroes of the piece; the wholesale slaughter of enemies may have so dulled their ideas of meum and tuwn, that the son or daughter of an enemy may have come to be considered a suitable choice as a helpmate. The fault may, however, have lain in the inventi.)n of the writers; having brought the story so near to a close, the triple marriage may have presented an easy and ready mode of finishing it. It would have been more true to the course of the narrative, and infinitely more effective, had the onlv marriage been that between Herwig and Gudrun, and had the Norman princess not consented to join her fortunes with those of the man whose sword was stained with the blood of both her father and mother. The preservation of this second great epic is due to the Emperor Maximilian I., who caused it, along with the Nibelungenlied and a number of others, to be written out on parchmeJit, and carefully preserved in the royal library of Castle Ambras, in the Tyrol. The best modern version of it is that of Keller; it is in the same metre as the original, and will bear comparison with Simrock's rendering of the Nibelungenlied. Yet even this ver- sion lacks much of the freshness and delicacy of the original. Three other short epics of the twelfth century complete the number of the chief national epics of this period. They are the stories of King Kother, King Otnit, and Hug-and-Wolfdieterich. We shall not go into the details of these stories, having already found ample specimens of the national poetry of Germany in those wliicl) we have more carefully studied. Siiffice it to say. that every one of the poems, which have been mentioned, is the work of one or more unknown authors, a fact sufficient of itself to show that they have flowed out of the heart of the nation. Of them the German Heldenbuch is composed, containing all that is noble in ancient Saxon tradition. PROCLA. {To be continued). Tlie Attempt. 239

^ XT 1 ^ r ft e.

THE evening shadows darken, but enchantment fills the night, For music wakes and leads us far to regions of delight; To each a different wonder-tale of glory does she tell, Flinging o'er weary thoughts and lives her own mysterious spell. Now falls a tender cadence, sweet as a perfumed breeze. And lo I the Italian moonlight glows between the Cyprus trees; And now in graver splendour the widening circles ring. And booming over ancient seas th e storm seems wakening: A change—a wild bacchante whirl of satyrs in a wood : A change again—with chanted dirge glides a dark brother- hood ; Or in the great cathedral peals the solemn mass on high. Or pure far hills in loneliness rise in a pure far sky; Or all the pictures fade in the magnificence of tone, And music in her splendour reigns triumphant and alone !

Has no one solved the mystery that first old Jubal pondered, That in the rushes lurked when Pan beneath Parnassus Avandered, Aud laughed because the reeds replied, and all the world was brightened! With Organ and with Orchestra we scarce are more enlightened. Whence are you, voices of the air, prisoned in measured cells— From what far country do you come, where all perfection dwells ? Interpreting in ordered thoughts, and lovely mysteries, Earth and her myriad voices, and the spirit of the seas. Unearthly in your loveliness as some angelic greeting. No stigma of this world you bear, except that you are fleeting; For all the glory leaves us as the last vibration dies; And in the gloom we stand, without the gates of Paradise. E. J. 0. 240 ' The Attempt.

goiti io I hxm i\\t ^iblc to ht \\u Witix^ 4 (Bod ?

BEING A LETTER FROM ONE WHO DOBS SO BELIEVE TO ONE WHO DOES NOT.

DEAR .—You ask me how I know this book which I hold in my hand to be indeed the very Word of the hving God, who made heaven and earth; to be the record of His plan of creation, and providence, and redemption ; to be His history of the human race—of its past, its present, and its future, from its cradle in the garden of Eden, till the day when the " heaven and earth shall pass away," and there shall be a " new heaven and a new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness ;" to be the written code of laws given to mankind by the " Judge of all the earth," by which to guide their life on earth, and according to which sentence will be pronounced upon them at the last. You say there are difficulties—difficulties of many kinds—historical, chronological, scientific ; numbers which, added up, will not make the right sum total, dates, which geology pronounces to be impossible, proved verbal errors, and last and most serious of all, a revelation of a God whom you pronounce less merciful than the creature He has made, a God who "visiteth the miquities of the fathers on the children," a God who " taketh vengeance." " Why," you ask, '• should you claim for this book, with its proved errors and inconsistencies, with its doubtful facts, above all, with its (to your mind) imperfect deity, exclusive authority, as in very truth the Word of God ? AVell, I will try to answer your question, not as pro- fessing to remove all difficulties, or solve all enigmas, nor, indeed, as believing that these difficulties and enigmas are meant all to be solved, yet humbly hoping in some measure to be able to give a " reason for the hope that is in me." In the first place, then, I shall try to cut the ground from under your feet, by boldly asserting that I believe it to be a part of God's plan, in giving us a revelation of Himself, that such a revelation should be surrounded by those very difficulties of which you com- plain; that the Bible itself anticipates these difficulties, and gives the reason for their existence. What, my dear friend, is the fundamental requirement, the very key-note and foundation stone (on man's side) of God's will con- cerning us, as revealed in this book ? Is it not faith ? " We walk by faith, not by sight." And how is this faith The Attempt. • 241 defined? Is it not as "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seenV If we had sight, where would be the necessity or the opportunity for this faith ? The Bible does not profess to clear up for us all puzzles, all enigmas. It says distinctly and at once, " There are puzzles, there are enigmas,—they are beyond your solving, leave them in your Father's laands. ' Blessed are they which have not seen, and yet have believed.' It is not to the ' wise or prudent' that this book promises ' the kingdom,' it is to the ' little children,' ' for of such aro the kingdom of heaven.' Its language throughout is not ' Behold,' or ' Understand,' but ' believe.' " You see thus I do not hold the Bible in any way bound to answer all your difficulties; nay, as I have said, it would do away with its very fundamental requirement were it to do so. " But," you say, " that may apply to some of tlie difficulties, but how can it apply to errors in matters of fact ? The Bible distinctly declares its God to be a God of truth; must not then His word—if it be indeed His word, be true?" Yea, verily. But let us look at the nature of some of these so-called errors. You say there are expressions used in the Bible which the advance of science has now proved to be false; periods which geology declares to have been centuries, spoken of as " days," and I wot not what other scientific enormities. Well, my dear friend, to save trouble, let us grant them all, and Avhat does it amount to? Simply this. The Bible does not profess to teach you science: it tells its story of higher things than science, in the ordinary u.nscientific language of the times in which it was written, of the people for whom it was written. Is there any ex- pression in the Bible more grossly false to scientific truth, than the one that passes our lips every day, when we say the sun rises and sets? Yet no one accuses us of untruth, or even of ignorance, when we say it; every one knows that we know as well as they do, that the eartli moves, not the sun. But we speak in ordinary unscientific . language, according to appearances, not according to scientific realities. I said " Let us grant all those scientific difficulties,"' and yet I cannot grant them all, for has not science herself in her onward Y^rogress swept away many of the most formidable which she herself has raised? and if so, may we not at least have the modesty to suspend our judgment on those that AUGUST 1874. ^ H 242 • The Attemjyt. remain ? We know so little; dare we dogmatise or say that aught is impossible ? I trow not. But, you say, there are blunders in chronology as well as in science,—proved discrepancies between one part of the I^iblc and another. Well, let us grant that too, and see what the admission amounts to. Errors of copyists— explanatory notes gradually creeping into the text; the thousand mischances which might so easily befal a manuscript handed down througli all these ages. May these not very probably explain them all'? But, you say, would not God take care of His OAvn Word ? would He not preserve it from these mischances'? would He not, if He is the omnipotent, omniscient God which yom- Bible describes, so guard His own Revelation, that His people should have it as He uttered it? Yes, I say, in all essential matters God ivould so guard, and has so guarded His written Revelation of Himself; but you remember that' I began the argument by boldly asserting that I beheved God did not mean that all difficulties should be cleared away. It may be that he has allowed these very errors and discrepancies in dates, and names, and minor things, to creep into His written Word, for the very purpose of trying his people's fiith. But sup- posing even that some of these errors cannot be so accounted for, that we must believe that they existed in the manuscripts as originally penned by the inspired writers themselves, even then, the question which it would raise in my mind, would not be as to the feet of these men being commissioned by God to write His message,—not as to the fact, but as to the nature of the inspiration. It may be that that inspiration which secured that God's message should be delivered, did not secure that the messengers should be free, even in the delivering of it, from their natural human fallibility. That such fallibility could in nowise be allowed to interfere Avitli anything in His message which God cared should be delivered, follows necessarily, if we believe that He is omnipotent and omniscient; but I see no reason for refusing to admit that He, for His own wise purposes, may have allowed the human imperfections of the writers to be apparent in their delivery of His message, any more than that He should allow errors at a later date to creep into the written Word. But, you say, all these, after all, are but minor difficulties ; to your mind, the great, the insuperable difficulty, lies far deeper, in the very nature of the God The Attempt. ' 243 which the Bible professes to reveal,—a God by whose com- mand whole nations were extirpated, a God whose anger is so implacable that He cannot forgive without a propitiation. Well, my dear friend, let us take your first objection first, for the two are quite distinct. It is true, as you say, that we read in the Bible that God commanded the destruction of Canaanites and Perrizites, and all the other dwellers in the land which He had promised to Israel His people; that they should be cut off "root and branch," young men and maidens, old men and children,—and I grant the mystery. But, my friend, just look around you. You are not an atheist, you do not believe that Chance or Blind Force is the only father of, were it in- deed so, how orphaned a universe 1 No, you say, there are marks of design all around us, which prove beyond a doubt, to your mind, an Intelligent Author of all things. In short, you believe in a God. Well, then, as I said, just look around you—whether you can account for it or not, do you not see the very thing you complain of happening around you every day ? Do you not see the " sins of the fathers visited upon the children"—the inno- cent suffering with the guilty ? You are constrained to answer yes. Well, then, does not the very same objec- tion which you make to the God of the Bible, apply also to the God of the World—to the God of Providence? You may not be able to reconcile it with the idea you have formed of the character of God, but when you can obliterate these facts from the world around you, then, and not till then, will you have a right to raise the record of such facts as an objection against the identity of the God of Providence and the God of the Bible. On the other hand, are they not, in truth, a proof of that identity? Let us look now at your other objection. You say you cannot believe in a God so implacable as to need a propitiation. If He be God, you say, can He not forgive? Besides, you say, supposing justice to require the punishment of the offender, what justice could there be in the innocent suffering for the guilty ? I feel, my friend, in attempting to answer this question, as I think Moses must have done when he heard the words—" Take off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place where thou standcst is holy ground;" and I know not whether I can make you understand the answer which to me is so satis- fying. You say could not God, if He be God, forgive without an atonement 1 and I answer No, for the very 244 The Attempt. reason that He is God ; because He is holy—because He is just—because He is as holy and just as He is merciful; because it is not against Him, as a person, that the offence has been committed, but against the eternal right, Avhich is His nature. But, you say, supposing justice did require satisfaction, what justice is there in the innocent sufFering for the guilty ? Here again, my friend, I know not if you will understand when I give my answer, for I speak of a great mystery. It was not one innocent man condenuied to suffer for a guilty world—my friend, it was the Judge that died. But, though I have glanced at those difficulties of yours, you must remember that I set out by telhng you that I did not believe they were meant to be so solved, still less that I could solve them. Let us acknowledge that there are difficulties, and let me try to tell you why, in spite of these difficulties, I still believe the Bible to be indeed the Word of the living God. I believe that ultimately we must always fall back for the reason of our belief on internal evidence. I believe that no external evidence, however conclusive, will ever convince any one in this matter, any more than any external difficulties, however great, will ever really make any one, who has this internal evidence, for a moment doubt it. " The spirit witnessing with our spirits that we are the sons of God." Let us suppose, by way of illustrating what I mean, a child gets a letter from her mother. The letter is not signed; it comes with a strange post-mark, from a town where she did not suppose her mother to be staying. You come to her and say, how do you know that letter is from your mother; it's not signed, and it comes from a strange place ? " Yes," says the child, " but I'm sure it's from my mother; / hnoio her hand, and besides, she tells me all sorts of things about myself which nobody could know hut my mother." Do you think you will be able to shake that child's belief that the letter is really from her mother ? I trow not. Well, you ask me, how do I know this Bible to be God's letter 1 I give you the same answer—" / hioio my Father s hand." I recognise in this God, who reveals Himself to me in this Book, tlie Being whom I was made to worship and to serv(^—the Nature before whom my natiire bows as its Author and example. I road my own history in its pages. Who but his Creator could so know what is in man ? I find here a solution of the otherwise insoluble mysteries, in my own heart, in The Attempt. 245 the world around me,—the satisfaction of all the wants and cravings and aspirings of my heart. The promise—nay, not the promise only, but the gift of a salvation, beginning with pardon, and going on to perfection. I have been so hungry, and here is the bread of life ; I have been so thirsty, and here I find " living water springing up unto everlastmg life." Do you think you can convince a man who has eaten of this bread, that he feasted on apples of Sodom; who ha s drained this cup of salvation, that he has but drunk at the mirage of the desei't? You ask how I know the Bible to be the Word of God, and I answer you in our Saviour's words,—" My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me."

JEANIE MORISON.

Ctars in ^ob's pous^.

0 THOU, Who markest all the tears of men. Dost Thou mark those that fall within Thy House When brother handeth brother into death? Not the vile only, but the pure, the true, The earnest seekers with the thoughtful brow Whose feet refuse the narrow'd, beaten track Where priests have vailed the God their souls desire. (Poor bleeding feet, a weary way ye've trod, Cut by that stone where brother's toxich grew cold, Or that, where parents falling on their knees, Craved pardon for the unbeheving child. Whose chief crime was that he beheved too much.)

How great their hunger, and their thirst how great I t'or righteousness, for fearlessness, for truth ; They turn aside from creeds unsatisfied; Yet all creation sends them copious streams. They gaze on children with a look of peace, And God's dumb creatures have a voice for them, In all their beauteous forms and loving ways : Heav'n's winds touch them as Avith a mother's kiss,— The moon, the stars, the " everlasting hills, " AVhisper th' eternal message—" All is well. " 246 The Attempt.

Yet " Chrietless " they are named I they who tread His steps, Who tend His sick and poor ones with such love! Not for reward, but that their hearts beat with The measure of His Own, which throbbed for all. ***** E'en such we hear condemned within Thy House, Reckoned among the outcasts fi'om Thy love: Some hear it with the curling lip of scorn, Some weep—and dost Thou mark these tears, 0 God? FRUCARA.

Joltinri.') from :in 6Id P;iid's OJxperifuci's.

CHAPTER I.

THE bell had ceased ringing when I entered the room, and the chairs were already occupied, so that I shrank into my seat Avith the uncomfortable consciousness that I was looking nervous and embarrassed. When at length 1 summoned up sufficient courage to glance round, it was to find the landlady of the establishment regarding me with a steady smile, which gradually grew into a gentle, nodding assurance of afiftibility; as if she were keeping time to the long grace wliich was being droned forth from the other end of the table. "Miss Nick ell" announced the landlady, a little im- patiently, I observed, for she made a quick involuntary movement with her hand, as though it would sweep aAvay all the forcible expressions of unworthiness which characterised the grace her worthy spouse was giving us. But I foimd she was merely indicating a liew presence among her household, with whom she ex- changed my introduction as rapidly as the warm flush of colour darted into my face, when I found myself following the wave of her hand, wliich I did in the most helpless, nervous manner possible ; and I was only too thankful when I saw the knives and forks of the boarders coming into play. That is all I can remember of my first day's experience at Mrs Fairbairn's boarding house, The Attempt. 241 estabhshed in a quiet quarter of one of the oldest towns in Scotland. But perhaps before I go on any farther, I had better say a word or two as to how I came to be located there. It was not from choice, certainly, that I relinquished the handsome suite of rooms, where I had lived in comfort for so many years, but from a grievous necessity ! One of those periodical commercial failures swept away half of my fortune, which I had trusted was securely invested, so that there only remained to me a small jointure of my mother's. It was many a long day after that I ceased to regret the peaceful seclusion of my pretty apartments, and the sweet faint odour wafted in from the fragrant boxes of pale mignionette which were my especial care. By-and-bye the nervous embarrassment I felt at first wore itself wholly away. The strange faces grew into familiar ones, which I learnt to miss when a change in their lives carried them elsewhere. The eager busy hum of con- versation at meal-time, chased away any lonely thoughts that were lingering after those wishes which dwell in the Past, and erelong I felt myself invariably amused, and borne along with the incessant ebb and flow of discussion in which I was often induced to claim a share. There were two or three other ladies, about the same age as myself,—that is to say, we had arrived at a time of life when, if called upon to exercise a cliaperonage over any young girl, our looks and years fully qualified us to do 80. The interest of these pages will not therefore relate to myself, but to younger, fresher lives—lives that had more vitality, more colour in their chromatic changes which had run through them, than had ever dwelt in the five-fingered exercise mine had been set to, with never a flat or sharp to ring a subtle change in its melody, only a solitary accidental now and then. There was the German doctor, with his brown scrub beard and sharp observant eye, who rarely spoke, except to launch forth contemp- tuous words about "womankind, " and, as he declared, their mock pretence of assuming an air of " injured innocence," or to indulge in some plain unvarnished statement of the last startling theory of Darwinism. If any unguarded re- monstrance were offered him, he took flight in all the wind- ing intricacies of his native metaphysical style, or, knitting his broad wrinkled brow, burst forth into a complication of similes, which it were utter bewilderment to follow. Mrs. 248 The Attempt.

Fairbairn was wont to exercise a more especial surveil- lance over him. All foreigners, and " strangers in a strange land," she thought, needed an extra share of her good offices. Perhaps, too, a seasonable word from her averted more misunderstandings than they were aware of, between him and certain of her household, who had narrowed themselves in by a bodyguard of insular prejudices. There were three crescent lines which lurked near the corners of the thick-set scrub-beard, and I used to know by the rapid spasmodic curves into which they would, rise and fall, that the landlady had given him.—a " check." " Ach Himmel I check again," he would sometimes exclaim, with a faint growl of displeasure, " and by a woman." "Fortunately," he added, after a pause, " there are women- Idnd and womenkind." "Pray tell me, Mrs. Fairbairn, what is it he means by check ?" I once asked the landlady, because I could never satisfoctorily account for the sudden jump and rapidly muttered exclamation which used to startle me so much at first, until I grew accustomed to this pecu- liarity of his. " My dear Miss Nickel," she replied, " I don't mind telling you: we two are English, you see, and don't take so much offence at his flights of fancy as some people, but whenever he comes to a foreign idea, which I know his tongue should keep to itself, why, I just poke his elbow, and when that won't do, which I must say is generally the case,—I tread upon his feet, hard or soft, as the occasion may be. You see the reason now, I daresay, why it is best for the doctor to be beside me, though some of them do talk of my sliomng him too much prefer- ence over the other boarders," and the landlady's kindly features fixed themselves into an expression of momentary sternness, as though she were mentally resolving how many battles she had fought for him, and how she would be ready to meet any that might be looming in the future. My left-hand neighbour was a lively bright-headed young man,—very facetious, very chatty, who worked all day long in a public office, and invariably made a point of rousing the doctor to retort upon him. He always reminded me of one of those busily-humming flies, which do not sting, yet nevertheless vex the nerves by their perpetual "buzz," and irritate the skin by the very light- ness with which they settle upon one. Though you may The Attempt. 249 ronse yourself to shake them off, again and again they return to hover and hum about you. " Now sir, " said this young man, addressing the doctor opposite, some- time after grace had been said, '.' how do you regard the ladies ?—the fair sex in general %" he added, his boyish face brimful of mischievous glee, as he tried to catch a glimpse of my right-hand neighbour, a single lady of somewhat severe aspect. "We call her the decorous one," he whispered to me one day, in his ready impulsive way. "It's not a case of misplaced—ahem !—confidence, I hope? " he added playfully. The doctor frowned, lookedup hastily, and encountered the provoking air of self-assurance with which the young clerk met his lowering glance. At the same instant he felt Mrs. Fairbairn's inevitable '• poke," and I saw an angry gleam of annoyance gather in the doctor's deep-set vigilant eye. A "foreign idea" is coming now, I felt certain, by a curious twitching of the table-cloth near the landlady. Moreover, there was a rapidly executed change of position on her part towards the extreme edge of her chair. My secret belief was, she would tread " hard" this time. I was correct in my surmise, for I heard several untranslatable and unintel- ligible German articulations. It was rarely indeed that he indulged in his native language, and beyond a few ex- clamations I never heard him, during all our intercourse, express himself in any other tongue but English, which he spoke well, and with unusual fluency. What he first of all intended to say, we never knew. lie controlled himself with an effort, smiled gravely back in answer to the landlady's appeal, and vented his wrath, if there Avere any there at all,—in the following couplet, which I met with many years afterwards in an old magazine,— " Oh woman, whether lean or fat, In face an angel,—in soul a cat." The " decorous one" looked somewhat aggrieved, droAv her head-dress slightly forward (her invariable prelimi- nary to administering correction to an offender), but ap- parently thought it more consistent with decorum to observe a dignified silence. The head-dress was sum- marily pushed back again to its original position. The landlady claimed everybody's attention just then by a dexterous manoeuvre with the pudding spoon, which she happened to be wielding at that moment. " Listen to me,—everyone please, " she mged autliori- ACGCST 1874. >^ I 250 The Attempt. tativcly. In an instant we were all attention. " A new boarder will be here to-morroAv. Now, I am sure," and the landlady's sonsy face shone with the spirit of tender charity which reposed there, and sprang from the depths of her motherly nature, " that you have all good hearts, though some, 1 know, pretend they don't possess such a thing. (I wonder if she gave a " soft" tread this time ?) I want you all, as a personal flxvour to me,—if you will let me put it in that way,—to refrain from any appearance even of saying sharp uncomfortable things. I have not been able to find an opportunity before to tell you about this newcomer, who, I hope, will be with us by to- morrow." The landlady's voice hesitated perceptibly, and sank into a softer key. She played with the salt-spoon which lay near her a little nervously, I fancied, before she took up her words again. " This lady," she continued, looking direct at the doctor, who never lifted his eye from her all the while she was speaking,—perhaps she involuntarily compared the two in her own mind,— "is not strong and well-formed "—she paused gently but firmly on the last word,—" in body and limb as we are. She has a weak delicate frame ; and I have heard it said by people wlio were wise and thoughtful in such things, tliat those who are afflicted in that way are very easily hurt by a careless word. Perhaps I need not say any more; perhaps I have said too much, but however it may be, I think you all understand me, and will not let me have any fears or misdoubts that the new Boarder will regret coming amongst us."

CHAPTER II.

SHE was seated at the further end of the table when we entered the long dining-room the next day. Mrs. Fair- bairn had given her a place beside the tall sturdy German doctor. Did that worthy woman think this was the greatest proof she could give, that she believed and ti'usted in him ? that he had an honest true-heartedness about him, albeit soured discrepant utterances crej^t up occasionally froni it? Was it her offering of reparation for last night's " check ? " My eyes involuntarily sought the doorway. I would fain watch and see what effect the landlady's gentle diplomacy would produce on him, and, I think, the others were all secretly on the alert to bear diiwu their scrutiny upon his surprise, should he give The Attempt. 251 them a chance of beholding it. It was just as I might have expected. His face preserved its habitual ex- pression of calm impassiveness; but I fancied I could detect a covert sneer settling roimd the heavy dark moustache, as, in Avalking towards his seat, he caught sight of more than one expectant glance. He, however, defied their vigilance, and disappointed them all by leisurely reaching his chair just as the grace began, then removing his table-napkin, he never lifted his eye from off the soup-plate until the servant cleared it away. " This is Dr. Hirschfeld, my dear," (the landlady gave us nearly all this affectionate prefix), " and that is Miss Winnie Fraser," turning to him, " who has come' to our town for music lessons. You will find the doctor can give you as many hints about them as the best masters, my dear," she added. The eyes of each boarder were fixed curiously upon them, as Miss Winnie Fraser returned his stiff l)0w with a graceful acknowledgment of her head, and then, per- haps, ftmcying he was so much older than the others of his sex there, she held out one of her tiny white hands towards him. The doctor merely stared for an instant at the timidly proffered hand, which was as timidly withdrawn when she saw he refused to notice her frank offer of friendship, and a pale pink flush of modest shame dawned over her sweet gentle face ; while, with quick sympathy, I caught the sudden glitter of a shining tear, before it was resolutely forced back from where it had sprung unbidden. The boarders looked askance at each other, then speedily busying themselves over their plates, forgot the matter altogether. Not so sensitive Miss Winnie ; she cut the plateful of viands which lay before her into a hundrecf odd shapes and forms, and every time the landlady looked at her, hastily placed one at the end of her fork. "_My dear," expostulated Mrs. Fairbairn at length, " will you have an egg instead ? perhaps you find the meat a little tough." Then it was for the first time that we heard Miss Winnie's pretty bell-hke voice: it moved us all to listen, and even the young clerk arrested himself when he was at the top of his speed in one of his very best stories. It sounded tremulous and constrained at first, but it gained in clearness and sweetness as she went on. " You are very good; but it is just what I like," she 252 The A ttempt. answered, in tones that seemed to caress their words, although they were common-place enough, after all. " Only I am not very hungry. I daresay it is the long journey I have made to-day—at least," she corrected herself, smiling up at us all, " it is a very long one for me. Besides, you know,"—she added, lowering her voice to the landlady next her, " I have never been alone before among so many new people," and her lips trembled slightly as her glance fell upon the heavy crape trimmings and black dress she wore. The doctor caught her Avords, I could see by the change which crept over his face, and I thought of the two shining tears which his ungracious repiilse had drawn from their hiding-place; alas ! too many had fallen already, and sorroAvfirlly caressed the pale cheeks of the child- like little woman beside him. Apparently he had not bestowed upon her more than that cursory glance at the outstretched hand he had slighted. Now, when some secret impulse bade his eyes seek her face, I saw a twinge of keen remorse start into life, a look of genuine pity. And he had Avounded this fragile little woman's heart in the pride of his perversity. Nay, it still smarted at that very moment, he told himself, as her soft brown eyes encountered his, only to shrink away with a mute reproach that made the doctor wince. Again a pink flush spread a delicate tint over the little woman's pale face. What shoiild he do ? what could he say to make her forget ?—he was sure she wn:)uld forgive, her gentleness told him that. Biit Avould she ever forget, he Avondered again and again to himself. She Avas the last to rise, and by-and-bye, AA'hen Ave learnt to know her Avays better. Miss Winnie confided to good Mrs. Fairbairn, hoAv she could not bear to go up to the draAving-room with e\'ery eye, as she fancied, sending pitying glances towards her poor misshapen body. So Ave alw'ays hurried up quicker to oin* rooms Avhen Ave knew that it Avas her Avish, and Ave often Avaited to hear her light footfall pass along our doors, before we took our places at the table. I never heard her real age, but some of us guessed it to be about thirty, not from the child-like face, that always looked more youthful than its years, in spite of its delicate frailness, but from occasional remarks she let fell from time to time. Her fair broAvn hair Avas marvellous in its Avealth, and soft Avavy texture, and slie had those Avonderful large eyes The Attempt. 253 you meet with once, rarely twice in a lifetime, that have a far-off wistful radiance in them, like the unrest of infinite longing, as though the soul which dwelt beyond them, were striving to pierce the shadows of eternity itself. "Miss Winnie," said the young clerk one day, "have you ever seen our cathedral ?" He always lowered the exuberant tones of his healthful voice, when he addressed her. " You like places with ' a dim mysterious light,' as the poet says, and windows with purple-robed saints in them, and all that sort of thing, you know," he nodded across the table to her. "Ah!" said Miss Winnie, drawing a long breath, "but I have so often wished to go there," her big eyes waking slowly up out of their wistfulness, at the lad's sprightly accents. " Many a time when I have heard about its great beauty, I have comforted myself with the thoughts that I have seen it in my dreams, far more beautiful than earthly hands could ever make it." The doctor started forward uneasily on his chair, and spilt his soup, and Mrs. Fairbairn, occupied in pondering over Miss Winnie's words, forgot to scold him. " But I cannot go alone," pleaded the little woman abruptly, after a moment's pause; " some day perhaps Mrs. Fairbairn will take me." Now, I knew our landlady's few hours she could call her own were very precious to her, and she was anxious to devote them to her large circle of friends. " Miss Winnie," I said, " if you would trust yourself to an old woman's care, who will be only too glad to go with you, we could see it much better than in the short time Mrs. Fairbairn can spare you, and I should like to look once more at the beautiful stained windows." So Miss Winnie agreed that I was to accompany her, and we started together next day in a cab. We spent two hours of quiet peaceful enjoyment under the grand arches of the beautiful cathedral, and watched for a stray sunbeam or two, to give a deeper lustre to the " purple robed" saints, while Miss Winnie I could see was but half satisfied to leave the long shadowy aisles behind her; but I told her she was under my care, and we must gather up our shawls to return homcAvard. As we left by a side porch, we found, to our dismay, big round drops darkening the pavement before us, and in another few minutes down came a compact pitiless shoAver of rain. " I am afraid we shall be late for dinner," I began 254 The Attempt. to ray companion, when I spied a yellow omnibus turning round the corner, which I knew Avould set us down at our destination. " There is not a cab to be seen,—do yon mind taking a seat in there, Miss Winnie ?" She shrank into the shelter of the porch, her pretty mouth working and trembling with a strange sensi- tiveness, and 1 wished the question had never passed my lips. Presently I felt her small hand creep gently into mine. " Of course we will take it. I was nearly beaten, but I have come off victorious now, I think," she cried bravely, her face turned to meet mine with an air of innocent triumph I had never seen it wear before. It was the doctor who helped us in, and tenderly placed the little fragile woman in the far-off corner, where no one need brush her by in passing in and out. I cannot remember how it was he came and helped us so opportunely. I think he must have been in the omnibus, and sprang out to our aid. Sometimes I had wondered would she ever speak to him again ? I knew she did not harbour any feeling of resentment about their first meeting, but still she always avoided any possibility of coming in contact with him. Opposite to me sat a tall thin man, dressed in semi-clerical garb, who pulled out a parcel of tracts, and aj^parently sought a particular one from among them. After steadily re- garding ]\Iiss Winnie for a few minutes, he presented it to her with a short admonitory nod,—I suppose to induce her to accept it. Now Miss Winnie had told me only a day or two before, that she had a great aversion to tracts, and this one, given in public as it were, over- whelmed her with a painful confusion. The doctor deliberately took it out of her restless fingers, read the title, shrugged his big square shoulders, and tossed it quietly out of the window, then lifted up his paper, without even glancing at the offender, who contented himself with looking sternly at Miss Winnie. The doctor rustled his paper, shook it violently once or twice, till I thought I must beg of him to desist from making such a terrible crackling in my ears. At last he succeeded in relieving Miss Winnie from any further annoyance, by extending half of it before her, and thus intercepting the intrusive gaze of the outraged tract-giver. You should have seen Miss Winnie's face kindling and smiling with grateful uncertain The Attempt. 255 surprise at the doctor's simple r^ise; while ho, on his part, unbent from his wonted gravity, and looked pleasantly down upon her. His strong arms lifted her carefully out, and set her down Avondering and astonished on the door-step. For the first time since I knew Miss Winnie, I saw the wistful dreaminess in her eyes die away, and an eager sparkle of happy hght broke over her face, as she strove t(j recover from the breathless consternation into which this un- usual mode of transit had placed her. When the winter evenings began to draw in, and the chill winds of the season turned frosty with the biting air they brovight from the north, the boarders would leave the privacy of their rooms, and begin gradually to drt)p into the warm-lighted parlour downstairs. Miss Winnie, too, became less shy of us, and sometimes brought a specimen of her pretty handiwork for us to admire, and let the clear-ringing tones of her cooing voice be heard in the cliatter and discussion that rarely flagged. One evening she was there before us, coaxing soft melodies with her lithesome fingers out of the old-fashioned high piano, which I had never seen open before. To our surprise she did not break off abruptly, as perhaps we half-expected her to do, but, as if by some sudden inspiration of genius, she played the queerest quickest piece of music I have ever listened to,—the maddest, merriest fairy dance,—a perfect maze of spirited intricacies. Her slender fingers hastened over the thin yellow notes faster than the eye could follow without being fairly dazed. One and all we stood breath- less for a moment, and then with a little proud smilo of pleasure she turned away to the ruddy fire-light. '* Miss Winnie, Miss Winnie ! " AVe cried, " Avhy did you not play to us before?" aiid even "the decorous one" reproached her faintly, from her favourite corner close to the hearth, Avhere she sat shielding her faded complexion Avith an enormous Indian fan. And every evening after that she would play first one air and then another, as each present asked for his or her piece they loved best. Once I fancied I heard a muffled footstep pausing near the door. Could it be the doctor? I Avondered. IfitwercAvo never kncAV, and he never once alluded to Miss Winnie's playmg. Peeping over the bannisters one morning, to try and catch a glimpse of any letters lying on the hall table beloAv, I caught sight of the doctor's big round head 256 Tlie Attempt.

lowering itself in close proximity to Miss Winnie, who had slipped down also after the postman's knock. " You must take care of yourself this bitter weather. It is all very well for some people to rush about this Avindy town of ours for music lessons, but it won't do for you. Take my advice, and let the master come here," he added, in his hasty, brusque way, a little less so perhaps, because mindful of the fragile little woman. She smiled, pleased at the interest he seemed to take in her. "And yet you were advising me, a few weeks ago, not to cover myself up from these cold bracing winds of our climate." The doctor frowned, and was evidently perplexed, then perhaps thinking of milder countries,—" You should have plenty of warm air and sunshine if I had my way." " Yes," Miss Winnie replied, " tliat would be better, much better,—plenty of sunshine, plenty of flowers, and then I could always have my favourites, the sweet-scented tea-roses." The expression of his face must have caused her to put the next question, for she stopped suddenly with a little sigh. "The cold winds are cruel to me, as you say, but why did you tell me differently a few weeks ago I quick, tell me why ?" she half-pleaded, half-com- manded, her large eyes waxing larger with the growing shade of wistfulness that haunted them. "Only, because I did not know then what great care you need. I have an appointment," abruptly changing his tone, " Good moiming;" and seizing his hat, he hastily let himself out of the front door. Miss Winnie generally breakfasted at a later hour than those whoso business called them away betimes. I Avas busy searching for an advertisement in the Scots- man the next morning, when she entered the room. A little paler, I thought, she looked ; certainly a little thinner the last few days, remembering the doctor's words. She scarcely noticed my nod of salutation, and I was struck by the eager haste she made to gain her seat. Her footsteps quickened in their pace as she reached it, while a crimson flush darted over her face, and such a bright look trembled across it that I marvelled curiously what could have moved her so. It seemed to me as if I could trace the light of an old joy come back again. " And all this is the Avork of a single tea-rose," I thought The Attempt. 2bl to myself, " the handiwork, I suppose, of that eccentric German doctor. Maybe," I reflected gi'avely, glancing at this fragile little woman, "I can foresee a trouble coming to them both, sadder and more hurtful than either of them have yet known." But I kept my forebodings to myself, and every morning afterwards I saw a pale yellow tea- rose nestling its fragrance beside Miss Winnie's plate.

CHAPTER III.

" AH ! but womenkind are so inconsistent," began the doctor one day at dinner, in allusion to some playful remark of Mrs. Wylie's, a young married lady, whose hus- band Avas in India. " Why, I know of a case, quite lately, within my own experience, of a girl who sent her lover 'to the dogs,' just because he would play chess on a Sunday, and occasionally went to see a cock-fight, which she declared was a grievous sin. He had no other vice about him. And yet, only a few months afterwards, she married a notoriovis roue, because, forsooth, she needs must credit herself with sufficient powers of fascination to restrain him. Bah ! the young man AVIIO went to see a cock-fight was a babe in evil-doing compared to him." " Well," rejoined ]\Irs. Wylie, " she certainly did not act wisely, but I think every one must own that a cock- fight is one of the lowest and most revolting pastimes that exist. It has often surprised me to find how some refined and even intellectual men of my hus- band's acquaintance apparently take a real pleasure in it." " Men will stand gaping at anything," quoth the " decorous one," tartly, in her most ascetic tone of voice. " I don't think," urged Miss Winnie, after a pause, her thoughts still dwelling upon his first remark, " it is altogether the best or wisest plan to set up a stand- ard that we should always be consistent, to make the whole of our actions have one aspect only. It seems to me, the greatest and happiest way after all, is to be true, simply true," she repeated firmly, lifting her grand eyes towards the doctor, to see in what spirit he would receive her words. He seemed to ponder unwillingly for a moment AUGCST 1874. ■^ K 258 The Attempt.

at this gentle appeal of hers, then a sudden freak, a foreign idea evidently came over him. " True ? " he questioned half bitterly, '' true'? who in all the vast breadth and depth of this universe can tell how much, or what thing soever, in this world, be it an actuality or chimera,—is true ? The J, the soul that looks out from its dwelling-place, fettered by the sordid weaknesses of the flesh,—does not its narrow-barred cage crush out the better parts of its vitality % warp it into hollow, down-trodden grooves, fashioned by popular prejudices; and those tyran- nic devices of a cunning observance of customs, of"—but here he broke off abruptly—perhaps sullenly, would be a more fitting word,for probably ]\Irs. Fairbairn had dealt him her warning; at anyrate he observed rather savagely— " How do I know, Mrs. Wylie, that you, for instance, to take an example, are what you seem to be ? May not that wedding-ring be an imposture, a delusion? May not the word ' husband' you have just uttered be but a name only—a myth ?" The decorous one held up her hands in scandalised amazement before she shifted her cap, but ere she could give vent to the horrified expression of her countenance, he burst forth again. " May not yoii even, madam, be a deception—a dis- guise—a man in the garb of womankind % " This last speech proved too much for our elderly friend, who, gasping and breathless as she was already with what had gone before, rose and made a vigorous movement towards the door with a glance at Mrs. Fairbairn, which seemed to say that, in spite of the landlady's strenuous endeavours to restrain the doctor's " flights," she would no longer remain an inmate of her iiouse. I need scarcely add, the whole table was convulsed with laughter, in Avhich Mrs. Wylie and Miss Winnie joined as heartily as the rest. The winter season Avas unusually severe that year; a keen frost had set in during the last fcAv Aveeks, and the young clerk devoted all his spare moments from the office to frequent skating on the nearest loch. His enthusiasm Avaxed so great upon the adA^antages likely to accrue from the use of this exercise, that he once offered to give me an hour's slide in a chair, if I Avould entrust myself to his care, which it is need- less to say I briefly declined. He next attacked the doctor, and endeavoured, ineff'ectually howcA-er, to per- I'he Attempt. 259 siiade him" to try his success with skates, alleging that the latter was getting too stout and " mopy;" a remark wliich the said person seemed by no means to relish, if one could judge by the amount of vin- dictive force he expended in some very deep-based gutturals. And while the days grew shorter, and a crisp cold air stung our faces to a reddish-blue colour, we began to see less and less of Miss Winnie. Those queer tricksy harmonies of hers, which entranced us all by the strange wildness of their measure, ceased to ring out their rapid changes. A tall awkward-looking vase kept guard over the down-shut lid of the piano. She had moved to a room on the first floor now, and somehow it came about that it was always the grave doctor who used to wheel her into the parlour in the large low arm- chair, which was the only comfortable resting-place Avlierc her poor aching body could obtain a little ease. You could not fail to observe that he Avas wonderfully changed of late, and yet it would be difficult to point out where the difference lay. He was still often short and abrupt in liis manner, as was his wont, but a certain coldness of glance, which had lain in his sharp searching eye, had lately disappeared, and in its place had crept a look, half restless, half fearful, which seemed to be directed towards Miss Winnie, as if it were asking that gentle little woman for the reason of its disquiet. A certain wildness of tone would at most times pervade this man, and I used to fancy, as I sat watching them, that she was surely its regulator, its key-note, upon which it turned. " Doctor, give Miss Winnie a tune," said the young clerk one evening, after he had been telling her about his skating experiences. "Can't you strike up something; I am sure you would like it," he continued to urge, addressing her. We had often heard of the doctor's musical powers, and occasionally I had stopped to listen to a snatch of melody,—some stray air that, waif-like, floated at odd intervals across the hall into which his room entered; but he had never been known to volunteer any amusement of that kind, nor did I gather, from the expression of his countenance, that the young clerk's pro- posal was altogether an acceptable one to him. It was only when Miss Winnie, in her simple, coaxing way, besought him to yield to their wishes, that he rose and complied. 260 The Attempt.

It seemed to me it was some caprice, eminently German, lie played,—harmonious discords, I should say, were the best definition to give it. There came an impressive movement, quick and soothing,—probably from a sonata of one of the old masters,—and yet none of us, I am thinking, grasped its meaning, except Miss Winnie, who folded her hands tightly, and followed every note with that wistful gaze of hers. Presently the notes ceased for a few moments. He paused, endeavouring to recall some little refrain of music which was dear to him, and which he wanted for Miss Winnie's pleasure,—a little fitful air, that spoke and pleaded for itself through all the murmur of accompaniment, which seemed at times to strive to quell the passionate restlessness of its plaint. He closed the piano with a quiet haste as he ended, and went close to Miss Winnie's chair. " Have you nothing to say to me?—not one word for the poor burdened little melody that tried to wing its way to you in that last piece ? " Miss Winnie's eyes drooped till their long dark eye- lashes cast a greater shade of transparency upon her pale thin cheeks. " You might have guessed," she replied gently, "it was its rare beauty, its exquisite pathos, that forced me to be silent. My want of words is a poor, and yet, perhaps after all, the best ac- knowledgment I can offer you." Then she added quickly, raising her eyes to him, " Tell me what name you give it?" " In our land," he replied gravely, "we call it ' Sehnen und Fragen,'" while his voice sank to a whisper; " in yours,—can you not guess something of its mean- ing?—or, stay, Avere it not better perhaps to tell it you in other words,—longing, questioning, asking." It is a longing wo all know; it comes to us again and again in our lives, until something hushes it: not the fulfilment, perhaps, but something which brings our lives out of discord into harmony, so that there is no more the jar which hurt us before, and often "what seems discord to us, is only the great stretch of chord which harmony requires,—and from out the fret- ting miserere of notes, there grows the truest, divinest music. ji» « « Is it not better to close these pages thus—to leave it The Attempt. 2G1 tmtold, how, in spite of tlie doctor's love and care of, his fragile httle wife, and the healing influences of sun- shiny, warmer climes, our "Miss Winnie's" gentle spirit was fain to succumb at last,—how, for a brief space, it seemed to renew its strength in the summer of life, ere it grew tired and lay down to rest. SEMPER EADEM.

FAR in the lonely glade The breezes murmur in the wmd-god's ear, Blest and content, tho' none but he can hear.

Beneath the cataract The pool lies quiet, that on it may look— With calm delight—tho spirit of the brook.

Upon the rocky ledge The rose hangs all her beauty to the sun. Looks on him only till the day is done.

And I, for thee, beloved. Trail my rich garments o'er the marble floor, Thinking to please thee entering at the door.

For thee each raven tress I smooth and braid, with oft-returning care. For thou art happy, seeing I am fair.

Ever I stretch to thee My being, as the rose to sunny ray; Thou lovest beauty, I have heard thee say : Talk not of others, they are nought to me. My love I I will be beautiful for thee I PROCLA. 262 The Attempt.

J[rj3m lUrluuitll to Siflbcrmoiin.

I ROSE at five on Tuesday morning, August 19th, at Kirkwall, Orkney, under the shadow of that solemn cathedral which Norwegian piety, seven centuries ago, dedicated to the memory of Saint Magnus the Martyr. A hurried walk through the antique streets (flagged, save a narrow line of pavement running along the middle) brought me to the handsome iron pier, through whose interstices one sees the pure emerald-green water underneath, and I went on board the St. Magnus steamer, bound from Lerwick in Shetland, to Granton, My voyage, however, was only from Kirkwall to Wick, in Caithness, and occupied about five hours. AVe coasted this indented eastern side of the Orkney " mainland," passed by the islands of Copinshay, with its attendant " Horse of Copinshay," Bu'rray, South Ronaldshay (the most southern of the Orcadian Archi- pelago), and the Pentland Skerries. Keeping outside the entrance of the dreaded Pentland Firth with its whirling tides, we had a view of John o' Groat's House and Dunnet Head, the northern extremity of Great Britain, rounded Duncansby Head, its north-eastern point, and finally steamed into Wick Bay. I went ashore in a boat, and found myself in the " herring capital," the centre of an enormous and perilous industry. I saw the ruins of the great breakwater lately demolislied in a tremendous gale from the east, by the shock of a few successive rollers, a lamentable victory of ocean over man. The bay (as the name " Wick " imports) lies open and entirely imsheltered. (The M.P. for the Wick burghs, not long after I was there, narrowly escaped drowning, in coming ofl:' during a storm from the shore to the steamer, his boat being in imminent danger of being swamped.) In a basin, approached by a very narrow entrance, multitudes of herring boats were lying packed as close as could be, many of them still half full of herrings caught during the night, gleaming with all the colours of the raiubow. Along the shore the preparation and salting of herrings was going on in all stages with extraordinary vigour. I refer anybody, who desires a minute and vivid account of this singular scene, to the clever pages of Wilson's Voyage round the Coasts and Islands of Scotland. Women in crowds were hard at work iip to their elbows The Attempt. 263 in herrings, a spectacle not in itself attractive, but to my eyes far more beautiful than that of many of their sister Avomen, yawning over novels as the only refuge from the dullness of their aimless unemployed lives. Leav- ing behind this busy hive, I directed my steps from Pulteneytown to Wick proper, and spent tlie rest of the day at a hotel. My object Avas to reach Portree, in Skye, in time to catch the Clydesdale steamer for the island of Mull on AVednesday evening, and in order to do this, it Avas necessary to travel all night by the coach to Helmsdale, in Sutherlandshire. At ten o'clock at night tea, Avith herrings (in perfection, as they ought to be at Wick), Avere brouglit to my room, and by half- past eleven tlie coach from Thurso Avas heard thundering up the silent street. It is a survivor of the nearly extinct race of old-fashioned Avell-appoiuted mail coaches. I took my seat at the driver's side, and Ave struck at once into a country road black Avith darkness. The landscape A\'as a mystery. For some time all Ave could discern Avas the dark sea on our left, glimmering Avith innumerable lights, for cA^ery herring-boat is by laAv obliged to shoAv a light. NoAV and then Ave stopped at some little post-office, Avhere a mail-bag Avas handed in at the AvindoAV, and on Ave galloped tlirough the darkness. TAVO or three hours from Wick lamps Avere seen flashing along the road ahead, and the coach from the south clattered up. Both vehicles stopped. " Any neAvs at Helmsdale ? " asked our driver. " Anything neAv at Thurso f " asked the driver of the other coach, Avhich bore the letters for Wick, Thurso, and inter- mediate places, and also those destined to cross the Pentland Firth to-morvoAV morning, Aveather permitting, to the Orkney Islands, to be delivered in the afternoon at Stromness and KirkAvall. By degrees the cfvercast sky became clear, the stars glittered Avith an CA'er keener brilliancy, and at last an indefinable hint of daAvn might be detected in the north. What it Avas one could not liaA'e said; but there Avas something Avliich told that night Avas Avaning. " The night is far spent; the day is at hand." Still the stars shone brighter, the crescent moon rose Avith a more distinctly earth-lit " old moon in her arms " than I ever saAV before, and Venus, " the bright and morning star," blazed a resplendent queen among the host of night Avhich had not yet begini to pale. One of my companions remarked, " he Avished he Avas in bed." " I'm sure / don't," said the other, " I can be in bed any 264 The Attempt.

night I " and with him I entirely sympathised. I did not envy the sleepers behind closed blinds in the houses we passed, when I had the privilege of seeing the glittering glories of that midnight, the solemn loveliness of that dawn, the delicate gradations by which that " shining light" shone "more and more unto the perfect day." I witnessed, in perfection, during the fifty miles' drive, all those mysterious processes by which night changes to dawn, and dawn grows to sunrise, about which, in general, we know so little. A moment came, ushered in by changes too fine for the eye to note, when the seven brilliant stars composing the plough seemed suddenly to have dwindled in size. Then the stars became fewer. One by one those of lesser magnitude went out. The sea, which had always hitherto been dark against the sky, gleamed a wan white, reflecting the dawn. The land- scape had become dimly visible. In the faint twilight of a new day, we descended by a sharp curve into the lovely valley of Berriedale, there the morning star seemed to hang like a jewel on the edge of the wooded hill. Light now increased rapidly, and at last the moon and Venus Avere left shining alone in the clear, cloudless gray sky. " The night is dying slowly In the sky, And the sea looks calm and holy, Waiting for the dawn of the golden sun That draweth nigh." When we left Wick it was a warm night, but by this time it had become intensely, piercingly cold. It was fully daylight, cool and ashen, when we reached the highest part of the " Ord of Caithness." Yet the first warm glow, harbinger of sunrise, was only just beginning to kindle in the east, so long, in northern latitudes, does light precede the sun. We were now driving over fine heathery moors, high above the sea, and rabbits were running about in scores. The cold on these exposed table-lands was nearly unbearable. I felt in danger of being frozen. The driver said, " he had often seen the coach lying in a snow-drift for a week at a time on the Ord of (/aithness, and the mails had to be carried on by men." High posts here and there serve to indicate the road in snow. He told me that in winter he never sees the sun, for his driving is all done in the dark, and he goes to bed before sunrise, rising for his night's work after sunset. Many a hard night he must have known. Tlie Attempt. 265

" But it is the last year of the mail coach," he said, " within twelve months the railway will be open to Wick." The Ord is intersected by several deep glens running seaward, and in crossing these, the driver invari- ably urged his splendid horses to a full gallop. There was something very exciting in the rattling speed with which we tore down the steep descent, swept round the abrupt curve at the head of the gully, and up the other side. One might even have felt it perilous if the reins had been in less skilful hands. At five o'clock—the moon and Venus thinned now to ethereal thinness, all but " melted away into the light of heaven," which was fast overflowing the eastern horizon,—we saw before us, in a purple Sutherlandshire glen, the white steam of a loco- motive, that seemed walking up and down to keep itself warm. This was Helmsdale, and this the northernmost outpost of railways.* Straight from London, in twenty- four hours, one can come hither, 700 miles' journey by train, direct from King's Cross to Helmsdale, from the roar and smoke to the dreamy quiet and pure heather- scented air, leaving more thoroughly behind, with every northward mile, the bustle, the noise, the crowd, the worry, the strain, the whirl, of what has well been called " an asphyxiating civilisation." The little shed and the single hue of rails looked perfectly harmless, and quiet, and rustic; they had not scarped the hills or injured the glen, the railroad at this, its far extremity, had lost its most disagreeable features. I had hoped to find a fire here, but there was none, nor was there any time to circulate my congealed blood by walking about, for the train started at once to Dingwall. And almost immedi- ately the sun came forth, " as a bridegroom out of his chamber." " Out of the sea came he," touching with gold the waves, as they ran in long curving lines up the gleaming sands, reddening the brown sails of the herring boats that were coming slowly to shore, laden with the night's spoils, " Daily miracle of morning." If circumstances ever compel me to rise at unusual hours, I always regret that, in ordinary life, one loses the * Note.—The railway has just been opened (July 1874) to Wick and Thurso, AUGUST 1874. 2 L 266 The Attempt.

loveliest aspects of nature by sleeping till the hues of unfolding morning, and the exquisite freshness and purity of sunrise, have faded " into tlie light of common day."

" O ! timely happy, timely wise, Hearts that with rising morn arise ! Eyes that the beam celestial view ! That evermore makes all things new. " Why waste your treasures of delight, Upon our thankless, joyless sight ? Who day by day to sin awake. Seldom of heaven and you partake." Fresher, lovelier sunliglit I never saw than that which gilded the tops of the Sutherlandshire hills, and the woods round Dunrobin Castle. But though I never felt the least inclination to sleep as long as I was on the top of the coach, in the sharp, stimulating air, no sooner was I pent in a railway carriage than I became oblivious. After passing Bvora and Dunrobin, I saw little till we reached Tain, except a beautiful dream of Loch Shin, lying absolutely unrippled in its mountain setting. The blue waters of Dornoch and Cromarty Firths flashed in the morning splendour, and to me, just come from Orkney and Shetland. Easter Ross, with its wealth of trees and ripened corn, looked " the sunny south." I arrived at Dingwall at about nine o'clock, and had an hour to wait for the train to Strome. I no longer wished for a fire now, for the sun was hot enough to Avarm one through and through. Tourists, in stylish summer costumes, looked askance at me in my thick " pilot-coat" and serge dress, which bright suns and salt Avinds had nearly deprived of colour, and my universally knocked-about aspect. But I felt an inward sense of superiority, Avhich rendered rae impervious to their contemptuous stare, for I knew none of them had come from Ultima Thule ! At ten, I started for the west coast, by the Dingwall and Skye Railway, and plunged at once into gorgeous High- land scenery,—visions of loveliness and grandeur! Glens, lakes, mountains, torrents, waterfalls! Loch Luichart, a mirror of molten silver, reflecting the beauty of wooded hills and the majesty of rocky mountains, was a picture never to be forgotten. Then rose the bald peaks of Torridon and Loch Maree,—domes, pyramids, cones, nearly white against the cloudless blue of heaven. Lastly, after winding its way through exquisite Glen- The Attempt. 267 can-on, this unequalled route terminated in the radiant loveliness of Strome Ferry, Thence I looked across to the Isle of Skye, where the multitudinous mass of the Coolin Hills, peaks piled above peaks, in celestial blue, filled up and perfected the picture. This day, which broke so ideally, was glorious through- out ; it was a day of a thousand, a day that breathed of paradise, one of those rare days that look as if rain and gloom could never gather more. Every shadow was violet. AVhen it is fine in the Highlands it is fine, and one such day compensates for many wild and wet which may have preceded it. After three hours' tedious waiting, I left Strome in the " railway steamer" for Portree. We kept close to the coast of Skye, and in the clear evening the magnificent forms of its mountains were seen to the utmost advan- tage. The pinnacles and precipices of Scuir-na-Gillean, one of the most beautiful of mountain shapes, in its serrated, fantastic outlines, were catching the last violet radiance of sunset when we entered the harbour within a harbour, at the head of which is the pretty village of Portree. On landing I secured a room in which to wait till the Clydesdale came from Stornoway. It was now forty hours since I had left distant Kirkwall, one long day as it seemed, without the intervention of a night's sleep, and the varied successions of scenes and experiences following each other without the usual break was quite bewildering. I went to bed at ten, and slept till half-past three, when I was aroused by the arrival of the Clydesdale. I had paid for my lodging overnight, and had left my box at the steamboat-ofiice on the pier, so I had nothing to do but to go straight out. What an exquisite scene! What rare, poetic, and spiritual loveliness ! Night and day were mingling; night still reigned, but a new day would ere long claim the sceptre. There was not a cloud in^the sky ; not a ripple on the water, where lay the reflections of the dark headlands, and of the lights on a few anchored vessels, and the green hght of the Clydesdale. The sky was full of brilliant stars. Orion, partly risen, glittered over the island of Raasay; dawn was kindling, pure and white, above the northern clifi", and Venus

"Flamed in the forehead of the morning sky," 268 The Attempt. casting her tremulous image on the water. Again the young moon carried " the old moon in her arms." Well was it worth being up at an unaccustomed hour to see such unearthly beauty,—

"And this is in the night! most glorious night Thou wert not made for slumber ! "

I enjoyed, however, a refreshing sleep on board the good Clydesdale, hearing, as in a dream, the bell ringing before we left Portree, and when next I woke, we were anchored at the head of Loch Nevish, in Inverness-shire, taking in a quantity of wool. At eight in the evening of the same day, we entered the serene bay of Tobermory, in Mull, a nearly landlocked harbour enclosed by hills wooded to the water's edge. It is a little gem, contrasting strangely, in its soft home beauty, with the barren scenery around. Honeysuckle, rowan, ferns, wild roses, literally wave over the salt water. Cascades are seen in all directions glancing through the woods, from the moor- land river, which thunders in a broad sheet of foam over a cliff, and then brawls seaward down a tangled glen, to the rivulet, which leaps straight into the sea in a shower of bright drops, musical as the drip of a fountain. Here was the end of my journey, thus I made my way from northern Kirkwall to my familiar resting-place on the shore of the Sound of MulL OMORON. TJie Attempt. 2G9

%\\t (Bar11) (g})i c.^ of 6n*manij.

IV.—OLD PERIOD : FROM THE MIDDLE OP THE TWELFTH TO THE MIDDLE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY—continued. First Classical Period, 1190-1300.

THE AKT-EPIC. Next in order come the art-epics, produced chiefly by nobles, during the same period. These consist for the most part of poems on the four following subjects:— 1. Charlemagne and his Heroes. 2. The Holy Grail and its Defenders. 3. King Arthur and his Knights. (Some poems combine the Grail and King Arthur in their narratives.) 4. Lives of the Saints. The poems of this order are all written in short rhym- ing couplets, and only in one or two instances do we find a strophe.

I. CHARLEMAGNE AND HIS HEROES. The song of Roland, or the battle of Ronces- valles, is the chief production bearing on Charlemagne and his Knights. The subject is unimportant, almost trivial; but the story has, notwithstanding, been re- produced in the Latin, English, Italian, and Icelandic languages. The idea of Roland seems to have identified itself with that of Charlemagne, for in many old towns in Germany a gigantic statue of Roland still remains, to show that the right of putting to death exists in that town : this, no doubt, comes from its having been the sole right of Charlemagne. The story of Roland is simply that he joined an expedition to Saragossa, to relieve the German garrison, and was slain on the way home in an affray with some Spanish troops. The German form of it was translated from the French original by a priest named Conrad, at the desire of Duke Heinrich the Lion, between 1173 and 1177. The German poet begins with an invocation of God, which was imitated by many later poets, until it became almost typical. It runs thus :— SEPTEMBER 1874. ^ M 270 The Attempt.

Creator of all things, Emperor of all kings, Highest Priest and Judge, Teach me Thyself Thy words, Send into my mouth Thy sacred record, That I may avoid lies, And write the truth Of a beloved man. How he gained God's kingdom. He was the Emperor Charles. He is before God, For with God he overcame Many a heathen land. And thus did honour to Christendom. To the cycle of Charlemagne belong several less im- portant legends,—as William of Orange, by Wolfram von Eschenbach, remarkable for its highly finished style. The Heymonskinder is a poetic legend, but the German version of it is poor. Flos and Blankflos is also related to this period, but belongs in reality to a later time.

2. THE HOLT GRAIL AND ITS DEFENDERS. The legends of the Holy Grail have their scenes of acticm laid in a highly romantic and poetic region. Chivalry arms itself, and undergoes all possible privations, for the sake.of being permitted to see the holy emblem of religion,—and happy the man who is permitted to guard that emblem. These legends may well be called typical of higher things; and those of them in which King Arthur and his knights are allowed to figure, and in which the worldly and ambitious spirit of Arthurs knights is merged in the quest of something pure and holy, are undoubtedly the noblest legends of the Round Table. The story of the Grail runs thus :— Deep in the mind of ancient heathendom, in the myths of Hindostan, is rooted the tradition of a place on earth which, untouched by want and care, yields unlimited joy to him who approaches it; of a place where wishes cease because they are satisfied, and hopes rest because tliey are fulfilled; where the thirst for knowledge is quenched, and peace of mind is undisturbed. This is the tradition of the earthly paradise, which is reflected in the divine refections and sun-tables of the pious Ethiops, of which Homer and Herodotus have told us: as in the blessed groves of Cridavaua, in the Sitanta mountains, resound- The Attempt. 271 ing with tlie sweet singing of birds and humming of bees, of which the Hindoos speak as the silent abode of all wisdom and peace. Gradually, in the course of ages, the ideas of men regarding paradise became more and more indistinct, and the ideas of God and of themselves grew more confused. At last nothing of paradise remained on earth except one solitary jewel, seemingly a holy relic, yet furnished with divine powers. This relic was some- times, like the goblet of Hermes, in the mysteries of Dionysius, supposed to be a precious vessel, out of which the golden gifts of heaven were still poured as richly as in happier bygone days. Sometimes it was looked upon as a holy thing, as the visible arm of God upon earth, superior to decay,—the symbol of paradise upon earth, like the Kaaba at ]\Iecca. The Ethiopian's dreams of the sun- table, which covered itself with fruits and dainties,—do not these play a part in the fairy tales of our childhood ? Is not the search for the stone of wisdom a token of the unsatisfied longing for the lost jewel of paradise ? These traditions were formed, by the spirit of Christianity in the Middle Ages, into a Christian mythology, the most pro- found and the most nearly related to the root of Christian faith and confession which has ever been formed from the reflections of Christian minds. It is, as it were, the fable of redemption and of tlie Christian Church, which has been handed down to us in the legend of the Holy Grail and its Defenders. A jewel of wonderful brilliancy, thus runs this Christian myth, was wrought into a vessel, which was in the pos- session of Joseph of Arimathea. Out of this vessel our Lord, on the night of His betrayal, gave to His disciples His body and His blood to partake of; into this vessel was received, from the side of the Crucified One, the blood which had flowed for the redemption of the world. This vessel was therefore supposed to be endowed with the powers of eternal life; and it was said that whoever looked at it even for one day, could not die in the same week, even though he were sick unto death; and wlioever looked at it constantly, his face could not turn pale, nor his hair grey, though he looked at it for 200 years. This vessel is called the Holy Grail (Grail means vessel or dish), and it symbolises the redemption by the blood of Jesus Christ, offered by means of the church to the human race. Every Good Friday, a pure white dove carries the host fi-om heaven, and places it in the Holy Grail, which is 272 The Attempt. supported in the air, now by hovering angels, now by pure virgins; and thus the holiness and the marvellous powers of the Grail are renewed. To be the keeper of this relic is esteemed the highest honour of humanity. But not every one is worthy of this honour: only the faithful and self-denying, who are trampling down all pride and self-seeking; and to be king and guardian of these keepers only he can aspire, who, among these humble and faithful ones, is the humblest and most faithful, the purest and most saintly man. The keeping of the Grail is a spiritual knighthood of the noblest kind, which distinguishes itself, as by purity and humihty, so also by strong manliness and undaunted courage; as by faithfulness towards the Lord of Heaven, so also by faith- fulness towards women ; as by self-denial and simplicity of life, so also by the highest wisdom. These knights, in virtue of their guardianship of the Grail, are called Templars, and they are intimately connected with the Knights Templars, being, as the latter afterwards were, the ideal of ('hristian chivalry. For many years after the (4rail had been brought into the west by Joseph of Arimathea, no one could be found worthy to keep it, and it was supported by the hands of hovering angels, until at last Titurel, the traditional son of a traditional Christian king of France, was guided to Salvaterre, in Biscay, where, on the hill Montsalvage, he built a palace for the keepers of the Grail, along with a temple for the relic itself, and founded the sacred knighthood of the Grail. The face of the hill, which was of onyx, was polished smooth, and upon this, by the power of the Grail, the foundation plan of the palace and temple were drawn during the night. The building was circular (hke the buildings and churches of the Knights Templars), and was 600 feet in diameter. On the rotunda stood seventy-two choirs and chapels, all octagonal; between every two chapels rose a tower, thus making thirty-six towers surrounding it, each six stories in height, with three windows, and a winding stair visible from without. In the middle arose a tower twice as high and twice as thick. The building was covered in by a vaulted roof, supported on iron pillars, and the arches were carved and inlaid with gold and pearls. The arches were of sapphire, inlaid in the centre with emerald, and this was enamelled with the lamb and the banner of the cross. All the altar stones were sapphires, symbohcal of the blotting out of sins; green velvet coverings were The Attempt. 273 spread over them. All kinds of precious stones were to be seen in the decorations over the altar and the pillars; the sun and moon were represented in the vault of the cupola by innumerable diamonds and topazes, so that the temple shone even at night by its own dazzling splen- dour. The windows were not of glass, but of crystal, beryl, and other precious stones of various colours; the floor was of crystal, clear as water; and underneath this, made of onyx, were all beasts of the sea as if alive. The towers were of precious stones, inlaid with gold; the roofs of the towers, and of the temple itself, were of gold and blue enamel. On the top of every tower stood a crystal cross, and on this an eagle of pure gold, with outstretched wings, so that, at a distance, where the crystal cross was invisible, the eagle appeared to be flying. On the top of the principal tower was a carbuncle, which sparkled so brilliantly at night that it served as a guiding star. In the very centre of this temple, just below the cupola, the whole building was repeated in a miniature model, still more resplendent with precious stones. This model was the ciborium or sacrament-house, and in it the Holy • Grail itself was kept. This description resembles, after a German fashion, that of the New Jerusalem in the Apocalypse. The building, as described, is to be seen to this day, as Charles IV. caused the Karlstempel, near Prague, to be built after this model. The Bohemian Insignia are kept there, but not the Grail. The latter still exists, however; it was long in Paris, and is now in Genoa. This temple was enclosed on all sides by a palace with countless towers and walls, and this palace, in its turn, was surrounded by a forest of ebony, cedar, and cypress trees. To penetrate this forest required a journey of sixty stages, and no one could pass through it uncalled, even as none can come to Christ uncalled; and Avhoever stood unmoved before the Grail, was shut out from the community of its keepers, thus showing that he who asks not for salvation, cannot receive it. For many centuries this temple, in all its splendour, stood in the west; but at last, by its increasing godlessness, the west was considered unworthy to retain it longer, and the Holy Grail, along with the temple, was borne by the hands of angels into the east. This legend, in its Christian form, originated in Spain • 274 The Attempt. in France and Germany it obtained its poetic dress ; yet in Germany it nowhere appears as an independent legend, but always in connection with King Arthur and his Round Table. The poems in which the legends of the Grail and of Arthur are combined, are Sir Percival, Titurel, and Lohengrin. The first of these is by Wolfram von Eschen- bach, a noble poet, who lived in the end of the twelfth and beginning of the thirteenth centiiry. He wrote much at the ^Vartburg, the residence of his beneficent patron, Hermann, Landgrave of Thuringia. He also visited at other courts. His poem of Sir Percival was dedicated to a lady whose love he wished to gain. His strong and deep mind seized hold of the legend of the Grail as a subject on which he could compose an epic far superior to most epics then known. The story of Percival, which he records in verse, is not intended to be a story of merely human joys and sorrows, but of the joys and sorrows of the soul;—of the struggle betAveen the world and the spirit, between pride and humility, as this is seen in the history of the inward purification of Percival. its hero. As a history of the struggles of the human soul, Percival has perhaps but one equal in German literature, namely, Goethe's Faust. If the latter has more stirring moments, more rapid action, Wolfram's epic, on the other hand, has more fulness, more visible development. If Goethe's drama is afraid to pronounce the climax, "which it takes for granted, Wolfram's epic marches calmly, in the con- sciousness of Christian truth, up to its close. Goethe's Faust is the picture of a time strongly agitated, Avhich had sought peace, and had not foinid it; Wolfram's epic, on the other hand, depicts an age when men had truly sought and gladly found that Avhich was to set their souls at rest. The fable of Peredur, or the French Percival, is to Wolfram merely the skeleton which he is to clothe with flesh. King Arthur is portrayed as the type of worldly splendour and self-satisfied enjoyment; Percival, on the other hand, is the wandering, imcertain spirit, denying both God and the world, and at last, only by the deepest himiility, attaining peace, and the possession of a spiritual kingdom. But this contempt of the world is not carried so far as to become asceticism; this would accord neither with the truthful spirit of the thirteenth century, nor with the outward magnificence maintained by the keepers of the Holy Grail. The Attempt. 275

Percival, the son of Gamuret, of the royal house of Anjou, was, after his father's early death, brought up by his mother in a desolate part of the Brezilian forest. Having lived exactly as a hermit, he had hardly ever seen the face of a man, until, while wandering one day in the wood, he heard the sound of horses' hoofs, and saw three knights approaching. This awakened the desire to travel, and to become a knight. His mother, deeply distressed at this wish, gave him, instead of a knightly costume, a fool's dress made of sackcloth and calf-skin. Thus, many possessed of deep minds appear to be fools on their first entrance into the world. The mother's heart breaks at parting from her son, and her eyes close for ever. Percival rides to the court of Arthur at Nantes, where a lady who had never laughed, cannot forbear laughing at his appearance. He excites favourable observation by his remarkable though untutored bravery, and is afterwards drilled by a knight named Gurnamanz. His first valiant deed is to liberate a lady oppressed by haughty suitors, the Queen Conduiramur. He marries her, and soon after goes on an expedition to see his mother, of whose death he has not yet heard. As he rides onward, without guiding his course in any special direction, he comes to a lake. A fisherman rows him across the lake, and directs him to a palace near at hand. He enters the palace, and is dazzled by the splendour which he there beholds. Within the hall are assembled four hundred knights ; a king suffering from severe wounds is also there. The door opens, and ladies and princesses enter the hall. The king gives Percival a sword, and tells him that he is wounded, but Percival asks no question about his wound. He is in the palace of the Grail, but he knows it not, and asks no question. On the following morning he finds his clothes and his sword in readiness, and his horse awaiting him. The halls are deserted. He rides away, and a squire at the palace gate scornfully asks him why he has not asked where he was, for he alone could have healed the wounded king, ' Immediately afterwards he meets a maiden, whom he does not at once recognise to be his cousin Sigune ; she also tells him how greatly he has erred in not seeking for the happiness to which he had been so near, and ends by cursing him for leaving King Anfortas in his suffiering. In deep thought, Percival rides away; till, on seeing three drops of blood upon the snow, he falls to thinking 276 The Attempt.

of his absent spouse Conduiramur. He thinks of her in tears, when two tears were in her eyes and one upon her chin, and ie seized with an ardent longing to see her again. ]\rany years were to pass ere this wish should be gratified; but it was in the same place where he first beheld the three drops of blood that he afterwards saw his wife Avith her two sons, lying asleep upon a couch. So that the three drops of blood, and the three tears, and the three long lost loved ones found again, are all mysteriously connected together, and all recur fre- quently in this history. " Thus we recognise the dreams and thoughts of childhood Avhen they come back to us in advanced life; or thus it is tliat an old man, looking at the rising sun, secretly remembers that he has once before seen it exactly so in his childhood; he knows that he has seen it shine beft)re he was born into the world, and thinks that it will soon shine upon his grave." * He then comes to Arthur, and is about to be received into the Round Table, when the witch Kundrie comes and curses him. He gives up the worldly knighthood of the Round Table, and devoting himself to the Grail, rides away sorrowfully, despairing of God's help. For four years he wanders about, far from God and home: this is the time of doubt. At the end of this period, during which he has not asked after God, he meets a knight clad in grey, who directs him to the higher end of his being. He finds a holy hermit in a wood, who tells him that without humility he shall never win the Grail, and that King Anfortas, for his pride, has been wounded with a poisoned spear, and can be kept alive only by looking at the Grail. He also tells him that a knight is expected to come and ask the king about his sufferings and about the Grail, which is to be the sign that this knight is to succeed him as king; and he, Percival, is this knight. After this he gains the victory in several combats with Gawein and another, and is admitted to the Round Table, but still continues in quest of the Grail. On arriving there at last, he is told that he is to be King of the Grail; by asking, he releases the king from his sufferings, is crowned king, finds his wife and two boys again, the younger of whom, Kurdeias, he makes ruler over his worldly possessions, wliile the elder, Lohengrin, is to succeed him as King of the Grail. Henceforth it is a law * Grimm, Altdeutsche Walder, I. 5. The Attempt. 277 that the knights of the Grail, when sent out, are to allow no questions regarding their origin. Lohengrin marries a princess of Brabant; she asks him whence he comes, thus breaking the compact between them, and he leaves her immediately. The poem requires several readings in order to be appreciated. This arises from the number of persons introduced for the sake of thrt)wing light on the customs of the period, and the consequently frequent losing sight of Percival for a length of time. The poetry of Wolfram von Eschenbach was not appreciated by many of his con- temporaries, most men being at that time imbued with a worldly spirit far removed from the spiritual tone of these writings.* Wolfram also wrote the history of Titurel, and of Tschionatulander and Sigune; these are in the Nibclung strophe of seven lines. The latter is very highly thought of. The poem of Lohengrin is worked out from the close of Percival; it is founded on the legend that races of great heroes had their origin in the sea. This legend transfigures sometimes a woman, and sometimes a man, into a swan. It is very ancient, and has been current in many countries, like that of the Grail, Avhich existed in French metrical romances as early as the year 1191. The German romance of Percival appeared between 1205 and 1220; in the following centuries it was the chief romance of knightly poetry. It was one of the first printed works, being printed in the year 1477 ; and several translations of it have been made into modern German, the best of which is that by Simrock. The poems of the Grail are almost all composed, in part, of legends of the Round Table, the character of which is subordinate to the spiritual character of the legends of the Grail. PROOLA. (7b he continued.)

* An English translation of Percival is about to appear, by Gostwick.

SEPTEMBER 1S74. 2N 278 The Attempt.

A DRAMA.

ANTONIO DE HEREZEDLO, Advocate of Toro. LEONOR DE CISNEROS, his Wife. DE SOTO, Jesuit Monk of the Inquisition. DONA DOLORES, Prioress of the Convent of San Marc. Moiihs—Nun—Man and Women of the Crowd.

SCENE I, \A room in a house in Toro, elegantly furnished and decorated loith rare flowers,—Leonor standing by the table putting the last rose in a vase, and carefully arranging its leaves.'] Leonor. There—now the chamber's perfect. Let him come Soon as he will, he cannot come too soon. WJien can he come too soon for Leonor? —My Anton ! Hark, I hear his step I—Nay, 'twas The dead leaves blown against the pane.—Fancy Is fond— (Goes restlessly to the windozv and uncloses the lattice.) Would he were here 1 Now that the room Is decked to greet his birth-night, the fond fears Its decking kept aloof awhile, return; The night is dark.—Ay, but our Holy Church Hath cat's eyes, that see best when't's darkest.—Nay It is he ! now may God be praised. (The door opens quickly, and Antonio enters.) Antonio! Antonio (taking her in his arms). My Leonor, my own, my dove, my wife, Look up and say thou'rt glad thine Anton's come I Leonor. Glad! (aside) Did'st but know! (aloud) Nay, how should I be glad ? Thou com'st too soon. I had a mind to deck The chamber for thy birth-night—over soon Thou com'st. Antonio (sitting doivn disappointedly). Nay, Leonor, can'st think I reck A chamber's greeting? Greet my birth-night thou. Five minutes more of thee outweigh to me The Attempt. 279

Ten thousand gilded chambers. I hasted so, Longing for thee to bless my birth-night—how Couldst say " Wait till the room is decked?" Leonor {laying her hand lightly on his hair). Antonio! Ah, foolish Anton—hast no eyes ? Look up. Antonio {raising his head and looking round the room). Nay, it is decked, and with rare woodland flowers Not grown in Toro's gardens. And thou too. My Leonor, {holding her from him, and looking at her dress, sparkling with jewels, and rare flowers in her hair and bosom), Arrayed as mystic bride, Adorned for her husband!—all for me 1 And I—ungrateful—saw it not! Forgive, My Leonor. It hurt me so that thou Should'st say I came too soon, when I could scarce Draw rein, or give poor Toro breatliing space, Hasting to thee. Leonor {drawing his arm round her). Nay, Anton, 'twas but jest— How could'st thou come too soon for Leonor? Ah, foolish Anton! dost not know I needs Must deck the chamber—seek in furthest woods The fragrant cistus—don my gold and jewels— To grace thy birth-night? Yea, but rather far To fill the long hours thou wert gone with thee,— To still my heart from bursting with the fear That evil might betide thee! Why, Antonio, I dared not sit at work at home. I tried To read the blessed word thou taught'st, thinking To quiet my heart so—but the letters swam, And I was fain to wrap my mantle round, And seek, in the dim shade of far-ofli" woods, The flowers that love the cool of forest glade, Or side of brawling burn, or mossy bank,— That finding flowers I might lose fears awhile. Dost think noio that thou cam'st too soon ?—Nay, but I prattle like a child, so glad I am To see thee safe, I e'en forget to ask How thou hast fared, and what news from Seville ? Antonio. Sad news, my Leonor. Dost thou recall The widow Maria, her at whose house The brethren aye found welcome and relief? —Mysterious are the ways of God. He hath Seen fit to smite His faithful handmaid mad; 280 The Attempt.

And yesternight, men whisper, she hath said Words, in her ravings, she had rather died Than knowing utter. Leonor. 'Las ! what words, Antonio? Hath she denied oin* Lord? Antonio. Not so, my own ; Yet words fell from her—sparks they say may light Another Auto. Names— Leonor. What names ? not thine ? Oh, Anton, say she did not speak of thee ? A ntonio. Nay, nay, my own, I know not whose the names. Men do but whisper that our Holy Church Hath pricked up her long ears to catch the words The poor unhinged mind forgot to hide. And yet, in sooth, they say good Dr. Zafra, Who useth his qualificator's place Ever to shield the brethren, hath so well Hoodwinked the Holy Office, that withal Its myriad eyes are like to bats by day— Light all around, yet seeing nought. Leonor. Thank God I Antonio. Amen, my Leonor—and yet this tale Of how one little unmeant word, babbled By poor mad lips, might prove a spark so fell As light again the flames San Roman proved, Hath set me thinking. Leonor—my wife— God grant it come not—yet if it should come— Were ours the names Maria's babbling hps Had spoken—were the myriad glaring eyes Of Holy Office—open—relentless— Whose light is caught from fires of Auto's—fixed On us as tiger's on its prey,—could we Meet them unflinching? Think, my Leonor. 'Tis a cruel thought to speak to one so young, Tender, and fair,—and yet the time might come. Leonor. Nay, Anton, why such gloomy words ? thou eaid'st But now, good Dr. Zafra had hoodwinked The holy fathers, left them all a-wagging Sagely their old bald pates—thinking they saw, And seeing nothing. Where the danger, then, Or why such gloomy words ? Thou art but tired, And through the fog of thine own fantasy See'st men as goblins! Come, I'll sing to thee, And so dispel these dismal vapours. What! (Afoving towards an organ at the further end of the room.) The AttemiJt. 281

Wilt have me sing? Antonio {taking her hand and detaining her). Nay, answer, Leonor. Think, could'st thou die—young, fair, beloved,—for Him Who died for thee? Leonor {lightly).—Ay, an' thou died'st with me. Antonio. Mine own! Yet tell me, Leonor, for Him— Not me.—Dost love Him, Leonor? Leonor. Love Him ? Ay, sure. Dost not thou love Him? Hath He not Given me thee ? His blessed word have I Not learned from thy lips ? How could I choose but Love him ? Antonio. Mine own !—and yet— Leonor. Come to my song. What shall it be ? Wilt have " The Fairy Fountain ? " Antonio. Nay; not to-night. 'Tie eweet with dropping water Falling amid the leaves in woodland glades. Yet now I'd liefer have " San Roman's Hymn." Leonor. As thou wilt—yet I think " The Fairies' Font" Were best for chasing vapours from the brain. {Sits down at the organ and sings.)

" When storms beat on a rock-bound shore, When billows foam, when breakers roar, Birds scream and wheel, with spray-flakes blind ; Like spirit of unrest, the wind, Lashing the waves, moans without cease, In ocean depths is peace.

" So tempests howl about my life, Contentions bitter, war, and strife Are gathered round. The Future lowers, Dark spectres from its unknown hours, With forms half hid, glare without cease, And yet, within is peace.

" Peace ! 'twas the legacy He gave, Our Lord, —from brink of opening grave. Last gift of love to those behind ; A calm unmoved, a quiet mind. He said not that the storm should cease, But gave a heart at peace.

" Oh Saviour Lord, that gift divine Make mine indeed !—Thy will be mine ! Knowing it wisest, kindest, best. To Thee, liord, will I leave the rest. Amen, so all my strife shall cease, 'Thy will is mine,' is peace." 282 The Attempt.

SCENE II. \_A cell of the Inquisition—Leonor seated on a truckle bed— De Soto, Jesuit monk of the Inquisition, seated in front of her.^ De Soto. I doubt it not, my daughter; Don Antonio De Herezeulo ever hath indeed Been held in high esteem hy Holy Church. Nay, 'tis even this so strongly lu^ges me To this my mission, you so loudly calls To yours. Dost not recall the words our Lord Spake to most blessed Peter, when assailed By hellish darts,—" Simon, Simon, Satan Desireth thee, yet have I prayed for thee." If then the darts of hell could even assail Peter the Blessed, is it wonderful The enemy, who like a lion roars. Devouring, still should seek the best as prey ? And in this, too, our Lord ensample gives. Teaching, by prayer and penance due, to break The devil's snares, and bring deliv'rance sure To tempted ones. My daughter, think awhUe. Impenitent—Whitsunday next—this day A fortnight—surely shall thy husband pass From fire of earthly Auto, straight to fire Of endless purgatory. For nor mass, Nor prayer, nor vigil can avail for those Blaspheming Holy Church who die unshriven ; But fire—fire endless, everywhere—never Again to see thy face—to hear thy voice— Nor look on Mary, our most blessed Mother I For sole companions—worms that never die. My daughter, think. Leonor {trembling and wringing her hands). But I—what can / do ? He said that to recant were foulest wrong, Ay, treason to our blessed Lord. I)e Soto. Ay, ay, My child, the snares of hell do wrap him round, Even as a cloak. Hast not read in that Book Which heretics permit to eyes unlearned, —(Against the wisdom of our Holy Church, Which would expound its mysteries, lest the simple Drain from the fountain-head a draught too strong, The Attempt. 283

And perish)—hast not read of men who proved " A strong delusion to believe a lie ? " So is it with Don Anton Herezeulo— Delusion deep as hell. Leonor. But what can / ? De Soto. Much—aU—my child, think—will not love like yours Avail with Holy Mother ? Will not prayers And penances from heart so full as thine Melt hers? Will she not, pardoning thee, pardon Thy husband too ? her woman's heart knowing Full well 'twere mockery of pardon else ; —Or, at the last, seeing thee penitent, Think'st thou he will not seek thee, but prefer The fierce embrace of flames to thy soft arms ? Leonor. But, father, art thou sure that Holy Church Would then forgive him % De Soto. Sure ? Why not, my daughter ? Doth not our Holy Church, as brooding hen. Call back her scattered brood to sheltering wing ? Doth not her heart beat warmer aye to welcome Each straggler home ? I say not he shall 'scape All penance, but, to penitent, penance Is pleasure ; then after some few months more, —Slayhap but weeks—and back to happy Toro Together, thou and he. Leonor (^looking ujj and pressing her hand to her brow). Leave me, my father, Alone a while ; give me a little time ; I cannot think or make thee answer now. De Soto. I go.—Yes, think, my child,—ay, and remember 'Tis choice between th' embrace of Auto's fires And Anton's arms—and not for thee alone,— For him. Farewell I may our most Holy Mother Guide thee aright. {Going to the door of the cell. Aside.) Ay, ay, she's safe ; who stops To think o'er such a choice is sure. [Exit. Leonor {cilone, clasping her hands over her eyes). To Toro,— Yes, " back to happy Toro thou and lie," 'Twas that he said—oh, Anton I could it be % Old sunny Toro ! —nay, I seem to see The long low latticed window, where so oft I watched his coming,—how the sunlight lay 284 The Attempt.

In golden streaks on the verandah floor, And made the dark leaves of the passion-flower, Wreathing the portico, ghsten hke satin,— How the cool fountains rose and fell in clouds Of ghttering spray,—how the hot fragrant air Breathed from the cistus and arbutus beds Heavy with perfume,—how the bulbuls sang In Anton's grove of cypress, and the air Teemed with the drowsy hum of insect life, —And thou with me—Oh, Anton ! can it be Such bliss may yet be ours once more % He said It might—the holy father-—did I but Recant, kneel to the Holy Mass ; one prayer Repeat to Mary, Mother of our Lord! —But Anton said 'twere to deny the Lord That bought us—yet I knew not how 'twere so— Our Saviour, sure, would never grudge one prayer Said to his blessed Mother,—one short prayer,— If not, the fire,—the fire ! Whitsimday next, —One little fortnight—and my Anton there ! Ah, I can see the flames !—I dare not think— My brain goes round— {Putting her hands over her face, then looking up suddenly) No : and I icill not think I The holy father said one way there was Of saving Anton,—only one, and I Could do it.—If'tis wTong, our blessed Lord Will not be very wroth—'tis done for love— Doth not the Bible say His name is Love ? Or if His anger burn, He'll punish me, Not Anton,—so be't, so my Anton 's safe; —I'll think no more, but when the holy father Returns, I'll answer him as he desires.

SCENE III.

[A cell in the inner prison of the Inquisition—Antonio de Herezeulo—De Soto—two Monks holding two yellow dresses, one uiith flames painted on it pointing downwards, the other ivith flames pointing upicards^ De Soto. Which shall it be. Signer Antonio, For the last time ? Don but this dress—'tis all I ask. Sure there's no treason there ? Canst find The Attempt. 285

One word in all your Bible that commends One dress above another? {Antonio remains silent^ De Soto. (impatiently/) Answer me. Antonio. 'Twere to betray my Lord. De Soto. Betray thy L ord i How can that yellow robe rather than this Betray him ? Can a robe recant ? Antonio. Not so. Yet in the wearing it 'tis I recant Proclaim myself a penitent for that Wherein I most do glory. Father, cease, Thou mov'st me not—dost with thy vain words but Disturb my last few hours on earth. De Soto. Signor, One other word—Antonio de Herezeulo, Thy wife, she hath recanted;—wilt leave her To prove what mercies Holy Office hath In store for penitent whose husband hath Unto the death defied her 1 Antonio. Oh, my God ! May this be false 1 Nay, it is false; thou liest, De Soto. God will keep them that are His. My Leonor—my wife—I know thy heart I Thou said'st thou would'st not fear to share the flames AVith me for Him ! Shall I misdoubt thee, then, Or weigh this liar's words with thine ? (Turning to the Monks) Give me The yellow garment where the flames turn upwards— Hasten !—the time goes all too slow. Once more. One moment, I shall see thy sweet face here. My Leonor, and then—Eternity With Christ and thee ! What though one paltry hour Of flames between ? De Soto (inockingly). Ay, ay, my Don Antonio, Thou shalt indeed behold thy Leonor One moment, and adorned with this same robe Thou scoutest. For the rest " Eternity With Christ and thee," etcetera. Should'st say One hour of earthly anguish to prepare For tenfold flames of endless purgatory For thee. For her—thou has assayed tlie bowels Of Holy OSice, and canst guess—wilt still Don yellow robe with flames turned upward ? Antonio. Ay,

SEFTEMBEB 1S74. ^ O 28G The Attempt.

Were every He thou speakest truth itself, l>e Soto. Fool! To thy prayers; another hour, and prayer Is past for thee ! \ Exit Be Soto. 1st Monk. {Moclcingly holding out the yellow garment) 'Tis fitting bridal robe ! Don it—this other that thou scorn'st shall deck Thy bride most meetly. I will hence with it To her, soon as thou art arrayed. Kare luck, Groomsman and bridesmaiden, and all in one! Antonio. 'Tis bridal robe—ay, and for double bridal, With heavenly Bridegroom and with earthly bride. Hasten—time lags too slow. (They put o?i the yellow robe with the flames pointing upwards.) \st Monk, {turning him round mochingly) Oh worshipful! Oh gorgeous bridegroom ! Oh appropriate robe ! Its flames do well denote the flame of love. Now will we finish thine adornment With this brave mouth-piece—since thy robe so well Bespeaks thy passion thou'st no need of tongue Other than those—{pointing to the flames, and producing the gag-) 2d Monk. Nay, not so fast. The father Bade give one hour for prayer—shrift short enough. {To Antonio) And thou—make thou what peace thou canst with heaven. (7b the other Monk) Leave him at peace. Antonio. Nay, I need no delay. My peace is made, was made upon a cross Hundreds of years agone. The same who walked Fourth in the fiery furnace—even now, As I am speaking, standeth at my side. I neither fear for body nor for soul, Nor for the strength steadfast to stand—they all Are in His hand. I know that He can keep My trust unto that day ; yet will I pray For thee and for thy fellow. {Kneeling down) Lord— 2d Monk, {furiously) Gag him ; I'll none of this—thou vermin, reptile, worm, Would'st dare? {to the other Monk) Gag him, I say ; an' thou dost not, De Soto, ere this night, shall know thou sought'st Prayers from a heretic! The Attempt. 287

Antonio. Father, forgive— —My Leonor—{they gag him.) \st Monk. To the square ; there, scorpion, thou Shalt prove the flames thou lov'st. {They lead him to the Grand Square, where an immense con- course of people is gathered, and fourteen persons, some men and some women, in yellow rohes, are standing on a platform, monks and friars gathered round them gesticulating and urging them to kiss the cross. Twelve of the fourteen kiss it, and are taken aivay to be strangled before being burnt. Aiitonio and another remain un- moved; and are led towards a scaffold, at the foot of which are assembled the penitents, in yellow dresses, with flames turned downioards, and among them Leonor.) Ist Monk, {as Antonio passes her) To double bridal Said'st thou ? here's first instalment—it may hap Thou'lt find second the same ! {Antonio passes on to the stake.) 1st Woman in the crowd. A-well-a-day, They're gone, poor souls! Did'st see, as he passed here. The look on Don de Herezeulo'e face % What was't so moved him "? It was calm as face Of holy Stephen in the altar piece, Whiles they "were buffeting and mocking him. What changed it so in passing here ? Dost think 'Twas sight o' the stake ? and yet 'twas not like fear. Nor yet like pain—only it grew more sad Than aught I ever saw on earth. Did'st thou Not note it, Juan % 2d Woman. Ay, poor soul, 'twas sad. Small wonder—on his way to the Brasero ! But look, where think'st thou are they taking yonder Pale woman ? Is^ Woman. But he should have looked sad all The way; 'twas but in passing here—-his face Till then seemed glorified as martyr Stephen's. 2d Woman. Look, look, the woman struggles! can they be Taking her too to the Brasero ? Heigh, Neighbour Juan, can'st tell who 'tis ? Juan. They say 'Tis Dona Leonor de Cisneros, Wife to the Don Antonio de Ilerezeulo, Just past on's way to the Brasero. 1st Woman. 'Lack, 288 The Attempt.

'Twas that then moved him, tender soul, pitying Her pain more than his own ! Well, his pain's past By now—the Holy Virgin shorten her's—• She's out of sight—Heaven help her! though she be Heretic she's a woman still. Juan. Nay, dame, They take not her to the Brasero. Did'st Not see her 'mong the penitents ? She hath Recanted—yet I heard them say that now She struggled hard to join her husband. \st Woman. 'Lack, Poor soul, 'twere better to have died with him I {Aside)—Ay, ay, that 'twas then made his face so sad!

SCENE IV. \Nine years and four months after, Leonor sitting alone in a turret room oj the Inquisition, xoatching the sunset.'] Leonor. Nine years now and four months since I last saw The sunset, and for me 'tis now earth's last. To-morrow, ere this time—oh happy thought!— My long voyage will have ended on a shore That needs nor mm nor moon to lighten it!— Ah ! now the Heavens are all aglow—purple. And red, and gold with the departing glory. It seems sad—^just a little—does it not, Never to see another sunset, even In Heaven ? Those colours are so fair, they seem Worthy of Heaven even ; ah ! I forgot " There is a rainbow round the throne of God." We'll have the colours, only the sun changed. {Remains silent and thoughtful a few minutes, gazing at the sun disappearing behind the hills, drawing a long breath as he disappears entirely.) There now—he's gone—I've seen the very last 0' the poor old sun. Mayhap 'tis better so— I think I see now what God meant—letting Me fall so for. I've often wondered—now I seem to see—this last eve's sunset 'twas That taught me. " No more sun, for"—mark the for— " God's glory lightens it, and the Lamb's the light Thereof." That's it, that's why he let me fall. He saw that Anton was my siin—that Heaven, His Heaven.itself, were scarce a Heaven to me, The Attempt. 289

Anton not there. And in God's Heaven can be No sun save God—they need none other there. 'Twas that he meant to teach me—and has taught. He taught it me before to-night, and yet I think 'twas this last sunset showed me how All through 'twas this he meant. My God—my sun— No other sun save Him—that's Heaven—ay, that Can make Earth, Heaven—-the Inquisition even. {Sits silent a few minutes?) —We'll have the colours though—I'm glad of that— All the bright colours—crimson, gold, and blue, And all the rest. " There is a rainbow round The throne." I'm glad of that—I think I know What that means too—or might mean—just as I Only in loving Anton, all the world Loved more for loving him.—Just so is God Heaven's sun—but not a rayless sun—there is A rainbow round about His throne. 'Tis not The sun shining alone in cloudless sky, But like the sun to-night—where the great clouds Were piled to watch its setting, and each cloud Caught its bright colour from the central sun. And glowed purple and red because He shone. I think that's how God means that we should love— Shall love in Heaven—Himself love's centre, yet Loving all others more because we love Him most—and knowing what we love, even In them is radiance caught from Him—His truth, His love. His tenderness. His majesty, Mirror'd in them-—just as the rainbow's but A watery cloud, until the sun impregnates It with glory.—Will not the bow be bright When God's the sun ?—Yes, let me think.—Do I Love Anton less than when I loved him more Than I loved God ? Not so, not less, but more— More—more—far more. How my heart leaps to think To-morrow eve I'll see his face again— The dear old face. But not with that look on't It wore when last I saw it—that look, how Its sadness haunted me for months and years ! I knew how soon 't had passed from thy dear face —Melted i' the light of God and of the Lamb; Yet many a day its sadness lived with me— That's gone too, melted from my heart by tliat Same light, though yet but as a " hope of glory." 290 The Attempt.

—Ay, Heaven is Heaven without, and yet I think 'Twill be more heaven to thee, Leonor there— Just as the heavens are fairest, when great clouds Catch kiss o' the sun. Strange, is it not, to think All this to-night ? To-morrow is the Auto, And not once have I thought about the flames Last time I dreaded so. San Roman felt Just so, I fancy, when he wrote his hymn— The hymn that Anton loved. 'Tis long since I Have sung it—I could not—it hurt me so— So 'twined it was with thoughts of Anton—but. Now that there's but one night 'tween him and me, Now it is glad, not sad, to think of Anton.— {Begins to croon in a low voice) " He said not that the storm should cease, But gave a heart at peace." That's it: I sometimes wondered when the rack Was at its worst, my heart felt quietest then— {Sings) " Peace ! 'twas the legacy He gave. That's true—(a knock at the door)— Come in. Enter Dona Dolores, Prioress of San Marc. Prioress. Lady, Father de Soto Hath sent me to entreat, for the last time, The Doua Leonor de Cisneros Mercy to show to soul and body both— And to advise her that no more of penance, Or Inquisition dungeon shall reward Her recantation ; but a quiet home In the adjoining convent of San Marc, Where she may end her days in prayer and peace. If not—the flames to-morrow ! Lady, think,— It is my convent—/have begged this favour Of De Soto, Think—thou may'st teach us all The better way. Thy patience and thy words Have moved my heart—ay, and have moved the hearts Of others too. Thou may'st work for the Christ Thou lovest so, among us. For our sakes, If not thine own, yield, I entreat. Thou art Too young to die. Leonor. {smiling) Thanks, Dona Dolores, For the kind words—for all thy kindness—thanks To God too, thou dost say poor words of mine The Attempt. 291

Incline thy heart to seek Him whom I love. But for the rest^—say this to Monsignor. I was too young to die—at least not ripe— Kine years now and four months agone. God saw, And left me here to ripen, l^h' Inquisition's Not a bad forcing house. He knows the time, And now he comes to pluck me—glad to be Gathered. Staying, thou say'st, I might perchance Work for my Lord.—Nay, Lady, God will care For His own work—what recks the worker ? His Work must needs be done, and will be. 'Twere not To work for Him to leave the task He sets— My work's to die. Prioress. Lady, is't your last answer ? Leonor. The very last. Prioress. Alas ! Then farewell, lady. Leonor. (Going up to her and kissing her) Nay, not " alas "—nor yet " farewell." We'll meet Again up yonder, thou and I. The work That God begins He ends.—And for " alas," Yes, it has been " alas," but that's past now— It was "alas" nine years agoue—mayhap It was "alas"—a little—on the rack Sometimes—now it will never be " alas" Through all eternity. Prioress. Not in the flames % Leonor. Not in the flames; for I am dead already— Dead, and my life hidden with Christ in God; Flames cannot touch it tliere. Prioress, {iveeping and kissing her, and trying to say farewell) For a while then. Farewell, dear lady. [Exit Prioress. Leonor. Lord, bring her too home In Thy good time. Now I'll to sleep, lest I Be weak to-morrow. We 're but dust, you see. (^LAes down on her bed., crooning in a low voice) " Amen, so all my strife shall cease, ' Thy will is mine,' is peace." [Sleeps. SCENE V. [Midnight after the Auto—The Prioress's Cell in the Convent of San Marc—Dona Dolores on her knees before a Crucifix. [A knock at the door. Prioress, (rising) Enter ! (^l nun enters). 292 'Hie Attempt.

Has Juan come I Is't over then ? Nun. Ay, madam, ere sunset, at five o'clock. Prioress. Did she endure unflinching to the end ? Nun. Unmoved; nay, Juan saith he ne'er beheld Aught like the radiant peace upon her face. Prioress. Doth Juan say she spake ? Nun. Once she essayed, But the monks drowned her voice. Prioress. . Heard he no word Then? Nun. None; but one who stood close by the stake Saith, when the fire was lit he heard her say, (Fixing her eyes upon the sun, which neared Its setting) " No more Sun, God and the Lamb The light thereof—and there's a rainbow round The throne of God!" 'Twas her last word, he said. She smiled, and her head sank. Prioress. Alas—yet no. She said she would not we should say alas. With her 'tis well; she's gone into God's light; 'Tis we are left in darkness. Beatrix, Go fetch the Book—thou know'st the secret spring Unlocks the Avail where it is hid. [JExit Nun. Dark! dark! She said it speaks of One who is the Light. JEANIE MORISON.

lints Q\x nothing. WE'RE poor with nothing, so 'tis said or sung, And yet from nothing all creation sprung ; The fair and smiling earth, with swelhng tide, Emerged from nothing, like a radiant bride, Adorned with gems, and flowers of richest hue, W^ith all that cheers the heart and charms the view. At balmy evening let thy vision fly Along the blue and tranquil summer sky, Where not a cloud, perchance, obscures the sight, Save one of softly-shaded pink and white, Tinged with a golden ray from Sol's bright face, A parting glance ere Luna takes his place. Then view the treasures of the richest mines, Where gold is glistening and the ruby shines, The Attempt. 293

Or sapphhe, like the blue forget-me-not. Or fairest gem concealed in pearly grot; Examine well the blossom of the rose. As timidly its blushing leaves luiclose, And see the jessamine with scented head, The modest violet in its fragrant bed. The primrose peeping from the shady dell, The stately oak, the simple heatherbell; And list the sound of sylvan waterfall, The cooing music of the dove's soft call,— Then say that nothing can surpass them all I The greatest sages that the world e'er saw, Found nothing as it should be—without flaw ! While ancient bards, who sang inspiring lays. Thought nothing sweeter than the highest praise. In nothing do we see extremes unite Of beauty, weakness, ugliness and might; Extremes of size and colour intertwine Harmoniously in nothing, and combine ; Nothing is blacker than the blackest sloe, Nothing is wliiter than the purest snow. Nothing more frightful than the Gargon's face, Nothing can equal the Apollo's grace, Nothiug is frailer than a fading flower, Nothing surpasses Samson's strength and power; But nothing's perfect! who can say as much Of anything we ever see or touch! It is indeed of all things most sublime, For nothing stands when all is felled by time; But then to fate's decree it too must bend, or nothing in Eternity will end ! JANE B. BALLANTYNE.

(IbXi \\\t l^igilts.

SWITZERLAND is very full this year. To those who remember when Swiss railways were not, or were few indeed,—when one tourist came for fifty who come now, —it needs all available benevolence and philosophy to hope that a wider-spread, if lower, enjoyment to a greater number may compensate for the general overcrowding, and the jostling with many people who don't know why

SEPTEMBEK 1874. ^ " 294 The Attempt. tlicy came, and are quite out of place, that beset the enthusiastic Swiss traveller now. Where are the little rustic inns, where the landlord had a cordial greeting for the returning guest, and the few sympathetic tourists made such a pleasant little society'^ Where are the lonely footways—the remote wilds ? Fewer every year, and harder to find. A huge, dreary barrack, like a hundred others, replaces the characteristic little inn; the kindly, if not wholly disinterested landlord is changed into a company for screwing the last "sou" out of tourists, and represented by a crowd of waiters, who rush in a body on the traveller, all speaking a more or less unplea- sant jargon, which passes for English. And, by the way, how amusing it is when these waiters, all unconscious of the very queer phrases they have picked up, with smiling civil obsequiousness, tell you to " come along directly," or remark knowingly, " We'll see," just as if they were saying the right thing in their own courteous language. Instead of a welcome guest, you are now a mere number; 93, or something equally undistinguished ; and, at the long table d'hote,—amid hosts of ,over-dressed Americans, much occupied with their clothes, and uncultured excur- sionists, indifferent to the scenery, but fondly anxious about the dinner,—only a few of the old sort are seen here and there—those who come for love of the moun- tains, and long to explore their secret recesses. There are some little inns still, where the foot of Cook has never trod, where the twang of the Yankee is unknown, where the real Alpine traveller—the stalwart member of the Alpine Club—is welcomed by name year after year. But to no printed book, not even to our own dear confidential Attempt, would I confide the name of such sweet retreats as I know of, lest an ill breeze should blow it to the ears of mine host, and the greed of the Switzer should wake within him, and the barrack should be built, and the waiters hired, and the stream of excursionists turned on, and peace fly further afield. But, though the tourists are so numerous, mountaineers have not, we think, increased in proportion,—and, indeed, are apt to be despised as half-crazed enthusiasts by the majority of a company in a great hotel. Are they not rough in their attire—sometimes red and blistered in their complexions? Have they not their own interests and excitements, so apart from the watering-place gossip of the many, that they are dull company for the smart The Attempt. 295 loungers in the big caravanseries ? Do not a number of respectable and cautious people, both in Switzerland and at home, consider all the so-called first-class mountain expeditions worse than foolish,—positively blameable and foolhardy'? It is certainly a subject on wliicli two oj^iuions are possible, and having been well plied myself with the cautious views of late, I feel incited to try and say a word in defence of Alpine Club expeditions, even while admitting that a certain degree of risk does attend them. Of course it is a question of degree, and instances of real unjustifiable foolhardiness may be found among the votaries of mountaineering ; but there are always people who carry every pursuit they engage in to excess, ride the hobby of the moment to death, and bring absurdity and discredit upon things in themselves excellent. But we must allow, I think, that there is a certain small degree of positive danger, of real unavoidable risk, in Alpine expeditions; also a considerable amoimt of what one might call latent danger, that is, probability of acci- dents i/proper precautions are not taken, and ?/people unfit to cope with the difficulties go into places too difficult for them. A great authority in Alpine literature, Mr. Whymper, allows the existence of only one unavoidable positive danger, and it is peculiarly Alpine, namely, the risk of the fall of ice pinnacles or stones. Sucli falls are constantly .occurring among those wonderful mountains, often pre- cipitous beyond the point of stable equilibrium, constantly mouldering and disintegrating from the action of the weather on their crumbling surfaces. Such a fall is pos- sible in too many places for the traveller to be able to avoid passing them all; though the guides know the more dangerous places, and hurry across them. Few, I think, can have climbed among the mountains, without having had tlie sensation of experiencing one or two escapes from the mountain cannonade of boulders of rock, bounding and crashing down from some height, down over rock and bush and tree, till they find their level far below, perhaps shattered by the last shock into a thousand fragments, and exploding almost like a shell. Ice, of course, is always changing. It is curious to observe on a glacier the stir that succeeds at noon to the frost-locked stillness of the early morning; the cracking and grind- ing of ice, the thundering rush of avalanches, the dashing and gurgling of the wild waters below, giving 296 The Attempt. certainly a feeling of instability and insecurity to the way. But it is generally easy to avoid walking under impending ice crags; indeed, I should suppose it is scarcely ever done, except by the very rash, or perhaps by pioneers of a new route finding out what to avoid; and though falling stones bring a positive risk, it is a very small one. During the last thirty ye

Avith any one for any place, but such, generally, are the first to be ready to turn back, and are pretty safe com- panions. Many people feel dizziness near precipices; unless they feel that this diminishes on greater acquain- tance with them, and in no way interferes with their power of moving wherever they have hand and foothold, excur- sions on the heights are not for them. They incur a hundred dangers, where none exist for the firm-headed and sure-footed. Then the imprudence of bold moun- taineers, who are too idle or too rash to take proper precautions, may often convert these conditions into risks. They will perhaps traverse a snow slope because it is an easy short cut, knowing it to be dangerous from fresh fallen snow or some such reason,—an accident occurs, it is put down by the unlearned to the credit of Alpine excursions, when it is simply owing to the rashness of some particular party. In the same way a man will sometimes cross a glacier with concealed crevasses alone, which with three people roped together would not be dangerous, trusting to the chance of not slipping in, and so perishing. Such accidents do occur, and ought never to occur. Keasonable precautions must not be neglected in Alpine travelling; but is that saying anything against it ? I think not. Having allowed a certain element of danger in Alpine excursions, that is some slight unavoidable risks, and a good many dangerous possibilities that prudence, apti- tude and strength prevent from developing into actual dangers, comes the next question,—Are we justified, for recreation or amiisement, for anything short of absolute necessity, in getting into any danger at all—any danger, however slight % But when are we out of danger % Fancy, before we undertake anything, sitting down to calculate the danger! A certain percentage of railway travellers meet with accidents,—shall we, therefore, limit our journeys to the strictly necessary? The average number of people killed in the streets of London, by being run over (exclusive of all injuries from accidents not fatal, of course the large majority) is in the year more than four and less than five a week. Well might Jean Tairez, a first-rate Chamouni guide, who accompanied a friend of ours to London, exclaim, that these streets were the most dangerous walking he had ever tried. Shall we, therefore, never attempt a London crossing ? Shall we never go to sea, because of wrecks? nor in a boat, for fear of squalls % 298 The Attempt.

Never bathe, for fear of drowning '? Never ride, because of many bad chances ? Never drive, because of a few 'I AVhat shall we do ? Where, in this world of mortality and accidents and chances, shall we draw our timid line? Kound our kitchen gardens, or our own arm-chairs ; sit there till we believe we are made of glass, and die of rust, inertia, and disuse? No. I believe the habit of morbidly dwelling on possible risk is a thoroughly bad one; risk is unavoid- able, one of the ever abiding conditions of our mortality, and whether in business or in pleasure ought not to trouble us overmuch. But further—to the muscular frame is affixed the con- dition which holds good of the intellect, of the affec- tions, of the mind,—use it, or you lose it. High physical health and strength are not to be had without strong exercise ; and where strength exists, there is generally found a craving to use it. The young male animal ought to have active play ; and it is no small point to secure to it innocent play. And as to the workers,—the recreation of the man, whose work strains his muscles, may be diversions which employ the mind, but leave the body at rest. But the recreation, the real life-giving rest of the brain-worker, implies bodily exertion, calling into exercise the powers a too sedentary life is apt to enfeeble and destroy. All this will be generally allowed; but if it is, we may surely see how excellently excursions in the High Alps fulfil all that is required in these respects. And firstly, owing to that abused element of possible danger. Courage, endurance, quickness of resource, presence of mind, are excellent qualities; but in the hum- drum routine of our safe, easy-going, machine-made, over- civilised life, years sometimes pass without any oppor- tunity of exercising them, unless in travel, or in the vicissitudes, of field sports. In France, there is now, among the upper classes, very little rough travelling or out-door athletic amusements; and the consequence is, their young men, compared with the same class here, are wonderfully deficient in resource, self-reliance, and energy. It was remarkable, for instance, in the late war, what difliculty was found in the conveyance of despatches, across even their own country, when partially occupied by the enemy. In every English county, I believe we could find at least one girl capable of riding across country in the dark near her own home—so much resource and energy does habitual hunting call. out. The remarkable The Attempt. 299

coohiess, dash, and self-reliance of our young officers, the learned in these matters greatly attribute to hunting, which is unquestionably more dangerous than most Alpine excursions, possessing as they say, half the excite- ment of Avar, and one-fifth of the danger. Hunting is practically too expensive for all but those of A'ery easy means, or those Avhose business lies among horses ; but the element of danger that underlies Alpine traA^el, as well as hunting, is admirably suited for calling out those good qualities so apt in our ordinary life to rust for Avant of use. It is not an expensive amusement; the hard- worked professional man can often save money for an Alpine tour, Avhen a horse Avould be beyond his means. It has this great superiority OA-er all field sports, that it is pure enjoyment to all concerned. No animal slaughter or misery ministers to our pleasure in it; Ave do not " blend our pleasure and our pride, Avith sorroAv of the meanest thing that feels." More than that, the object of these excursions is to bring us face to face Avith nature in her grandest forms, her freest, most glorious developments—to take us far aAvay from the littlenesses of daily life, and minor cares and troubles, into the fresh splendour of mountain life. They are most poAverful in the excitement of emotions of wonder, delight, and exquisite enjoyment of beauty. Away AA'ith all defences and all apologies for a recreation so Avholesomely delight- ful to mind and body! Let us dream ourselves back into one of those blissful days they have illuminated, and at the risk of stirring up too wistful a longing for the free, glorious heights, Avhere the Alpine roses bloom, recall some of those past delights. It is still dark, perhaps only three in the early summer morning, for the sun must not have been sliining long enough on the upper snoAvs Ave have to cross, to make them heavy, nay dangerous Avalking before we arrive. Out from the sleeping inn, through the little broAAn village, so quiet under the starlit sky, Ave folloAV our silent guide, half solemnised by that deathly feeling that just precedes the daAvn. Hark! a bird is stirring, another ansAvers, the eastern sky grows clearer, the stars groAV fainter, and as Ave pursue our way up the pine • Avood the birds are all aAvaking On the dcAvy pastures beyond, the goats and cows begin to shake their bells in a morning carillon, the stars have all faded at last in a saffron sky, and still the fair landscape seems all anti- 300 . The Attempt.

cipation—waiting for the master—the sun. Higher still, he has not reached us yet, but the great snow peak far in the sky, which has hitherto loomed out a pale solemn ghost, has caught the red rays, and glitters with the brightest tenderest rose tints. Now he lights crag and forest, and mountain range; we rejoice in the shadow in which we still Avalk through the dew and the flowers. The exhilaration of all nature infects us too— the glory of living, the splendour of the world we live in seems to fill our hearts with delight. Higher—the sun has caught us now, but no matter, the air is so bright and keen we are fresher than at starting, for we are in the snow and glacier world. We have left the woods, for the trees have dwindled and ceased, and this is the last pasture; down to it come streaks of snow, alongside rise the icy spires. Only ice and rock are beyond us, and the bold flowers, set here and there like gems in the grey cliffs and yellowish brown mosses. Halt for a second delicious breakfast, and then, with the guide, now om- leader and master, in advance, ice-axe in hand, we engage on the ice and snow part of the route, the featm-e which gives the intense interest to these explorations that cannot be approached where there is not perpetual snow. For we enter a new region of sparkling snows and ice-jewels, gaping blue crevices, and pure white stretches of un- trodden snow. Every day the practicable path alters; every minute some new intricacy to be traced out, some new difficulty to be solved presents itself. The air is exhilarating beyond description, the interest and delight of the fresh effort needed to get over each new impedi- ment as w^e reach it, intense. And then, when we pause and look roimd on the splendid solitude, how it thrills one all over with rapture. Such moments are marked with an aureole in our lives, they are stored away like costly treasures to be looked over with truest pleasure in duller times, but they cannot be described. Alpine climbers, by a kind of freemasonry, can hint them to each other, but to be understood, they must have been experienced. And granting that the way up the mountain has needed the utmost caution, the exertion of all wholesome effort; skill on the part of the guide, acti-saty and deftness, at least, from the travellers ; are they tne worse for the stimulus 'I No, certainly not; the idea that carelessness might be fatal, only adds a zest to the cautious enjoyment, with which people, suited for such Tlie Attempt. 301 expeditions, surmoimt a difficulty. Then comes the descent, with its sense of achievement, the return to the lower sweeter world, lichened, rock flowers again,—and what flowers! We have seen the pink and blue flowers on high rocks, blooming in quite solid masses Avith no stalk, like jewels lying (m the ground, of a size and intensity of colour, our best gardening efforts cannot approach. Once more the pastures in the sleepy after- noon light; far as the Avalk has been, the pure light air that waves that wealth of grasses and flowers—tall flowers now, lilies and campanulas—gives us fresh spring and diminishes fatigue ; and so back to the lower valley, to fruit trees, cultivation and corn, chestnut trees, perhaps, and trellised vines, with, it must be owned, the joy of dinner before us, and the welcome rest to mind and body, after a day of delicious exertion and excitement. And shall we condemn such enjoyments as these, because of the dangerous possibilities we have alluded to ; because they are to some people, especially to light-hearted young men, whether guides or employers, most enjoyable when there is a spice of daring about the excursion, and it fully taxes the energies of those concerned % No, Avould come as the answer, not only from those mere holiday-seekers, Avho find in them the purest, brightest holidays in the "world, but even more emphatically from such people as chiefly constitute the Alpine Club ; hard-worked men of the learned professions, over-strained lawyers, over- worked clergymen,—men compelled, perhaps, to live in great cities ten months of the year, who come, however, season after season, to refresh their weary spirits, and brace their highly -wrought nerves on the pure sweet Alpine heights. Happy for them that they can there become boys again, and delight once more in the physical exercise and healthy excitement of climbing ; while ever more delightful to their maturer minds are the wonderful scenes they explore, which to all save those who win those difficult heights, are the unknown glories of the liigh Alps. So much for the boys, young and old ; and the girls, too, we would recommend to quit the beaten track for the grandes courses, as far as their strength permits; because, to sum up my argument, it is really good to employ what strength and activity they have, and also there are mountain wonders and mountain glories reserved for the climbers alone. But we do not wish to under- SEPTEMBER 1874. ^ Q 802 'J'he Atteiiijit. value the more accessible scenery, open to the less strong and active. In many places, the glacier world borders on the easy bridle road, and even the lounging walks round some of the baths, where invalids congregate, are full of sublimity and beauty. What can be more delicious also than bowling along one of the great passes into Italy, in a comfortable open carriage, drawn by four or five gay horses, with jingling bells and flying tassels. ]\Iagnificent scenery around, and full of exciting change; rising from sweet pastoral Switzerland to the barren heights Avhere the snow mountains only are above, and lichens only grow, under the long desolate refuge galleries all mantlbd with the snow that used to sweep the wild path in former days, through rock and forest, down many a mile of sharp zig-zag into a warmer climate; amethyst hills, trellised vines. Avhite Campanile rising out of the chestnut trees, and that Avonderful indescribable expansion and flowering of all nature, which tells us we have entered Italy. There all is changed; floating luxuriously in the cushioned boat, on one of the lovely Lombard lakes, under the purple mountain walls, past the bright villages nestled in rich Avoods, past the proud palaces, where the water plays round the marble stairs, and reflects the wealth of luxurious bloom of flowers and fruits hanging over it, Ave feel that we need bring no exertion or thought of our own to enhance our enjoyment. For the moun- tains demand physical effort for their full appreciation, and art requires mind; but Italian scenery gives us all for nothing, and remains the very ideal of a whole holiday to mind and body, of lazy, languid, delicious rest. E. J. 0.

il n n (I.

SHE doth not see, for a crown of pain On her beautiful browns doth rest. And mars the loveliness we would fein Did every guerdon of earth contain; But God^He knoweth best. So He laid His hand on the lids that close The Attempt. 303

Like the tender leaves of a soft June rose,— 0 fair and blind! 0 fair and blind! But still she sang, as she groped her way In that night of hers that was never day, " That God is kind, that God is kind."

II.

She never saw the gladsome step Of the laughing, bountiful Spring, As with sunny smile and a merry shout She chases the weary Winter out. And all the grey weirdly trees about Her bright green tassels swing. The summer roses they bloom apace. But they bring no smile to her patient face ; The autumn passion-flower faints and dies, And calls no tear to her calm blue eyes,— 0 fair and blind! 0 fair and blind! And yet the wafts that her ringlets stir Have a tenderer message perchance for her, For God is kind, for God is kind.

m.

Apart she sits with folded hands, Like some meek and holy saint. The dim eyes big with tears unshed, A shadow on the bowed head Old masters loved to paint; For well she knows, not now nor here. But in some far-oft' mysterious sphere Fair blossoms sweet in the promised land Are planted now by a Father's Hand, Which will guide her steps in the sweet amaze That will thrill lier soul in the first full gaze,— 0 fair and blind ! 0 fair and blind ! As she seeth the flowers for the first, fresh time. And treadeth on mosses and clover and thyme. And looks on the valleys whose glories have birth In the untrod paths of the new-born earth,— For God is kind, for God is kind. ;-)04r "The Attempt.

IV.

When night, that nurse with the kindly arms. Has folded her children away, And the calm, sweet breath of the whispering night With the fainting fall of the fading light Is soothing the sobbing day ; There dwells no more on her sleeping lips The sadness born of her life's eclipse, For God hath opened the boiinden eyes To gaze on His glorious mysteries,— 0 fair and blind ! 0 fair and blind ! And night—(to us but night it seems)— To her is a rapturous day of dreams,— For God is kind, for God is kind.

V.

0 fair and blind, what it all shall be,— The untold rapture of ecstasy, The dazzling waves of the crystal sea ! Tlie first sight to burst on thy wondering eyes The glorious gardens of Paradise ! And the earliest rays on thine orbs to be The Light that lightens eternity ! MARTYN HAY. The A ttempt. 305

IV.—OLD PERIOD : FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE TWELFTH TO THE MIDDLE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY—continued. First Classical Period, 1190-1300.

THE ART-EPIC. •

3. KING AETHUR AND HIB KNIGHTS. THE poems which treat of Arthur and his knights alone, may be called art-epics of a secular nature. The first of these is Tristan and Isolt, by Gottfried of Strasbourg. It forms a contrast in almost every respect to Wolfram's Percival. Its short lyric metre suits its theme, the loves of mortals. The sensuous beauty and voluptuous imagery which it paints, lead to a dreamy satisfaction Avitli present things, and a neglect of the soul and a spiritual world. The poem of Wolfram is a rough diamond, less attractive without, by its form, but shining with a pure and spiritual light when looked into. Gottfried's poem has but its form and present delight, which fade away of themselves before the gaze of the reader, just as the hero and heroine were consumed by lire in the height of their happiness. The gay Gottfried despises the monk-like garb of Wolfram's poem, unthinking that posterity will repay to his own poem that contempt with interest. The poem of Tristan and Isolt, the greatest work of Gottfried von Strasbourg, Avas composed about the year 1215, and finished after Gottfried's death by Ulrich von Tiirheim, about 1240, and Heinrich von Freiberg, about 1300. Its story is only indirectly connected with the legend of King Arthur. Tristan, when he is grown up, goes out on adventures, and comes to his uncle, King- Mark in Cornwall, who intends to marry the beautiful Isolt in Ireland. Tristan, who had formerly killed her cousin, and then, disguised as a player, had by her been cured of his wounds, and become her teacher, undertook the task of gaining her for his uncle. He slew a dragon in Ireland, and was there recognised by Isolt, who accepted the suit of Mark, and witli Tristan set sail for Cornwall. Her mother having secretly given her a love- charm for Mark, she and Tristan drank it unconsciously, and fell violently in love with each other. They now OCIOBIE 1874. ^ R 306 'The Attempt. try to deceive Mark, are several times banished from his presence, and live in a lovers' cave. At last Tristan is obliged to fly, and the story says that he finds another Isolf with white hands, with whom he falls in love, and reproaches himself for doing so. Here ends Gottfried's. part of the poem. In the continuation Ave read of Tristan's further adventures; his marriage with the other Isolt, his life with Arthur, his renewed connection with Isolt, for which he nearly loses his life, his fighting for his brother-in-law, his wounds, and the death of both lovers. Mark does not find out the cause of their attachment till after the death of both lovers, when he grants them burial, and causes a rose-tree and a vine to be planted on their grave. The next of these romances of the Round Table is Iwein, by Hartmann von der Ane. Uninteresting as the story of it is, it is here told in such an easy natural way, with such a pleasing alternation of jest and eai-nest, that the reading of it is sure to fascinate, on account of the style alone. Iwein, or the Knight with the Lion, Avas the last Avork composed by Hartmann von der Ane. Iwein, one of the Knights of the Round Table, killed, in the vicinity of a famous well, the owner of the Avell, then married Landine, the Avidow of the man he had slain, went abroad to seek adventures and forgot to return, became mad and recovered, liberated a lion, and at last, after many adventures, Avas reconciled to Landine. This story, under the title of the Lady of the Well, Avas translated by Lady Guest, and published in the Mabin- ogion, from Avhich source it has been again rendered into German by San Marte. The legend of Erek, a youthful production of Hart- mann's, is much less easy in form, though the story is of more interest. Not till later did Hartmann OA'^ercome the stiffness of his earlier productions; and his style culminates in lAA^ein, Avhich, in the excellent edition of Lachmann and Beneke, serA-es as an introduction to the language and poetry of this period. Lady Guest giA^es Erek the name of Geraint, by AA^iich it will be recognised by English readers as the same legend Avhich Tennyson has so attractively clothed Avith poetic imagery and named Enid. Other legends' of the Round Table, of this period, are less attractive. Lancelot of the Lake, about 1212, by Ulrich von Zazichoven, is far from having the same purity of style as the poems of Hartmann. Among the Aveakest are Wigamur, or the Knight Avitli the Eagle, and The Attempt. 307

Gabriel von Muntavel, or the Knight with the Goat, both composed about the middle or latter half of the 13th century. The excellence of these poems grew gradually, like all earthly things, from the merely elegant poems of Erek and Iwein, to the original and deeply thoughtful epic of Sir Percival, and the rich poetic imagery of Tristan and Isolt. The poets who succeeded the authors of these productions were unfit for a flight of imagination equal to theirs, and contented themselves either with bare narrations, like those of the poets who had preceded Ilartmann and Gottfried, or with imitations of the latter, vastly inferior to the originals. And so this knightly poetry, like many other things before and after it, had its gradual rise, its day of glory, and then, by degrees, its dechne.

4. LEGENDS OP THE SAINTS AND DIDACTIC POEMS. The life of the Virgin Mary, in three books, was composed by Wernher, a monk at the Tegernsce, in the year 1173. It possesses the stiff character of the old epics, and has likewise in many passages much grandeur and simplicity. The Golden Forge, by Konrad von Wiirzbrug, is one of the best productions of that poet. He represents himself to be a smith, employed in making ornaments of gold and precious stones, to be worn by the Virgin Mary. After showing in a series of hyperboles the difficulty of suffi- ciently praising the Virgin Mary, he enlarges iipon the purity, humility', and eternal glory of the mother of God. For two centuries this poem remained the admiration and the model of all who directed their efforts towards the same subject. Two other remarkable legends are from the pen of Conrad von Wiirzbrug; one is that of Saint Sylvester, the Pope at Rome, who, to vindicate tlie Christian religion, restored to life a wild bull which had been struck dead by the head of the Jewish Church, and thus led Helena, the mother of Constautine. to adopt the Christian rehgion. The other is that of Saint Alexius, which, though full of exaggerated sentiment and popish superstition, has an interest peculiarly its own. Alexius, the son of a wealthy Koman, was mamed to a noble lady, named Adriatica. At the banquet succeedhig the wedding, the easily extinguished flame of a candle suggested to his mind the transitory nature of earthly things ; and rising from the table, he drew the wedding-ring from his finger, returned it to his bride, and departed. The care of his 308 The A ttempt. soul now seemed to him the only object for which he had to live. His bride wept, and then fainted away; yet he departed with unshaken purpose. He went to Pisa, thence to Edessa, and lastly to Palestine, in which country he remained for twelve years. Returning to H-aly, he came to Lucca, and entered a church; on which all the bells of all the churches in that city began to ring of their own accord, in honour of the holy man who had arrived. To escape the honours heaped upon him, Alexius took ship for Africa; but a storm arising drove the ship back to Rome. And now he is brought not only to his own city, but into the house of his own father, who does not recognise him, but provides him with a beggar's couch beneath the stairs. Here he had much to endure from the taunts of the servants, but still more from daily seeing his parents and his bride pass by, unconscious of the presence of one so dear to them. When they asked after their lost one, he related his own history; and to his bride's anxious inquiries whether Alexius remembered her, he replied—" Yes, he thought often of the ring he liad given thee at parting, and of thy grief; and his heart was full of sorrow for his father and mother, and for thee, yet he had willingly renounced all for the sake of eternal life. Did he never repent of his pilgrimage 1 Never. Then I can but commend him to the goodness of the merciful God." Thus they daily spoke together, and the sorrow of the bride was renewed on each occasion; but he Avas comforted by the sight of her constancy. At last he died; and the bells of the Lateran, and of all the other churches in Rome, began to toll of their own accord. In the hand of the dead man was found a letter, which no one, not even the Pope himself, could disengage from his grasp. At last Adriatica came forward, and the hand opened to her touch. Great was the weeping and Availing which followed the discovery of the dead man's name. Not long after this, his parents died also, and were buried on either side of his coffin. At the death of Adriatica, the coffin of Alexius was opened to receive her remains, and the dust of ,the dead man moved once more in its resting-place to admit the body of his beloved. To call a Avoman thus treated his beloved, seems but a mockery ; yet such Avas the esteem in Avhich selfish asceticism Avas held, that the loA'e of felloAv-men and the duties of relationship seemed vices compared to it. The trial of the deluded man Avas much easier to bear than The Attempt. 309 that to which his bride was subjected ; for while he was daily increasing her sorrow by telling her of her lost love, his own giief was being daily lessened by the sight of her constancy. The simplest form of this story, by an unknoAvn poet of the first half of the 13th century, is much superior to the version of it by Conrad von Wiirzbrug. The well-known legends of St. Elizabeth also belong to this first classical period. They are so familiar to all, that it is unnecessary to dwell upon them. The Legend of Pilate is one of the oldest in the German language, and is remarkable for the peculiar combination of Christian, German, and perhaps also Celtic elements, which it presents. A German king, named Tyrus or Zirus, who reigned over the rivers Maas, Rhine, and Main, had a younger son who slew his brother the heir, and, in punishment, was sent by his father as a hostage to Rome. Here he committed another murder, and was sent to Pontus (the word Pontius being thus rendered in the Old Saxon Gospel Harmony), where his valour in subduing the barbarians caused him to be afterwards promoted to rule over the Jews. The poetic fragment of the 12th century stops here, but the legend continues thus:—After the death of Christ, on being called to account for his unjust sentence, Pilate committed suicide in Rome, and his body was thrown into the Tiber. But by disturbing the water, it caused such disastrous inundations, that it was sought for, taken out of the Tiber, and sunk in the Rhone. Here too, however, the evil spirit of the con demner of Christ caused such surging of' the waves, that the body was taken up again and sunk in the lake beneath Mount Pilate in Switzerland. So this mountain was named after him, and there his body will lie till the end of time, causing storms to blow round the mountain's brow, and making the water heave wildly when anything is thrown into the lake. The blending of this Roman legend Avith the German one may OAve its origin to the 22d Roman legion, which, soon after the destruction of Jerusalem, was sent to Mayence. With this legion, the first Christians may have come to Germany, and identified the Pilate of Palestine with the wicked German prince who bore the same name. Yet the close of the story hints rather at some connection with those Celtic myths which tell of rivers, wells, and lakes haunted by evil spirits. We have now traced the history of the more remark- able early epics of Germany. Like one mighty river we 310 The Attempt.

have seen them flowing on, receiving tributary streams from every region of the vast empire. Thus the epic in its unity was a national possession, reflecting the image of its author—the people. And now the 13th century has arrived, and found it in the zenith of its fame, a noble representative of the nation. Yet the height of its attainment is the herald of its decay. The course of the stream is broad and deep, and men are now trying to turn it into new channels. Fresh poets arise, and choosing out a small portion of the true epic, dilute it with a vast quantity of would-be ingenious fiction, until it has attained undue dimensions. Like the novelists of the 19th century, these writers chose one hero, one event in that hero's life, and detaching this from the mass of tradition, make it the subject of a new epic. Like a musician devoid of inventive genius, they took one little theme from the Avorks of that great master, the nation, and wrote long and wearisome variations upon it. And the result was this. In the latter half of the thirteenth century, the poetry of Germany sank to a much lower level than it had before occupied. It now depended for its e.veellence, not on some noble and time- honoured legend, but on the taste and talent of indi- vidual poets. Yet even this, had the poets been true, need not have lowered their art. It was the aim they set before them that lessened the value of their works; they sought, not to exhibit art in its truth and simplicity, but to fascinate for a moment, and to provide amusement for a vacant hour. Thus the poet ceased to be an artist, and became a book- maker. Aud the liistory of book-making is not that of literature. The epics of Germany were replaced by epics of individual Germans. The ashes of those noble legends Avere scattered far and wide, and subjected to mock resurrections in the inflated spectres of lifeless creations. Our task is not to follow them through these transfor- mations, but to lay the laurel on the tomb of their youthful beauty, and then to trace their original form iu its latter reproduction by the simple and faithful render- ings of profound and unambitious scholars. PROCLA.

NOTE.—Books consulted for these sketches :—Kurz, Literaturgeschichte ; Goedeke, Umriss ; Pisclion, Leitfadeii ; Taylor's Historic Survey; Hallam's Middle Ages ; Weber's Northern Antiquities ; Gostwick and Harrison's Outlines of German Literature ; Vilmar's Literaturgeschichte, etc. The narratives of the Epics are adapted, and some parts of them translated, from Vilmar's Literaturgeschichte. The Attempt. 311

Jt

0 BREEZE of magic, breathing forth So bright, so cool, from yon clear north I 0 breeze of ecstasy, that brings All joy and radiance on thy wings I

0 summer rapture, sweet as rare ! 0 bluest sky, and purest an*! 0 light celestial, didst thou stray From Heaven's own gates, ajar to-day ?

So calm the wave, so clear the sky; So soft the violet shadoAvs lie ; So lavishly the sunbeams pour On gleaming bay and blissful shore !

Ah, linger yet! thy heavenly smiles Too scantly cheer our wearied isles : Ah! s^^are us yet, glad northern breeze, The l)rief, bright Sabbath of our seas I

Still paint the dawn with loveliest hues, Still gem the flowery hill Avith dews ; Still let the glittering noontide sea, With smile unnurobered, flash to thee :

Still let the farewell beams of day Die from the purpled peaks away ; And brightening moon, with mystic light, Blend glowing eve and starry night!

Enchanter! let thy glamour blest Yet on our woods and waters rest! While magic air and radiant skies Prolong the di'eam of Paradise !

—But no ! the spell dissolves to-night! For whence those clouds in ragged flight ? And heard I not the long, low wail— Dread prelude to the hurrying gale ?

Far down the vexed Atlantic born It hastens on ; with break of morn. 312 The Attempt.

The drowning rain attends its path, The treacherous sea awakes in wrath !

Yes ! from the fierce south-west once more The tempest bursts, with maddened roar; And hour by hour the turmoil swells In heavier boom and wilder yells !

O fierce south-west! can nought assuage, From moon to moon, thy tireless rage't While storm on storm exhaustless pours Thy fury round our battered shores?

0 beauty ! whither art thou fled, Leaving no print of thy fair tread On shrouded hill, and angry seas. And drenched and tortured Hebrides ?

Yet not in vain, to bless my sight. Unclosed, for once, the gates of light; There lives, in memory's secret shrine. One glimpse of Heaven, for ever mine! OMICRON,

1 (! H 0 n (I.

" TIRED and petted !" said an earth-child to the Angel of the Night-Watch. So tired and petted that she Avould neither look at the Curtain of Dreams which trembled in his grasp, nor the Deep Slumber that lay gathered in heavy folds behind him. " I am past them both," said the earth-child restlessly. " Show me further than these—is there not something more behind them ? " " What would jaw have ? " asked the Angel in return, as he bent nearer to shut out their view. " Something that leaves its quiet in my keeping after it passes on. Slumber and Dreams only bring rest just while they stay ;" and the earth-child spoke as if she had been hardly dealt by. " So soon," said the Angel sadly, while his wings drooped softly together. The Attempt. 313

" Yes, I suppose it is soon—far too soon—as some people say," was the reply. " If I Avere older, perhaps they might not think so. AVhat is there that a young life should have so greatly to complain about ?"—it ended in a sharp tone that was like the copy of another voice. Then she paused a moment, and in pausing lost ■those strange accents, as she turned doubtfully towards the listening Messenger, " even my Dream-Angel thinks witii them." But the wings spread themselves lovingly over her head as a hush to the querulousness, and the action told better than the words which followed how the lines and premature thoughts of a child's sorrow needed straighten- ing and comforting, just as sorely as the troubles and grievances which crowd in upon a fuller and older life. So she asked him again, with a little trembling thrill of hope, " Can you show me something to hold my spirit quiet? Not the passing Dream nor the heavy Slumber." " I cannot show you," said the Angel gently, " but I can tell you," and the child lay back and closed its eyes from very gratitude. '• I have watched the trouble of your spirit," began the answer to her request, " and I have prayed that it miglit pass from you as one did from a life I met in other years. I would not liave you wait for a light to clear it away until the eye was almost blind with looking for it, and the ear scarce heeding aught around it, because they strained too hard to learn its meaning, for this life could not believe it might be an easy burden it had to carry after all. That was the difficulty, you must knoAv, which prevented the light of Peace from shining early upon it, the Peace which is not of this world, and which God will only grant in His own good time." The child unclosed its eyes, and looking into the Angel's face, beheld a light shining there steadfiist and true, for in the heart of the Angel d^velt a chord of Love attuned to humanity's wants and errors. One of the notes of that chord she had touched, and it vibrated so that the light trembled. " Tell me about it," cried the child eagerly, while the tender beams swept over its soul. " There is something of Heaven, something of Earth, in what I am going to tell you," repHed the Angel, " for we can never reach the innermost wants of the heart unless we mingle the two—human and divine; they must OCTOBKR 1874. ' ^ S 314 Tlie Attempt. always go together, even as God created them in the beginning. " Fretted and tired," repeated the Angel, going back to the earth-child's greeting. '• How many say that every day of their lives, who cannot believe that God's ear is bent towards them, who Avill not incline tlieir words towards it, because they are ever driving them back into their own distrustful hearts. Years ago, it is many years now," he continued, " there lived upon this earth one with a life resembling yours in some ways, only it was an older life; perhaps that made it feel things more keenly, or it might be, because it learnt to pity itself more than you do. A pleasant home and a kind home it had, but not a very loving one, father and mother, brothers and sisters,"— " AVasit well-favoured?" hurriedly interposed the child's voice. " Somebody said I was ' ill-favoured' the other day. What is favour ? I asked, and they told me ' grace.' Then I wondered—did they mean I was not a child of grace?" The light in the Angel's face quivered, and its rays seemed to multiply and sparkle with renewed lustre for a moment, as he responded, " whatsoever they were, it maketli no matter to me. God accepteth no man's person." " I sxippose most people think it's safer to let that text lie by in the Bible—some things are better for keeping— only people so easily forget that they ought to bring the meaning out noAV and then," said the child to itself in the voice that was a copy. Perhaps the Angel did not notice it, for he went on with what he was saying. " The brothers and sisters Avere happy and contented enough, knoAving neither pleasure nor pain in any of their extremes. They Avondered sometimes among themselves —not miderstanding this nature—Avhy it Avas that the life I am telling you of Avas silent and sorroAvful, Avhen they could not find any cause for it. 'Why expect too much, AA'hy not take things as they come,' they Avould say, 'surely life Avas given us to enjoy as much of it as AA^e can? ' For if you take the ills and the good together, life has so much more of happiness to offer you than if you separate them, and balance them grudgingly one against the other. You Avill only make a continual bitterness to yourself if the OA'erdiie seems so rarely to fall to the good." " There may be a false weight in the balance, though. I have thought of that sometimes," returned the child quickly. The Attempt. 315

" Yes, that is man's false estimate of things; he puts it in the balance, and miscalculates the result, and then casts up a wrong reckoning with his IMaker." Were the Angel's thoughts with the Past, or was he thinking of what might come to the child in the Future 'i " When this life grew up, when the brothers and sisters had each been attracted elsewhere by the claims of earth and its duties, what was to become of the power of love treasured up so jealously from childhood, which had never appeared to be needed and sought for by those around it, and which had shrunk and compressed itself into a kind of scathing want ? ' What is the use of it—why is it given me,' was its daily cry." " That is it," whispered the child eagerly, " where am I to place it to get rid of this feeling of tiredness I The months, and even the years, seem to be coming round swifter than I remember before, and yet I do not feel I have come to anything that wants it. " She should have sought for a place to lay it in before," she continued presently, finding that the Angel was keep- ing silence, and Icjoking down intently upon her ; " but perhaps she grew tired of seeking and waiting for some- thing big enough to hold it." "Whatever was nearest, whatever was closest, it should have been," added the Angel, " but to wait any time—to let any part of time wilfully go by without tracing some love upon its course, is a sorry thing. Why are you keeping yours so silently and hardly," he urged, " till it sounds like a hurt in your voice and a trouble of your soul?" The child's eyes grew dark with coming tears. " Yes, it does hurt to put love by, to see others finding a place to rest theirs; but then why did God make me ill- favoured—w^hy is my balance always weighing unequal ? —that is what I ask ? " " Because one of its scales weighs lightly with you," came the grave answer. " You do not adjust it fairly when it lies in your own hands." "How did the life end then? did it find what it wanted ? " interrogated the child once more, after she had pondered over the Angel's words. " Yes, where its dim mortal sight had long refused to look, there had been from all time the love it needed, ready and waiting, missing its rightful share through many days and years." 316 The Attempt.

"Where—where?" came the entreating cry, for the Angel's figure made as though it would depart. " In God's love and truth : in His Peace which passeth all understanding." " Do they bring rest beyond Dreams and deep Slumber? " " These are but their image, the shadow of the sunshine of infinite rest which remaineth for everlasting." The child's face was turned full towards the Angel, wondering as she scanned his presence. It seemed fading into dimness—was it the tears in her eyes, or was it the Veil of Dawn (to mark his retreatj that hid him at length from her view'? SEMPER EADEM.

^ u r fl r a.

ALL through the silent hours the yearning night, With steps slow pacing dark athwart the sky. Hath decked with richest gems her beauty wild. And on her breast, in pale efiulgency. Her casket's queen, the glistening moon, she wears, To clasp the silver fringe her sweeping mantle bears.

Oh! tenderly she watcheth o'er the world,— The world she loveth, though her love is vain ; She wooelli it with sighs breathed soft and low, And tremblingly her dewy kisses rain Upon its slumb'ring eyes, as from above She gently stoops and whispers, "Wake, oh! wake,mylove!"

But ever sleepeth on th' unheeding world. Deep dreaming of the luscious longed-for light, For earth, Tithonous-like, the dawn doth love, And deathless life draws from her presence bright; And slow the weary night, sad ling'ring on. Drops one by one her gems, and faints with watching wan.

Then, far where eastern skies bend o'er the wave. There glimmers dim a radiance soft and grey,— The trembling of Aurora's eyelids pale. Ere yet they rise to shed the golden day ; And sentinel leaves, on wind-tossed branches high. Cry, " Lo ! our watch is o'er, the dawn, the dawn is nigh!" The Attempf. 317

And, from the shadows of their rustling gloom Come twittering bird-sounds, rich with joy and sweet, And downy wings are plumed for happy flight Out in the orient air, the light to greet; And low the laden grass, with dew-mist hoar. To starry wild-flowers whispers, "Wake, the night is o'er! "

And ocean dark, that wailed its midnight song. And told to callous shores its secrets dread,— Of where the simk rocks hide, and hearts that throbbed With hope and love, thick strewn around lie dead. Now shimmers into beauty, and in pride Bears high the bounding ships that on its bosom ride.

Then, from behind the purple hills, a flash Of crimson darts, and dyes the waveless mere That murmurs to the lilies on its breast, " Your petals spread,—the morn, the morn is here !" And warm the life-pulse of the glad world beats Responsive to the gleam its opening eyes that meets.

And mourners, who through darkness lone have wept, Look out upon the glow with tear-dimmed sight. And hopeful cry, " His children yet He loves. Still is He good,—the God who gives the hght! " And ere death's shadow dark be round them drawn, The dying, thankful, smile, when comes the Heaven-sent dawn. MELEXSA.

m\t |sU flf Pan.

'' A sweet little Eden on earth that I know, A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; Waves on a diamond shingle dash, Cataract brooks to the ocean run." —Alfred Tennyson. ONE of the first names that attracts the attention of children, when examining the map of England, is that of the Isle of Man, lying, so far from land, like " one of the pieces of a child's puzzle map which has strayed to a distance from the adjacent shores." This island, about thirty miles long and ten broad, lies in the Irish Sea, between the shores of Scotland, England, Wales, and 318 The Attempt.

Ireland. The etymology of its name is disputed. Train, in his History of the Isle of Man, says that the inhabitants call it "Mann-in," "in" being an old word for island, "Mann" signifying middle. Another authority says "'Manninan' was an ancient Irish name for Neptune, and Man may have been applied to the island as the supposed residence of this god." Taylor, in his Words and Places, says it derives its name from a " Celtic word Man, a district," the island being divided into districts. Man is not the only name the little continent is known by. In a map of the island, of as late a date as 1595, it is called Mona (from the Latin monus, alone, or the Cymric mon, separate), a name given to it by the Roman period, as well as to Anglesea. Mona is the name it is generally called by in any of the poetical effusions usually to be found in the corner of the Monas Herald or Manx Times. Castle Mona is the name of its largest hotel, and many inns bear the title of the Mona Arms, etc. Elian Vannin is the name for the island in the Manx tongue. Castletown, its capital, long bore-this appellation, which is, however, fast becoming obsolete. The armorial bearings of the island are very singular. They are, gules, three-armed legs proper, conjoined in fess, at the upjjer part of the thigh, flexed in triangle, gar- nished and spurred, or, with the motto " Quocunque jeceris stabit," " Whatever way you throw me I Avill stand." Train says, " The legs in mail denote the power of self- defence, and the spurred heels, speed to resent any insult that might be offered by any of the surrounding neighbours." The history of the island begins in the end of the third century. Before that time it was shrouded in mystery. The natives say that long before the Christian era fairies dwelt on it, and it was hidden from the ships that passed by a blue mist. Many legends are told as to how the fairies were conquered; the spell was broken, and the mist rolling away, Elian Vannin was left " sparkling bright in Nature's glee." Brule, a Scot, conquered it about A.D. 300, and in time his descendants were suc- ceeded by a Welsh dynasty of kings, who reigned from 517 to 877. After the Welsh, the line of Ketill reigned in Man, but they were in their turn dethroned by Gorree or Orree (now spelt Orry), a roving viking, supposed to be of royal Danish blood. His descendants ruled for more than a century. After these came Guthreds, Goddards, Olaves, The Attempt. 319

Reginalds, and Harrolds; but Orree,the founder of the race, ^vas the most famous of all the kings of Man. Ho made many just and good laws, which won for him the people's reverence, and in their hearts he holds the same place " that Alfred does in that of an Englishman, or Bruce in that of a Scotsman." After the race of Orree came that of Goddard Crovan, son of Harrold the Black of Iceland, who conquered the island about 1066. They reigned nearly 200 years, and, being feudal vassals to tlie Nor- wegian crown, when the last died Man was ceded by the King of Norway to Scotland. The island changed masters many times for the next 150 years. Sometimes it belonged to England, sometimes to Scotland. In 1344, while in the possession of the English, the Earl of Salisbury was made king of Man. He was beheaded for treason, and the island was given to Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, who, in his turn, being committed for treason, forfeited Man. After this it was conferred on on Sir John Stanley in 1406. The family of Stanley, on whom the Earldom of Derby Avas bestowed, held the island for 300 years. They ruled under the title of king, but in 1505 the reigning Earl, in liis own words " ' preferr- ing to be a great lord rather than a petty king,' relin- quished the royal designation, and thereafter assumed only the title of Lord of Man." * In 1736 the male line of the Stanleys became extinct, and the Isle of Man, Avith the other property belonging to the family, passed to the Duke of Athol, grandson of Lady Amelia Stanley. Under the rule of the Dukes of Athol, the island became such " a thorn in the side of Great Britain, as a nest for smugglers and other question- able refugees, that she resolved to take it into her own hands."t The Duke reluctantly sold his island heritage ; and finally, in 1829, the kingdom of Man came under the direct sway and guidance of England, The laAvs of this independent little territory were scarcely changed, so that the Manx yet retain many laAvs peculiar to themselves. Train says,—•" The Manx exhibit, perhaps, the only example in history of a people preserving their ancient laws and forms of government unchanged under the rule of successive conquerors. Like the willow Avhich bends to the blast, but which resumes its former altitude when the stormis over, the Manks legislature * Train's Isle of Man, vol. i., p. 167. Memoir of Edward Forbes. 318 The Attempt.

Ireland. The etymology of its name is disputed. Train, in his History of the Jsle of Man, says that the inhabitants call it "Mann-in," "in" being an old word for island, '■'Mann" signifying middle. Another authority says "'Manninan' was an ancient Irish name for Neptune, and Man may have been applied to the island as the supposed residence of this god." Taylor, in his Words and Places, says it derives its name from a " Celtic word Man, a district," the island being divided into districts. Man is not the only name the little continent is known by. In a map of the island, of as late a date as 1595, it is called Moua (from the Latin monus, alone, or the Cymric mon, separate), a name given to it by the Roman period, as well as to Anglesea. Mona is the name it is generally called by in any of the poetical effusions usually to be found in the corner of the Monas Herald or Manx Times. Castle Mona is the name of its largest hotel, and many inns bear the title of the Mona Arms, etc. Elian Vannin is the name for the island in the Manx tongue. Castletown, its capital, long bore'this appellation, which is, however, fast becoming obsolete. The armorial bearings of the island are very singular. They are, gules, three-armed legs proper, conjoined in fess, at the upper part of the thigh, flexed in triangle, gar- nished and spurred, or, with the motto " Quocunque jeceris stabit," " Whatever way you throw me I Avill stand." Train says, " The legs in mail denote the power of self- defence, and the spurred heels, speed to resent any insult that might be offered by any of the surrounding neighbours." The history of the island begins in the end of the third century. Before that time it was shrouded in mystery. The natives say that long before the Christian era fairies dwelt on it, and it was hidden from the ships that passed by a blue mist. Many legends are told as to how the fairies were conquered; the spell was broken, and the mist rolling away, Elian Vannin was left " sparkhng bright in Nature's glee." Brule, a Scot, conquered it about A.D. 300, and in time his descendants were suc- ceeded by a Welsh dynasty of kings, who reigned from 517 to 877. After the Welsh, the line of Ketill reigned in Man, but they were in their turn dethroned by Gorree or Orree (now spelt Orry), a roving viking, supposed to be of royal Danish blood. His descendants ruled for more than a century. After these came Guthreds, Goddards, Olaves, The Attempt. 319

Reginalds, and Harrolds; but Orree,the founder of the race, was the most famous of all the kings of Man. lie made many just and good laws, which won for him the people's reverence, and in their hearts he holds the same place " that Alfred does in that of an Englishman, or Bruce in that of a Scotsman." After the race of Orree came that of Goddard Crovan, son of Harrold the Black of Iceland, who conquered the island about 1066. They reigned nearly 200 years, and, being feudal vassals to the Nor- wegian crown, when the last died Man was ceded by the King of Norway to Scotland. The island changed masters many times for the next 150 years. Sometimes it belonged to England, sometimes to Scotland. In 1344, Avhile in the possession of the English, the Earl of Salisbury was made king of Man. He was beheaded for treason, and the island was given to Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, who, in his turn, being committed for treason, forfeited Man. After this it was conferred on on Sir John Stanley in 1406. The family of Stanley, on whom the Earldom of Derby w^as bestowed, held the island for 300 years. They riiled under the title of king, but in 1505 the reigning Earl, in his own words " ' preferr- ing to be a great lord rather than a petty king,' relin- quished the royal designation, and thereafter assumed only the title of Lord of Man." * In 1736 the male line of the Stanleys became extinct, and tbe Isle of Man, with the other property belonging to the family, passed to the Duke of Athol, grandson of Lady Amelia Stanley, Under the rule of the Dukes of Athol, the island became such " a thorn in the side of Great Britain, as a nest for smugglers and other question- able refugees, that she resolved to take it into her own hauds."t The Duke reluctantly sold his island heritage ; and finally, in 1829, the kingdom of Man came under the direct sway and guidance of England, The laws of this independent little territory were scarcely changed, so that the Manx yet retain many laws peculiar to themselves. Train says,—" The Manx exhibit, perhaps, the only example in history of a people preserving their ancient laws and forms of government unchanged under the rule of successive conquerors. Like the willow Avhich bends to the blast, but which resumes its former altitude when the storm is over, the Manks legislature Train's Isle of Man, vol. i., p. 167. Memoir of Edward Forbes. 320 Tlie Attempt. appears to have adopted a course of policy in effect the same. The oath of office before alluded to,* taken by the insular placemen, to maintain the ancient laws and customs of the island unimpaired, seems to have been the tiller by which they have steered their little vessel through many a political storm." " The civil government of the Isle of Man is vested in three estates; the Queen in Council, the Governor and Council, and the House of Keys. These last two estates together constitute a Court of Tynwald, and the conniv- ance of the three is necessary to every legislative act."t The Court of Tynwald was introduced by the Norsemen. Their Things in Iceland, Norway, and Denmark have long ceased to exist, or grown, as in this country, into the House of Commons; but the Manx, through all their changing dynasties, have held by their Tynwald. Tiling, in the Scandinavian tongue, means the assembly of the deputies of the people, and icald, a wood,—the court in the wood. No wood now remains round Tynwald Hill, but oidy a grassy mound, with three circular seats, like three steps, which diminish in circumference as they ascend in height. The Court of Tynwald meets every year, as it has done for the last eight centuries, to hear the laws read Avhich have been made during the past year; " nor is a statute of Queen Victoria's held binding in the Isle of Man till it has been proclaimed in Manx and English." The governor, as the Queen's representative, sits on the highest step " of this grass clad forum," " on a chaire covered with a royall cloth," while round him are ranged, on the lower platforms or steps, the next officers of rank in the state, and the commons stand " without the circle of the hill." Thus far as to the name, arms, kings, and laws of Man. Now for its inhabitants, their customs and superstitions, their tailless cats, and a hurried glimpse at Manxland itself, — its rocks, headlands, green glens, sparkling streams, shining bays, picturesque towns, old castles, and " its green hills by the sea." The Manx are, owing to the many races from diiferent countries that overran their domain, the vikings that settled there, and the refugees wlio sheltered in this quiet * On admission to office, every member of tJie Governor's Council and of the House of Keys is required to nir^ke oath " that he will use liis best endeavours to maintain and defend the ancient laws and customs of the island, with the prerogatives thereof."—Johnstone's Jurisprudcnce. t Quiggin's Guide to the hie of Man, p. 77. Tlie Attempt. 321 nook, a very mixed race. They are a combination of Celtic, Icelandic, Norwegian, Danish, Welsh, Scottisli, and English. The old Celts took refuge in the hills and upland farms, where their descendants to thi3 day are found, " a simple, primitive, intensely super- stitious but kindly people, marrying amongst tliem- selves, and keeping aloof from other races." As a rule, the Manxmen of the present day are fair, tall, and strong. There is one small village, lying south of Port St. Mary, perched high on the hill, approached only by a road evidently seldom used for traffic, where the people are dark eyed, swarthy skinned, altogether a complete contrast to the brown haired, blue eyed Manx- man. Near this isolated hamlet rises a bold rocky head- land, Spanish Head by name, " one of the ocean grave- stones of the wrecked Armada," and the dark inhabitants of the little village on the cliff will tell you that they are the descendants of those who escaped from some of the stranded vessels of the defeated Spanish fleet. They, like the Celts, keep aloof from those around them, avoid- ing marriage out of their own circle. "The l\Ianx are," says Bishop Wilson, " an orderly, civilised people, and courteous enough to strangers; if they have been otherwise repre- sented, it has been by those who knew them not." Farming is the chief occupation of the upper classes ; and of late years, tinder good management, nearly all the waste and moorland has been reclaimed, and now yields fine crops, like the rest of the well-tilled lands. The Manx farmers were once very averse to innovations, but the Scotchmen who have settled in the island have shown them how to cultivate their lands to better advantage, improve their breeds of cattle and sheep, and save useless outlay in the way of labour by tlie introduction of machinery. Living surrounded by the ocean, and having the blood of the Norse sea kings still tingling so freely in their veins, it is no wonder that the greater part of the Manx turn fishermen. The lower class of the population trust mainly to the herring fishery for their winter food; and a bad herring season is to them what a bad harvest is to an agricultural people. So much depends on the fishing that, in the reading of the litany in the churches cf the island, after the words,—" That it may please Thee to give and preserve to our use the kindly fruits of the earth," they add, " and restore and continue to us the OCTOBEE 1871. " T 322 The Attempt.

blessings of the sea, so as in due time we may enjoy them." Popular notions, rites, and observances are longer retained on an island than on the mainland, where the people mix with other nations and forget their old forms, usages, and traditions in their intercourse with strangers. There are many customs descended from very remote times still peculiar to Elian Vannin, for " Manksmen love their native vales, Island songs, and island tales." Hunting the wren is an old custom in Mona. The Manx say that a most beautiful faiiy used to make all the men follow her, and when she had collected a sufficient retinue, the siren led them into the sea, where they perished. So many of the male population were lost in this manner, that at last a "Joold Manxman determined to destroy the wicked fairy. After pursuing her for a long time he had nearly succeeded in catching her, when she assumed the form of a Avren, and thus escaped. Since then, that unfortunate bird has had a hard time of it on the island. On Saint Stephen's day the poor wren is hunted, pelted, and pursued, and when at last killed, after being paraded about, " it is laid upon a bier and cai-ried in procession to the parish churchyard, where, ■\vith a whimsical kind of solemnity, they make a grave, bury it, and sing dirges over it in the Manks language, which they call her knell."* On midsummer's eve, on the hills of Man, fires are lighted, and cakes put out of the cottage doors for the fairies. These fires are the remains of old Phoenician times and worship—the tires being consecrated to Baal—called still the Betane fires. The feast of the Mheilla.t or, as we would call it, the Harvest Home, is fast dying out. They still deck with gay ribbons the last handful of corn that is cut, but they no longer bear it up " in procession to the top of a neighbouring hill, and there, while the queen of the Mheillea waves the corn or kern baby over her head, the reapers express their joy in loud huzzas." There are few Mheillea dances now, the labourers getting only an extra dram or extra wages after the gay Mheillea sheaf is bound up in the farm- house kitchen. As regards superstition, " it would seem indeed as if the hngei-ing remnant of the cloud of supernatural beings, * Train, vol. ii., p. 126. t Pronounced MeUa. llie Attempt. 323

grim or gentle visitants from demonland or fairyland, who once roamed at their will over Europe, now, as one by one from shore to shore ' the parting genius is with sighing sent,' delay their return to spiritland for a brief season among the kindly and credulous peasants of Man."* A more superstitious race than the Manx it would be difficult to find. They firmly believe in the existence of fairies—some good, some evil. If the butter will not churn, if the hens do not lay, or if anything goes wrong with the cattle, the blame is laid on the fairies' shoulders. Any trees that happen to grow near the cottage doors are whitewashed far up their stems, to ward ofi" these mischievous sprites. The Fliynnodderee, a " wild satyr-like figure," is one of their fallen fairies. He was turned out of the fairy court, and sentenced to remain on Manxland till the end of time. He is covered with long hair, from which he gets his peculiar name, which signifies the hairy one. He is a combination of the Scotch Brownie, " the lubber fiend of Milton," and Shakespeare's Puck, It was he " That gather'd the sheep from the coming storm, Ere the shepherd saw it lour, Yet ask'd no fee, save a scattered sheaf From the peasant's garner'd hoard, Or cream bowl pressed by a virgin lip, To be left in the houshold board."t

Many wonderful tales are told of this mischievous, good- natured phynnodderee. The fishermen have numbers of signs and omens which they implicitly believe in. Bad luck or disaster will be their fate if a cat or hare crosses their path while going down to their boat. Some of them are called lucky men, for whatever herring lugger they are in, they are sure of unusual success. Sometimes in the very height of the fishing season, you will see a fine lugger drawn up high, and dry on the beach, dismantled as if for its winter sleep ; and if you ask why it is not out, the men will tell you it is an unlucky boat, that the fairies have bewitched it, and that the owners having had little success, have given it up and gone off on board some boat where their lucky comrades are. The sturdy Manxman, tramping home at night, will inform you that while passing by the churchyard he became intangled in an invisible crowd, which he takes as

* Memoir of Edward Forbes, t Mrs. E. S. Craven Green. 324 The Attempt. a warning that his own or a friend's funeral is not far off. Or sometimes he will tell you that a phantom bier was laid on his shoulders, from which he conjectures that he will be soon called upon to act as coffin bearer at a real burial. Train says,—" One person, who assured me he had been served so, told me that the flesh of his shoulder had been very much bruised, and was black for several weeks after." Ghosts, too, are very prevalent in this singular island; and Peel Castle is haunted by the spirit of Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester, who was im- prisoned and died there. " Her troubled spirit is seen gliding along the battlements, gazing intently from a watch tower till cock-crow announces early dawn," This old castle is also haunted by another ghost, who will be familiar to the readers of Peveril of the Peak. This is a " fiend or demon in the shape of a large shaggy black mastiff." The name of this " spectre-hound in Man" is the Mauthe Doog or Moodre Dhoo. The Manx have a firm belief in the efficacy of charms for curing diseases. Even now, although in cases of illness they call in the medical practitioner of the district, they still resort to these charms, and believe in the cures effected by their own seers. The Manx occasionally think that their heads sink between their shoulders; and to be cured of this wonderful disease, peculiar, I believe, to the island, they call in the help of a woman who is famed for her knowledge of this imaginary ailment. One woman I know told me she had cm-ed many who had suffered from this mythical illness, but the charms she used to effect its cure were a secret, as well as the manner in which she discovered her patients were ill; for to other eyes their heads seemed as erect as ever. The tailless cats and hens are among the ugliest and most singular things to be seen in Manxland. The former are gaunt hideous animals, some having a stump of a tail, but the true rumpy has not the vestige of one. In colour they are commonly yellow or gray, but I once had a pure rumpy snow Avhite. As mousers, they surpass all other species of cats. The tailless hens are pleasaiiter objects to look at than the stubbie* cats. As they fetch high prices, the natives often pull the tails out of then' common fowls and sell them as rumples; but the true tailless hens are easily known, as in appearance they greatly resemble guinea fowls. There are rumples in all kinds of breeds, * Manx for rumpy. The Attempt. 325 the black Spanish ones being the most common. Both the Manx cats and hens are rapidly disappearing, as the tourists buy them and take them away. The native ponies, sheep, and pigs are now all but extinct. The island is almost destitute of growing timber, but still its scenery is very beautiful. Once it used to bo thickly wooded, as is proved by the fact that trees of large size have been dug iip, and that many of the names of places yet imply that the island was formerly wooded. ' Darragh' (oak trees), ' Eary Kelly' (the open wood or forest), and many other names, point to this fact. Train laments the want of trees as he says, " What a difference in scenery would this little island present if the horizon were skirted by a fringe of wood, and the foreground ornamented by waving groves." Still Manx- land looks wonderfully beautiful as you approach it from the sea. First you notice a faint outline far away in the distance, and as the packet steams nearer you see the frowning cliffs, rocky gullies, sandy bays, and white home- steads and villages glistening in the sunshine, the well-tilled lands, with the patchwork of fields, creeping far up the mountain sides, and above all, the purple heather-tipped hills standing out clearly against the blue sky beyond. The roads are very steep and hilly, but kept in capital repair. The hedges or dykes that skirt them, and divide the fields, are grassy banks high and broad, on which the gorse and bramble grow, and in spring the pale primroses and droaping violets find there a resting place. Some- times they are yellow with the flower of the whin, ajid purple patches of heather appear here and there. In the autumn these Manx dykes look their best, as the tall ferns that grow in profusion on them turn to a bright golden hue, and the leaves of the brambles are of all shades of russet brown, and various tints of red. The bright dog- hips grow amongst the golden colours around, and the winds whisper among the tall grasses. Last year the first railway was opened in Man—from Peel to Douglas,—and in a few years the network of lines bids fair to spread over the whole island. The Manx rustics gaze with amazement as the train hurries by, circling round their hills, dashing along their valleys, and " through the black tunnel and down by the sea." It puffs along the cliffs, and the wild gullies are bridged over so that it may rush on, " mingling its shriek with the ocean's roar." The sea that lies around this little island forms one of its 326 Tlie Attonpt.

chief beauties and attractions. However for out in a boat you are, the waters are so clear that you can see to the bottom. Looking down through the crystal tide, you can w^atch the fish skimming through their submarine forests. Exquisite sea-weeds float about, truly '' not weeds, but flowers of the sea." Away deep down you see the sand and pebbles glistening under the clear waves, and the Manx fisherman, without ever having read the '' Water Babies," believes in the existence, and will tell you he has seen, fairy people and fairy towns in that w^onderful region under the shining sea. The four principal towns are Ramsay, Peel, Castle- town, and Douglas, the two former being the northern, and the two latter the southern towns. Kamsay is built on the margin of the sea, like all Manx towns, and has narrow and irregular streets. Peel is interesting, owing to the old castle that lies on a rocky little islet of its own. Holme Town or Peel itself exhibits some of the characteristics of an old Scotch fishing village. Old nets are spread over the roofs of the houses to keep down the thatch, and old inverted boats are ranged alongside the walls, off"ering shelter to poultry and pigs; wliile rumpy cats may be seen basking in the heat of the sun by the cottage doors. Douglas is the largest of the tow^ns, and situated on one of the most beautiful bays imaginable. It is growing in size every year, and is a rising watering place. Some of its old crooked streets are to be pulled down, so Douglas will be transformed into a completely modern town. The bay, "with unusually transparent waters, lies embedded, like a crescent moon, in the south- west shore of Man. The tip of either horn is a headland, the southern one crowned by a lighthouse. In the centre of the bay a peculiarly picturesque tower of refuge stands on a reel',*—a beacon and shelter for the sailor. On tlie south-western curve of the crescent lies the town of Douglas, dear to us as the birth-place of Edward Eorbes.f Its foundations are laid in tlie delta of a small river, but it has climbed the heights encircling the bay, and spread itself over the gentle terraces and broad undulations which overlook the sea. The more striking eminences are occupied by stately castellated buildings, and behind all the lofty domes of Snaefell and the sister hills stand in array against the horizon." Steamers from Liverpool and Barrow arrive every day at one or another of its ♦Called by the inhabitants "Connister Kock." t This description is from the Memoir of Ed. Forbes. The Attempt. 327 stone piers, crowded with tourists. Sometimes in the height of the season two or even three boats leave Liverpool all fully loaded, but in winter only three boats a-week run. These packet boats bear island names,— such as the "Mona's Queen," the " Tynwald," and the "King Orry." This Manx Brighton boasts, like most sea-side watering-places, of its promenade, iron pier, donkeys and bathing machines. To me, Douglas in summer seems anything but a desirable place of resi- dence,—crowded with not over-polite tourists, and infested by hurdy-gurdies, brass bands, and other similar horrors,— so to the noise and bustle of Douglas I prefer the sleepy quiet of Castletown. The grey houses cluster round the old castle, while on eitlier side stretch the long green peninsulas of Langness and Scarlett, and from the distance Castletown is a very picturesque-looking little place. The bay is a large circular one, the southern boundary being finished off by the Stack of Scarlett, a huge round rock cut off from the mainland, except at low water ; while on the other sides are the jagged rocks of Langness. The shores of the bay are rocky, but here and there they are varied by stretches of golden sand. Kushen Castle, in the centre of the town, "is a consider- able fortress, founded, according to tradition, by the famous King Orry about the tenth century. To Manxmen it is dear as having been the palace of their ancient rulers, and the House of Parliament of the estate of the realm." This grey old fastness is said to be exactly like the Castle of Elsinore. The town itself is small, rejoicing in very narrow streets, and a market-place, Avhere some lazy Manxmen are generally to be seen lounging about and gazing at the tourists, or stopping a passing friend to have a gossip with him. This old capital, like the sleeping beauty, seems to have been asleep for a hundred years, and shows no signs of waking from its present dead-alive but altogether pleasant existence. The chain of Manx mountains runs from Manghold to Brada. Snaefell, the highest point, derives its name from two Norse words, maer (snow), and/a^M (a hill)—the snow- hill. The hills next in height are north and south Barrule, —the apple-shaped hills, as their name infers—Baare Ocjle, in the Manx language, signifying the top of an apple. From Snaefell five once independent kingdoms are seen, namely, Scotland, England, Ireland, Wales, and last and least, ]\Ian. The compiler of Edward Forbes' Memoir speaks 328 The Attempt. as follows of the view obtained, after an easy ascent from Snaefell,—" On its green summit, the spectator, lifted two thousand feet above the sea, stands, as it were, in the centre of the British Isles, and on a summer day looks down upon three thousand square miles of land and ocean. Skiddaw and Snowdoun, Criffel and the hills of Morne, greet him from England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland. The lesser eminences and lower grounds on the distant mainlands, with their endless diversities of hill and dale, and their shifting shadows, recede in long per- spective towards the horizon, whilst the nearer points, mapped out in bird's-eye view, are seen as the eagle sees them. Between the visible shores spreads the blue sea, studded with ships of all nations, and dotted near the land with fishing boats, hovering like birds over their

\\ \ln the winter time the white-topped billows run f;xr up the jagged gullies, dash furiously on the sandy shores, boat themselves against the cliffs, and cover with spray the projecting rocks, till the whole island is girt about with a frill of foam. In the summer, however, it lies with the blue sky overhead, and the blue waters all around. The murmuring wavelets gently kiss the " shell-girt shore," " And the fair isle shines in beauty, As in youth it dawned on me, My own dear Elian Vannin, With its green hUls by the sea." Any one who has visited thy shores, thou " beautiful isle of the sea," will bear away with them, I doubt not, pleasant memories of days spent among thy "wild heath covered hills, the haimts of fairies; romantic glens, with their babbling brooks flashing like silver between the trees that bend over them; rude hamlets; fishing villages ; busy towns; rural palaces; ancient churches; war-worn castles; ruins, older than history; light-houses, sleeping in the sun till their hour of night-watch returns; harbours, busy with the stir of seafliring men;" bold headlands; steep cliffs; pebbly coves; sandy strands; and the clear ciystal tide that forever breaks on thy varied shores. The " King Orry," steaming out of Douglas Bay, leaves the bright white town and its golden beach far behind, and as it swiftly cleaves the blue waters, the island fades into the dim distance; and those on board with heavy hearts bid farewell to thee, old Manxland. E. V. LYNNE. The Attempt. 329

SUPPOSING that the Lord should say, " The fight is won. Thou hast not laboured half the day But work is done."

Suppose the Lord had closed mine eyes, No more to weep, And, with a dream of Paradise I fell on sleep.

Supposing that the Master said, " Though thou hast ftiiled, My life thy life has hallowed ; I have prevailed."

Supposing that His hand the door Had opened wide, And my tired feet had pressed the floor On the other side.

Suppose that round the angels trod, In robes of white,— The smile ineffable of God FiUed all with light.

Supposing that the Mother smiled Out of her bliss, To welcome home another child Where comfort is.

Supposing all the harps should ring Around the sea. To praise the Saviour, Master, King, For saving me.

Supposing through the light I crept, (The light so sweet),— With tears that sorrow never wept Lay at his feet—

OCIOBEK 1874. ^ U 330 The Attempt.

And kissing, glad, yet half afraid, His garments' hem, I saw the wounds the nails had made, And kissed them.

Suppose—suppose,—but tears will come, And will not stay, And yet we too shall win our home Another day. R.

Jit i\\t Dunncus.

A SKETCH FROM NATURE.

NOON Avas glowing on the mountain peaks, but it was tolerably cool in the vast shady forest that clothed the lower slopes of the valley, through which ran the bright stream, that further on became a mighty river, with a grand name and history. And what a forest that was of splendid pines, and oaks, and chestnuts, and cork trees, now varied by rugged ferny crags, now opening into glades of sunny grass, whence you could see the noble Pyrenees rising into snowy peaks, and suggesting new and wilder lands beyond the Avoodland solitude. Through this solitude, a few years ago, two travellers were riding. Martin, mounted on a handsome light-grey mare, was chiefly remarkable for the scarlet mantle strapped before him, so eminently becoming to the colour of his horse. Marjorie, on a gay alzan or chestnut horse, dressed in brown Holland and blue, also became the colour of her steed. Her slender luggage was strapped on the off pommel, and a waterproof cloak, which could be drawn over everything, completed her equipment. They rode in eager discussion, rather nearly dispute, while a few paces in advance, as is the custom in these parts, their trvisty Gascon squire rode his fiery young grey horse, carrying their little saddle bags. Siro Aramitz was the owner of these horses, and some ten more, and he rode and loved them like the born cavalier he was. liong of limb, handsome in aspect, with a hooked nose and bright black eyes and black moustache, he had among other guides somewhat the air of a baron The Attemjjt. 331

among vassals, and perhaps not without reason. Always gay and good-humoured, beguiling the way with songs and stories, guarding his travellers in strange inns, among grim, uncivil Spaniards, he added much to the brightness of a very bright journey. For though scenery as beautiful may be found elsewhere ^vith more ease and at less cost; for the romance of travel, there are few places to compare to the frontier lands of France and Spain. There are still only bridle roads, so they are unspoilt by shoals of tourists and excursionists; the beauties of the scenery are very available from their concentration in a comparatively small space, and they are besides rich in historical associa- tions, from Roland to Wellington. The travellers Avere now bound for one of the carriage roads, meaning to make a short excursion by diligence, and this it was that brought unwonted strife between the brother and sister, till they appealed to their guide. " Siro Aramitz," said Martin, " is there such an inn as the '(rolden Stag' at Montant?" naming the little town whither they were bound per diligence. "There is," he answered, "but I don't know it—the ' Popte' is the best." " Yes, the ' Poste' is Murray's inn," said Martin, " and the inn we should go to, only Madame is bent upon the 'Stag.'" "Because" said Marjorie, "a dear friend of mine was once there, and liked it." " Only 500 years ago," said Martin, "and his name was John ii'roissart." " There may have been changes in the last 500 years," said Aramitz, " the cuisine may be altered; five years does that sometimes. In those days you might have asked my ancestor, the Seigneur Siro D'Aramitz, who lived then, and could have judged well, for he, they say, was a great lord, for all we are poor people now. You must know that my name is more than uncommon, it is unknown except in our family; but it is in the golden book of Toulouse; and there came a gentleman here, learned in these matters, who told me many things about my ancestors, and said the descent was good, and that I could have blazon and coat armour if I liked—but, bah! ce ne sont que des sottises now-a-days." _ '' Let us forget modern times," said Marjorie. " Here, riding through the vn\d wood, we might ba in the heart of the middle ages ; it would be pleasant, but no surprise, to see St. George's flag floating from the next fortalice, 332 The Attempt. and receive a gay welcome from our own war-like countrymen and their French allies." "The chances are that, at the next table d'hote, we shall find countrymen squabbling over the bills of French allies," interposed Martin; but Marjorie continued, ignoring the interruption. " And the last news of the Court of Prince Edward at Bordeaux we should hear. We might have been riding with your ancestor Aramitz; or would he have been an enemy?" " No, no, Madame, my ancestor was a friend of the English, and followed the fortunes of the Captal de Buch. With him he went into far lands, and fought in aid of some knights, called Teutonic knights. There he became brother-in-arms to an English kniglit; I have it all written down by the antiquarian, but more of it later. Here is the sunshine, we had better go mi gallop to the village." The forest had opened, and a little ancient Spanish town lay piled a brown heap by the sparkling river; an old woman driving a small bullock, yoked to a bundle of wood, filled up the narrow track ; hustling to one side, the riders cantered gaily through the intense sunshine into the narrow, shadowy Calle Major, or High Street. Most of the little unglazed windows had a rude balcony, and out of most windows a head peered to see the foreigjiers. Flashing black eyes, under gaudy hand- kerchiefs, sinister-looking countenances on every side; graceful men, half-wrapped in brown cloaks, and burnt- sienna coloured children, half-draped in a few rags, tlu'onged the street, all with that lounging, sombre, unalert air, so characteristic of Spain. They dismounted at a little posada, and were received with chilling courtesy as usual, for the host's grand manner is his own ornament, not put on in honour of his guests, as he makes them feel. They were ceremoniously ushered into a little, grim, black room, and served with all there was,— tolerable bread, and wine of the most fantastic and unusual taste and appearance, both in the bottle, when it appeared like a bloated pig with its legs extended, and in the glass, when it resembled house paint. With a sudden craving for a respectable inn, Marjorie exclaimed, when they were left alone,—" I say, Martin, when we are at Moutant, let us go to the best hotel. I give up Froissart's inn." The Attempt. 33

" I am thankful to hear it," said ]\Iartiu ; " old Sir John himself knew better than to ask where Roland had put up ; but you are incorrigible! Who wanted to stop in a hut in the middle of a salt marsh at Teste, because of the Captal de Buch? Who wanted to embark at Aigues Mortes, which now is not even a sea-port, because of St. Louis? Who" "Truce, truce!" said Marjorie. "Who always gives lip in the end, as I do now my especial hope—Froissart's inn?" Our travellers soon rode on, and made the rest of their afternoon halt, far from the dirt of the little town, close to the frontier of France and Spain,—so close, that it was a question in which country they dined oif the provisions in their saddle bags. It was in a little open glade; the snowy head and broad shoulders of the Maladetta Moun- tain showed over the top of the fir trees, while the path- way leading down the steep hillside behind them soon plunged into a thicket of box and myrtle, hiding the roots of the forest trees. Wolves were said to be there at times ; and perhaps the scent of them prevented the unbridled horses from straying beyond the little natural meadow, where they grazed near their riders. At the edge of the path, where the precipice plunged abruptly down into a shadowy darkness the eye could not pene- trate, stood a little way-side cross. There a bride, in the fulness of life and joy, was riding one day with a merry wedding party—her horse was startled—the fatal, false step was made—in one moment all was over, and she was carried hence to her funeral. Such sights, reminding one of the frailty of all earthly strength and joy, come strik- ingly before the travellers wandering for pleasure over those southern hills. Far better, surely, that the warn- ing should be there for all, than that, as with us, every- thing of the sort should be carefully hidden away, as if it Avas bad taste to be aware of it. No doubt, there is something in the mountain gloom that harmonises with thoughts of the fleeting feebleness of the wanderers under their shadows. Our travellers sat and talked, till a little song bloomed out of their surroundings—the moun- tains and the cross.

There 13 a shudder of warning Darkening over the sky; Is it the gloom of the fir-trees, Sombre and still and hi"h ? 334 Tlie Attempt.

Is it a thunderous loominj;, Brooding over the hills? Is it the earthquake's presage, Coming in shuddering thrills ?

Is it the glacier torrent Loosed from its icy chain, Hurling the mountain ruins Far to the distant plain? * * * * O sweet and joyous sunshine! O fragrant, friendly flowers ! We bask and sport and rest with you, For time and life are ours.

O strong and solid mountains! O bright familiar sky ! All ours, this little moment; The moment glances by.

Step forward—in an instant All, all is past and gone; The world—the sky—the sunshine— And we are where ? alone.

O where ? the hills re-echo, The depths have no reply ; O whither does all vanish ? And what is it to die ?

The voices of the ages sound. Like waves on a silent shore ; They question, " Shall the past return ? " They answer, "Nevermore." We do not give the name of the frontier town near which our travellers halted, nor the exact name of their guide, though those who know him may recognise him. We purposely confuse the geography of our authentic narrative to save the credit of Froissart's inn, which may not deserve our dark suspicion. Suffice it to say, the road is there, along which they continued their journey— the beautiful bridle road, winding high above the torrent, biit ever descending towards it into the narrow dark valley down which it sped to the sweet plain country from the snows of the Maladetta. And the guide told the following story about his ancestor, which it was easy to believe, told in that credulous evening hour to riders through the twilight forest, by one of the same name as the hero, however nonsensical it may appear in the common daylight of print:— The Attempt. 335

" My ancestor, the Sieur D'Aramitz," he said, '• after he returned from Germany, went to his own castle in the Val d'Aure, of which I could shoAV you the ruins, and held it for the English king against all comers. Somewhat for himself also, for being a preux chevalier, and always victorious, he demanded that all passers-by should stop and salute his castle, and pay toll to it also. The English brother-in-arms had promised in former days to visit him, but long years went by and he never came: but news at last that he had fallen in the wars. One night the sentinel called the baron, with the tidings that travellers were passing through the valley, who had refused to halt; and sure enough, in the misty moonlight, he saw a cavalcade passing slowly onward. Hastily he armed and mounted, and rattling down the hillside encountered their leader, a man in a peaceful gown, riding a tall horse. ' Halt and do homage, and pay toll,' shouted the Seigneur D'Aramitz. ' Never! We owe you neither homage nor toll,' was the quiet answer. ' Then defend yourselves,' said the knight, as, sure of an easy victory, he pricked towards their leader. But he, casting off his cloak, appeared in shining armour, and met the baron with a force equal to his own. Long the combat lasted, for the broken spears were cast aside and swords drawn ; but at last the stranger stood as victor over the flxllen baron, and as he threw up his vizor showed the features of his English brother-in-arms. ' I have come to visit you, D'Aramitz, for the love I bore you,' he said, ' but I must go further now; rise, my old friend, but first swear to me to give up the evil custom of your castle, or we shall never meet again.' ' I swear it readily at your request,' answered the baron ; and the other let him rise, himself mounted, and waving farewell, rode slowly away. His train were gone already, no one knew where, and when the baron and his followers hastily folloAved, seeking to detain them and offer hospitality, all had vanished, and the valley seemed utterly dark and lonely. So most believed that the English knight was indeed dead, but had come to rescue his friend from the demon of pride which possessed him. From that day the Seigneur Siro D'Aramitz was a changed man,—gentle as well as valiant. "When the English finally lost Aquitaine, the family declined and became obscure, and their once great name survives only in our peasant family, though ice are known as good hunters and b]-avo soldiers still." "And most distinguished-looking men," said Martin in 336 The Attempt.

EngHsh, as Siro Aramitz rode forward caroling some patois song, which soon changed into a sweet, mysterious modern ballad, well suited to the darkening forest round:—

" Si tu veut, faisons un rove, Montons sur deux palefrois; Tu m'einmenes, je t'enleve, L'oiseau chaute dans les bois.

" Allons-nous-en par I'Autriche, Nous aurons I'aube a nos fronts ; Je serai grand, et toi riche Puisque nous nous aimerons.

" Nous entrerons ^ I'auberge Et nous paierons Thotelier De ton sourire de viergc De mon bonjour d'ecolier.

" Tu seras dame, et moi comte ; Viens, mon ccEiir s'cpanouit, Viens, nous conterons (je conte Aui etoiles de la nuit."

That night Martin and Marjorie took the diligence, and at three in the morning were turned out, in the bewilder- ment of their first sleep, on the pavement at Montant. An officious porter seized their bags, and as they murmured something about the " Poste," said eagerly,—" Oui, oui, par ici, monsieur et madame" and hurried them down a street and under an archway. ]\Iarjory looked aboye it, and in the dim starlight saw something, \Vas it not a golden stag defined against the sky? However, she made no remark, keeping to herself the delightful conviction that fortune had declared for her, and landed them in Froissart's inn. They stumbled up a dark staircase into their little rooms, and soon resumed their interrupted sleep, only lulled by the rain and the wind, that now sighed round the old gables, and creaked the rusty posts whence ^the golden stag had beamed a welcome to so many generations of travellers. E. J. 0. {To he continued.) The Attempt. 337

J|iiir Jlniut.

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF CHARLES XH.

TRANSLATED TROM THK SWEDISH.

OXE evening, towards the end of October 17—, a solitary horseman took the road which, winding along the shores of Lake Malar, leads to Salem Church, in the vicinity of Stockholm. The sun was setting, and the dark clouds Avhich had covered the sky all day were gathering closer together, longing, as it were, to pour down their contents on the earth. And, indeed, this hap- pened not long after, for a heavy fall of snow mixed with hail covered the hard-frozen fields in a short time. The severe gale which had been blowing during the whole day was increasing, and violently shook the high fir-trees. In spite of this, our rider proceeded on his way with the greatest equanimity, hardly aware of the raging of the elements. " A nice end to the sport," he muttered, smilingly ; " splendid hunting weather, truly. How the poor fellows will seek for me ! Bah ! they have nothing else to do ; and besides, blowing upon the bugle will do their lungs good. I only hope I am upon the right track," he con- tinued, uneasily, and strained his eyes to pierce through the darkness which rested upon all around him. At this moment the rider's horse began to neigh loudly. " Ah, ha, Ajax! you scent something, I perceive," said he, and patted the beast kindly upon the neck. " We shall see if you have prophesied truly;" and he soon found this to be the case, for, in a few minutes, a feeble light appeared in the distance. The rider now accelerated his horse's pace, and soon stood before a small dwelling, from the windows of which the guiding light had shone. He quickly alighted from his foam- ing steed, and led him by the bridle to an adjoining shed. All his movements showed that this was not his first visit to the place. After having fastened the bridle, he hastened towards the little house, and knocked at the door. He had not waited long before his listening ear distinguished hasty footsteps, and a sweet voice asked, tremblingly,—" Who is there ? " "It is I, my own Anna!" he answered, cheerfally. A scream of joy was the reply, and, a moment after, tlie SOVEMBEK 1874. ^ ^ 338 The A ttempt. door was opened. A young girl, hardly sixteen years of age, whose face expressed the joy she felt at meeting again, looked up to him, while, unmindful of the discom- fort so wet an embrace might give, he clasped the maiden in his arms. " Wicked one!" cried the girl, quickly disengaging her- self from him, " do you wish to drown me entirely ? " " Heigh ho ! are you beginning to scold me already"?" Baid the young man, half in earnest, half in jest. ''Is this my reward for having come so far for your sake, alone, in such weather? But you are quite right,—I am as wet as a wolf; we shall soon mend that, however." With these words he threw off his light cloak, and stood before her in a blue coat with brass buttons. The bright lamp, which the maiden had placed upon the floor of the passage, threw its rays upon a truly beautiful couple. They both seemed to be aware of it, for they looked at each other for a minute very tenderly. At last the youth broke the silence, and, throwing his arm round the young girl's slender waist, asked, caressingly,—" Now, my lovely Anna, what have you been about lately ? " " It is fully eight days," answered she, with a reproach- ful look—" fully eight days." " If I could have come before, I would have been here long ago." '• If you had ivished to come, you should say." " How can you doubt that f Look into my eyes, and tell me if you think I could deceive you?" " No, no ! you are right; but if you only knew how much I have been longing for you. And poor mamma too—you cannot think how ill she Avas." " How is she now ? " " Better, thank God! But won't you come in ? " " Willingly, and then I can shake hands with her." " Thank you, Charles," said the girl, and pressed his hand gratefully, " but she is already asleep." With these words, she opened the door of the little room, and they both entered with soft steps for fear of wakening the old woman, who slept in the next room. The youth seated himself in a high arm-chair beside the blazing fire, while the young girl placed herself on a footstool at his feet. " Only fancy, Charles," she began ; " I had quite a presentiment of your coming to-night." " Perhaps you had heard that the king was to hunt in this neighbourhood to-day, and so you imagined that I The Attempt. 339

Avould take advantage of the opportunity to come and see you." "Ah, no I I dreamed of you last night, but it was a bad dream. I thought that you and I were sitting opposite to one another—just as we are now—and we were both so happy. Suddenly it grew quite dark around us. I saw you no more ; and when the darkness disappeared, I could not find you—I was alone." " Dreams go by contraries," the youth said, smiling, and laying his hand tenderly upon her golden ringlets. " Yes, so you say," answered the maiden, sadly ; " but, do you know, 1 wept the whole night thinking over it." " You have been weeping?" and he looked searchingly into her blue eyes, and covered her face with kisses. The young girl threw her arms round him and regarded him with radiant looks. " Ah, Charles ! you do not know how much I love you. Should you ever turn from me—deceive me—then, then ," and she hid her face in her delicate liands. " Anna," whispered the youth, as he pressed her closely to his heart, " whence come these thoughts ? Have I not sworn to be true to you? In life and death you are mine. I deceive you ! never! Mine you are, and shall ever remain so. For your sake I can and will risk every- thing. Watch over yourself"—and a cloud came over his brow—" that you do not break your vows and promises." " Charles !" she whispered reproachfully. " Then I would never love another woman." "I faithless to you ! oh, never !' "Very well; let us never speak of it again. Sing me, rather, one of your simple songs." " Willingly," answered the maiden ; and began, with a trembling voice, the following refrain:—

Thou—thou art my love ; and I've sworn to be true, In grief and joy, ever to thee ; With thee my life's journey is entered anew— In life and in death thine to be.

II. At the first flush of morning to thee my thoughts fly, Swift and sure as the bird to its nest; And when soft tints of evening illumine the sky, Thou, love, art my soul's only guest. 340 The Attempt.

III. As on one slender stem two fair roses may flower, So our lives, love, together are kuit \ If one withers, the other drags on but an hour The life it for ever would quit.

IV. Yes ; sooner the sun from the heavens may fall, Than aught our true love may divide ; What forget means thou never shalt learn, for though all Else may change, yet our love shall abide.

And if never on earth I may claim thee my own (Though in spirit thou ever art mine). Before God above I will wed thee alone,— There, for ever, my love, thou art mine.

" Thanks, thanks, my Anna," said the young man, and a tear glistened in his eye; " you are my good angel;" and he pressed a kiss upon the singer's lips. A distant bugle-call sounded at this moment. The youth rose. " Farewell, my beloved," he said, and clasped her in his arms, " one more parting kiss. Farewell I in a few days we shall meet again." With these words he threw his cloak over his shoulder, pressed Anna's hand tenderly in his own, and hastened away. In an- other instant he had moimted his horse, and was galloping wildly away in the direction whence the bugle-call had sounded. CHAPTEK II. Six months later, Count Piper, King Charles' favourite, was seated in his study. A brightly burning lamp by his side lit up the room, throwing its rays over the fine paintings and handsome furniture that decorated the apartment. His piercing eyes gleamed strangely, and a sardonic smile played upon his lips. " Oho!" murmiu-ed he softly between his teeth, while he placed his slender, aristocratic hand upon a newly- opened letter, " our young king, who formerly only cared for Diana's game, has now got entangled in Amor's net! And a girl of the people, a poor organist's daughter, in the parish of Salem, is the object of his tender passion. He has, says my unknown correspondent, whom I heartily thank for his information, carried on this love affair for some time, and the tongue of scandal, Avhich is The Attempt. 341 never idle, has not once whispered it in my car. He often steals away from the hunt to go there, and forgets time and the cares of government over the foolish talk of a girl. " I should say nothing," he continued, " did I not know his character so well. If he once gets an idea into his head, he will follow it out. If he loves the girl—and from the letter I have received, that seems certain—he is also capable of sharing with her, in spite of the whole world, his sceptre and crown. A second Catherine ]\Iausdotter,—as if we had not had enough with one ! Were he an ordinary youth, I should consider it a youth- ful folly, and say no more about it; but a man of his indomitable will,—the thing is very different. We must therefore proceed cautiously. Indeed I have already taken proper precautions," he continued, after a short pause. '" I have sent for the Pastor of Salem, who shall give me further information; and so, God willing, we shall succeed." At this moment the door opened, and an old servant entered noiselessly, and whispered something into the Count's ear. " What! has he come already 1" exclaimed Piper, with great satisfaction: "so much the better! Let him enter at once. Welcome, my dear pastor," continued he, turning kindly to the approaching clergyman; "you come at an appropi-iate time, you are heartily welcome." " Your Excellency sent for me," returned the other, with a low but dignified bow. " Yes, so it is," answered Piper, a little embarrassed, for the pastor's bearing had somewhat disconcerted him. After a moment's pause, during which the courtier endeavoured to read the clergyman's thoughts in his face, he began again: "You are a widower, my dear Colhnius, are you not"?" '•- Yes." " And should you wish to marry again ? " Collinius looked at the speaker in astonishment, at the unexpected question. " I know what you are going to say," continued Piper, " with your small living you find it hard to keep a wife; but the pastorate of Jiirna is free : it is yours if you wish it." The clergyman did not answer, but regarded the speaker in mute astonishment. 342 The Attempt.

" It only depends on you, I give you my word for it," began Count Piper anew. " I do not know," answered CoUinius slowly, " what I have done to deserve such kindness and favour." " What you will do to deserve it. Nothing is easier ; only agree to the marriage I shall propose to you, and the pastorate of Jiirna is yours." Collinius coloured slightly, and his countenance ex- pressed deep displeasure. " Your p]xcellency is pleased to jest," said he at last, with a faltering voice. "And Avhy so, my dear Collinius ? I offer you a better income, a beautiful wife—for so I am assured she is." At this a slight smile stole over the favourite's lips. "And that you call a joke? a good joke, upon my honour." " I thank you once more for your offer," said Collinius, " but you will excuse the poor pastor for refusing it. I am weak and ill, my days are numbered, and it behoves mo to turn my thoughts to the grave, and not to marriage; and besides," he added, very gravely, " I can- not give my hand where I have not given my heart." " You misunderstand me, my friend," broke in Piper, quietly, " and I also was wrong in my opinion about you. Kead this," and he gave him the newly-opened letter. Collinius obeyed, and returned it after a while. " Now, what do you say to that ? " " I am very much astonished, your Excellency. The king, our beloved master, loves a low peasant's daughter." " Yes, as you see," answered Piper, impatiently. " Now it is our duty to check this passion." " But can you rely upon the truth of the story ? " " The letter is from a well-informed person, to whom the king has confided his secret." " I shall speak to the girl." " You know her then?" " Very well." " And she is " "Beautiful as angel, and as innocent and good," said the pastor, much moved, "Anna is the best girl in the Avhole parish." " So much the ivorse for us." " I do not understand." " Then you do not know the king. This love will lead him to the bruik of a precipice." " Anna is virtuous." The Attempt. 343

" So much the worse, I tell you. The king is obstinate, and will, if he pleases, make your low-born parish child the Queen of Sweden. And what will be the con- sequence of that? The great and powerful in the country, already irritated, would then lift up their heads in scorn." " God forbid it." "Collinins," continued Piper, "your conduct has proved that you are a man of honour. I thought at first you w^ere one of those sneaking priests wdio w^ould do any- thing to secure themselves a good living. I erred. I therefore speak to you now, as one honest man to another, and ask you whether you know of any means of averting this misfortune ? " " Anna is a good, sensible child; she will understand everything when I explain to her " ''That won't do," interrupted Piper, hastily: " if she loves him, she will not care for your hne admonitions. Even if she Avere wise enough to refuse him, the king would say, ' ] iviU,' and then everything w*ould be lost. No, I come back to my old plan: the girl must be married to someone else. " And if the king's love is a true one, why, is he not sure to forbid this marriage? " " If he learns that she will give her hand to another, then—/ knoiv it—he will forget her. He has won her love unknown; and so his ch-eam, to be loved for his own sake, will disappear. For, wath him, to doubt is to despise." Collinius kept a thoughtful silence. " You are right," he said at last; " that is the only escape." " You consent to it then ?" " I must first speak to the girl. If she consents to it, then all is right." " That she must" " If she does it of her own free-will, yes; but no force," insisted Collinius. "And when will you let me know the result ? " " To-morrow, for I mean to speak to her this very evening." " Capital, my dear pastor! As to my pi-omise, that remains the same." Again the blood mounted to Collinius' temples. " I see your Excellency does not yet know me," he said, gravely. " What I do, I do without expecting the least 314 The Attempt. reward. As the pastor of Salem I have lived happily, without wishing for a better lot. My flock loves me, that is all I covet besides the grave near the church in which I preach God's holy word. And now allow me most humbly to take leave." Saying this, he bowed, and hastily left the room. Piper looked after him a moment silently; "A truly honourable man," said hq, softly; "would to God my country could boast of many such!" HELEXE MiJLLER. {To he continued.)

I £ n s £ £ s- I A stillness in the laden air; A peace and quiet from the heat, Wild flowers clamber here and there With hidden feet. Sea poppies gird the sandy cliff Their crimson sisters streak the rye,— Out in the waves a little skiff Rocks lazily. Lost in the blue—the far, dim blue. Where waves and clouds appear as one, Where both wax scarlet when they view The rising sun ; I lie and dream of other lands. Of other fields and pastures fair, Whose flowers are strewn by tiny hands That shelter there.

II. Two angels in the pretty shade. Where neither golden sun doth rise, Nor stormy cloud hath overlaid Its perfect skies. " Hark !" they whisper, " a human heart Is breaking silently below. Striving to bear (from all apart) Its bitter woe." The Attempt. 345

They hurry through a brilliant throng, And pass without a golden door. Leaving behind the harp and song They held before. Poor human heart I Yet those anear, Who lived and loved as friend to friend. Who thought they held it passing dear Unto tlie end, Knew nothing of the pain and grief That made it pine, and droop, and die; Only the angels bare relief That heard it sigh. They knew it all, though far away. They gathered it from out the sward. As fragments of an honoured day, To give their Lord. NAOMI S. SMITH.

|ii!C£nl iTvCfjcarrhffi in Ivcman 'ijifitorn.

PART I.—ROMAX HISTORY ; THE PEOPLiNa OF ITALY ; THE FOUNDATION OF ROME.

SHOULD a traveller be seized with the desire to mark tlie windings of the Rhone throughout its course, he would first take his stand at the foot of Mount St. Gotthard, and view the tiny stream issuing from some hidden source beneath the Glacier de la Fourche. Standing then in Republican Geneva, he would strive to descry the imder current of the river that passes through the lake, yet lends no roughness to its surface. Passing to Lyons, he would there see the river joined by another stream, that yet flows sluggishly on one side of the channel, while the arrowy Rhone rushes bravely on, never paiising till its waters, mingled with the brine of the deep, are borne towards the distant shores of many lands. Thus may the seeker after truth view the object of his quest, springing from beneath the icy masses of oblivion and neglect, pass unchanged through the lake of romance and fiction, and, hurrying on, heedless of the streams of error and falsehood which accompany its course, rest not

NOVEMBPR 1871. ■" Y The Attempt.

until the waves of time have borne its waters in triumph to the home of every people under heaven. Truth is the plant which takes deepest root in the garden of the mind. The fascinating weed of fiction may appear to choke it, and command admiration, but only for a time. Men have never ceased to long for truth, and civilisation does not fail to foster and satisfy the longing. New forms of truth are ever awaking, and coming forth, phoenix-like, from the embers of perished traditions. And thus has it been with the history of ancient Rome. Fair and beautiful Avere its fictions, and as fictions Ave may cling to them still, but only prejudice can treat them with confidence and belief. And what were those beautiful legends which are now doubted and condemned ? Imperfect they must be, for tiiey are but rescued relics of a lost whole; yet they are fair and noble even in imperfection, and transmit to us the spirit of the early Roman heroes. The marvellous story of the twin brothers nourished by a she wolf, their wonderful reappearance to found tlie city; the slaying of one, and the supernatural disappearance of the other; the nightly meetings of the heroic Numa with the nymph Egeria; the death of Tarpeia ; the contest between the Horatii and the Curiatii; the noble actions of Scaivola and Cloelia; the battle of Regillus, with the feats of Castor and Pollux;—these, with many others, in spite of M. Mommsen's denial of the poetic faculty to the Italians, still seem to point to a lost ballad literature, which must have been one of the richest and most marvellous in the world. For that the ancestral exploits were recited in verse by boys at the banquets of the Romans, is quite certain. And that these ballads, if written, as they may well have been, were lost, there can be no doubt. As Niebuhr says, there are but three ways by which a nation can perpetuate its early history :—either by itself possessing the art of writing, or by the writings of others, or, lastly, by oral tradition. That the primitive Romans possessed the art of writing, is doubtful; but even had they done so, the writings, which would be kept by the Pontifices aTnong the archives, must all have been destroyed at the time of the Gallic invasion, about the 360th year of Rome. That many of these traditions hint at facts, and are but the embodiment in particular instances of general facts, seems very probable. The Attempt. 347

The recitation of these legends in verse at their festivals was the means by which the Romans kept up the raemory of the exploits of their forefathers. And the literature of almost every nation has begun in a similar way. In Palestine, Greece, Spain, Scotland, Scandinavia, there were early ballads, sung by bards. What had the history of Greece been without an Iliad, and a Homer to recite that Iliad j What were Scot- land without its Ossian and its Border Minstrelsy ? or AVales without its harpers, who sang of Arthur ? And while many of these countries still possess their ballad literature almost entire, the loss of that of the Romans must remain a subject for regret. True, many of the legends remain. But these are all gleaned from the pages of authors who lived centuries after the events had taken place, and whose only authority "was the variable one of oral tradition. Ennius, who did not write until the period of the Second Punic War, is the earliest Latin poet on record. Up to the close of the 17th century the credited history of Rome was drawn mamly from the works of Livy and Dioiiysius. The first of these works, being that of a Roman, was written with enthusiasm, and abounded in marvels. Dionysius, being a Greek and a foreigner, put into his history more of the mind than of the heart, and enlarged on statistics and antiquities. For cen- turies, no higher authority on the subject was asked for than that of these authors. But at the period of the revival of learning, a fresh spirit of inquiry broke forth. Perizonius at the end of the 17 th century, followed by Bayle, de Pouilly, Levesque, and others in the 18th, ca'fet grave doubts on the Roman traditions, and pro- pounded new theories with regard to the peopling of Italy. At last, in the tliirteenth year of the present century, Niebuhr gave forth the first volume of his History. Though ignorant of many of the works which had preceded his, Niebuhr brought forth theories in many respects identical with theirs. He ascribed the early history hitherto believed to oral tradition, handed down through popular poetry, threw new light on the Agrarian laws, and propounded a new opinion with regard to the peopling of the Peninsula. Arnold, a few years later, followed in nearly the same track, giving, however, a full account of the legends before casting discredit on them. The still more recent work of M. Mommsen is based on 348 The Attempt. yet latei" rosoarclies. Some of the statements of Niebuhr it leaves unnoticed, as being already fully established; with regard to the population of Italy it differs from him entirely. The theory of iS'iebuhr on this subject, which arises from mere conjecture, must meet with rejection when we learn the opinion of M. Mommsen, being, as it is, the result of long and patient research. Niebuhr upholds that the earlier inhabitants of Italy Avere Autochthones, and, regardless of any resemblance existing between the ancient Greeks and Italians in language and customs, founds his theory upon an analogy drawn from the vegetable world. He declares that the inhabitants, if immigrants from Greece, would probably have transplanted specimens of the Greek flora into Italy. As the plants of Italy, however, were, even in ancient times, wholly distinct from those of Greece, the likelihood, according to him, is, that both inhabitants and plants were natives of the soil. ^Vere a similar analogy to be accepted with regard to every country, it could not fail to lead to gross mistakes. Mommsen, on the other hand, after a careful examination of the early languages of both peoples, draws the population of Italy from the followmg sources:—the gradual increase of the human race, and the consequent migration of numbers, actuated by the spirit of adventure and the need of space. To these sources the peopling of Latium is ascribed; and this immigration is accompanied by improvement in the various pursuits of nomadic tribes, and the adding to these of new pursuits, as occasion may have suggested and required. Much similarity has been found between the Greek, and Italian or Latin, languages. Slany words expressive of the simpler wants and earlier occupations of man, are alike in both. The words for clothing, dwelling, food, are almost synonymous, and in science and religion some similar ex- pressions are also to be found. Tliough this likeness extends to the Avords referring to agriculture, yet in those which express nautical ideas, it is wanting. The inference drawn from these discoA^eries is, that the Greeks and Italians had migrated together from the cradle of the Indo- Germanic nations, and for a period led a pastoral life in common; that the Italians had gradually penetrated by land into Italy, and, pressing southwards by degrees, had finally peopled the Avhole Peninsula. From this theory it is to be inferred that tJie dAvellers in the south of Italy Avere the earliest immigrants. It is not Avithout surprise that Ave can believe the The Attempt. 349

Greeks and Italians to have sprung originally from the same stock. The differences between them in succeeding centuries were as strongly marked with regard to language as in any other respect. In religion, in character,in customs, and in acts, they differ widely. When we look at the respec- tive aims and consequent actions of these two peoples, which of them shall we judge to have best fulfilled, its destiny, or advanced ftirthest in true culture ? The Roman, training himself to such a conformity to civil law as that he may resemble in character one of the straight-cut columns in a row ; or the Greek, yielding his imagination to all influences of the Beautiful, and thus growing into fitness to be a member of that community where confusion is order, and whose law-giver is nature? In religion, too, the contrast is equally striking. We see the Roman seeking only a divinity that might " shape his own ends," striving to find in birds and animals the prophets of his own fate, and thus driven by necessity to worship ; and we see tlie Greek, loving nature for her own sake, finding a presiding genius in every grove, mount, and stream, and placing human action equally under the guardianship of the gods. He invoked the presiding spirit of every action, and in his pantheism made Elysium teem with the life of the gods. Though the march of civilization has proceeded far in many countries, yet no race has attained such universal excellence as to deserve the name of the greatest nation the world has seen. Each has in some way excelled all others; none has excelled in all things. If extreme reverence for the dead prompted the Egyptians to erect to their memory such monuments as, for splendour, have never been surpassed, an equally extreme regard for the comfort of the living led to the great luxury and magni- ficence of the Assyrians and Persians. The Greeks, inuring the bodily frame to hardship, preferred minister- ing to the mental and aesthetic nature of man ; while the Romans, holding both in abeyance, used their efforts to perfect the constitution of the State. The records of these nations are ours by inheritance ; by how much, then, ought we to be wiser than the men of old ? Even the scantiest gleanings of the history of olden days reveal treasures to us. We learn, through seemingly tedious details, to look on ancient times with more famihar eyes. We thus discern some ])ortion of the truth, and learn to blend it with our being, as we do the influences of 350 The Attempt.

actions done and words spoken aroinid us. To degree of effort after such a result, the spirit of research has been striying to lead us. Besides the population of Italy, Niebuhr and Mommsen diff'er widely on another point, namely the foundation of Rome. And here also the theory of Mommsen, as bearing traces of deeper research, seems more worthy of credit. Niebuhr harbours successiyely two theories. 'Jlie first is, that Rome was a colony of the Tuscans. To this idea, however, he does not long adhere. The other supposi- tion is, that two towns, named Roma and Remuria, became united under the subjugating power of the Cascans, • neighbouring tribe. To the fact of the city having arisei from two towns with such names, lie ascribes the origin of tlie fables of Romulus and Remus, and deduces from the same cause the later division of the citizens into patri- cians and plebeians. The symbol of this twofoklness he finds in the god Janus. The theory of M. Mommsen, evincing a deeper study of the early manners of the Italians, is as follows:—Several Latian clans, inhabiting each a hamlet, and all together a canton, and living on the produce of their fields and herds, possessed in common, instead of a capital, a stronghold. The strongholds, which were situated on the summits of rocks or hills, were used as places of conference. Here the public business of the canton was transacted, and here enemies were repelled. Gradually cities began to arise in Latium ; the owners of strongliolds either fortified their strongholds to resist attacks, or built cities round tlieni. Three neighbouring tribes, the Ramues, Tities, and Luceres, united their eff'orts to build a city. From the former of these it took the name of Rome. (With all respect to M. Mommsen, we cannot but be very sceptical as to this last statement.) Thv city must at first have possessed three strongholds, one foi each tribe ; but in after times only the Tarj^eian Hill went by the name of the stronghold rock. It has been a matter of surprise to many, that a city founded like Rome, in a marshy district, with bad air, should have been so pros- perous. ]\I. JMommsen partly answers this question by remarking that the position of Rome, commanding as it did all the slope of land along the banks of the Tiber to the ]\Iediterranean, offered every advantage for commerce. The researches of these two authors into the agrarian laws of the Romans have thrown much new" light on these laws, and shown them to have been based, in The Attemjit. 351

many respects, on sound principles. The first settlers in Italy seem to have passed from pastoral to agricultural husbandry before the period of their settlement there. In founding their cities, the site of the walls was marked all round by means of a plough. During the early con- stitution, the clans or gentes possessed portions of land in common, and the produce was divided among the households. Under the later or Servian constitution, a large portion of land might become the property of one individual. Any portion of land won in battle was con- verted into a farm, and Avas tenaciously guarded against foreign inroads. This added greatly to the wealth of the Romans, and increased the number of fidly-armed soldiers ; for every man possessing a hide of land was expected to appear in the ranks in complete armour. Those possessing one-half, three-fe)urths, or one-fourtli of a hide wore less armour in proportion to the smaller size of their freeholds; those who possessed one-eighth were only armed Avith slings. We see thus how, with the Romans, the arts of peace exerted a strong influence over the art of war.- From the due cultivation of the soil arose much of the comfort which the nation enjoyed in peace, and much of its strength in war. The field was the school of the senator and the soldier. The relations between landlord and tenant were friendly, and advantageous to both. The tenant paid no rent, except a portion, of the produce of the ground. In case of his failing to pay this tribute, it was in the power of the landlord to eject him. A good description of the relations then existing with regard to landed property, is given by Macaulay's poor Roman, after he had recounted the exploits of Horatius:

" Then none was for a party, Then all were for the state ; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor maa loved the great. Then lands were fairly portioned ; Then spoils were fairly sold ; The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old."

Though occurring in a ballad founded on fable, we think that even M. Mommsen, after his most careful researches, would not fail to corroborate every statement which the stanza contains. We thus find that the agrarian laws of the Romans were the means of cementing a union between rich and poor; of fostering the truest and happiest life, 352 . The Attempt. viz., life in the country ; and lastly, how they were the means of originating military rank, and, in course of time, the political power which sprang from military rank. PROCLA. {To he continued.)

"There can be no farewell to scene like thine."—Childe Harold. ONLY a piece of wood-sorrel I a little fern-leaf I a common pine-cone! True! but the cone lay under the pines of Aberfeldy; the wood-sorrel was plucked by a Highland road-side; the fern-frond flourished in a sheltered crevice beneath the enow peak of Ben Lawers. It seems almost incredible now, thinking it over in the familiar home haunts, but it is nevertheless a feet; and so they are speaking to me all this Avliile in a pleasant language of their own, which, like a cipher, would not have much meaning for other people. It is like holding a shell to one's ear, and listening to its whispers of its ocean home. This handful of withered relics suggests all sorts of delightful memories ; spring days, the fresh breath of the mountains, lake and falling waters, ruined castles, with romance and ivy clinging about them in equal portions, dream-pictures come to life, lingerings on green hill sides, grave talk, bright fancies, and a fragrance of friendship, kind feeling, hospitality, making a sunshine of all which ought to warm life's shady places for many a day. What a road that was where the wood-sorrel grew I It cools one even now to think of the cloister-like shade, the green living arched arcade of that avenue of sycamores, only varied now and then, just by way of relief, with the dark tints of scarcer horse-chestnut. Then the glimpses one got peeping through, as it were, out of a verdant nave into widely disproportioned side aisles of fertile country. Sometimes you saAV a rocky crag- fashioned into a natural fortress, upon which the conqueror larches seemed waving victorious banners; sometimes tempting little woodland paths ascended gentle slopes, as if they were trying to lure one into finding out whither The Atlempt. 353 they led; often it was an undulating stretch of pasture- land which met the gaze, with noble trees here and there grouped into haughty little islets ; or again Avooded hills and deer forests, giving one a choice of every variety of foliage, lest some should fail to please. In this early spring-time it would be hard to find fault, 1 think, Avith any of the lovely tints nature chooses to wear, whether in crimson budding oak, or dehonnair lady birches; in the Puritan-like sternness of the pine trees' sombre garb, or where the verdant rain of the larches is arrested in mid- air. All alike are fresh and beautiful. Some of the trees, indeed, seem scarcely used as yet to their summer raiment, wearing it shyly, with the bashful pride of a girl in her first silk dress. These living things (I cannot help fancying) have their harmless vanities like ourselves. Depend upon it they are not so unconscious as we imagine of all the loveliness about them; even now they seem to be bending and bowing, complimenting their neighbours upon their splendid appearance, winning perhaps a little panegyric for their own new robes. Dc^ Ave beings of superior race dare to blame them '? But the Avood-sorrel'? Well, its special part in this favoured spot was a sheltered nook under a mossy stone- wall, where Ave found and appropriated it. Ff)rgive us, little floAA-^er! It wasadmiration that prompted the kiAvless deed. Indeed Ave love and Avonder OA^er your beauty, the tender veining of your petals, the delicate pose of your fragile head upon its stalk. A Avild-floAver, and such trouble in the fashioning! AVe should not think it worth ivhile to labour so for an out-of-the-Avay place like this Highland road-side, Avhere fcAV pass by to see ; but the UiAane Artist accounts no remotest comer unworthy of His finishing- touches. The home of our little relic lay about midAvay betAA'^een Crieff and the gates of Drummond Castle, Perthshire, in the traversing of which two miles we passed a pleasant hour of a spring noon not so long ago. The day began Avith pastoral loveliness; we were in the midst of an Arcadian idyll of Avaving trees, balmy breezes, song of mavis, and Avhistle of merle ; but it passed through tender modulations from gay to grave, and ended at last in a mournful minor of saddened tones. By rugged hills, where the sheep find difficult footing; by groves of densest foliage; by slopes f)ine-croAvned to the summit, Ave enter upon the very haunt of silent solitude. Yet

SOVEMBEK 1874. ■" Z 354 Tlie Attempt.

kindly nature never fails to remind us of gentler things, for even here, in the very wildest and most rugged parts, the traveller lights sometimes upon a little cheerful tuft of primroses set in the midst of gloom and loneliness, like a smile on a grave face. The constellations of star- flowers are plentifully sprinkled all along the banks of this noisy Earn river, which, eddying round rock and boulder, murmuring, making a fuss over every small obstruction, occupies us with its vagaries until at last we reach the shores of Loch Earn. There is something here at St. Fillan's of a less sombre life;—the rustic inn, ■with an ostler or two moving about —our post-boy going down to water his horses in the loch—a picturesque bridge spanning the river, suggestive of wayfarers coming and going. It is really a relief to the feelings after the gloom we have left behind. In sunshine, perhaps, the aspect of things would have been different. What cannot the royal sunshine do? Why, even this passing gleam of light upon the loch, too faint to be called sunshine at all, is invaluable in softening its severity. For it is severe. Not rippling with sunny smiles like Loch Katrine, not calm with the bright tranquillity of Loch Lomond, so content as it seems to bear upon its bosom that treasure of happy isles. Here the purple mountains tinge the water with their own sober hues, turning it into a grey sad-coloured lake, over which a heron flies solitary,—the only living thing. On the further side of the loch, somewhere hidden away among the trees between us and the hills, lies the old house of Ardvoirlich, the Darnliuvarach of the Legend of Montrose. Here belongs the tale of the terrible banquet served to the poor lonely Chatelaine by the cruel Children of the Mist; and what wonder? The mountain wall, which includes the mighty form of Ben Voirlich, might hide any number of dark deeds from the world beyond. Lochearnhead being gained presently, we are greatly tempted to turn aside from our prearranged programme for the Braes of Balquhidder stretch away to the west- ward, and that is Hob Roy's especial country, and in Balquhidder kirkyard is his grave. I take an interest in Rob Hoy. It dates from nursery days, when we pur- chased him as a halfpenny scrap, and coloured him laboriously (with many lamentations over the paint which would smudge) in a fancy tartan such as sure was never worn by any Scot, "Lowland or Highland, far or near," The Attempt. Zbl

except in the cloud-land of our imagination. It culminated when, in maturer years, we held our breath over the recital of his adventures in the thrilling pages of Scott's novel. And so I fain would stand beside the last resting-place of the turbulent spirit; but time presses, and we sleep at Killin to-night. On to Killin then we go, by a pass of wild country, where our train seems a sort of anachronism, crawling untimely through some prehistoric age where it has no business. Killin will live in our memory, I think, while memory lasts. Oh, the beauty of the scene we come upon there ! It is cmly now, after all this long day, that the truant sun begins to show us any favour. But he soon makes up for lost time. He not only reveals himself to us in all liis majesty, like a monarch who, on the eve of abdica- tion, robes himself yet again in his full splendour, but he calls about him a magnificent train of attendant clouds, gorgeous in crimson and gold, and so parades before us. One cannot wonder that Ben More there hastens to mirror the glory in his snowy peak I In great cities the people flock to see a royal proces- sion. Behold windows at fabulous prices ! Behold hurry and bustle, and surging to and fro of curious multitudes ! Yet what, I should like to know, is a procession of all the royalties of all the quarters of the globe compared with this imperial magnificence ? And now Ben More is mirrored in hie turn. The Dochart river receives in its broad silver stream an inverted picture of the snow-capped summit, with all its brilliant cloud-company floating about it. The water is opaline already in the tender evening light; and now comes an eff'ect as of fire flashing out to complete its resemblance to the gem. Just the opal's indefinite tint is there ; neither blue nor green, but something of botli. Plash, splash! as we go, falls the water over a thousand shallow shelves, till one wonders what all the hurry can be about. Is not the silly stream content in its mountain home at the foot of these glorious hills? No; restless as an impatient lover, it,hurries on, getting its own way, tripping itself up with its eagerness, till a little later, at the outskirts of Killin village, we find out the wherefore,— for there another stream comes up from the west to meet it, and the two, joining company, sweep away together, and get lost in the broad bosom of Loch Tay. ooG 'J'he Attempt.

The inn at KilKn stands upon the banks of the river Lochy, and is everything' to be desired for a night's lodging. We are evidently the first tourists to invade it this season, and get about sucli a Avelcome as the cuckoo does when he first lifts his voice to tell us of the spring. We receive a monopoly of attention; mine host meets us in the porch rubbing his hands; the chambermaid, decked in a new white cap, conducts us to the freshest and neatest of sleeping apartments. Perhaps we were a little disappointed that there Avas notliing especial in our surroundings to remind us that we were actually in the Highlands. There "vvas something a little tame in sitting down to tea and beefsteak decently served, as one would do in one's own home circle. But when a cock's shrill clarion had sounded a reveille at four o'clock in the morning just beneath our window; when it was followed by innumerable twitterings from a dozen different throats; when, finally, the bird voices had persuaded us up and out into the bracing mountain air, Avhen we had climbed a huge hill close by before broiikfast (that exploit is a triumph to this hour), and seen Loch Tay spread out before ns in the morning light—oh! then it was very different from what would have happened at home. This hill—which seemed a very mountain to us low- landers—had excited our ambitious longings over night. It proved a Hill Difliculty; but excelsior I We Avere determined not to gi\"e in, and in half an hour the climb was a fait accompli, and the vieAV a rcAvard worthy of the toil. I Avish it had been our fate to behold it in sunshine! Alas! all the time we remain the lake and everything around is grey, uncompromisingly grey. Mountain-top after mountain-top shoots up its sad summit; they seem as the spires of many temples set for Avorship throughout the land. And noAv, tAvo hours later, breakfast is also a fait accompli; Ave have said ffircAvell to Killin and its comfortable night's halting-place, and are upon the northern shore of Loch Tay, posting Keumorewards. Our road lies half-Avay up the hills, so close to the snoAv upon Ben LaAvers that Ave seem treading upon the skirts of Avintev, Avhich, like a fashionable lady, she leaA^es trail- ing over the mountain-tops long after she is out of sight herself. It certainly is intensely cold, and Ave are a trio of chilly mortals. Sometimes, to be sure, we forget the The Attempt. 357 cold in the scenery, but often, I am ashamed to own, the scenery is forgotten in the cold! And yet there is so much to look at—this rough-hewn stone wall, for instance, as usual, carelessly piled together, but making a picturesque boundary between road and pasture far more beautiful, to my thinking, than our close- cropped hedges. There are fern-treasures here of every variety, and among them once flourished the withered little frond which is helping to recall these recollections. On either side, all about us, rocky crags lie scattered in wild disorder. Sometimes a mountain stream comes tumbling down among them upon a nature-hewn stair- way, leaping from step to step and sprinkling the ferns and flowers along its margin. Delicate primroses star the banks of streamlet of the present, and dried-up water- course of the past; baby blechnums, tiny, elegant fernlets, adorn every possible crevice of the mossy stone wall. Talk of a Kentish bank of wild-flowers ! Why, what has even the Garden of England to compare with all this wealth of beauty ? And this is but the basement storey of an edifice whose topmost pinnacle is crowned by the glorious snow-diadem of Ben LaAvY-rs ! I must confess that our enthusiasm for mountain scenery is chilled for the moment by the time we gain the outskirts of the grounds of Taymouth. We are quite thankful foi* the pines' warm shelter, and admire with a delightful sense of gratitude the lithe larches and tree-trunks hidden away in a mass of clinging ivy, where underneath, upon a mossy carpet, the deer browse peacefully. They are not so shy as one would imagine; or is it that, with so much else to admire, they are not afraid we shall stare them out of countenance ? Graceful creatures I They come down to peep at us ; they cross the road just before our carriage wheels ; they scamper up among the crags. The Taymouth estate boasts of game of every description, from the fallow-deer we are admiring just now to the American bison, which ^ve are not lucky enough to come across. Only we see a splendid capercailzie sitting majestic on a bough by the road-side. The sight is a rare one, and we rejoice thereat. Upon Kenmore Bridge Ave pause a moment for a part- ing look at the hoary head of that white serenity, Ben More. It is like saying faj-ewell to a friend. Then comes a seven-mile drive along the banks of the Tay river, amid 358 'The Attempt.

birchen green and beechen green,—neither so dense as yet but that we can detect among it the slender tracery of stem and bough. And here we are at Aberfeldy. The great, indeed the only, objects of interest here are the triple Falls, overhung by the Birks which Burns ha8 immortalized. But these are a host in themselves. How gracefully the trees pose themselves upon the brink of the stream, not a whit behind the most ardent ot tourists in their eagerness to peep at the waters ! Fresh and verdant round their silver stems spreads a carpet ot oak-fern and wood-sorrel; sweetly below sound the mur- mur of the burn and the far-off plash of the felling water. '' The hoary cliflFs are crowned wi' flowers, While o'er the linn the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers The Birks of Aberfeldy." It is all said for us. Pages of description could not equal that, sung of them in their own tongue by their own especial laureate. What more is to be told of our two days of travel ? It did not quite end here. I mi^-ht tell of our farther journey ; of a peep at Schiehallion—no ! of his j^eep- ing at us over the shoulders of nearer hills; of a glimpse at Ballinluig; of Killiecrankie Pass stretching away into sunlit loveliness ; of the junction of two grand rivers swearing a bond of amity under our very eyes ; of Dunkeld and Dunkeld's cathedral, backed up by noble wooded hills ; of fair Perth, unlovely as any other place in its station-aspect; of railway adventure, and a step unpleasantly near danger to life and limb; suspense, com- posure thoroughly English, and inward perturbation—a picturesque confusion in the evening dusk—lanterns flit- ting about in invisible hands—universal tapage—a medley of voices, timid, reassuring,—our train to the rescue, like a friendly life-boat drawing up beside a stricken ship —a final bearing away into the darkness of sundry wrecked passengers,—and some thankful feelings, which belong elsewhere. But this would be Avandering too far from the threefold text of these memories, which have already taken up too many pages. Thanks, little treasures, for your eloquent Avhisperings I You have done your work, and now we will put you by again in safe keeping ; precious hostages for that part of our hearts Avhich we left behind us in the Higldands. GRATIA. The Attempt. 359

labour and ^ou^.

BEAT, beat, beat, saith the smithy over the way, 'Tis work and sweat and turmoil all through the busy day; 'Tis beat, beat, beat, till the metal is tested pure. No shrinking from the furnace, but bravely to endure. Tight drawn must be the muscle, stern clenched the brawny hand, For the strife is long and mighty throughout this labour land; Until in the even-tide the quick pulse beateth slow. And the sturdy voice by the anvil is all subdued and low. * * * » Spin, spin, spin, said the little wife at home, 'Tis spinning for Johnnie and Pollie, and idleness can I none; 'Tis spin, spin, spin, though the children be all at play. And through the open window wafts in the scented liay,— For in spite of weary fingers, and a throbbing, aching head, There is work to be done for the laddie, and the children must be fed. Then when father comes at evening, and I lay my spin- _ ning by, _ He will praise the bonnie children, and look with ap- proving eye. So as life is what Ave spin it, and we must spin for bread, Faster she plies the distaff, faster and faster the thread. « « « * 'Tis love, love, love, say the children, clustering near, Around the parent knee,— And a hand is tenderly Stroking one curly head. For life is love to the children, they are simple and fresh from GOD, Christ breathed that love in the children, when on earth of old He trod. When they flocked around Him trustful, and " Forbid them not," He said. ERICA, 3G0 The AIL nipt.

A SKETCH PROM XATURE. (Continued.)

MONTANT is not a very pretty town, though very char- acteristic. There is something about it remote and grim, and it feels further from our home than many a more distant place that lies more on the world's highway. No railway whistle rouses its quiet echoes; no station omni- bus wakes it into life. The diligence rattles over its rough pavement twice a day, and changes horses at the " Poste," bringing with it a passing stir and bustle, but leaving Froissart's Inn to its local patrons. Montant feels like a wicked place; fierceness and discontent are in the air. In the calm, western provinces of the Gironde, crime is almost unknown; but the statistics blacken rapidly as one moves eastward, and perhaps the worst population in Southern France is to be found on the skirts of the Eastern Pyrenees. Montant lies towards this fiery east, and has a wild history of its own. In the wars of the Albigenses the town was burnt to the ground, and the oldest buildings in the present one date from after that period. The J^lack Prince afterwards ruled it Avith a strong hand, and the wandei'ing knights of his time, doubtless, found here many wrongs to redress. Then when the religious wars of the Kith century broke out, Montant Avas a Huguenot town and fought well, and can still show its " Priests' window," Avhence the Catholic priests Avere tossed doAvn into the ri\^er fiir beloAA^ during the massacre; the churches lost their carving and their stained glass—in fact, all their beauty—at that time; and the soldiers played at ball with the skulls of the saints— supposing, indeed, there CA'er were saints in the place. Then came fierce reprisals, Avhich left, hoAvever, a large proportion of Calvinists to this day among the popula- tion ; so CA'en virtue appears here in a somewhat grim form. Now, the toAvn seems quiet enough ; few peo^jle pass in the silent streets, that lie exposed to the intense glare of the southern sun; the houses, somewhat mean in size, and coA'^ered Avith dazzling white-AA'ash, Avith deep black arches leading into little sordid courts, and grey- stone roofs rising into as blue a sky as ever delighted The Attempt. 361 the eye of a painter, are yet neither picturesque nor homelike : the whole place reminds one of the crater of an unextinct volcano, where the fierce, wild elements might at any moment start again into sudden flame. A bright river runs swiftly by the walls, as though in a hurry to leave the place, where, indeed, no stranger stays who can help it. Beyond—across a wide plain, where tracts of stony ground alternate with woods—the noble peaks of the Pyrenees rise high above the horizon, and close by the ruins of an old castle crown an eminence, so steep that one hardly can tell, on looking up at the precipice, which is battered wall, and which is native rock. Martin and Marjory had made a distant expedition, and only towards evening returned to the little town, where they went to the diligence office, near the " Stag," to secure places back to the mountains. There were many loungers at the door, and some difficulty in getting change for a large bank-note ; and Martin gave the number of his sister's room, which he chanced to recollect, as their address. Then they Avere glad to take shelter fi*om the glare of the sun in Froissart's Inn, which pleased Marjory more than it did Martin. No doubt it was very old; it was built round a dirty inner court, whence a short staircase led to a corridor running all round, into which the bedrooms opened. This wooden balcony was so black with age that the ladies of Froissart's time might have leant on it, watching the knights mounting their horses below. Now there were only chickens stirring in the court, and no knights more, unless some chevalier was among the seedy-looking men who never ceased all day knocking about the billiard balls in the cafe on • the ground-floor. The rooms were low and dirty, with tiled floors and heavy beams across. Froissart probably dined in the small salle a manger, where a nice little dinner was served up; and the dusty bottle of wine proved to be of a better vintage than is often met with in hotels of more pretension. Marjory was trium- phant when they settled into her room to spend the evening. Like Martin's, it opened into the balcony and looked into the street; the rooms communicated Avith each other ; and there Avas besides a third door in her room, opening evidently into the next room on the other side. This door had a mysterious unchancy air. The hinges and sides, and a little trou de Judas in the middle, were stuffed up with toAv, but it Avas seciired by a strong KOVEMBEE 1874. " A 362 The Attempt. wooden staj^le, which they shook, and found fast. As they chatted in the twilight, a noise drew them to the open w^indoAv; the dull street had weakened into life, an angry group was collected, a row^ was going on beneath the "Golden Stag." The landlord was in it, the waiter was in it; the landlady rushed out, her capstrings flying behind her; the trim chambermaid, hands in her pockets and chin in the air, was there, and many more ; lastly, the cook dashed out, apparently transported with fury, andbrandish- ing some kitchen weapon in the air, and they were all at each other's throats. Then came the gendarmes, stiff and trim as tin soldiers; one wrote something down in a note-b;)ok, others entered the fray, whence, gesticulating, shouting, and scolding, they dragged the waiter of the " Stag," hauled him off, and silence and night came together on Montant. " Froissart's Inn seems still to have a warlike flavour about it," remarked Martin, while Marjory rang for a long time, till the smart maid appeared, somewhat fluttered still, but smiling and obliging. She deponed that there had been a quarrel, and that the W'aiter had been taken to the prison for the night; and a good thing too, she added, "r?« quil est horrihlement fort et horriblenient mechant." Night came on, and Marjory as usual locked her door, and also the one leading into Martin's room, knowing his carelessness about locking his own, and went peacefully to sleep. The night was deep, when a slight shock of the bed, as of some- thing striking against it, roused her in a moment. She could see nothing but the square glimmer of the window, but she heard—yes, distinctly—besides the creaking of the " Stag " outside, some stealthy movement in her room ; and then a chair grated on the tiled floor, as if the thing- had run up against it. This was too mlTch ; to sprhig up, throw on jacket and skirt, and fly to Martin's door, was the work of a moment; then, fearing to defy absolutely whatever prowled in her room, she shouted, " There is an animal in my room! wake up, and come." A hind is always sentry over a herd of deer; is the master stag as amioyed as mankind usually are at an alarm given in the middle of the night by the weaker sext Martin at any rate was very cross, and Marjory had found her matches, lit the candle, and discovered—nothing, before he emerged half dressed and incredulous. "Is it the ghost of Sir Espaigne de Leon, or Count Gaston's famiUar, or a rat, that has frightened you ? " he The Attempt. 3G3 asked: " the rat I hear myself." In truth, a great scratch- ing and scrabbling, as of a giant rat, was heard in the next room, and though they sought in vain for a rat hole or hiding-place, Marjory began to be much ashanied of herself; and Martin, with many sarcasms, was just return- ing to his room, when both happened to glance at the inner door opposite his, and saw that all the tow round the edges had fallen out. That door had been opened since evening. A further examination of the staple showed that it ran under a catch, which yielded to the slightest pressure, so that the door, certainly locked noAV on the other side, could not be secured at all on the side of their apartment. They looked at each other in amused consternation. " You are responsible; you know all about it," said Martin: " wliat is the correct thing to do in a robber inn of the olden times ? " " You sit up all night, with your weapons before you, straining eye and ear." " Of course you went about armed in those days,— arms offensive and defensive. What is the use of sitting up all night with an umbrella ? This inn is a wretched anachronism, ^larjory, and I Avish we were well out (jf it; but stay awake I neither can nor will, nor should you, but I will arrange it so that he shall have to ring a bell when next he comes." No sooner said than done; the tin hot-water jug was poised on the lock, so that opening the door would be sure to make it tumble Avith a grand clatter into the basin placed on the floor; and then the travellers, whose nerves were braced by their wanderings, resumed their sleep, which lasted till morning. Then they examined the smart maid, who denied that there was a rat in the house, but only shook her head with gloomy intelligence on hear- ing their story—"■Non," she said, " <^e ne sont pas des rats." They next went into the room into which the suspected door opened,—it was a big, dusty, empty, slmt-up salon. No one had been there the night before, said the damsel, and no light was thrown upon the matter, except that it Avas very easy to open Marjory's door from that side. Perhaps some evil lounger at the diligence office came after the change for the bank-note—perhaps the inn Avas haunted—perhaps it was a robber den; but they never found out more, thcnigh they passed another night there under the protection of their tin battery, and early 3G4 The Attempt. tlie following morning drove off, nothing loath, from Froissart's Inn. And though IMarjory's delight in hunting up places of historical interest did not diminish, she did not again urge risking their comfort on such very old testimonials. But so it often is ; we seek out some place that to us is a shrine, consecrated by a splendid association, half- forgetting, when we reach it, that it has led its own perhaps sordid life for centuries, and that in the little Avorld round it all that gives it interest to us is past and forgotten. The " peasant who whets his scythe on Runy- mede" thinks only of the crop, and convicts have for many years picked oakum in the great hall of the knights at Mont St, Michel. Marjory was, however, consoled that very day by coming in for as bright a little picture of the France of olden times as can perhaps be found. Who, as the driver of the diligence said, has not heard of the Fair at Uax? who did not know that this was the third and merriest day, the day of the '^Courses aux taureanx piirement J^cmdoisJ' where neither horses, bulls, nor men are tormented or slain; but where the jeunesse may show forth great feats of skill and daring. The road grew gay and crowded as they approached Dax; here a cart, drawn by bullocks, their heads a mass of waving fern, was filled by peasants gay in their Sunday suits; here a prosperous farmer caracoled along on his active pony, with red berret and sash, his wife alongside mounted also, and astride, reining in her pretty little horse with ease and grace. Then a humble group mounted on donkeys, the donkeys themselves often wearing old trousers on their fore-legs as a protection against the flies, Avhich gave them a marvellously human and disreputable appearance. So before reaching Dax our travellers had quite entered into the humours ofihefete, and were delighted withthegay and crowded aspect of the cheerful old town. In the centre of the little place or square there is a pool of perpetually boiling Avater some twenty feet square. Round it are troughs where washerwomen toil and chatter, and further back bath-houses, where since the time of the Romans invalids have bathed, often emerging wonderfully spotted and disfigured from the chemical properties of the spring. The fair was held beneath the large trees between the river and the old Roman Amphitheatre noAv used as a bull- ring. There were all sorts of booths, ordinary and extra- The Attempt. 36t> ordinary ; among the latter was a small theatre, where a sort of Bible mystery was announced for the evening, and a good many angels belonging to it, big and little, male and female, in white or blue robes, with coronets and wings, promenaded about, to promote apparently the sale of tickets. ]\Iar]'ory and Martin, with the rest of the crowd, found themselves gravitating towards the circle or bull- ring, Avliere they secured good seats. The scene was very pretty: Moorish decorations and flags, some with virtuous mottoes in praise of industry, decorated the great circle, which was so crowded there seemed scarcely i-oom for another person. Thousands of well-dressed peasants and respectable hourgeoisie sat rourd,—few real grandees, and no rabble. Though the blue sky was cloudless above, most of the arena was shaded by the large trees that grew close outside. It was certainly too crowded for comfort, but in the open air and shade one can endure a great deal. About twenty peasants in their usual smart costume, a little brightened in colours, and worn more coquettishly than usual, occupied the arena, and to them entered bull No. 1. A long rope was tied to his horns, and a man he never seemed to think of running at, ran or was dragged at the other end. This rope was a check on the bull at dangerous moments, though of course it could not absolutely prevent a catastrophe. The peasants by turns excited and defied the bull, who dashed at them, and the point was to let him come as near as possible before in the least avoiding him. Some did so by a turn of the waist only, some jumped over his head, some would stand on their caps to receive his charge, and avoid him by a dexterous twist; audit was marvellous how they escaped. As soon as a bull was at all tired, he was lured back to his stable by a master ox, who seemed quite official, and to know all about it; and another took his place to the nxunber of twelve, two or three being cows, at least as wild anddashing, though not so obstinate, as their brothers. No bulls were hurt, but some were cowardly, and glad to get in from a storm of hisses; Avhile others objected to going away, and broke out again and again to charge with more fury than ever. Several men were slightly touched by the bull's horns, and had their clotlies torn. One was tossed, happily not with violence ; but no one was seriously hurt, and it was all fun for the bulls. The three bulls Avho had worked best {truvailU le ndeux) were brought at the end to tlie president of the sports, a gaily- 3()6 The Attemjjt.

bedizened official, to be crowned. He eyidently did not like this office, as these were the fiercest bulls, dragged with great difficulty, but with much serious desire that they should be properly croAvned, towards his seat. After a good deal of anxious consultation upon the difficulty, the crowns of flowers were at last passed through the ropes, fastened on the horns of the victors, and then jerked carefully and gradually doAvn on their heads amid the applause of the multitude. The first prize was so gallant and fleet that Marjory only hoped he would not one day leave his life in some bloody Spanish arena. The men, who made points as in the game of curling, received more substantial prizes of rouleaux of francs, and the people began to stream out of the amphitheatre in high good- humour at the sport, which, if it had not the excitement and glitter of a bull-fight, had nothing of its sickening cruelty and bloodshed. The Hotel de Commerce at Dax, though you enter it through the kitchen, in which a staircase leads to the upper rooms, is an excellent little inn ; and as the antiqui- ties of Dax or De Aquis are mostly Roman, the hostess has no doubt that it dates back to the days of the Romans, though she is uncertain if it is quite as old as Froissart's time. But Marjory no longer considers this any great disadvantage, as she now believes an inn may be too old as well as too new. For the rest, should any of our readers ever find themselves in the toAvn and the inn described, let them look to the bolts, for they may chance to visit both, although ]\Iontant is not the name the town has on tha map, and the sign of the inn is not the " Golden Stag." E.J.O. (Cojicluded.) The Attempt. 367

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

MEMOIRS OP SARA COLERIDGE,

THE liistory of our own time is like a great picture, of which parts are left merely in outline, roughly sketched in, till by degrees, one by one, these episodes are filled up, the faces look forth distinctly from the canvas, and the details are complete. This comparison suggests itself as years pass on, and famous men leave us. Their nam.es perhaps were known to us formerly; but now we are admitted into closer intimacy, and learn the charac- ters, the very thoughts and feelings, of those who have left their mark on the age. The life of Sara Coleridge may be considered somewhat in this light, as tilling up our knowledge of a gifted family and circle. Probably most of us have been occupied of late with these Memoirs, and have been charmed with the portrait of the graceful girl maturing into the pensive widow of later years. It may be interest- ing to consider what impression has been made upon iis. It is a disappointment to learn so little that is new of the choice spirits who found a home by the English Lakes something like seventy years ago. True, the little Sara was brought up at the feet of her father, her uncle Southey, and Wordsworth, their friend and neighbour. But the fragment of autobiography breaks off when she was still quite a child; and she seems to have seen little of her father in after life, though she cherished the most devoted love and admiration for him. She inherited a large share of his genius, softened and made feminine (just as Schubert is said to represent the feminine side of Beethoven). She has his keen and incisive power of criticism, his fearless soaring into regions of abstruse speculation, and much of his charm of expression and delicate ear for language. Had she written more poetry, she would, I think, have taken a high place. It is re- freshing to read her opinions on poets of the present day, and to see how she insists on beauty of language and rhythm as well as original power ; while yet her very admir- able critique on Keats shoAvs that no mere gifts of expression 368 The Attempt. conld tempt her to forget the higher duty of a poet. Indeed, she excels above all in criticism. With clear insight she seizes upon the very heart of the position, and in several instances, such as her remarks on Ruskin, she has seen by intuition what the world has taken years to discover. She had, indeed, every right to a fine power of literary insight, her mind having apparently been formed by inter- course with her father's writings and with Woi-dsworth's society. She continually speaks of all she owes to the latter; and what he thought of her may be gathered from his beautiful lines in the Triad. There is a lette»" to Professor Reed, of Philadelphia, near the close of th- second volume, in which she gives a very interesting sketcj of him, and happily compares his conversation, beside that of Coleridge, as Latin to Greek. It is curious that her estimate of Dante differs much from that usually formed by people qualified to judge. She thought the Divina Commedia the least attractivcf of all the great poems of the world. But then she Avas repelled by its materialism, one of the subjectt» on which she is most earnest being the entirely spiri- tual nature of a future state. In spite of her excep- tional advantages, I cannot help thinking she loses herself in the realms of speculative theology; there is a want of depth, of repose; and we follow her through pages of eager special pleading without feeling convinced. The Attempt. 369

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF CHARLES XIL

TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH. CHAPTER III. Quiet and industrious as usual, Anna sat the same evening in her little room in the organist's dwelling near Salem Church. How actively the little foot moved, and how quickly the wheel turned! Yet it was easy to perceive that other thoughts occupied her mind. '• Another evening passed, and he has not come," she whispered, and a half-smothered sigh escaped her. "He is not coming, the wicked man I and yet he did promise it so faithfully. But perhaps I am wrong,' she con- tinued, after a short j^ause. " On Monday he was here, and promised to come back on Thursday. Wait I Ah, dear me I this is only Wednesday, and I have mis- counted the days. How slowly time passes ! So sadly, so sadly ! But he is sure to come to-morrow," and with increased vigour she began to turn her wheel. At the same moment there was a knock at the door. " That is he," she cried, joyfully, and with nimble steps she sprang to open it. But it was not he whom she had expected. It was Pastor CoUinius, who, true to his promise, had, immediately upon his return from the capital, hastened to the young girl. " A thousand times welcome," stammered Anna, and raised his hand to her lips. " Good evening I" answered the clergyman, and stept into the inner room, where he seated himself in a well- cushioned arm-chair, and looked earnestly at the girl, who, without knowing why, reddened, and cast down her eyes. A minute passed in continued silence, which Anna broke at last by asking if the pastor would like to speak with her mother ; because if so, she would wake her. "It is not necessary, my child," he answered, and passed his hand thoughtfully over his brow. " Anna," he continued kindly, " do you still trust me as formerly ?" " Ah I always, always !" " I prepared you for the Lord's Table," he went on. '■ I have loved you as a father loves his child, and surely you will not give your teacher pain: is it not so?" DECESIBEr. 1874. " B 370 Ue Attempt

Never, but tell me- "Sit down beside me and I will explain it all to you. Only answer me uprightly and without evasion, distinctly and clearly. Is your heart free i" The girl looked up to him imploringly at this fatherly question. " Are you in love with some one ? yes or no ? " '• Yes," stammered she. " And with whom ? Tell me all, and fear nothing. Where and how did you meet the friend of your heart f "It Avas last year, soon after midsummer," answered the girl, Avith'faltering voice. " I had gone into the Avood to gather strawberries, and "' " Go on." '• As I stood near a fallen fir-tree Avhich had been struck by lightning, I observed a young man AVIIO AA'as sitting upon its stem, apparently in deep thoiight. Alarmed at snch an nnexpccted meeting, I Avas turning back, Avhen he suddenly rose, hastened after me, and detained me." " Do not fear, my good child," he said in a voice so mild and kind that it Avent to my inmost heart; "do not go away; and pray, let me hwj those straAvberries that you have in your basket." 1 gave them to him, and then he began to ask me questions about various things. He asked me hoAV old I Avas, if my parents Avere alive ; and at last told me that he Avas in the young king's service. When Ave parted, he wished to give me a silver daler for the strawberries." " And afterAvards f " After that Ave met repeatedly. He came here and spoke to my mother." '• He said at last that he loved yoii—was it not so f "Ah, yes!" " And do you not love him in return ?" A half-smothered sigh Avas the answer. " And do you know AA^ho he is, poor girl ? He deceived you Avhen he said that he Avas in the king's service." " DeceiA^ed me I Oh no ! he cannot deceive !" " Then hear the truth I He Avhom yon love, and Avho, as you say, loves you in return, is not, as you think, a man of no consequence, whose Avife you might become,— he is the king I" " The king?" cried Anna, and the crimson on her cheeks changed to the Avhiteness of the lily; " it cannot be I " The. Attempt. 371

'• It is as I tell you," answered Collinius, earnestly. " Ah. then it is all over!" " It is all over, and must remain so. Or do you believe that such a mighty prince as he is could give a poor girl his heart I " " Ah, yes I I believe it, I am certain of it I " cried the girl, and her eyes flashed fire. " He loves me ; he has told me so a thousand times." " Do you really believe that he will make you his wife ? " " He has sworn it to me. ' Remain true to me,' he has often said; ' and if the whole world should say no, in spite of that you sliall be my bride.' All, much that he said to me, and that I could not understand then, I now see." " On the vows of youth one cannot depend with con- fidence, at least upon those of the great," warned Colhnius; " but even if it were so,—and I will speak openly to you— there is ground to believe that it is so, and of how much misery you would be the cause. I do not laugh at your dreams, child; I know that they may by realized, for everyone knows that what the king icills, will take place. No, I speak to you only as a father to his child: you are not born to wear a sceptre or a crowai. The king would be hated by the nobles if he so far forgot himself; strife and discord would arise, and all for your sake." '• Oh my God ! " " You say that you love him ? Prove it then; break ofi" any connection you have with him, for it can only bring him pain." "What shall I dor' " Bestow your hand upon another." " Upon another I never I Shall I break the oath that 1 have sworn to him I love i " " Only in that Avay can you save yourself and him. If you are free, he will fulfil what he is resolved upon ; if you are the wife of another, he will reward forgetfulness with forgetfulness." " And his love will change into contempt ? " " Yes, Anna, this is the only way to happiness. It is a hard trial for you, but Avith God's help you will overcome it. Anna, my child, attend to my counsel; it comes from a father's heart,—give him up." The young girl covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly. 372 The Attempt.

" Yes, weep, weep," said Cohinius, with trembling voice; " tears are balm to tlie wounded heart; but do not forget that God is good, and that He will strengthen you in tliis hard struggle I " After a time Anna raised her tearful eyes. "Father! for so you have given me leave to call you," whispered the girl, with quivering lips, " I am ready; command and 1 obey. But," she continued, her grief bursting forth anew, " do Avith me what you will, but never ask me to belong to another. I can give my heart but once." " Neither shall you give your heart," said the pastor consolingly ; " only in the eyes of the world shall you be the wife of another,—nothing more. He to whom you shall give yourself only asks for your hand to save you from danger and misery, and does iiot desire the love of a bride. Will you not under these conditions give your consent i " '' Who is it ? " asked Anna, softly. " I," answered Collinius. and a tear was trembling in his eye. " Are you afraid to share the old man's solitude, and, like a good daughter, to cheer his old age ? I am in want of a kind hand to smoothe the wrinkles from my forehead, and of one who will give a mother's love to my motherless child. She, like you, is called AnnaJ With me you shall lind peace. You are unhappy, and in want of a friend to whom you can open your loving heart. With me you may dream of the happy days of your love; yes, we shall often speak of them together. Be mine ; it is for your own sake I ask you." Anna listlessly bent her head towards the speaker, " God's blessing be with you, father ! " she said, her voice faltering. " Yes, I Avill be your — your beloved daughter I " •' Tliat is right," answered Collinius. and he imprinted a fatherly kiss on her pale forehead. " On Sunday next the banns Avill be proclaimed for the first, the second, and the third time, and on the same day you and your mother will come with me. To-morrow I shall come back and tell her all. And now, good-night, my own Anna." Left alone, the maiden stood motionless for some time, and a tear, the last one, slowly trickled over her cheek,—it came from a broken heart. The Attempt. 373

CHAPTER IV. AT an open window in Palace AVrangel, which served as a royal dwelling Avhilc the building of the new castle was going on, stood Sweden's young sovereign, King Charles. His clear blue eyes were thoughtfully fixed upon the slightly agitated Avaters of Lake Miilar and the glorious view before him, when a page stepped in and announced Count Piper. " He is welcome," said Charles, hastily, throwing him- self into an arm-chair. Piper entered, approaching slowly. " Let me be free from that to-day," said the king, smil- ing, and pointing to a ])arcel of papers under the count's arm; " there will be time to-mcn-row. To-day I intend to hunt." Piper bowed. " The day after to-morrow I shall go to Kongsohr," Charles began again, " and I shall remain there a week. You will go with me." " Will your majesty grant me leave of absence ? Most submissively 1 ask for it." " Willingly. Where are you going ? " " Not far from the capital, your majesty. I have promised to attend a marriage." "Eh, eh!" said the king, nodding kindly; "and who are the happy couple T' " Pastor Collinius of Salem,—a man for whom I feel true friendship and esteem," answered Piper, attentively watching his master. " He is going to marry a young girl—very beautiful, so they tell me—a poor organist's daughter. ' Fair Anna ' they call her." Violently the blood was rushing into the king's face as he sprang from his seat. " Anna?" he cried, indignantly, stamping upon the floor; " you lie. Piper!" The courtier looked displeased. " Your majesty is joking," he said, after a moment's pause. "Anna! Anna!" cried Charles anew, and he struck his clenched fist against his forehead. " Is it possible she could deceive me ''. " "I do not understand, my illustrious master, how such a small thing can excite you to such a degree, but I assure you upon my honour that it is all true." " Do you know how this marriage came about ? " said the king with forced composure. " Let us hear, let us hear !" 374 The Aftfimpf.

"Willingly, your majesty," answered Piper, " AY hat I know is soon told. The marriage is to take place next Sunday, and " " Does he love her ? " " Collinius is at the age when love is extinct, but to judge from what I have heard from his own lips, he has a true afiection for the girl."' " And she—does she love him? " " The old man has saved some money, and she is poor, —why not ? " The young king pressed his hand firmly to his head, and stood for some time in thoughtful silence. He then approached the window, and dreAv a lock of golden hair from his breast. For a moment he regarded it with melancholy looks, but his face soon darkened again, and contemptuously he threw it to the winds. " They are all alike !" he murmured in a hollow voice, " fickle, false, and fliithless; love upon their lips, and lying and deceit in their hearts I—farewell, Piper I" he continued, turning towards the favourite. " Welcome back to Kongsohr." Piper gave the king another searching glance, bowed, and hastened away. " The game is ours," said he softly to himself " God be praised that all is over. I did not do it willingly, but —once again God be praised that my plan succeeded! " The young king stood alone watching the lock of hair, which was floating lightly, a plaything for the Avinds, until suddenly it sunk down into the sparkling waters of Lake Malar. " All is over," whispered he sorrowfully.

CHAPTER V. A YEAR had passed away I Many snowflakes had covered the earth, and many spring suns had risen in splendour over them. Borne upon the wings of glory, Charles' name had flashed through the world. But among the laurels with Avhich he had encircled his head, many painful thorns had crept in, and the ever-capricious goddess of fortune, his faithful friend in the beginning of his career, had now forsaken him. Retm-ned from 'J'urkey, where he had taken refuge alter the battle of Pultava—■ Avliere the great Peter so gloriously aA-enged his enemy's victory at Narva—he had hardly reached his home Avhen he plunged into new wars. He Avas now besieging TIte Attempt. 375

Fredrickshall, dreaming of revenge upon a faithless neighbour and of renewed honour for himself. It was the 30th of November 1718. In an inner room of the house which he was occupying during the siege, Charles stood before a table, which was covered with maps and plans, and not far from him stood General Schwerin. "You mean to say, then," Charles said, angrily, "that Megi-et will keep his promise, and that in eight days we shall be masters of the fcirtress ? " ." I am quite certain of it.'' " In a few moments I shall ride down to inspect every- thing." " Your Majesty's presence always excites the workmen to redouble their zeal." "Have you anything else to say?" " According to your gracious command I have brought with me the young man who distinguished liimself so much at the takmg of Gyldenlove." " Very well, let him come in. God be with you, Schwerin." The general bowed and departed, and, shortly after, a fair and curly-haired youth was ushered into the apart- ment, and regarded the hero with shy and bashful looks as he came up to him. " You have behaved bravely, I hear," said the king; " you were the first at the taking of the bulwark, were you not?" " Yes, your majesty." " Only continue thus, and you will get on in time. How old are you ? " "Seventeen." •'Your name?" " Erick .Johansson, from the parish of Salem." "Salem !" cried the king, and threw a piercing glance upon the youth. " Do you know, then, Pastor Colli- nius?" " He is my adopted father." "Is he still alive?" " Yes. your majesty," answered the youth. "And his wife, your adopted mother?" " Yes, God be praised I I am the child of a poor pea- sant, your Majesty, and I owe them everything." " Do you love her?" " More than my life I She is so good, so gentle, such 376 The Atlempf.

a true angel. Without her, I, a poor motherless and fatherless child, should have perished." '' But yet you have left her?" "I was obliged,—the conscription required it," stammered he. " Yes, 1 know; young and old, all had to join in this unhappy war." The youth looked at the king in astonishment; it seemed as though he could not believe such words could be uttered by the war-loving hero. '• You are wondering, maybe," said the king, with a sad smile, " at what 1 said just now. Yes, yes; I know that at home you all think I love war and hate peace; but you err. Even I have become tired, even I long for peace. But not before I have proved that it is not from weakness that I yield. And better times may come I" And he looked thoughtfully before him. A moment after the king drew himself up to his full height, and approaching the young man, " You are free from military service," said he, hastily; " to-morrow you may return home." " Your Majesty!" " Such is my will," continued Charles, earnestly. " Honour your mother—love her," he repeated, with a faltering voice; " and now itirewell." The youth bowed and turned to go away, when the king beckoned him back. "Are your adopted parents poor?" " Yes, your ]\Iajesty; war and bad harvests " "Very Avell, take this," and Charles slipped a heavy purse into the young man's hand. " Hasten homewards, exchange the sword for the book; there is still time." With tearful eyes Erick bent his knee bef ire the noble donor; but he, with a short " I do not like that," pushed him into the open air, seized his hat, threw himself upon a horse which was waiting for him outside, and galloped away from the headquarters.

CHAPTER VI. IT was evening, and darkness was already cov^ering the landscape as with a veil. Only from the outworks of the besieged fortress there shone a hideous light, which was produced by a number of pitch-wreaths and the con- stant firing of artillery. In spite of this, however, the work of the besiegers was progressing with undiminished etrength. During the whole afternoon the king had Tlie Attempt. ?>11 cheered his men by word and deed to persevere in their endeavours; but a feeling of weariness and sadness had suddenly taken possession of his soul. He drew his cloak closer around him, and, leaning against the parapet, was soon lost in deep thoughts. The days of his youth, as it were, seemed to pass before his half-closed eyes. A quiet smile stole over his lips, as he remembered his hrst, his only love, and the happy days he then had spent. He again beheld the organist's little house in Salem, where he had so often been happy. Gently he laid his hand upon his forehead, as if to fix there these sweet images. And, lo ! they did not fly! Sweet and beautiful, nay, even more beautiful than ever, he fancied he saw Anna floating towards him. "I was not faithless!" she seemed with mild reproaehfulness to whisper to him; and these words found an echo in his breast. A feeling of joy came OA^er his soul, and his heart beat with redoubled strength. He wished to draAv her to him, when she seemed to turn to him smilingly—and to whisper, "Come!" Shivering with cold, Charles arose; but at that moment a shot was fired. Charles turned pale and sank back. He was dead. The warrior slept his last sleep as he dreamed the rosy dream of love. CONCLUSIOX. SEVERAL months after, a young man was walking quickly along the road that leads from Botkyrka to Salem. It was Erick Johansson, who was returning to his beloved home. Spring had not yet unfolded its golden wings, but the snow was melted, and here and there a budding anemone showed itself. The sun stood high in the clear heavens, and the woods resounded with the joyous songs of the birds. When the youth had reached the church, he stood still for an instant, and, wiping away the perspiration from his brow, he gazed upon the scene before him. The light in his eyes showed clearly that it Avas well known and dear to him. Accelerating his steps, he hastened on to- wards the pleasant-looking dwelling close by. He had soon reached it. With a cautious hand he opened tho door of his adopted mother's room, and stepped in. Everything in it was as formerly; the pots with frag- rant mignonette Avere still standing on the AvindoAV-sill, and the time-piece was in its old place by the stove,

DECEMBER 1874. " *-" 378 The Attempt. ticking as regularly as ever. But the youth looked in vain for her whom he loved ; she was not there. A cry of surprise sounded at this moment behind him ; he turned round hastily, and fell joyfully into the out- stretched arms of his adopted father. Age had blanched Collinius's hair, and the ploughshare of sorrow had furrowed his brow, but the same expres- sion of peace still reigned as formerly upon his pious countenance. " AVelcome home, dear son," said the old man as he folded the wanderer once more to his breast. " You look at me so wonderingly," he began anew; " perhaps you think me altered?" " I have no other feelings but those of joy at meeting again." " I have been expecting you for a long time,—I almost began to despair." " A gun-wound which I received the same evening as that upon which the king was shot, prevented my return- ing; but you must know about it already, for I wrote as soon as I could hold the pen. But where is my mother ? " CoUinius was silent. " You do not answer me. Why do you not take me to her ? " And still the old man continued silent, and a tear rolled doAvn his cheek. " Speak, father !" cried Erick, anxiously; "speak, and torture me no longer. Speak out; I have experienced grief before; do not fear on that score. Is she ill'? is slie " At these words his voice failed him. " Is she dead? Yes ; I see by your look it is so. My God, my God !" "She died in my arms, invoking Heaven's blessing upon all," said the old man, with a broken voice. "Dead, dead !" continued the youth sadly, " and I shall never see her again, never press a farewell kiss upon her lips, never thank her for all the kindness and affection she bestowed upon the poor forsaken one. Dead I—she, so good, so mild. Ah ! it is dreadful." " The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away." said Collinius, folding his hands reverently and raising his eyes towards heaven. Overcome with grief, the young man bowed his head. " When did she die ? " whispered he at last. " The same day as King Charles," answered the old man significantly; " the 30th of November." HELEXE MiJLLER. The Attempt.

^t ^t^Btt of nc (£r(c's gocljtcr. " Oh I my love he is winsome and fair to see, As he rides through the wide woodland dun; Boasts the Border broad not a statelier knight. Or a sword that hath more honour won; But —false is my love as the wild winds that blow, And cold is his heart as the feathery snow That drifts fathoms deep in the hollows so low Of the dark hills that shut out the sun. He wooed me, my love, when the red leaves were dead, And he wooed me when primroses smiled, Till my heart was all his, and my lone life was filled With a passionate dream, sweet and wild. But the stem Earl's daughter she brooketh no wrong. And deep though her love be, her vengeance is strong; i^'or vengeance and hate to her proud race belong. And her dead father lives iu his child! My love kissed the fringe trembling dark o'er mine eyes. And he praised the blue sheen of my hair; But deep iu the dell lives a snow-blossom maid— Ah! he knows not I saw him steal there ! He dreams not I heard him breathe low in her ear The often-told tab that to mine was so dear ; And little he thinks that this heart then beat near With the hot throb of sudden despair. He heard but the song of the brook as it rushed O'er its green mossy bed to the sea, And the whispering hum of the leaves overhead,— Not the wail of my deep agony. Oh! I love him^l love him, this false love of mine, With a love that will last till the worlds' decline ; But revenge is the birthright of our waning line, And true to that line must I be! My father's red dagger is cold and is keen I— It gleams in the ghostly star-light!— It shines in my dreams when the moon rideth high— Oh ! the moon will ride high to-night! And my love he will come at the wonted hour. When the lone warder watcheth the darkling tower, And my sweet mother prays in her saintly bower, He will come with his smile so bright. 380 The Attempt.

He will come through the wood when the day is gone, And the gloom lieth deep in the glen, When the glow-worm gleams in the dank, rotting grass, And the 'wild'ring lights flit o'er the fen; He will come to the linden he knoweth so well, Where the soft words were whispered that thrilled as they fell— Oh! the boughs, though they murmur no secrets can tell, And there will I wait for him then I" He sang as he crushed down the slow-dying leaves. O'er the shadow-dimmed path that lay strown, He laughed as the hollow Avind fitfully Availed Round the tree where she Avaited alone. With his false tongue attuned to a gay greeting fair He stretched his strong arm swift to clasp her close there; But a dagger flashed keen through the deep moonlit air, And he fell Avith a shivering groan! Oh ! the sun shineth gay on the woodland dun, And the brook runneth on to the sea, But when the stars rise, glides a maiden distraught To the gaunt linden shudderiiigly, LoAV moaning, "I loA'ed thee, oh dead love of mine! But rcA^enge is the heritage dear to our line, And close round my heart did its dread fibres tAvine, So—thy blood stained the dark trysting-tree I" MELEXSA.

Ilcrpiit llesearchr.^ in |loman gistorg.

PART II.—THE CONSTITUTION, THE ARMV, AND THE KELIGION OF ANCIENT ROME.

In the constitution of early Rome, many things, at first sight, strike us as paradoxical, Avhich on closer A^iew are not so. Such is, for instance, the fatherly aspect assumed by the king towards tlie state, along Avitli the arbitrary poAver AA'hich he exercises at the same time. Such is the absolute power Avhich a father possesses thro^^gh life OA^er his son, as a son, in contradistinction to his complete poAverlessness as a felloAv-burgess. A Roman matron, on the death of her husband, was placed entirely under the The Attempt. 381 control of her nearest male relatives. Would not the pride and self-respect of a British matron have spurned such interference ? But in those early days of Home, the state was in the ascendant, and even virtuous human feelings were often checked as weeds, lest they should interfere with its growth. The king acted as judge, general of the army, aud at the same time as father of the state. So minute in its condescension was the juris- diction of the king, that not even a conflagration could be extinguished without his presence. The inflmcy of the state is here show^n by that want of confidence which prevents minor affairs from being entrusted to minor officials. The supremacy of the state is shown by the severity with which crimes against it were punished, w'hile offenders against private persons were treated with comparative mildness. No king was appointed unless chosen by his predecessor, whether rex or interrex. Acts of extraordinary powei-, which only occurred rarely, were generally discharged by the people ; while the daily duties of legislation remained the exclusive province of majesty. It would seem as if the Romans, from their love of exact- ness, would fain have kept the population of their city always, at least nominally, the same. In the early con- stitution, the people were divided into communities, wardships (curias), clans (gentes), and households. Ten households formed a clan, ten elans, or a hundred house- holds, a wardship ; and ten wardships, or a hundred clans, or a thousand households, formed the community. 'J'he state was composed of three such communities, so that the nominal population w-as 3000 fiimilies. Each hoi;se- hold had to furnish one foot-soldier to the army, each clan a horseman, and each curia a senator. The original army thus consisted of 3000 foot-soldiers and 300 horsemen, wdiile the Senate had 30 members. The reign of Tarquin effected changes in these matters. By raising many from plebeian to patrician rank, he increased largely the number of possessors of land, and paved the way for the Servian constitution. By the enactment of Servius, the Quirinal Hill, which had formerly been the site of an independent town, be- came incorporated with Home. The inhabitants of this hill, instead of forming a new tribe, were distributed among the three original tribes. They never ceased, however, to be regarded as in some measure distinct from the Romans proper. Another change was effected in 382 Tlie Attempt. favour of the clients, who had long existed in a dependent state, either separately in families or collectively as households. From a state of dependence and slavery, they were raised to a free condition, though unendowed with burgess rights. Thus arose the class of the plebeians. Highly favoured under the reigns of Tarquin and Servius, the plebeians, as soon as the latter king had closed his reign, became a prey to the jealousy and tyranny of the patricians. Deprived of political power, of a share in the public lands, and placed under severe laws with regard to debt, they had just reason to complain. More than two centuries had elapsed before they could regain any por- tion of the rights which were thus wrenched from them by the patricians; and not until the Licinian laws were passed, by which these grievances were redressed and tribunes appointed, did they settle down into any degree of peace or quietness. This constant claiming of redress on the part of the plebeians has caused them to be com- pared by Niebuhr to the Irish Roman Catholics between the years of 1792 and 1829. Perhaps, had a little more freedom and indulgence been at first granted to each, the grasping spirit might have been more kindly quelled, and less of civil dissension might have ensued. The spirit of the plebeians during their struggle is Avell expressed by the young Icilius in JMacaulay's ballad of Vh-ginia,—

" Now by your children's cradles, now by your fathers' graves, Be men to-day, Qukites, or be for ever slaves," etc. Under the Servian constitution, however, the plebeians continued to enjoy their neAvly-acquired advantages; and perhaps the very want of political rights, which alone dis- tinguished them from the burgesses, produced, along with the want of property, a corresponding release from anxiety and forethought. To the original Roman army, consisting of three legions, with one thousand men in each, Servius added twelve cen- turies. These were composed of five summonings from different classes of plebeians. These five classes, arranged in ranks and equipped in armour according to their landed property, have already been enumerated. The Roman army, with the addition of these centuries, consisted now of four legions, each numbering 4200 men; the whole thus inimbered 16,800. Every man between the ages of seventeen and sixty was bound to serve. Though this organisation was en- The Attempt. 383 tirely of a military character, yet it is evident that it must have been of great use in making the census, and also in determining the share which each individual should con- tribute to the taxes. Only the cavalry remained always in fighting condition. But of the character of the whole army we may judge from the account given by Cicero. " The Roman soldiers," he says, " carry witli them their food for more than a fortnight, besides all that they re- quire to strengthen them; and witli regard to their arms, they are not more incommoded by them than by their own hands." Whatever the Romans might borrow from Greece in other ways, the idea of their army was all their own. And it was the Roman legion, with its unflinching ranks, that was destined to awe the armies of Tarentum and Epirus, thiis washing in blood the insulted robe of Posthumius, and turning to weeping the scornful laughter of the Epirotes. This was the legion which the seer Capys saw in futurity, and thus described to Komulus with the voice of a prophet:— " Thine, Roman, is the pilum; Roman, the sword is thine ; The even trench, the bristling mound, The legion's ordered line ; And thine the wheels of triumph. Which, with their laurelled train, Move slowly up the shouting streets To Jove's eternal fane." Possessed of such a military organisation, backed by so high a degree of internal comfort, it is no matter of siu- prise that the Romans speedily carried their arms with success against neighbouring towns. Many of the towns on the north-east and north-west of the city were subdued at an early period; the maritime town of Ostia was com- pelled to abandon all political power; and the town of Alba, which had for years contested with Rome the sove- reignty of Latium, was also brought under the power of the conquering city. The legend of the three Alban and the three Roman brothers, at the battle which decided the fate of Alba, is supposed to have been founded on the existence of the three Roman tribes. In this period also occurs the battle of the Lake Regillus, fought for the pos- session of Gabii, where "the great Twin Brethren" arrived with timely relief, and ensured victory to Rome. The treatment by Rome of these vanquished cities was marked by a wise and generous policy. It differed as much from her treatment of fallen ioes in after ycar.« as the behaviour 384 The Attempt.

of the ancient Jews towards conquered enemies differed from that of the warhke forces around them. But it was a wise policy on the part of Rome, for the conquered towns were in the same province. If enslaved, they would rebel, and probably cause civil war; if conciliated, they would form able and useful allies. The foreign citizens were permitted to come and reside in Rome, though incapable of acquiring burgess rights there. This greatly increased the number of strangers or metoeci re- sident at Rome. One great part of the foundation of Rome's greatness abroad Avas her conciliatory conduct at home; and the alliance which, as a single town, she formed with a whole province, proved very favourable to the maintenance and increase of her dominion. To render the course of the external policy of Rome thus even and successful, it was necessary that the in- ternal administration should be guided by a firm hand. And we find that it is the case with the Romans, as with many other nations in their beginnings, that their justice is stern and inexorable. We look at their primitive legislation, as far as through the lapse of time we can view it, to obtain an index of the character and require- ments of the people whom it governed. It would be unwnse to judge of these, or indeed of any laws made for any people, by the absolute standard of moral right. The experience of crime or the sternness of the magis- trate demands what may seem undue severity: the extreme value placed upon property, with the com- paratively small value attached to human life, may equalize the punishments for breaches of the law re- garding both. Thus from the early laws of the Romans we are led to suppose that two leading principles among the people were, a regard for the state and a regard for property. Crimes against the state were held to be public offences; the trials for them were conducted in public : while oflf'ences against private individuals were privately jjunished. With regard to human life, the law was, as with the Jews, an eye for an eye; and the Romans, like the Jews, transferred this in many cases from the civil to the moral law, and acted accordingly. That the good name of a man was highly esteemed, however, we see from the punishment inflicted on the false witness. Such an offender was hurled from the Tarpeian rock ; while the incendiary and the harvest thief were re- spectively burned and hanged. Well might the poet llie Attemiyt. 385

Grahame have had his eye upon the judicial proceedings of the Eoinans when he exclaimed,—

" Relentless justice I with fate-furrowed brow .' Wherefore, to various crimes of various guilt, One penalty, the most severe, allot ? Let crimes less heinous, dooms less dreadful meet Than loss of life ! So said the law divine. That law beneficent, which mildly stretched To men forgotten and forlorn the hand Of restitution.'" To strangers and debtors the face of the law was pe- culiarly stern. The property of the former might be seized by any citizen ; and, under a system which allowed the insolvent debtor to be treated like a thief, lie was liable to be imprisoned at any time. It was this that roused the indignant feelings which find vent in the words used by Icilius in the same speech from Avhich we have already quoted :—• " Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers' bore ; Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore." Yet though stern in some instances, the Roman legislature was beneficent in the main. Well might Spain have blushed, when her deadly Inquisition was in force, at the knowledge that in primitive Rome it was forbidden to torture any free man. The laws Avere those of a people tar advanced in agriculture and in trade, and inspired with such exalted ideas of the civil dignity, that they would sacrifice individual freedom, all tliat was most valued by the citizen, rather than allow the state to suffer. The religious instinct with the Romans had at least one element of the true in it. Tliey desired to be under the constant protection of their deities. The state, each pursuit, each individual, possessed a tutelary divinity. Their religion was less grovelling than that of the Egyp- tians, less sublime than that of the Sabeans, less imaginative than that of the Greeks ; yet it bore more resemblance to the latter than to any other. Many of the deities bore Greek names Latinised, and were believed to perform the same offices in Rome that their cognomens did in Greece. The polytheism of the Greeks extended itself over all nature ; it gave the creations of the fancy a name and an abode. The Romans, with their excessive development of the practical faculty, suppressed all unnecessary flights of the imagination, and con- DECEMBEB 1874. '5 U 380 The Attempt. tented themselves with assigning to each individual a number of spirits who were to preside over all his actions, one being the presiding genius of one set of actions, another of another. At the death of the individual, their existence was supposed to cease. It is difficult to believe that spirits capable of directing the conduct of a human being were destroyed or annihilated, while their charge was destined to be immortal. For that the Ko- mans believed in the immortality of the soul needs not to be called in question, as their Elysium and Infernum bear witness to the fact. It is only with reference to the Jews, in wliom the religious element was more fully developed, that Voltaire and others have thought it worth while to question this belief. To the more devout among the Romans, their religion must have given mucli occupation., Besides invoking, in their due season. Mars, the God of War ; Janus, the God of Peace; Mercurius, the God of Traffic ; Manes, the God of Frugality and Specu- lation, and others, with the Penates, Silvani, Lares, and all the nameless and ephemeral deities of the hour, they had also to consult the augurs, and, by a well-judged statement of their circumstances, to induce those digni- taries to obtain, by their observations of the flight of birds, a favourable prophecy with regard to the fate of tlieir questioners. They would also be diligent in their attendance at the temple of each divinity ; and besides this multifarious worship, would contribute their quota towards the maintenance of the fire on the hearth of Vesta. This last was the most sacred, and the longest kept up, among the religious ceremonies of the Romans. It was a rite so identified with the safety and well-being of the state, that it is one of the precious objects which their wariors set themselves to guard with their arms:— " Charge for the hearth of Vesta ! charge for the golden shield !" We cannot better judge of the religion of the Romans than by comparing it with another. For this purpose let us take that of the Jews, Avhich Avas instituted in still earlier times. The great and appalling contrast between the monotheism of the one and the polytheism of the other is too self-evident to require mention. The great object sought by the Jews in their religion, Avas the glory of obedience to the Deity. The Romans, in the midst of all their offerings and religious labours, had it CA-er at heart to promote their oAvn present and future Tlie Attempt. 387 well-being. The Jews—though less imaginative in their religion than the Greeks—had such a reverence and firmness of confidence, as by their intensity, could not fail to quicken the imagination. Their aim in honouring the Deity Avas not, like that of the Romans, to delight them- selves in feasting, with mirth and music, but to honour the Supreme Being by a suitable sacrifice. A\'lien we look at the religion of the Romans, and see the monoto- nous repetition in its forms, the want of ideality in its teaching, and the indulgence practised on its holidays, we can but call it a religic^n of the hour, based on present necessity, and on expediency with regard to the future. Much as M. Mommsen deserves to be praised for his ingenuity and learning, we cannot but rebel against his statements with regard to early Italian art. It would require the assertion of more than one man to destroy our belief in the poetic faculty of the Italians. The Italians devoid of poetry by nature I The Italians a people destitute of the feelings Avhich prompt the fine arts 1 Their painting, poetry, sculpture—all the produc- tion of cold philosophic abstraction! Experience and feeling alike deny it. The belief in the high-souled imaginativeness of the Italians is our inheritance, which the pen and the chisel have bought and kept for us from age to age; and we cannot give it up even at the bidding of the most ♦clear-sighted man on earth. Niebuhr did not deny the existence of a whole library of ballad-lore in I-atium. He even proved the circumstances by which it must have been destroyed if committed to Avriting. M. Mommsen condescends to prove nothing on the subject. He merely declares that the Romans had no early poetry, as other nations had: that they honoured no god of poetry; that what they had of the poetical was derived by an impulse from Greece. We know that they adopted many of the Greek divinities, and of these the god of poetry was one. Apollo was the god of poetry to the Roman as well as to the Greek, just as Mars is the god of war, and as Jove is the supreme divinity to both. It is to be feared, that in yielding implicit confidence to M. Mommsen, we shall sharpen the intellect at the expense of the heart. Niebuhr, and Macaulay, who had faith in Niebuhr, are clear-sighted enough for us. They left to Rome its legendary lore, or at least a possibility that such had existed. If the dis- covery of some portion of this legendary lore, in some 388 The Attempt. obscure nook, were a thing of which even a shade of possibility might exist, the face of I\I. Mommsen, at the moment when this interesting fact was being communi- cated to him, Avould form a striking study for a painter. The Italians may have been wanting in due culture, in true religious principle, but we cannot believe them to have ever been devoid of imagination. Carlyle has justly remarked that historians may be divided as a class into artists and artisans. The artisan works mechanically at the period of history which it is his task to describe; the artist can view no era otherwise than as it bears some relation to the whole: he sees how time has brightened some parts, and cast others into the shade; hoAV the harmony of all is dependent on the true colouring of each portion, however minute ; how contrasts exhibit each other, and add to the brilliancy of the efiect. Xiebuhr and Mommsen are eminent historical artists, wlio stand forth conspicuous amid the herd of artisans. The outlines drawn by Niebuhr, though exact, are not so sternly minute as those of Mommsen. Both are impas- sioned, the one with the love of liberty, the other with the love of truth. I'ruth in history, as in painting, is much, but it is not all. We can excuse occasional indis- dinctness in a shady part of the drawing, provided the Avhole appeals to our moral sense and feeling. Mommsen brings everything to light; if he cannot' remove the shade, he draws forth objects in relief against it. The background of Roman history, filled formerly with legends, all the more charming because doubtful and indistinct, he covers with a grey cloud, upon which he draws minutely the outlines of his theories with regard to the population of Italy, the foundation of Rome, and its constitution, civil and military. These theories bear in some respects an exact resemblance to those of Niebuhr. In other respects they differ from, and are even superior to them. To M, Mommsen the praise is due, that his eye, though all along fixed on truth, has been unclouded by jealousy, or by the arrogant spirit of innovation. Tliroughout his work there is no combating the views of tliis or that historian, but merely a faithful and con- scientious statement of his own. To the men of the present day he imparts a personal interest in the histories of all peoples, by viewing these as separate cycles of civilisation, gradually progressing from east to west. Among the four civilised nations Avhom he mentions as The Attempt. 389 havang dwelt around the shores of the Mediterranean, the Romans held the fourth place in point of time; and by marking what they inherited and what they trans- mitted, we are able to rank them duly, and to form a faint estimate of what we owe to them. From the Pandects of Justinian, which contain the result of the perfection attained by the Roman law, much of the law at present in force in Scotland has been copied with exactness. But this and other instances are but rays in the flood of light which civilised Rome shed over the after-world. ^Vhen the curse came on man at first, the ground brought forth weeds, and labour was required to root them out. And since the ignorance and forgetfulness of men have for ages been encouraging the weeds of falsehood in their growth, the plant of truth has been well-nigh choked, A few individuals, more patient than the rest, have undertaken to extirpate the weeds, in some places at least, and to cultivate truth, which appears often but as a tender shoot beneath the mighty boughs on the trees of falsehood and tradition; yet it may be many years before that little shoot, being duly ministered to by soil, air, and light, shall have expanded into a mighty tree, able to nourish the nations with its fruit, and to shelter them with its grateful shade. PROCLA. {^Conclusion.~)

^twxt Refects in (Bttucalion. II.

IT may be remembered that in my last paper,* I attempted to draw the distinction between what I called the two factors in our education—education as including the acquisition of knowledge, and the culture of the faculties of the mind. The various schemes of education, affecting more or less both of these divisions, I do not now touch upon ; and again, as on the former occasion, it is a defect in education as concerned with the second of these two factors, the culture of the faculties, with Avhich we have to do: in other words, our education as affected by all the influences of life—as carried on by the mere fact of living. * Attempt, November 1S73. 390 The Attempt.

I then also spoke of my conception of the bearing exercised by the influences of life on our education, as a means of affording mental culture, and to this I shall not now return. How am I to name the defect I wish to allude to i There is no cut-and-dried term ready to be applied to it, and for the obvious reason that the defect is rarely recognised as being one at all. I can but grope in the dark for a suitable term, perhaps by hinting at its origin. It arises radically from the non-recognition of the impoi-t of the life-conduct of each human existence ; of the magni- tude of the possibilities which lie before each individual being. It is engendered by a want of self-consciousness ; of a consciousness of self as, to use the momentous words of Carlyle, "a centre of Infinity." Shall 1 take the liberty, if not of coining a word, yet of using a combination of two in a new and somewhat arbitrary significance? With this apology, perhaps I shall not go far wrong if I style the defect I speak of the defect of Self-Ohlivion. This term is at any rate capable of the construction I wish to put upon it. But it will require some explanation ; for, as it stands, it has a ring of doubtful significance. Let me premise, then, by indicating what 1 do not intend to advocate, in styling Self-Oblivion a defect. I do not wish to inculcate selfishness—a postponement of the welfare and interests of others to those of the individual. I do not wish to foster self-conceit—a belief in the superior claims and qualities of the individual to those of others. I do not wish to encourage self-consciousness — than which no more fatal enemy to individual peace of mind, unconstrained and unobtrusive demeanoiu", can exist. 1 do not wish to rear a race of what, in conventional language, are expressively denominated i^rlgs—beings whose very apjjearance shows their consciousness of self as a centre, not of Infinity, but of their social circle or sur- roundings of the moment. Instead of affording the slightest encouragement to such temperaments by anything I now write, it is, on the contrary, my aim to show that due recognition of the defect of Self- Ohlivion, as I proceed now to define it, would materially tend to diminish their present ranks. But of this later. First, then, let me repeat what formei-ly I tried to show—that as regards the culture of the mental faculties we are in the main passive. AVe are the recipients of outward influences. From the moment of birth we are exposed to the action of external circum- The Attempt. 391 stances. The manner of our reception of these external influences is acquired in youth ; rather, I should say, we begin in youth to receive them, consciously or uncon- sciously—the degree of consciousness varying in varying natures. But here lies the defect to which education should furnish the elements of a remedy. Here lies the defect of Self-Obllclon. The child receives no instruction as to the attitude he is to assume towards these outward bodiless existences called circumstances, meeting him on all sides, affecting his most trivial actions, pressing on him the necessity of being guided by them, or of resisting their importunity. We find, therefore, as the natural result, far more frequently than need be, that because the child—the young, plastic, impressionable mind—has received no hint of their significance in reference to his own individual mental attitude, and of the duty or obliga- tion of recognising the same ; when mature age is reached, he is found as unconscious as before. In short, I would define the defect of Self-Oblivion to mean, the want of a consciously assumed independent mental attitude towards any (or rather every) given circumstance, and the con- sequent want of a consciously responsible exercise of choice as to the course of action to be pursued. My aim in this paper is intensely practical. It is not the metaphysical—perhaps 1 should rather say scientific— aspect of the question which I have in mind. It is its influence on the life-conduct of every individual that I now think of. The daily decisions, the daily duties of life, are ail affected by the view Ave take of this question. I cannot, however, refrain from saying, that I believe it is chiefly, if not only, want of considera- tion, which gives birth to any variety of opinion in regard to it. No one questions the statement that, in a general way, we are affected by circumstances. No one, on the other hand, Avill dispute the fact that we ourselves are absolutely independent of, and separate from, our surrounding in- fluences; and, in ordinary parlance, we are held to be free agents, our actions influenced, but not absolutely generated or constrained by outward influences, alias circumstances. It is, however, one thing to accept these statements thoughtlessly and unquestioningly, and quite another to accept it as our duty to consider consciously first the precise bearing which certain circumstances ought to be permitted to exert upon our actions; and secondly to 392 The Attempt.

act in conformity with the result of our deliberations. I wish, then, to lay before you some reflections regard- ing our attitude in reference to outward influences or circumstances, and in Avhat way a due recognition of the true bearing of this attitude ought to affect our course of action. In what attitude then do we stand towards these external facts which we call circumstances ? Do Ave assume consciously any attitude at all'? Do we recog- nise that they are facts differing from and independent of us? Do we consciously recognise the fact of their separateness; of our individuality, apart from and inde- pendent of them ? Does our contact with outward influences find us conscious of the fact that they are acting upon us. that we are being acted upon by them ? That, if we follow their apparent guidance, one set of facts Anil result? That, if we defy them, something totally different will bo effected ? Do we, in short, on every occasion, consciously recognise that, in the common phrase, we are free agents f That Ave tnai/ resign our- selves to the guidance of external circumstances, folloAA^- ing blindly where they lead, like Avill-o'-the-wisp over the dark fields of the night, and finding, need I say hoAv often, that the goal of our journeyings is indeed the city of " WeissnichtAvo;" but that, though we do thus, Ave might have done otherwise. Had Ave paused and reflected, Ave might have descried a shining Arcadia Avhere the morning sun was rising to tinge the skirts of the dusky robe, laid by night over the dark fields,—AA^C might have recognised that our destiny lay trembling in the balance,— and yet Ave Avould not by one thought aA^ert the " fateful decree." And do Ave recognise the fact that, if indeed tliis last state of matters be the true one, the conseqvience stands that we are bound to face it consciously, and unshrinkingly to accept the responsibility it invoh^es ? These then are the two opposing attitudes that may be assumed towards external ilifluences. The one a verit- able abandonment of our identity, an apathetic laisser- aller; the other a conscious recognition of our individuality —a mental resolve as to Avhether Ave Avill or Avill not resign ourselve to external guidance. It is of course evident that the first of these attitudes is Avliat gives rise to the defect of Self-Ohlivion. Here I Avould further notice some A^arieties in the mental attitudes Avhich Ave may assume toAvards any given. The Attempt. 393 set of circumstances. Consciously to face the situation may show it to be our duty to defy their allurements, and choose a contrary path. But not less is room left for an act of conscious choice, even should the course which our conscience approves be both the easy and agreeable one. And again : consideration of any set of circumstances may show us that our path must not be one of action, but of simple agreement or sufferance. Here, too, I would argue, is conscious choice equally incumbent u})on us. If we neglect its exercise, we fall into the defect of which I write; for if we believe we are free agents, we have no excuse to forget that we are equally responsible for our actions, Avhether performed in defiance of circum- stances, or because the latter have afforded us a guid- ing clue. It is indeed specially in such cases as the last- mentioned that we are apt to abnegate our prerogative of conscious choice, and to run Avith the swift stream of circumstance; in cases of difficulty and doubt, con- science acts as watchful alarmist to arouse our slumbering sense of responsibility. This brings iis, in fine, to acknow- ledge that the ultimate test of all action is supplied by a personal consciousness of our responsibility. It Avill, then, be seen that the want of this sense of respon- sibility proceeds from the defect of Self-Oblivion, from non-recognition of the utter abyss between the individual and his circumstances. There is no doubt that the degree in which this fact is naturally recognised, varies in different temperaments. We find some always waging miniature warfare Avith these bodiless and yet very real antagonists, circumstances ; and others, who are barely aAvare of their influence at all, who are totally unconscious of hoAv fcAv and IIOAV small a proportion of their actions, perhaps, emanate from their OAvn unaided Avill, For I belicA^e that those AA'ho least recognise or admit that they are acted upon by cir- cumstances, are in reality the most subject to their sway. It is natural that those Avho do not consciously recognise their own separate individuality as opposed to surrounding circumstances—the only means to escape from the dominion of and subjection to cu-cumstances— should be found in the ranks of those Avho yield to their control Avithout a struggle. It is natural, either that we should not realise that in yielding to the guidance of circumstances we are abnegating the exercise of DECEMEER 1574. O lli 394 Tlie Attempt. our own will, or that the recognition should spur us on to assert that will. Let me then repeat, that it is the duty of education to lend her aid to counteract the defect I name Self-Oblivion. Not many years pass over the child, whose mind is ready and open to receive instruction, before he finds himself in so far his own master, that in one case or another the necessity of choice as to what he will do is laid upon him. Left to himself, he does not, too often, realise this freedom of choice; and unless some influence is exerted, some hints afforded him, he contracts the habit of gliding without reflection into the course of action the easiest, or involving the least mental effort. Were but a hint afforded him of the responsibility under which he lies to choose, to assert his own personality, the foundation would be laid of a life of independent action,—a consciousness of moral responsibility would be acquired, of which a glance only on the world around will reveal to us the too frequent absence. One restriction I would wish to lay on what I have said. In the responsibility of choice which I have spoken of, I do not intend in this place to insist on its necessity in reference to decisions of a great and important moral bearing. No one disputes our individual responsibility in such matters. Such call importunately for a conscious decision; and the voice of conscience will not be hushed. It is in regard to the trivial everyday occurrences of life that I would uphold the importance of a conscious exercise of choice. The very weight that is attached to our deliberations in questions of moment, degrades or throws into the background the value of the minor decisions of life. Yet the fact is tacitly and theoretic- ally admitted on all hands, that of these minor decisions is composed the sum of every life. To return for a moment to the objections that may be excited by the name I have attached to the defect spoken of,—Self-Oblivion. Selfishness, self-conceit, self- consciousness, are all phases in which the individual is exalted at the expense of the many. On the other hand, to remedy the defect of Self-Oblivion, a more distinct consciousness of self is required, that the individual actor may separate himself from surrounding circum- stances. Is, then, this intensified recognition of individual responsibility of a kind to minister to an undue con- ception of the importance of the individual ? Is a The Attempt. 395 serious consideration of what our action must be in certain circumstances likely to induce us deliberately to choose a selfish course of action ? Are we to believe that, in the majority of cases, the mental vision is so obscured that self-conceit will be fostered rather than suppressed by reflection and a serious attempt to choose the right? Can we credit the supposition, that, by a careful review of our situation, self-consciousness will be engendered, and not rather overthrown by the consider- ations which must of necessity on such an occasion be forced upon us ; considerations as to how our meditated action will affect others—their wishes, their prosperity,— and the objects and aims which it will further or hinder. Will it not rather prove a sure means of awakening us to the momentous interest of many questions to which we may lend our aid ? Tn fine, to these hypotheses I think the candid mind cannot refuse consent. The responsibility of choice is not one which can be consciously exercised without giving birtli to many serious, nay, overwhelming thoughts. It must raise in our minds many grave questions of duty,—of the various results we have in our power to bring about; of the magnitude of the ends which our conduct may thus help to forward, by decisions based on our appreciation of and adherence to what is good and noble ; and of the terrible import of a conscious decision for what is, I do not say base or evil, but merely inferior, secondary, unworthy, ignoble :— " Nay, falter not—'tis an assured good To seek the noblest. 'Tis your only good Now you have seen it; for that higher vision Poisons all meaner choice for evermore." NOLI-ME-TANGERE.

<3t%t |loi fst mort, mt \t ^oi."

THE KING is dead ! Long live the coming King! AVith glad acclaims the echoing heavens ring. Why should not we, with the rejoicing earth. Hail with a song the New Year's happy birth ? If the still rider on the pale, pale horse. Has ta'en some dear ones in the year's short course. J96 The Attempt.

Only whose memories are left behind, And hollow voices on the wintry Aviud,— To-day let no dim tear of sadness born Mar the fresh beauty of the New Year's morn, Bright with the hope that at its close will stand A happy, sisterly, unbroken band. Subject to gentle sway and tender rule. With all the pleasures and no pains of school. I sit half-envious, yet with loving jDride, That others share the gifts to me denied, And from their bountiful and varied lore 1 add fresh knowledge to my scanty store:— Still let me sing, although my rhyme be rude, A welcome to our little sisterhood! A blessed, bright, and bountiful New Year To each and all who monthly meet us here! Successes sure all our "Attempts" attend (And may our influence for good extend). And from the mouldering ashes of their flame. Spring. I'hoenix-like, and with a happier name, To hush dissentient voices which lolll vex Because some soul is found in our poor sex, And so employ our long and leisure days (With no desire for what the world calls praise); With our debates—too gentle for such name— They never stoop to feed an angry flame, But, in the realms of letters, science, art. Take now a friend's and now a foeman's part. AVe'U trust the many names we know so well, AYith countless others, may our pages swell. To Alpine peaks let happy travellers climb. And mount with ''E. ,]. C)." to heights sublime. Or listen while she speaks of Music's poAver In cialtured hall or peasant's lowly bower! Still on our charmed ears full oft let flow The clear and sweet-toned cadence of " DES EAUX." Let " R," whose lips have touched poetic fire, Still move our souls with her expressive lyre, And " JEAXIE ]\IORISOX"S" most varied skill, Weave verse or story at her " own sweet will." Let "PROCLA," from the page of Teuton rhyme, Call ghostly voices down the vales of time ; While "NAOMI" sweet Nature's praises sings. And to our gaze "MELENSA" vivid brings Bright pictures of some Avild and woodland nook. The Attempt. 397

Meandered o'er by many a winding brook : " LuTEA RESEDA" still soar on high AVitli thoughtful flights of grave philosophy : " FRUCARA," " DIDO," " ELFIE,"—all augment With graphic prose,—our page,—or sentiment; And other names too long to tell, I ween, Add fresher beauty to the changing scene. And thus 1 close the rough and halting lay Of one who signs herself here— MARTYX HAY.

NOTICES.

TETE Prize offered for the best Poem appearing in the August, September, or October number of The Attempt, has been awarded to JEANIE MORISON, for her poem entitled Leonor de Lisneros.

The Editors have to announce to their Readers, that on and after the 1st of January 1875, The Attempt, which has hitherto been printed for private circulation only, will be published by Messrs. MACLAREX & MACXIVEN, 138 Princes Street, Edinburgh, under the name of The Ladies Edinburgh Magazine. Every article intended for publication must in future be accompanied by the real name and address of the writer, sent in confidence to the Editors, not for publication, but as a guarantee of authenticity.

A PRIZE is offered for the best Prose Article appearing in the February number of The Ladies Edinburgh Magazim. All competitive articles must be sent to the Editors on or before the 4th of January. EOISBUROH : PRINTED BY COLSTON AND SON.