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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web atjhttp : //books . qooqle . com/ NYPL RESEARCH LIBRARIES II 3 3433 08166788 7 £- i i; Digitized by Google ,i Digitized by VjOOQlC Digitized by VjOOQlC Digitized by VjOOQlC Digitized by VjOOQ IC THE ST. JAMES'S MAGAZINE AND UNITED^EMPlRE-JtEVIEW. ...CAN//, x VOLUME x#Hr yftM JANUARY TO JUNK 18?7. LONDON: CHARING CROSS PUBLISHING COMPANY, LIMITED, 5, FRIAR STREET BROAinyAY, fc.O/ 1«77. ^^ Digitized^ d by Google ThLr V pur-:.;-.: Y:)HK CiiAP.Y 51350A a?to:\ i '"NO" and til" i- r •*" AVi i yji l/>KDON t rillMbl) BY THE CUAUINO CUOSS PUBLISHING COMPANY, LIMITED. 5, FRIA1I STHKLT, UUOADWAY, B.C. Digitized by VjOOQlC COS'TESTS OF rOLUMIi XXXI. Fkomktiiia. By Ellis J. Davis. Chap. 1 .— Introductory - 2.— In London - - 3. — Strange Events 4.— A Pursuit • . 5.— At Midnight- - 6. — An Introduction 7.— Promethia - - 8.— Tho Quarrel- - 9.— AKW,m« - 10. — More of the Doctor 11. — Advanced Science 12.— Some Lunatics - la-" I love thee" - 14. — Women's War - 15.— Down the Tunnel 16, 17— A Strange Dream 18. — " Thou art mine '* 19.— Tho Imago of Wax 20.—** It cannot be " 21.— Genesis - - - 22. — u I have no soul " 23.— A Mid-day Slumber 2 1.— The Doctor Triumphs 25.— Promethia' a Slumber 26. —The Doctor's Reasons 27. — An Interference on my Behalf- ■ Pauk 1 9 IB 20 119 124 133 138 145! 152 159 235 242 '249 257 351 359 368 376' 467 475 483| 490( 585; 597 607 Osi.r a MosioMaster. Aikio- Kortright. By Fanny Chap. 9— A Poor Wooer - - - 10. — Ithama'* First Love Letter .... 11. — The Power of Music 12.— Temple's Bachelor Uncle • - - - 13.— Hor.it ia 'm Love- - 1 4.-— Closer Acquaintance 39 14 47 51 2«K> 206 Paol Only a Music-Master- co,rfiH»i— cautiously. A cold air swept x^^m past me as I moved forward, but the place wa* in total dark^/^*"** ness. I had some matches in my pocket, and I struck qa^f %S^ By the light it afforded I made my way to the window a^l ;^y /^ opened the shutters, not taking the trouble to look at anytlnhg ~ * until the full light of day streamed into the room. It was a very large chamber. The shutters were not at all difficult to remove, and in another moment everything became illu- minated with the peculiar strong light which always seems to enter a long-closed and dark room when the day u first admitted Looking around me, my gaze first fell upon what I took for a corpse, but on close inspection I found to be only a wax model. It was a beautiful and perfect imitation of the human form, however, and evidenced the workmanship of a true artist. The form and face were those of a woman, and a very beau- tiful one. The model was completely naked, and lay on a sort of tressel table. I approached to examine it carefully ; for, to say the least, it was curious to find it there, and, for all I knew at the first moment, it might be real. I soon tested the substance. Whoever the artist was, he had not made a bad imitation of a human body. The person from whom he had taken his cast was evidently a very young and beautiful woman, fair and pure of skin. The veins were laid on in the VOL. 1. Digitized by (Google 1 8 5"/. James's Magazine. most wonderful manner, and it, was the perfection of their execution which had deceived or rather made me doubtful as to the reality of the substance. Her figure was about middle size, and the lower limbs were full and well-proportioned. The feet were especially small and delicate, and the toe-nails as natural as if they were real. The thighs had received no less attention from the artist than the rest of the body, and the swell of the virgin hips and fall of ths waist had been made quite a study, and a successful one. . Above rose the breasts, perfect and beautiful, moulded full and shapely like two marble towers, and the nipples were delicately tinted with a dead flesh tint, while every fold and crease in their soft structure was imitated with a marvellous precision. Over and round the breasts the blue veins spread and wound in and out, and shone from the softness of the flesh with the most perfect natural appearance ; and thence glancing at the fair and rounded neck and flie face, it was astonishing to find how wonderful the skill of the modelist must have been. The features were per- fectly regular, the nose rather prominent, the chin deeply dimpled and fully rounded into childlike grace and softness. The lips almost smiled as they closed together, and the fancy could half imagine the warm breath of life flowing gently from the rosy portals of some sweet-bosomed young woman. The cheeks had a healthy glow about them, and the forehead was fair and smooth, though in it, as in the lack of lustre of the golden hair, one could perceive a shadow as of the presence of death. There xwas that indescribable want of vital essence under the brow and in the long coils of golden-hued hair, such -as is to be seen on the freshly dead, — a want of something, but a nameless quality. All we can tell is that we miss something there just before the hand of the destroyer swept across the features. We know that this change is due to what we call death, but what that death is we know not. It was this sort of look which spoilt the perfection of the model. But it only applied to certain parts of the flesh, for the lower portions of the body were perfect and lifelike. I could not help passing my hand over the hair and the face to satisfy myself that I was not being deceived by my senses. There was no mistake about it : the ghost I had found was a very beautiful though scarcely a commendable or serviceable work of art. Where was the artist ? The man who could do Digitized by VjOOQIC Promethia. 1 9 this so perfectly could do many far more beautiful and really valuable works. This might have a certain value to the curious in such matters, but for the general public it would hardly be worth getting possession of. Of course, American-like, to have for my own anything extraordinary, out of the common, and clever, was the first thing I thought of. While thinking of this, and delighting my eyes by gazing again and again on the perfection of the workmanship before me, I failed to notice what was going on elsewhere in the room. When I did so, I found myself face to face with a sight more terrible than anything ever conceived by the wildest visionary. I cannot describe it. I cannot even say whether the Thing was human, animal, or merely substance. It had form, but I can speak nothing positive of the form. I only know that it was before me, and on the other side of the waxen model. I shivered, and for the first time in my life felt what is called fear. I never knew the feeling before. Nothing horrible — and I had seen horrors enough — ever pro- duced the least effect upon me. I had been over three-days- old battle-fields ; I had walked through all sorts of hospitals ; I had explored anatomical museums in all parts of the world, and I had spent many hours in the dissecting-rooms of London and continental hospitals and colleges. I had done a good deal in the way of experimental vivisection myself, with a view of getting excitement from the suffering of dumb creation, but I had never felt the least repugnance for the sight of blood or suffering, human or otherwise, fa single instances or massed together. Some people had called me brutal. I think I was only callous, and had sufficient self-respect not to pretend to a feeling I did not possess. Do not imagine I was an inhuman man. On the contrary, the poor and the suffering never applied to me in vain ; but though I commiserated their suf- ferings, I could not leathern affect me, as I did not feel with, though I could for them. It was then a very exceptional thing for me to be moved by terror of any kind, and I can only ask you to believe that the object which rose or entered before me was too terrible to be even described. It was there ; I felt its presence, and I was obliged to face it, but only for a moment. The Thing seemed about to move towards me, and the terror and horror it inspired in me were so fearful that my heart suddenly stopped short, and I fell senseless to the SrOUnd' Digitized by G00gle 20 5/. James's Magazine. CHAPTER IV. A PURSUIT. It is impossible for me to say what occurred during the middle of that eventful day. I remembered nothing until I was aroused by a shriek, and suddenly opening my eyes I found myself lying in the room with nothing to be seen anywhere but the bare walls and a tressel, the one on which the mar- vellous model had rested ; but the model and all vestige of it, and the Thing which had so frightened me, were gone, and there was nothing left to indicate what had become of either the one or the other. I began to fancy that I had been the subject of an illusion. I thought it probable that an attack of indigestion had set in and made my eyes see for themselves imaginary objects, while the same cause might well account for my swoon. True, the impressions— and especially the recent one, of a loud and terrible scream — were strong upon me, but then I knew well that in certain states of the body the mind is entirely free from all control of sense, and often fancies and believes in the existence of the most absurd things. " There is no accounting for the vagaries of the brain," I thought, " and I had better get home and take some medicine before I am worse." Thinking thus, I rose to my feet and shook the dust off my coat, not wishing to go into the streets in the state I then was, when as I prepared to leave the room another and yet more appalling cry resounded through the house. It pro- ceeded from the lower regions, and I naturally concluded it had some connection with the woman I had seen, as my watch told me, some few hours ago. I made my way below, and found the door of the room shut, and locked on the inside. Feeling certain that my assistance within was needed, I burst open the door, and found the woman prostrate on the ground, and a strong odour of charcoal proceeding from a large lighted pan in the centre of the chamber. At a glance I understood the intention of the poor creature, and I felt some pity for her. She had flung herself down close to the coffin. I had no curiosity to see the man lying in the latter, but I took her up and moved her into the purer air, where she gradually recovered herself. She sat up on the Digitized by UOOQ IC Promethia. z I edge of the stairs, and took my hand between hers, and shed tears over it I let her weep in silence until I thought it necessary to go and fetch some assistance. She could have had little to eat, and her enfeebled frame might succomb to the effects already communicated to it by the pernicious charcoal. " I must go and get you something," I said, gently dis- engaging myself from her clinging clasp of my hand. " Do not leave me. You have saved me, and yet I wish you had not. Oh, do not go. I shall die if you do, and I do not want to die alone." "You shall not die/' I said. " I am going for a few minutes only, to get you some food. You are ill, and need it. Tell me something about yourself. Can I not take you to any friends?" I felt perfectly certain that though she was reduced to the lowest verge of destitution, she was a lady born and bred. It was not with an idle curiosity merely that I inquired about her friends ; but it seemed to me highly probable that I was there for the very purpose of saving this poor creature ; and though I am no fatalist, I fancied there was something more than chance in my being in time t6 prevent the consummation of her crime. But she entreated me not to leave her, and I puzzled my wits to think how it was possible to get assistance without moving outside the house. Nobody would be likely to come near a house with such an evil reputation ; and if they did pass by, how should I be able to let them know that a fellow-creature was within, in a forlorn condition, and need- ing the necessaries of life? At length I persuaded her to accompany me to the front door and look out there, and I promised not to leave her for a moment. She seemed willing to follow or come with me anywhere ; so we went upstairs, and she took hold of the key of the hall door and opened it We looked out together, but there was not a creature in sight The morning was far advanced ; the weather was not a bit more cheerful than when I started on this strange ex- pedition, and the chance of any one coming into this cul de sac appeared extremely remote unless it should be a trades- man on his way to the asylum opposite. We went into the dining-room, which was on the first floor, and stood looking out of the window. I again tried to persuade her to leave the Digitized by VjOOQ IC 22 Si. James's Magazine. house with me, or permit me to go and fetch some assistance, if only from over the way. She shuddered at the mention of th$ asylum ; she put up her hands deprecatingly, and seemed to fear some danger from it. I soothed her and waited a little longer, watching the whole of the road before the house, and especially keeping an open eye on the asylum, for I hoped assistance might come from there, and was fully deter- mined to call for it if I saw the least sign of a Jiving being at the windows, or in the little bit of garden, a glimpse of which I caught over the aged gate. Time passed but slowly, and I was thinking of breaking my word to her, when she suddenly looked up earnestly at the opposite house. I saw her gaze fix itself intently on the window. Her eyes seemed nearly starting from their sockets ; her look grew a fixed one of most intense agony. I followed it, but could only discern the outline of a woman's form through the half-drawn blinds. Presently she uttered a piercing shriek, and starting from my side rushed across the room and the hall, and darted down the steps before I could stop her or find sense enough to do more than follow mechanically. She firstjof all seemed to make for the exit from the square, but apparently changed her mind. Her feet, all shoeless, turned in the other direction ; and ere I could stop her, or catch her up, she was at the gate of the asylum and pushing against it. " I will face her once more/' she exclaimed ; " I will see her again and know the truth." These were the utterances, broken and incoherent, which fell on my ear ; but their meaning did not reach my sense. I was only anxious to restrain her from violence to herself or others, and followed with that object. Everything else was forgotten in the intense suspense of the moment. I crossed the road, and was about to take her by the arm and drag her back from the gate when she succeeded in effecting her pur- pose, and pushed the gate in. It flew back on its rusted hinges with a groaning noise, and she was all but precipitated to the ground by the violence of the effort to which it had yielded. Recovering herself, she went forward, closely followed by me. The front door did not seem to please her, for she passed the steps which led up to it and forced her way through the tangled shrubs of the garden to the rear of the building. Digitized by VjOOQ IC Promethia. 23 I closely pursued her. Presently she faced round at a door in the angle of the wall, which apparently led into some of the back offices, and rushed at it like a tigress, as if deter- mined to force it in by the mere weight and impetus of her body. I followed hastily, bent, on seizing her before she could do herself a mischief; but as I stepped forward, and for the purpose of intercepting her, diverged a little to the right, something gave way beneath my feet, and I was precipitated down a hole or trap for a considerable distance. I recollect striking something in my fall, but immediately afterwards I lost all consciousness. ( To be continued, ) Digitized by VjOOQlC The Czar Nicholas' Letters on the Crimean War, By JOHN AUGUSTUS O'SHEA. [ OW that another fierce war in the East is apparently- inevitable, men's minds go back to the war some score years ago, in which British soldiers measured arms with the Russians. Thomas Carlyle con- siders that to have been "a mad war, and a war of the most hideous and tragic stupidity, mismanagement, and disaster." The outspoken — sometimes tOD outspoken — critic of events is right, but in a wider sense than probably he means. In both camps there were blunders of a gross kind. An officer whose military judgment has since received national recognition, Sir Garnet Wolseley, has told us in words unmistakable of the pitiful appearance the British army presented in the Crimea. That is now notorious and admitted ; but th^re are other things which are not notorious, and it is well for the admirers of the Muscovites to know them. That it was not all smooth with the enemy is attested by no less a witness than the high and mighty Autocrat of All the Russias, the Czar Nicholas himself, in letters written deproprid vtanu to the Princes Mentchikof and Gortchakof, at the time the bloody drama was in action. These letters are new to English readers — have never been translated in full, that I am aware ; and now that once more the Eastern problem — unsolvable but by the sword — obtrudes itself, they acquire a fresh and most vital interest. This Czar Nicholas, who was the bugbear of our boyhood, who was preached at in pulpit and railed at on platform, caricatured and cursed in prose and verse and picture, had in him after all some qualities that were very human. He brooked no contradiction, he was imperious as well as imperial; but it is hard for a human being who is taught to believe himself the bearer of a divine Digitized by VjOOQ IC The Czar Nicholas' Letters on the Crimean War. 25 mission to be otherwise. But if he tyrannized over subjects, it was only because he believed it to be for their good to chastise them. Firm in the natural conceit of his own ineffable and unquestionable grandeur, he gave his people now the rod, now the kind word, now the quick command, and now the fondling touch that a master gives to his dog— just the affection of patronage, and no more. And his people, who "possess the talent of obedience/' licked his hands — which must mightily please the philosopher of Cheyne Row. But to the letters I propose to introduce to EngHshmen of the practical rather than the transcendental temperament. They tell a story as to Russian fitness in the Crimean war which singularly bears out the French Marshal's saying — not altogether inapplicable to his own countrymen — that "there is much display in all Russian affairs." The strong, stern ruler, who had faith in himself and in his legions— the stately, handsome giant, with the cruel eye and iron hand — this surely a figure to captivate the worshipper of brute force ! — watched the contest in the bleak Chersonese with an anxiety that had in it the germ of fever ; and in his communications with his lieutenants, the changing emotions of his soul are kaleidoscoped, the misgivings, th^ hopes, the anguishes. Those letters are an Iliad in little. There is in them much that is "tragic," and a depth of unsuspected tenderness, a richness of nature, and a delicacy of feeling for which autocrats seldom get credit and more seldom deserve credit. They cannot be overlooked by the historian, projecting as they do a powerful light on the inner wire-pullings of that conflict in the Crimea and on the little-understood character of the Czar. Let the reader carry himself back to the eventful autumn of 1854. The armies of the Allies on the one side, of Holy Russia on the other, are drawn up in battle-array. Both are full of confidence, and both claim to go to battle in the spell names of religion, an J civilization, and country, and humanity purest, and all that. The first shock wakes Europe from the banks of the Alma on the 20th of September. In less than three hours the onset of the Allies is successful, and the Russians are in full retreat. St. Arnaud pitches his tent on the very spot where Mentchikof was encamped in the morning ; the Russian prince has had to go away in such a hurry that Digitized by VjOOQ IC 26 Si. James's Magazine. he leaves his pocket-book and correspondence behind him. It is a stunning, because so unexpected, discomfiture for the Russians, and one will expect that it is a sore blow to their imperial master. So it is, of a verity. He is at Gatchinp, one of his palaces near St. Petersburg, where he hungrily awaits tidings of glorious victory, when the tale of defeat arrives. The blow is indeed sore ; but he bears it with right royal fortitude, and sends written counsel to Mentchikof to be of good cheer. This first letter of the series is dated within four days of the passage of the Alma — that is to say, September 12th of the Russian calendar, 24th of ours ; and if you will read it through, and also those which succeed it, by the light of what afterwards passed, you will learn a lesson. Thus it runs : — GATCHINO, 12M/24/A September, 1854. The will of God be accomplished ; you and your subordinates have done your duty. The repulse is cruel, but the losses are much more so. Let us not despair of the supreme goodness ; we must hope for better days. My confidence in you and the army is not in the least diminished. Our turn will come, perhaps. What I consider a happy omen is the well- combined flank movement which succeeded in drawing you out of the •critical position in which you were, and placing you where, I confess, I expected to see you. The communications with the fortifications and the roads for the transport of provisions are thus set free. And what I regard as much more important is that you can, in your turn, intimidate the enemy, finding yourself as you do on his skirts. I fear much for Sevastopol : is the garrison strong enough against such audacious and enterprising adversaries ? How long is the defence from the north side likely to last? Those are painful questions, the solution of which I ardently wish may be reassuring. I beg of you, write to me oftener ; my position is most cruel and difficult. I must have frequent news, so that I may know what to do, and be able to prepare myself for all contingencies. May the Lord bless you as well as the army ! Tell the latter that I have faith in it now as in the past, and that I am firmly convinced that soon it will prove once more that my confidence is justified. Give my greeting to Kornilof and our brave sailors. Their position causes me much anxiety, but God is merciful, and we must not despair ! Does there still exist some other means of communicating with Sevastopol ? I embrace you ! Same date. My dear Mentchikof,— I have just received this instant your second report of the 6th, and you can easily picture to yourself with what feverish impatience I am expecting the continuation. My hope in God Digitized by VjOOQ l€ The Czjr Nicholas* Letters on the Crimean War. 27 is unshaken, as well as my confidence in you and my faithful troops by land and sea. I believe and I hope that all will do their duty, and I submit with calm to what it may please the divine wisdom to decide. I am uneasy on account of this new descent which is expected at Theodosia. If God has decided that Sevastopol will not be able to resist, I hope at least that you will not yield our fleet without striking a blow, that you will rather destroy it yourself. Join the effective of the crews to your army, and strive to keep your ground in the south, or cut yourself a passage towards SimpbeYopol ! ... May the Lord strengthen and preserve you, as well as the brave men who serve under your orders ! My greeting to all our people ! My paternal benediction for future exploits ! I am con- fident that the zeal will be universal. To Prince Gortchakof. 20th September lind October. Dear Gortchakof, — Once more you have known how to anticipate my wishes in deciding to direct the tenth and eleventh divisions towards Odessa. It seems to me you could not have acted better. I only hope you have given orders to the twelfth division and to that of the lancers of the reserve to hasten their march, so as to come to the aid of Ment- chikof. This is indispensable, for time is precious. The only chance of safety for Sevastopol is the hope that Mentchikof will receive prompt reinforcements, and that he will be able to take the offensive. We must thank God that Mentchikof has succeeded in operating this flank move- ment in face of the enemy. After this unfortunate affair, after the considerable losses both of chief and subaltern officers, the order with which the movement was effected reflects the greatest honour on him and the troops alike. Now, no matter what happens^ Mentchikof s corps has a free passage, even if it should not succeed in saving Sevastopol. I avow to you that I anticipated worse than that— a complete disaster. The enemy has invaded our soil : the time has come for each one to sacrifice himself to the service of his country. This is why I have decided to send my two younger sons to the army. I desire that at the commencement they should be attached to your person, in order that they may accustom themselves to their new calling. It will depend on you to dispatch them where there will be advantage for them, and encourage- ment for the army. In confiding them to you, I give you the best proof of my friendship, and of the esteem in which I hold you for the nobility of your sentiments. Strive to instil the same into their minds also. May they in time do their duty as you do yours. God be with you ! I embrace you cordially. To Prince Mentchikof. 26th September /StA October. Two of your bulletins, dear Mentchikof, have reached me to-day : this morning, that of the 16th of this month, dated from Tatar-Kioi ; the other in the afternoon, dated the 18th, from the fortifications of the north. Thanks to God that the danger which threatened Sevastopo Digitized by VjOOv IC 28 5*/. James's Magazine. from the north side has been removed ! The only question now is to know if the actual state of things is not still more^dangerous for the town, Recollecting the slender means of defence from the land side, and the want of solidity of the hasty fortifications thrown up, I confess I am not able to overcome serious apprehensions. All my hope is in the Divine mercy, in the valour of the troops, and in the skill they will display in profiting ably of the advantages which the ground offers. As far as I know and can call to mind, the possibility of a stubborn defence exists ; I am convinced nothing will be left undone to that end. In saluting everybody on my part, I beg of you to tell each one not to let himself be disheartened. God is our defender. No matter what arrives, we shall not cease to have faith in Him, and we shall know how to submit to His will. I embrace you with all my heart. 2jtA Septembcrfoth October. Very late yesterday evening, my dear Mentchikof, I received your report of the 21st. God be blessed that everything goes on happily ! I find your manner of seeing things very just ; but will you be able, with the help of God, to hold out for long ? That is the entire question. I wish I could be less uneasy, but, alas ! I fear that in spite of our efforts, in spite of the courage of the troops, the strength of the attack will get the the upper hand of that of the defence. Would to God that I deceive myself ! . . . . I thank all and each for the zeal displayed. Tell our brave sailors that I count on them by land as by sea. Let nobody be discouraged. Above all, let us remember that we are Russians, that we defend our country and our religion, and let us resign ourselves to the decrees of Providence. May the Lord keep you under His holy and powerful protection ! My prayers are for you and our just cause. All my soul and my thoughts are with you ! My greeting to Gortchakof : I embrace Kornilof. What about our wounded ? Are they well taken care of? Where and how have they been sheltered from the bombs ? Extract from a Letter to Prince Gortchakof. 27M September j<)th October. To-morrow I give my benediction to my younger sons before they set out on their journey. I presume they will present themselves to you between the 3rd and 5th of October. Be their guide ; make valiant and loyal soldiers of them. I answer for their good will. Do not spoil them, and always tell them the truth. Extract from a Letter to Prince Mentchikof. 30/i September 1 1 2th October. Yesterday evening, dear Mentchikof, I received your report of the 24th of September. You are so miserly with your details that I am hardly able to form a judgment either of the situation or of the defence of Sevastopol. If God in His mercy permit the present state of things to last eight days Digitized by VjOOQ IC The Czar Nicholas* Letters en the Crimean War. 29 more — if Liprandi, with his excellent division, which can be depended upon, succeed in rejoining you, you will have at your disposal at Sevastopol nearly seventy-five thousand men, which, please God, you will employ with profit, and save Sevastopol, the fleet, and the country. I repeat, let nobody be discouraged ; let each one prove that we are those same Russians who defended their country in 1812. My greeting to all, with the expression of my hope. I embrace you. yd/ 1 St A October. The newspapers are filled with official accounts about the battle of Alma, whilst I know nothing more of this encounter than I have gleaned from the four lines you sent me, and the verbal recitals of Creig and D'AlbedinskL I demand a lengthened and truthful report It is shameful that I am not, up to this moment, in a position to answer these bulletins with con- viction and a perfect knowledge of affairs. Here nobody can understand this silence, I less than anybody else. The whole thing is incomprehen- sible to me, and oppresses me. It is high time that this should end. Neither do I know in what state Kvitnizki finds himself, and all our other wounded. I want a precise report on everything— the number of those dead from wounds, of those on the way to recovery, and how many there are entirely restored to health. I am much pleased that the Tartars of the Guard have had the chance of distinguishing themselves. You have done well to reward them for it. Keep the courage of the troops alive, and I am certain soon to have good news. To Prince Gortchakof. 6////18M October. Your letter of the 30th of September, my dearest Gortchakof, reached me yesterday evening, and this morning Mentchikof s son arrived with news of the same date. Thanks to God, nothing grave has happened up to this day with respect to Sevastopol, which makes me hope that the Lancers and Dragoons of the twelfth division will not delay. Never- theless, I share your opinion that one cannot answer for anything. I am very much pleased 4hat the cholera is not spreading at Ismail ; on the other hand, I regret exceedingly that the mortality is so great at Kischinef. I am, moreover, persuaded you will take the necessary measures to arrest the evil and to remedy it. Is the number considerable of those who quit the other hospitals and re-enter the ranks ? How do you arrange for them to rejoin their respective detachments? Would it not be well to incor- porate those who come from a distance with the nearest reserved troops, so as to avoid too long marches in such bad weather? I press you in my arms. I beg of you to embrace my children for me. To Prince Mentchikof. 7M and 8M/19M and 20th October. Your son, my dear Mentchikof, arrived early yesterday morning, and has transmitted to me your verbal commissions. I thank God, nothing new has happened up to the 30th, and that the reserves continue their march towards you without any obstacle. The communications once free Digitized by VjOOQIC 30 Si. Jameses Magazine. the supply of provisions is guaranteed, also the transport of the trains of artillery, and of the materials necessary for defence, if it become inevitable. To judge from your son's words, it seems to me that our ideas agree with respect to future projects. In attacking the enemy in proportion as we shall fortify ourselves in the places most favourable for this purpose, we shall avoid much of the danger to which we should, be exposed were our attack more audacious. And then, by this means, the troops unfamiliar with the smell of powder will get used to fire ; it will give them a taste for arms. Take good care, however, not to fatigue them too much, and to keep them warm and nourish them as well as possible. . . . Is it true that the enemy's trenches are being excavated by means of a steam machine?* Your son has likewise spoken to me of a new projectile launched against the town from the side of the sea. Have one or two of them sent on, in order to have them well examined. I have consented to your project of transferring the Tartars from the coast ; you can put it in execution when you judge it indispensable, but take care that this measure may not have vexatious consequences for the innocent — that is to say, the women and children — and that above all it gives no hold for any abuse. Write to me if many of the wounded are recovered, and what is the total number. Send me one of those English guns of new pattern introduced lately into their army.t \oth\22nd October. I still and always thank Divine Providence that nothing bad has occurred up to the 4th inst. From the advices from Gortchakof, you ought to know that the two last divisions of the fourth corps advance towards you without delay. Thus, dear Mentchikof, all has been done as you see — I dare even add that more, has been done than could be hoped, for the purpose of paralyzing the designs of the enemy. All that remains now to ask of God, is that the last reinforcement may reach its destina- tion in time for the salvation of Sevastopol. I find it passing strange that, having written to you more than once on the subject, and having: given you distinct orders, I have not received, after tedious waiting, any detailed account of the battle which took place near the Alma. You put me in the most disagreeable position before Russia, for the people know my sincerity ; they are certain I will not hide the truth, no matter how painful. At the present moment no one under- stands this silence, — the more so because the foreign newspapers are full of the most minute details of what has passed among the enemy and even in part amongst us. And we are silent ! Are we not prepared to answer all this ? Probably it is not suspected that even I know nothing except by word of mouth. Confess, dear Mentchikof, that it is not proper to place me in such a false position. This is the last time that I entreat and com- mand you to write to me everything and in^detail. It is I alone, and no * This rumour must have had its origin in smoke. The Allies had a railway — the first time steam was used in land warfare — from Balaklava to the camp, t The Minie* rifle. Digitized by VjOOQIC The Czar Nicholas Letters on the Crimean War. 31 other, who ought to decide what it is necessary to conceal, and what to make known. I also repeat my demand with reference to the wounded ; what is the number of the dead, of the convalescent, and of those who have resumed service? Send the registers of the officers killed or wounded. They are pre- paring fur clothes for your soldiers. Nourish them to satiety; if necessary, give them double rations of wine. Raise their courage by telling them that I am satisfied with them, and that I depend on them. I embrace you from the depths of my soul. After the news of the first Bombardment of Sevastopol. lit A 1 23rd October, This moment, dear Mentchikof, I receive your two bulletins of the 5th and 6th. Glory to God! glory to the heroes, defenders of Sevastopol ! The first attempt has been repulsed with success. I thank all and each one separately for having justified thus my confidence in them. Was it I who could not know what those brave men were capable of? By land and by sea they are rivalling each other to see which can better accomplish their duty. Thus it was always — thus jf' shall ever be ! Communicate to them the expression of my pater^jjl ' gratitude — yes, paternal, for I love them as my own children. . \ * ' The glorious end* of our dear and worthy Kornilof has profoundly afflicted me. Peace to his ashes ! Bury him near our illustrious Lasaref. If we live to a tranquil epoch, we will erect a monument on the place wfcer^1" he fell, and the bastion will bear his name. ~"K- «* What I cannot understand is how the battery (No. 10) could have rested intact. I suppose he who commanded it merits the Cross of Saint George of the fourth class. When you have leisure summon a council and decide to whom it is right and fitting to distribute recompenses. Give to the men of the above- mentioned battery three roubles each, and to all who took part in the combat two roubles. Besides the crosses which you may distribute, add on my part five roubles for each battery. To Prince Gortchakof. 14M/26M October. Thanks, my dear Gortchakof, for your letter of the 7th of October. I rejoice from the bottom of my heart that our thoughts often agree to such a nicety, that one would say we had consulted each other beforehand. I am perfectly of your opinion with respect to the measures to be taken in the Crimea under present circumstances. This morning Mentchikof sent me reports of the 8th and 9th in- stants. The bombardment continues, but without causing considerable damage to us. There has been no new attack from the water-side. Mentchikof expects an assault at any moment. He has reinforced the garrison with thirty-eight thousand men, not including the cavalry. The enemy will probably concentrate his efforts on the weakest side. Ment- chikof believes he ought to keep on the defensive before taking the offensive, which cannot be previous to the arrival of the tenth and Digitized by VjOOQIC 32 SL James's Magazine. eleventh divisions. I am strongly apprehensive that they will be late- It is improbable that the situation can last more than from twenty-three to twenty-five days. This lapse of time will pass before the arrival of the last reinforcement, and what anguish this waiting ! God alone can save Sevastopol from the extreme danger that menaces it. I suppose honour requires you to send my recruits (I allude to the Grand Dukes Nicolas and Michel) in the Crimea to Mentchikof, in order to remain there until the danger is passed, or rather until the defeat of the enemy. Afterwards they can return to me. If danger exists, it is not for my children to avoid it ; they ought to serve as an example to the others. Therefore, with the aid of God, let them set out on their route. Adieu ! I embrace you with all my soul ; may the Lord protect you ! To Prince Mentchikof. 14/y* /26M October. Early this morning, my excellent Mentchikof, I received your report of the 8th. I approve in every point your manner of judging our actual position. It is necessary to venture nothing, but to act with decision and prudence. I trust in you, in the zeal and courage of the generals, of the admirals, of soldiers and sailors, with the intimate conviction that Russian heroes can surmount all difficulties, and that they will scrupulously accomplish their duty. After that, it rests with the Lord to decide for us what is or is not to happen. We shall resign ourselves to His will without murmuring. I do not hide it, I fear much that we may not be able, with our feeble means and hastily constructed fortifications, to repulse a cleverly directed assault, or to defend ourselves against con- siderable forces. If it is decided on High that it is impossible to save Sevastopol, at least it is necessary to collect the remains of the garrison without panic, to retreat with order towards the reserve, and, having occupied some advan- tageous position, to strive, not to leave the enemy time to fortify himself in the town. I have authorised my sons Nicolas and Michel to return to you. May their presence amongst you be a token of my confidence. May my chil- dren learn to share your perils, and serve as example and encouragement to my brave ones by land and sea, to whom I confide them. To-day, we have assisted at a dead mass for the repose of the soul of Kornilof, and we have sincerely wept. 16M/28M October. Your bulletin of the 4th, my dear Mentchikof, reached me this even- ing. The heroic defence which lasts so long, and the individual acts of bravery of which I learn, transport me. It will be so much the more to be regretted, if, after the prodigious efforts of our troops, we abandon Sevastopol to occupy the northern part. When the tenth and eleventh divisions shall have rejoined you, I hope you will find means to give the enemy a good lesson, to sustain the reputation and honour of our army. I thank each and all for their heroic courage and their faithful service, and tell them how much I regret not to be able to be in their midst. My children are there at least ! I press you to my heart. Digitized by VjOOQ IC The Czar Nicholas* Letters on the Crimean War. 33 After the news of the Occupation of Tchorooun. 19////3U/ October. Thanks to God, thanks to you, and to the companions of your exploits for the excellent commencement of our offensive operations ! I am grate- ful to you, my dear Mentchikof, for having so well interpreted my inten- tions when expressing my thanks to our brave troops : they were well deserved. I feel no less pleasure in the bravery of our incomparable seamen, the intrepid defenders of Sevastopol I rejoice to find that my sailors in the Black Sea still remain the same as I remember them in 1828. I have seen with my own eyes that nothing is impossible to them. Tell them that their old acquaintance, who has so often inspected them, is proud of them, that he thanks them as a father does his dear children ! Let these words be communicated to them in the order of the day. My aide-de-camp, Prince Galitzine, is instructed to visit each of the crews with a greeting from me, and the expression of my gratitude. I anticipate that my sons will arrive in time to take part in what is being prepared. I entrust them to your care. I am pleased to think that they will show themselves worthy of the rank which they occupy. I entrust them also to the troops in token of my attachment May their presence with you compensate for my absence. May our merciful Lord preserve you ! I press you to my heart. My cordial greeting to all. I embrace Liprandi for his victorious dtbut. Particularly thank from me the regiment of lancers of the reserve, recently formed from divers elements for having so heroically renewed its service. The children will probably follow in the footsteps of their fathers. After Inkermann. 31// October \\2th November. You must not let yourself be depressed, my dear Mentchikof, whilst you are at the head of the heroes of Sevastopol, having under your orders a body of eighty thousand choice troops, who have just proved once mor: what they are capable of when they are led as they ought to be, and where they ought to be. With such gallant men it would be disgraceful to think of defeat Again tell them that I thank them— that seeing their true Russian courage I am satisfied with them. If hitherto we have not had the success which we had a right to expect, God is still full of mercy, and perhaps the success will yet come. As to abandoning Sevastopol, it would be disgraceful to think of it, so long as there are inside its walls and outside eighty thousand soldiers full of energy : it would be to forget our duty, and to lose all feeling of honour and patriotism. That is why I cannot for a moment think of such a thing. Let us die with glory, but not capitulate nor beat a retreat ! I write no more, for I know not what there is to write about, i am happy that God has preserved my sons safe and sound ; that they have shown themselves equal to their position and its exigencies. I end as I began : Let no one be discouraged— you, as commander, least of all, for all eyes are turned towards you, and your example ought to animate every VOL. I. Digitized by£i< 34 £/. James's Magazine. individual to the fulfilment of his duty to the last extremity. May God protect you ! I embrace you affectionately. 2iid\\^h November. In the name of God, take care of the wounded ; watch over them as much as possible. Encourage the troops ; speak to them in my name ; thank them ! Let them know that their services are appreciated, and that their exploits reach me. Reward as soon as possible those who distinguish themselves 7////19/A November. Your report of the 31st of October reached me this evening, my dear Mentchikof. God be praised that nothing very bad has happened as yet I The animated spirit of the army rejoices me very much ; besides, I had no right to doubt it. It would be desirable that the troops should dis- tinguish themselves, show their valour and their zeal : they can do it if they are skilfully directed. Thanks to God, the wounded are recovering. I will not cease to beg of you to do all you can to alleviate their sufferings. It is with a lively sentiment of pleasure I read your report, so honourable to my children ; as a father, I am happy not to have been deceived in them. In my last letter I had already granted you the permission to decorate them, if you thought it just to do so. It would be wrong, too, to forget all those who are meritorious. I suppose Prince Gortchakof will find no obstacle in sending to you what forces he can spare from Nicolatef. Note well that, those forces arrived, there will be no more to send. It would be vexatious to exhaust this last reserve, for it is the only one avail- able to complete the other corps, for God alone knows what awaits us. It is very much to be regretted that your excellent cavalry had no chance of distinguishing itself. 14M/26M and lyhfath November. Your report of the 6th of November has been received this morning, dearest Mentchikof. God be praised ! It is more consoling than the preceding ones. The tempest of the 2nd of this month was a provi- dential help, whose consequences have been much more decisive for the -«nemy than we supposed. It would be curious to know what passed between Balaklava and Chersonese ; it is to be supposed that the tempest raged there with no less violence, and caused serious damage. At least, poL Digitized by VjOOQIC 38 5/. James's Magazine. extended. Might there not be there some weak point where one could succeed in making a gap ? That is all I have to say to you. I press you in my arms. May God be with you ! These were the last lines from the pen of the Imperial writer. Ten days afterwards, on the 2nd of March, 1855, the Czar Nicholas died — died, it is not too much to say, of a broken heart. The letters which go before are a great and unequivocal tribute to his memory. Some there are who execrate him, and may execrate those who dare to say a word in his favour ; but reading these literal effusions of his heart, who can deny that he had affection for family, for country, and for his soldiers ? These are noble traits, and these are to be found not seldom in men whose reputation, amongst those who are not of their way of thinking, is infa- mous. From the which the moral may be drawn that not even the devil himself is so black as he is painted. Digitized by VjOOQlC Only a Music-M: By FANNY AIKIN-KORTRIGHT, AUTHOR OF "ANNE SHERWOOD," "HE THAT OVERCOMETH," ETC. CHAPTER IX. A POOR WOOER. jOMEBODY wrote a book a year or two ago entitled "We're all Low People here ! " (The work deserved success if only for the ingenuity of the title.) In remembering the foregoing pages of our little chronicle, the story-teller is sorry that his poor puppets are all " so handsome/' that a little monotony must neces- sarily prevail in his description. This is the more to be regretted as he is perforce obliged to bring one more hand- some face on the canvas. I really am sorry that Henry Temple is not picturesquely ugly, but in good truth in the morning of life he was a model of beauty, and though he was no flirt he was the cause of many a heartache, and, alas ! now and then of a heart-break too. It was not his fault. Women will love fair faces, and in default of them will love those they imagine to be fair. Yet, however acceptable to young maidens Henry Temple might be, the very charm he had for them, the very grace he found unsought in their eyes, made him peculiarly obnoxious to, and dreaded by, affectionate and anxious parents. Henry Temple and his mother had seen better days ; perhaps they might be described as a decayed gentleman and lady, yet preserving all external decencies possible, and not suffering from actual want. They had lived some two or three years in a small house, a very small house in Dinston, which was scantily furnished and not much frequented, for none but romantic young folks (and even among the young folks some very prudent ones were found) cared to frequent a Digitized by VjOOQ IC 40 St. James's Magazine. house where the only hospitality ever offered was rather poor tea, slices of bread and butter, and a seed-cake. Besides, there was that good-looking idle fellow loitering about with a book in his hand ; dreaming when he ought to be busily em- ployed at a profession — not at all a wholesome atmosphere for the young, nor an entertaining one for the elders. Mrs. Temple dressed in solemn black that had been brighter a couple of years previously, and was always disfigured by a hideous widow's cap ; she was a gentle and sorrowful woman — the world said peevish and discontented-look- ing. The world said wrong, as it sometimes will ; it is certain that the poor lady was grave and silent, usually reserving her speech till the evening lamp was lit, when she would discourse with her son of such matters as he was reading, or go back with him through the gloom of past years, groping as it seemed to catch the shadows that were fast escaping from her. They had seen better days indeed, mother and son, but they loved each other devotedly, so their present days could «ot be called evil. Where love dwells, light must dwell also — the lamp of their dwelling was inexhaustible. Henry was twenty-two, and should have been at work years before, instead of being " tied to his mother's apron-string." This was said with some truth, but the sayers would not stretch forth a little finger to help the poor widow even to apprentice her son to a trade, had she willed to do so, and had he been less of a bookworm. Not far from the widow's " modest mansion " rose one scarcely more pretentious in size, yet in reality showing more of comfort and ease. This was inhabited by a family from Cornwall called Tresinnan. Mr. Tresinnan was a manager of a bank in the town, not a great bank, giving its manager a noble income, but one on a small scale, with salaries for its officers proportioned to the size of its own speculations. He had a large family, several grown up, and more or less employed. There were also some young motherless children in the group, and there was a daughter who did more than a mother's part, despite her girlish years, to the helpless little ones. Ithama was not handsome, nor even pretty, with which the world in general would recognise as beauty. She was tail and well-formed though, — had chesnut hair, expression Digitized by VjOOQIC Only a Music-Master. 41 eyes, and her irregular features were lit by a light from within that spoke of heart and intelligence in a more than ordinary degree. Ithama's dress was defective ; her acquaintances, and especially her intimate friends, informed the world, and then informed her, that it was "dowdy in the extreme," but she met the remark with a quiet smile, and said it was all very true. Only one person in all the population of Dinston was found to look with any pleasure upon Ithama's face ; — that was Henry Temple ; and certain it was that as he passed her dwelling his step lingered and he looked wistfully towards the low parlour window. If he saw her within, there was a change of colour in his cheek ; sometimes he knocked timidly at the door, and left a book for her, scrupulously waiting at the door to see if she had any message for his mother. Sometimes she had one ; those were the days when she had just brushed her chesnut ringlets through, or had indulged in, a spotless collar ; then she came to deliver the message her- self. Henry and Ithama had in certain bygone leisure hours read Tennyson and Longfellow together. Ah, dangerous reading ! I should like to be able to say how many imprudent engagements — nay, how many imprudent matches, have arisen from the unguarded use of the works of those two gentlemen. I have known "Locksley Hall" to pcove as a match to a train in the case of a poor consumptive young clerk ; and " Stars of the Summer Night " has acted on some young folks of my acquaintance more powerfully and less safely than a galvanic battery. Ah, true poets I You write in pathos and in sport, and with either, play on these poor human hearts as strong wind upon harp-strings, waking them to life per- chance only to be broken. Mr. Tresinnan had wisely stopped the poetry, for having made an imprudent match himself, he was resolved that none of his children should split on the same rock. Ithama might have read " Romeo and Juliet/' had she chosen, with the rubicund rector of the parish, who was ready to lay his forty-five years and good living at her feet ; but Mr. Tresinnan, with true paternal feeling and dis- crimination, shrank from his portionless daughter's going through a second course of Tennyson and Longfellow, with a Digitized by VjOOQIC 42 St. James's Magazine. youth near her own age, with that fair womanish face, and neither income nor profession. Of course, Ithama was too good a daughter to brave her father about the books ; she yielded the poetry the moment she was told, and took a fit of something else instead — a something she had no name for, but kept in the lowest depth of her heart sealed down, and only spread forth when no curious eye could see into the hiding-place. The young folks often met for a few minutes, never de- signedly, but always by some happy accident. There had never been the least mention of love between them, yet they were conscious lovers. The beauty and glory of first love lies in its faith, its cordial and entire faith in itself and in the future. When the tired heart loves again, it may be, it pro- bably is, with more intensity, with more self-abnegation ; but it is without belief in itself or its destiny, therefore must the heart's second love be ever sorrowful. But Henry and Ithama were happy in their silent affection, and firmly and bravely looked forward on the pathway of life. One evening Henry suddenly stood before Ithama. Her curls were neatly arranged ; so was her spotless linen collar. Ill-natured people would have said he was expected. I am not ill-natured, so I will say no such thing. Ithama' was lulling her baby brother to sleep in her arms ; Henry Temple stood on the threshold admiring the pretty picture, ere he was himself seen. Her back was nearly turned, but a portion of her profile was seen as she bent over the little child. u May I come in, Ithama ?" " Yes, Mr. Temple ; only " "Only what?" " In a few minutes I have to be busy preparing tea for papa, who will be home very soon. Do you want to see him?" Now, Ithama perfectly well knew that Henry had not the least wish to see her father. Why should she have asked that question? Why should she have touched the face of the sleeping boy so closely with her own that she woke him up ? " Ithama, I must speak to you, but a few minutes won't do. I have much to tell you." Digitized by VjOOQIC \ Onfy a Music-Master. 43 "But papa's tea?" " Well, if it cannot be to-night, when can it be ?" " Mr. Temple, I " " Oh, I know what you would say, Ithama. If I were a rich suitor " " Henry, Henry, do you say this to me ?" " Forgive me, Ithama. I am wrong, but the unfortunate grow embittered and then unjust. You will be at church to-morrow evening?" "Yes." " We may walk home together, may we not ? I suppose we may do that, especially as there will be no moon, not even the light of stars ? Shall it be so, Ithama ? " " How can I say ? I suppose the Rector may watch our footsteps." " You don't fear him, do you ?" "Fear him!" cried Ithama, her whole face bursting into a sunshiny smile ; u there is but one human being whom I fear." " And that is your father ?" " No-r-he is firm and decided, but ever kind. No, I don'} fear my father. He acts as he supposes for his children's good, but he is never their tyrant. God forbid that I should fear my father/ ' " Well, whom then ?" " Oh, nothing — nothing — nobody. I shall see you to-morrow if I can." " You can if you will, Ithama. I must see you I tell you, I must," he repeated earnestly. " Go now then, Henry." " I am gone." He bent down to kiss the sleeping child in Ithama's arms with a good deal of tenderness, and she wondered how one with so glorious a gift of beauty should care for her — for her who had no beauty at all. Yet Ithama looked very fair in her blushes that night. " What could it be that he would tell her on the morrow? Oh, could it be really, truly, that—? Ah! what golden dreams had Ithama that night, and what a glorious sunrise did the next morning bring to her ! 44 St. James's Magazine. CHAPTER X. ithama's first love-letter. 1* HE congregation were wending their way from church, and the sounds of the organ grew fainter and fainter. It was not ill-played, but no one lingered to listen to the strain as they did in H to catch every note of Luigi Valerio. In the porch of the church stood Henry Temple, ruminating. I fear it was not on the text, which had been " Comfort ye," for he did not look at all comfortable or comforted ; in truth » he was too strongly prejudiced against the rector to accept edification at his hands ; he would not hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. It was not that Henry Temple was a man destitute of religious feeling,— on the con- trary ; but where his passions were aroused his will was iron, and under the gentlest and most winning aspect he carried a wonderful determination of character, that might lead him to heroic martyrdom or a stern usurpation of heaven's attributes, as it might be. The twilight had darkened considerably ere Ithama left the church and felt her hand drawn through Temple's arm as he hurried her out of the crowd and into a path a little less fre- quented than the ordinary road to her home. "Oh, Mr. Temple, I am afraid this is wrong!" " Be it so, Ithama. The first offence may be the last. Perhaps you see me for the last time to-night." "Henry!" u 1 only said perhaps, Ithama. I have something to say to you which, — indeed, you may yourself say to me, ' Depart for ever!'" " I could not do that." " But supposing I told you that disgrace attached to my name ? " " How could it, unless by your own deeds ? — and that could never happen, never ! You have done nothing shameful, nothing wrong ! " " Nothing, Ithama, nothing. I swear to you, nevertheless, a cloud hangs over my destiny. Why has the world mocked and derided me, as I know it has, for a worthless idler, Digitized by VjOOQ IC Only a Music-Master. 45 dreaming and moping while others are acting and carving out their way to fortune ? Ithama, my energies have been crushed, too effectually crushed by early misfortune to leave room for ambition, or even hope in my character. Mine has been a motiveless existence till now ; now I have an incentive to exertion, for I love you, Ithama — I love you as my own soul ! And if when you have heard all " " I would hear nothing that is painful to you to tell." " Ah, but you must hear ! There is a mark of dishonour on my name, yet honour is very dear to me. I will not deceive you ; you shall know the truth. You are young and innocent, dearest, — so innocent that the very name of sins common among men are unknown to you. How shall I say it ? " " Harry, Harry, you terrify me ! " "Not willingly, my darling. Do you love my mother, Ithama ?" " As if she were my own. Ah, if she were not sweet and lovable, don't you think, don't you know I should love her as yours ? " " Ah, that is one of my grievous sorrows, Ithama. I have no right to the name of that noble woman's son, — she is not my mother ! " " Not your mother ! " " No. She has reared me as her child, as she reared my brother — a brother whom I lost, having loved him with un- bounded affection. She lavished on me, on him, more than a mother's love and tenderness, exhausted her own slender means to educate and rear us as the sons of a gentleman should be educated and reared, but we had no right to her bounty, still less to her tenderness." " Adopted sons ? " asked Ithama innocently. " Children of sin and shame, Ithama. Our father had been a man of family and fortune, but dissipated his means, no matter how. In after-years my mother, or the woman whom I call such, married him, — she having a little fortune, he nothing. Her romantic generosity was unbounded. She was at first ignorant of our existence ; when she learned it, as soon as the first shock was over she took us to her heart and home." "She was, she is, an angel!" said Ithama. "God bless her!" " God bless her ! " repeated Henry. " We lost my father Digitized by VjOOQ IC 46 5/. Jameses Magazine. soon, my brother some years since. We have been all in all to each other. Ithama, I have loved you well; I love you better each sunset. Will you leave me, now you know all ? " " Never ! " said Ithama. " Remember, dearest, I have no right to the very name I bear, as my own mother never bore a wife's name ; remember that whoever knows my story will have, or will assume a right, to point a scornful finger at me through life. Could you bear this, darling ? " " Your life shall be my life, your sorrows mine, your shame, if shame there be, mine also. But your own, your true mother, Henry, did you never see her ? " " Never, dear one, but my brother did." "And he " " Ah, Ithama, don't let us speak of him, it is too bitter a remembrance; and to think that he might have been saved " "Extremely kind in you to see my daughter home, Mr. Temple. I was just going to the church to fetch her. Good-night — " and Mr. Tresinnen, while speaking in the blandest terms, shut the door gently in the young lover's face. While he stood there for a few seconds, stunned as if by a physical blow, he had the mortification to see the sleek rector inside the parlour, seated near the supper-table, and evidently considered ali^ady a member of the family. Temple thought of the text "Comfort ye," and instead of taking comfort, he ground his teeth together in chewing the cud of bitter fancy. Finally, he rushed home and wrote to Ithama an epistle which covered four sheets of paper, that is, some sixteen pages, from which I will only make a brief extract: "Tell me you are mine with your own dear hand. I believe in you, dearest, as I believe in God's good angels, but I want your promise in so tangible a form that I can spread it before my eyes in every hour of sadness and depression. I want it as a constant reminder and incentive to exertion. Give me your promise to be my wife, and I shall have courage to labour patiently till I can claim you as mine. I will not tell you that I fear such a rival as our spiritual (?) pastor, — I will not offend you so much, — but pray keep his impertinent pretensions at a distance, as they de- serve," etc., etc. •:/jr Only a Music-Master. 47 Now the poor rector deserved no vituperation at all ; he was as good a soul as ever lived, just, upright, generous, pious, with no fault in the world but the large " bay window * he always carried about with him from necessity, not from choice— and the colour of his face, which inclined to carnation more than to lily white; — yet prejudice so blinded Ithama that she / could not see one noble quality, behind the fat red mask of / '; * flesh and blood; and prejudice, so blinded Temple that he \£* not only denied the excellences of his rival, but attributed . > to him a malignity of purpose in wooing Ithama, which the ^ good man would not have understood, much less expe- '»**' rienced. Ithama read Temple's letter three times in all, the night she received it, read it so devoutly, that she could almost, if not quite, have placed her hand in the dark upon any par- ticular word in the epistle — her first love-letter. Who ever forgets this, I wonder ? How many sober men and women half-way on the longest journey of life could be found who have not some green spot in the corner of their hearts wherein lies a yellow, crumpled, shrivelled bit of paper, the ink pale and faded, the words, it may be, senseless, yet they take it now and then, and look at it and read it, smile at its soft nonsense with a little wonder that it could ever have cheated them, but after the smile passes, there comes a sigh, and the shrivelled yellow paper is laid back in the heart's sanctum, to be read again, perchance, when the white winter of age has scattered snow on the hair, andthe^tceaibling hand can scarce grasp the scroll. /^^^ft //> 1 & YOK*' CHAPTER XI. THE POWER OF MUSIC. AUTUMN winds were sighing round the old Manor House something else was sighing too, but within — groaning were perhaps the fitter word — it was a maiden's heart. Yes ! Horatia's heart was groaning, her very soul writhing under a sense of shame and self-abasement. Pride fought against love, love against pride : on the side of pride there seemed a legion of devils armed ; on the side of love was a Digitized by LjOOQIC 48 S/. James's Magazine. seraph's head that spoke no words unless through those won- derful melodies that seemed its only proper language. Twice a week came Valerio, twice a week was he received with the same cold manner, the same averted or disdainful looks, the same overbearingly haughty manner. Why did he come at all? "Oh, for the money, of course," commented Horatia, bitterly — as bitterly adding, " Spaniel, despicable cur ! " Yet Horatia lived only for the hours that should bring Valerio ; counted all those that should intervene between his visits ; and when he departed, watched him from a curtained window, straining her eyes till the last faint outline of his form could be seen no more in the blue distance When she had done this, she would rush to her room and pace up and down with agitated steps, smiting her fair bosom, or clasping her temples in her hands till her fingers left their impress on her skin. " To what can this madness tend ? " she muttered ; " he can never be anything to me — never ! He is a poor, mean- spirited creature, incapable of a noble passion, without ambi- tion, without any great aim in life — incapable of love ; he does nothing but tremble in my presence like a whipped hound. And I — I, an Ormsby, love such a man ! No, no. It is not love. It is a vile infatuation. I will uproot it. Let reason herself go, but I will — I will triumph over this weakness. How can I love my inferior ? — a man I must stoop to men- tally,— a man who could no more enter into my ideas than he could climb to the stars. A man ! — nay, a beardless boy. Yet — yet — Fate, thou art strong, but I will be strong too ; thou shalt not conquer a soul like mine." Yet, when Valerio came, Horatia had, like a true woman, bestoWed double care on her toilette. She was singing ; her voice was beautiful, and she had more expression than usually falls to the share of an amateur. To point out the beauty of a phnfse in the music, to indicate its sty le, Valerio sang. He had no need to throw his soul into the strain, it flowed therein naturally. In speech he might have been embarrassed and hesitating ; in melody he stood on his own vantage-ground, and needed no words to gloss his eloquence. Horatia's breath came shorter ; her voice failed ; her colour went and came ; she could sing no more. The master requested her to proceed. Digitized by VjOOQ IC Only a Music-Master. 49 " I am hoarse ; I shall sing no more to-day," said Horatia abruptly ; " I can play." Of course her will was law ; she played, but perception and memory were both at fault ; she made" mistake after mistake. Valerio laid his hand on hers to direct her fingers. " Do not touch me," she cried, so harshly that Valerio started with surprise and pain. " We must stop ; I can do nothing to-day ; I am ill." "111!" repeated Valerio, with alarm, and a tenderness of * tone he could not well restrain. At that moment Mr. Ormsby entered. Hitherto they had been alone. Horatia drew one long breath, and proceeded with the lesson. "But if you feel ill, Miss Ormsby!" said Valerio, with anxiety. " It has passed," said Horatia, and she went on with the piece. Mr. Ormsby nodded kindly to Valerio, and took up a news- paper. The lesson concluded, the master prepared to depart. He seemed to have something to say, as he lingered a moment. At last he hesitatingly brought forth — " Will you be so good as to tell me, Miss Ormsby, when Miss Grantley is expected home?" " I know nothing of her movements." " I beg your pardon. I took the liberty of asking because I thought you were intimate with her." " No ; I was intimate with her ; I am never likely to be so again; but this much I will tell you, you will never — never see her again," said Horatia, with a passionate earnestness in her tone that seemed inexplicable ; then she added, with some triumph in her eyes, " She is going to be married." " Married ! " repeated Valerio, in a tone which Horatia took for despair. Alas ! the poor master was only thinking of his unpaid bill, — only thinking how the white-haired old woman at home was waiting for certain comforts he coveted for her till Miss Grantley's lessons should be paid for ! •' Yes, she is married ; — dream of her, sigh for her as you will, it is in vain ; she is lost to you for ever ! " " Miss Ormsby ! " Horatia was so excited that she forgot to act. VOL. I. Digitized by SOQgle 50 St. James's Magazine. o Her father looked up in surprise as the confused maestro withdrew. " What is it, Horatia ? " he asked. " It is, papa, that I feel it a duty to pull down the impudence of that creature." " Dear me — what has he done ? " "Done, sir! He has dared to make love to Ellen Grantley." "You don't mean to say so! Good heavens! can it be true?" " Yes, papa, and had I not saved her, her fate was sealed — her eternal disgrace." " My dear child, Lord Selmore must be informed of this ; it would break off the match directly," said Mr. Ormsby eagerly. " And dishonour you and me, sir, as spies and informers/' s \id Horatia. " But, my love, if this fellow is dishonourable, or pretends to tep out of his place with you ! " " With me, sir ! There is no danger, I can always defend myself." The next morning arrived a very humble note from Valerio. He " feared he had unconsciously offended Miss Ormsby ; perhaps she wished to discontinue the lessons." She replied " certainly not — she was perfectly satisfied with Mr. Valerio as a master." Valerio was in despair. How he longed to break the spell that lay upon him : yet he wanted firmness even to make the attempt. In an evening of the hunter's moon, Valerio was playing on the church organ — playing without any lamp but that cold silver light that streamed in through the gothic windows ; he poured forth a flood of harmony that entranced even his own ear and kept him spell-bound. Presently his rich voice melted into the melody, and both seemed ascending to pierce the roof of the sacred dwelling. A slight pause in the strain made the musician conscious of some one near him — nay, very near. He was no coward ; he could have rushed un- hesitatingly into the thick of a mortal fight, but like all people of southern origin, or of warm imagination, he had his own superstition, and now he hesitated to look behind him ; for a minute or two his hands remained motionless on the organ, and his voice was suspended — then, ashamed of his own weak- Digitized by VjOOQIC Only a Music-Master. 51 ness, he continued ; but once more became conscious of some one near him, whose breathing reached his ear. With a sadden impulse he darted round, and saw a darkly clad female form retreating, with the rustling sound that silken garments make. " Who — what art thou ? Be thou who thou wilt, by heaven thou shalt not escape me 1 " He darted through the church out into the solemn grave-yard, pursuing the flying phantom, which fled like a spirit. Panting, he overtakes the intruder — he has seized, has snatched the veil from her face, and by the pale moonlight recognises Miss Ormsby. " Horatia, my beloved ! " involuntarily escapes his lips, and the answer to the tender address comes forth. " Thou hast humbled me to the dust — me — such as I was. Take thou for it the hatred of my whole life." But those were only passion- ate words. Valerio could not be deceived by them; the barriers of pride — nay, of reason, were thrown down, the flood-gates of passion were thrown open, and proud Horatia was conquered — nay, she had marched to her own defeat, — drawn onward, and downward, by the power of music. CHAPTER XII. temple's bachelor uncle. UI HAVE fulfilled your injunctions to the letter, my dear mother. I have found out, and been to see, my father's elder brother. You never knew him, so I will be minute in my description of him, his dwelling, and his conversation. " I remember you specially desired to know every word he said. Some of his words were so peculiarly ungracious that I should omit them entirely but for your admonition. I had no difficulty in finding him,, for his name stands prominently in the list of benefactors of all the known charitable institu- tions, with his address appended. "I found him in chambers in the Albany, — handsome rooms, at least, as far as size is concerned — for the paper and paint have not been renewed for many years, and they were gloomy. The furniture is of that old substantial mahogany Digitized by VjOOQ IC 52 Si. James's Magazine. that never wears out, but looks dull and dingy unless under the care of peculiar housewives. Round the walls are hung several old-fashioned line engravings from historical paintings, meant to be beautiful ; the frames had once been gilt, but now closely resemble the colour of the watch that our old neighbour the gardener winds up and sets every Saturday night for Sunday wear, and devoutly believes too good gold for week-day wear. Several bookcases are in the room, but so closely shut up that they may contain anything but literature. The apartments are not well kept, but there is a precision in the general arrangements which evidently de- pends more on the old gentleman's neatness, than on his servants' industry. " I was sending in my card, when I was informed that it would be useless to ask for an interview with Mr. Temple for the next two hours, as he was accustomed to spend all the morning in the transaction of business regarding his various pet charities ; in fact, if I could not wait in the anteroom, I had better return later in the day. It was raining hard, so I determined to remain and get through a disagreeable duty, which I confess I should not consider a duty at all unless it it were to fulfil your wishes. How to spend the time I could not imagine, not the slightest sign of a book or paper appear- ing, and the only sound being the rain patter patter against the dim windows. The chairs were uncommonly hard, so I began to walk up and down the room, when the servant who had admitted me put his head in at the door, saying, ' I hope no offence, sir, but master can't bear a noise ; your boots is new, sir, and he's uncommon particular.' So my walk was cut short ! " At length came the end of the two hours, which seemed six. I sent in my card, and followed. My uncle rose, — a tall, thin, stiff figure, a stiffer face, a blue look about the nose and lips — frost-bitten; his fingers were long and thin, his nails like Nebuchadnezzar's, or what we fancy them. I should not have liked to shake hands with him, — but that he did not attempt. " He stood twisting the card in his fingers, with something that in a warmer temperament I might have called agitation He bowed. " ' Sir/ the blue lips opened, though I saw no sign of breath Digitized by VjOOQIC Only a Music-Master. 53 coming forth — ' You have the advantage of me, sir/ he said shortly. "' I am the son of your brother, Arthur Temple/ I replied ; * my mother desired me to see ypu sir, and to ' ut Your mother! ' he said, and there was, or I fancied there was, a sneer on his face. "'My father's wife/ I answered, 'who has been a true mother to me.1 " I tried to restrain myself as best I could, but my blood began to boil. "'Your father's wife/ he repeated, and again he paused, then resumed : ' To what end did she send you hither ? ' may '"I presume, to make the acquaintance of my father's brother/ "'It was an ill-judged thought/ he muttered — then spoke aloud, 'Why should she attempt to thrust before me a living evidence of the disgrace of the family, the one blot in our house ? If she chooses to recognise vice, why should I ? ' " I don't know what I answered, but I feel that my words were intemperate. All this time I had been standing*; he drew nearer to me, and looked hard in my face — curiously searchingly. He was struck by something I had said ; I believe it must have been something outrageous. Again the blue lips opened to speak, but I walked out of the room feeling I had had quite enough. "Oh, mother! mother! will the shame be on my brow till it is in the dust ? Will every man who meets me have the right to burn the brand in deeper? Your affection and Ithama's love are all that God has given me ; sometimes I feel that I shall lose them both and be quite desolate. This man's words have affected me beyond description — his looks still more. I feel myself a pariah, one against whom every man's hand will throw a missile; and, alas, I fear that [the fierce animal will be awakened in me, that I shall not turn the other cheek to the smiter, but shall hurl back harder blows than he deals me. By Heaven ! if my father's blood had not run in that man's veins, I do believe I should have sprung on him, and like a panther seized him by the throat. Oh, my mother, my more than mother ! I need your gentle influence, yours and my Ithama's, to reconcile me to life, to keep the balance of my reason. But, for your dear sakes, I Digitized by VjOOQI 54 Sf. James's Magazine. will try, I will indeed, to be calm and firm and moderate, to meet insult with something like philosophy and resignation. " How mysterious is God's will ! How inscrutable ! How wonderful it seems that a notje heart like yours should have been doomed to shed its treasures of affection upon sterile natures — that Heaven should have denied you a son of your own, a son who might have inherited your heart and head, a son of whom you might have been proud ! Perhaps even my brother, had we saved him, might hatfe proved worthier of you than I can ever be. His was a gentle, generous nature ; and, grown to man's estate, he would have recognised all your goodness, and been grateful. But of what avail to dilate on what might have been, what can never be ! " Farewell ! I will strive to meet your wishes, I will strive to provide in the future a happy home for dear Ithama, and perhaps you will come and sit down at our fireside some day, and teach us by your example life's best lessons." {To be continued.) Digitized by VjOOQlC Digitized by Google The Old Sailor to his Wife. Digitized by vjOOQIC The Voyage to Come. 'XfK flDito Sailor to W Mitt. HEN in my youth I sailed the sea, My love was linked to thine ; I thought of thee when waves ran free, I knew thy heart was mine. And when my ship to England's shore Came back from dangers wild, 'Twas thou, whose greeting shone before, 'Twas thou who fairest smiled. No longer o'er earth's stormy sea I sail as when a boy ; Old age to home endeareth me, And perished is youth's joy. But thou art still beside me, love, And thou art sea and sky : The shadows grow around us, love, And wintry things must die. But high aloft on God's bright sea Our ship shall mount with pride, And fair our voyage shall ever be With true love side by side. E. G. Digitized by VjOOQlC To Agnes; who is his Only Love. fe>onff5jeoem, after t&e manner of Hjeccictu OW will I lead a purer life Since thou hast smiled on me ; Washed in the waters of the earth My loving heart shall be ; And all my deeply dreaming soul, By true love purified, Shall gather strength for thy delight When fond love hails thee bride. Now will I search through all the earth For flow'rets fresh and fair ; To bloom upon thy breast of snow, Or grace thy raven hair ; And stars that shine when night glows deep, And glories of the day, Shall yield their treasures to my prayers Which at thy feet I'll lay. Now will I take thee to my heart And love thee evermore, Faithful as waves whose fond embrace Entwines the summer shore. Oh, fix those glowing eyes on mine, Thy lover claims thy charms ; Oh, let him take thee to his heart, Within loves faithful arms. f^i^^i Digitized by VjOOQlC Our Modern Poets. No. VL— 90atH)eto acnoltu By THOMAS BAYNE. >|NE sometimes wonders what kind of poem an eminent critic would write. He is such an adept at finding all the weak points and the serious faults of his author, that the innocent reader cannot but feel that this is the man whose capabilities are for verse, and not that other whose misfortune, un- doubtedly, must be based upon something very like pre- sumption. The eminent critic must surely have done injustice somehow to his natural longings, otherwise it is odd that he should be so familiar with all the essential elements of " The light that never was on sea or land." Satirists, from Dryden to Disraeli, have asserted that critics are the men who have failed, and they are pleased thus to account for their authoritative tone and unwarranted severities. Such an interpretation of the critical attitude is akin to the theory illustrated by the immortal story of sour* grapes, and a certain degree of truth in it is the explanation of its frequent recurrence. But it is also to be noted that there are eminent critics whose censure can hardly be restrained within due limits, and who notwith- standing have achieved high distinction as original poets. Instances will readily occur to those familiar with the subject, and it is only necessary to add here that such critics will generally be found to be the advocates of some special aesthetic dogma or limited poetic culture. It would still be interesting to find an experiment by them in the sphere whose possibilities they denounce or deny. There is, however, a class of critical workmen wholly different from these, and not less interesting, though perhaps apt to be less attractive in their method. There is an allure- Digitized by VjOOQIC 60 St. James's Magazine. ment about the incisive vigour and the uncompromising sweep of a Gifford and a Jeffrey that is irresistible, even when the reader may feel that the treatment is not altogether fair. There can be no doubt as to what such writers mean, and at any rate their hard hitting is enjoyable at the moment. It is wholly different with the patient examining genius of a Sainte-Beuve or a Coleridge, whose duty it is to find out exactly what the author has accomplished, and thereafter to inform general readers to the best of their ability. Their method is exemplified for all time in the loving examination of Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads in the " Biographia Lite- raria." Students of this order may be called interpreters in contrast to the mere professional critics. As the danger of the latter is in their haste to miss the author's aim altogether — as Jeffrey did, for instance, with the "White Doe" — so that of the former is to find more than the writer really meant, and to o'erinform the original work with their own metaphysics. It is only necessary to refer to some of Coleridge's own work for examples of this, and to German aesthetic critics of Shakspeare for the develop- ment of the method to its utmost exaggerated form. It is to eminent critics of this class, however, that one is apt to look for interesting original poetry. Matthew Arnold takes a noteworthy place among the interpreters. His sympathies, on his own showing, are with the criticism whose business it is " simply to know the best that is known and thought in the world, and by in its turn making this known, to create a current of true and fresh ideas." It is in accordance with this spirit that the author is able, in his " Essays in Criticism," to make such interesting studies of Joubert and the De Guerins, where undeniably the original material is meagre enough. Here is one to whom a suggestion is really valuable, one whose method may be liable to exaggerate the worth of his original, while it cannot fail to show the readiness and the fertility of his own interpretative faculty. It is clear, therefore, that funda- mentally this critic must be a poet. He has the delicate instinct, the quick perception, the power of remote and interesting association — it may be, too, some share of the faculty of imagination — and the only remaining necessity is that he should have the capable voice. When we find Digitized by VjOOQIC Our Modern Poets. 61 in critical prose a vein of calm meditative reflection and inference, a patient setting forth not merely of what the author says, but also of what the critic takes to be the possible sweep of his idea, we conclude that the interpreter is more than a mere expounder, and it will depend upon the nature of the case whether we set him down as a poet or a philosopher. Now there is something to be said in defence of that older and more liberal definition of the poet which was admitted by our early writers on the subject. Sir Philip Sidney, for instance, would have inclined to esteem certain pure styles as poetic, and would have given writers of "impassioned prose" the title of poet, though it had never been their fortune to link together three mechanical iambics. There is in poetry, too, a value belonging to what is said no less than excellence in the manner of saying it. The contents of a poem must be considered no less than its form. De Quinsey's "Levana," for example, and much more of his writing besides, is thoroughly poetical : if analysed and esti- mated worthily, such writings would have to be classed in a way that would surprise the advocates of strict poetical form — and yet it is not common to speak of the English Opium-Eater as a poet. A good deal also of Mr. Carlyle s writing is nothing if not poetical, and it is only because of our strait definitions that he can be called a Homer without the gift of song. The fact is that there is a tendency to underrate impassioned prose in this generation. We are too apt to become impatient for facts, and are altogether too commercial in the spirit with which we approach our critics and essayists. So far as mere information is -con- cerned, so far as exact knowledge can be said to have profited Matthew Arnold need never have written those articles of his on Maurice and Eugenie de Guerin and Joubert, but then they show him to have the penetrating insight and the lively appreciation that characterize the poet. We should have spontaneously said, after perusal of such reflective prose, this writer is a poet whether he has ever composed in metrical forms or not He has the power to portray, to vary by effects of light and shade, to introduce his readers to close searchings of the heart, and to enable them to have delight in distant perspective. He has a considerable share of that magic power by which Wordsworth can interest the world Digitized by VjOOQ-IC 62 • 5/. James's Magazine. in the prattle of a little child, and make rare wisdom fall from the lips of an inspired pedlar. With such a writer of prose it is perhaps not surprising to find that his poetry sometimes is little other than prose ex- pressed in metrical form. It is sometimes difficult to catch the melody, and occasionally the poetical air is so thin that one has difficulty in breathing it. Some of the sonnets and the reflective poems are open to criticism of this kind. They do not fulfil the requisite conditions that underlie such com- positions ; they are not poetical in sound as well as in sense ; they lack voice though having soul. Were we to apply to this sonnet on " Worldly Place," for example, nothing but the ordinary rules of construction and scansion, we should have little difficulty in deciding on its merits : — "Even in a palace, life may' be led well I So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men, Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell, Our freedom for a little bread we sell, And drudge under some foolish master's ken, Who rates us, if we peer outside our pen — Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell ? Even in a palace / On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came ; And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, I'll stop, and say : * There were no succour here ! The aids to noble life are all within.'" The manager of the "poet's corner " in a local newspaper would speedily dispose of such a production as this ; such an agent knows nothing, and cares as little, for the laws of the tercets and the exhaustion of the single idea. To him the prime essential is that there be no limping feet ; the sense and the laws of construction may take care of themselves as best they can, — the one thing clear is that they have not the slightest interest for him. An interesting discussion is at once suggested here as to the comparative merits, in poetical com- positions, of all sound and no sense, and much wisdom minus all melody. It is impossible, however, to do it justice here further than to say that wisdom is valuable in any dress, and Digitized by VjOOQ IC Our Modern' Poets. 63 that the variations possible to a ten-stringed instrument are in all circumstances preferable to the monotonous performance of a lonely flute. In other words, the delight in sweet sounds cannot be permanently cherished by mere verbal effects. r\\ Indeed, nothing palls upon the taste sooner than words /J*-\ jangled, however skilfully, for their own sake alone: On the 4-ft* X ' other hand, melody wedded to nobleness of thought con- ^ v* stitutes a beauty whose elements are. divine. This is the ..v sphere of the perfect Apollo. The nearer the approximation made to this ideal, the nobler will be the poet's work, the more godlike the features of the poet. He is sometimes told, indeed, not to try it at all unless he is likely to reach it alto- gether,— a theory that would have the top of Parnassus covered, if possible, but the sides as untenanted as Benharrow It is a tyrannical — at any rate a cynical — spirit that would have perfect poetry or none, that would have good prose rather than average poetry. To put it shortly, a man that tries to say something in poetry, and does not effect his object very well, is not likely to make any attempt at all to express the same thing in prose. Besides, there is the chance that, in writing verse which no one would think of comparing with the compositions of Shakspeare or Wordsworth or Burns, a poet may say something that will benefit the world, and that might never have been said otherwise. We must, in a word, assume that there is a poetry of intellect, as well as a poetry of inspiration. That does not imply, of course, that any and all kinds of feet, and a winged contempt for feet altogether must be tolerated ; but it certainly goes on the assumption that there is a difference between Shakspeare and Pope, and that melody is one thing to the Poet Laureate, and apparently quite another to Mr. Walt Whitman. - All Mr. Arnold's sonnets are thoughtful and wise, and several of them are not lacking in true poetic expression. As a rule, however, they are overweighted with material, and the closeness and compactness of the ideas and the rigidity of the lines of thought are the outstanding features. The reader will hardly have time for the consideration of metrical graces in the difficulties that will beset him in grasping the argument. There is one sonnet, however, that bears its meaning on its face, as every good sonnet should do; and for that very reason it exhibits, better than most of the others, the authors metrical 64 St. James's Magazine. resources. It is a tribute to the memory of Shakspeare, and a sturdy appreciation of his universal influence : — " Others abide our question : Thou art free ! We ask and ask : Thou smilest and art still. Out-topping knowledge ! So some sovran hill Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the border, often, of his base To the foiPd searching of mortality ; And thou, whose head did stars and sunbeams know, Self-schoord, self-scannM, self-honourtl, self-secure, Didst walk on earth unguess'd at. Better so ! ' All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, Find their sole voice in that victorious brow." The general meaning of this is apparent at once, while to the practised thinker there are lines that will be suggestive of interesting trains of thought. The impression left, however, by all these sonnets is that they are experiments, and very notable ones too, in difficult verse. Further illustrations of the poetry of intellect are to be found in Mr. Arnold's reflective poems, some of which are rhymed and lyrical in form, and others not. They are all charged with the rich thought that comes of original strength and superior culture, but there" is a want of that easy spon- taneity which is of the essence of true poetry. Those interested in high thinking are sure to read such reflections or discussions without much thought as to rhythm or metrical feet. But both form and substance are against their popularity with a majority of readers. They are studies of a kind that neither a writer nor a reader would much care for in prose, and there is about them, as they stand, an attractiveness and interest apart altogether from ordinary poetical considerations. They are a sturdy confutation of Mr. Carlyle's thesis that if a man has anything really important to say he is likely to do it in prose. This is the very kind of writing, midway between philosophical prose and didactic verse, which suits the purpose of a thinker that has no time to enter upon a treatise, afnd no inclination to elaborate an " Excursion." Poetical purists may object to the encouragement of such poems as " Resignation/' Digitized by VjOOQIC Our Modem Pods. 65 '•The Youth of Man," and "The Future," but after all there is no real ground for alarm. The poet has something to say for at any rate a skilled minority of readers, and these are not likely to set up any new theory of aesthetic taste to suit any such exceptional outcome. Take, for instance, such a passage as the following from " The Buried Life," and it will show exactly what is meant by a composition whos t essence is too ethereal for prose, and whose form is yet not exactly what readers of poetry naturally look for: — " But often, in the world's most crowded streets, But often, in the din of strife, * There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life, — A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course ; A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us, — to know Whence our thoughts come and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then delves, But deep enough, alas, none ever mines ! And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and power ; But hardly have we, for one little tour, Been on our own line, have we been ourselves ! " This is musing of a kind that will interest in any form, though it is hardly too much to say that there are not likely to be many who will follow it, with an appreciation of all its bearings, throughout this poem. Notwithstanding that, such calm introspection and such a line of meditation belong to the poet rather than the psychologist, they speak of that power of interpretation which is characteristic of the calm critic, and betrays his affinities with the true poet. Thus far, then, we have found Mr. Arnold strong in possibilities ; he is in the right element if he can only develop himself properly. It is not that he has to learn the mechanism of verse, but that he should manage to give free articulation to the poetry of his nature — this is what the analysis hitherto has gone to prove. Nor is it a consideration of time and growth that in any way meets the purpose ; there is a maturity about all the poems that dispenses with all allowances which might, in other cases, be made for greater or less inexperience. It makes no differ- ence, in this survey, whether one poem was written before VOL. I. /5v Digitized by VjOOQIC 66 St. James's Magazine. i another or after it ; such a power of expression as that indi- cated is not a matter of years, but of strength and method. In " Resignation," for instance, and the " Epilogue to Lessing's Laocoon," we find the author very much in the same mood as that which pervades "The Buried Life," but in both his manner is better, and the general outcome altogether more poetical. The former, it has been pointed out, is in Words- worth's vein, and it may just be added that it is well worthy to be compared with its model. The latter is cast very much in the same mould, and is one of the best of Mr. Arnold's meditative poems. One extract will show freedom and delicacy of touch, and more ease and quickness of expression than we have hitherto found. The poem is a study of comparative art, and, after due admiration of musician and painter, the poet sums up thus : — li Only a few the life-stream's shore With safe unwandering feet explore ; Untired its movements bright attend, Follow its windings to the end. Then from its brimming waves their eye Drinks up delighted ecstasy, And its deep-toned, melodious voice, For ever makes their ear rejoice. They speak ! the happiness divine They feel, runs o'er in every line ; Its spell is round them like a shower, It gives them pathos, gives them power. No painter yet hath such a way, Nor no musician made, as they ; And gathered on immortal knolls Such lovely flowers for cheering souls." The want of rhyme is a drawback to some of the meditative poems in lyric form, such as " Consolation," and the fine elegy entitled " Heine's Grave." Still there is such an air of lyric sweetness in these poems that occasionally the reader is carried on, and feels that he is under the genuine spell. It almost takes reflection, for example, to discover that this is un rhymed : — " Charm is the glory which makes Song of the poet divine ; Love is the fountain of charm ! How without charm wilt thou draw, Poet ! the world to thy way ? Not by the lightnings of wit ! Digitized by VjOOQIC Our Modern Poets. 67 Not by the thunder of scorn ! These to the world, too, are given ; Wit it possesses, and scorn — Charm is the poet's alone." Still there is the true appreciative critic mainly, but we are coming to the original workmanship at last The charm here celebrated sends us at once to the author's poems " Baccha- nalia " and " Empedocles on iEtna,'* both charged with rare delicacy and grace, breathing the pure ethereal spirit of the Greek. Both of these are delightful poems, the strictly lyrical parts in particular showing the author's easy command of diction and rhythm. The " Bacchanalia " is in two parts, the first depicting the contrast between the calm of evening and the midnight revelry of the mythological Bacchanals, and the second doing the same for the overthrow of the Past by the Present. This introduces us to the very inner circle of the inspired rout : — " Loitering and leaping, With saunter, with bounds- Flickering and circling In files and in rounds — Gaily their pine-staff green Tossing in air, Loose o'er their shoulders white Showering their hair. - See ! the wild Maenads Break from the wood, Youth and Iacchus Maddening their blood ! See ! through the quiet land Rioting they pass. — Fling the fresh heaps about, Trample the grass ! Tear from the rifled hedge Garlands, their prize ; Fill with, their sports the field, Fill with their cries ! n In the second part the end of an epoch is delineated, all the stillness and repose of evening concentrating, as it were, on the bosom of the dead age. The feeling is that the glory is departed, and there is a sadness like to that which overhung the moody spirit at the close of the eighteeeth century, when it was felt that all poetry was at an end with Pope and his Digitized by VjOOQIC 68 St. James's Magazine. followers. But every one knows how sudden and thorough was the revolution. - " Thundering and bursting In torrents, in waves — Carolling and shouting Over tombs, amid graves — See ! on the cumberM plain Clearing a stage, Scattering the past alout, Comes the new age ! n The poet sees the beauty of such strength and vigour, just as he sees it in the behaviour of the Maenads, but to him it is fraught with matter for deep meditation. There was so much that was beautiful before the change, that it is just possible the change may not be altogether an unmixed blessing. It is a shepherd that is like to fret over the confusion made by the Bacchanals; and the Poet, looking, upon the new age,cannot but help thinking af the old. Thus; when he is asked to give a reason for being so pale and wan, amid a perfect cornucopia of blessings, he is obliged to declare the little faith he has in the vaunted march of intellect : — " Look, ah, what genius, Art, science, wit, Soldiers like Caesar, Statesmen like Pitt ! Sculptors like Phidias, Raphaels in shoals, Poets like Shakspeare— Beautiful souls ! See, on their glowing cheeks Heavenly the flush ! . . . Ah, so the silence was / Sinet better shod than with a pair of worn-out labourer's boots, or the down-trodden slippers of her mistress, you may guess at some of the trials endured by an Oxford man of limited means and large ideas of method and orderliness, and a dear little invalid wife too gentle to bully a cat. Alas ! if Janet had but been only dirty and careless ! She was worse. She was the most finished coquette and the most heartless flirt in the province. The amount of quarrels, jealousies, heartburnings, and heart-breakings caused by that girl since she was nine years old could not be cata- logued, and were never referred to by herself except with a complacent toss of her rumpled head and a peal of laughter as delighted as a child's. And it was of no use to speak to her on that or any subject. I never met a young female with less development of the " bump " of reverence or greater develop- ment in the article of cheek. The mildest rebuke wa^ certain to be followed by a retort, sometimes only good-humouredly saucy ; but generally as explosive (her temper being of the violent and tempestuous order) as though you had pulled the trigger of a loaded gun. She was incorrigibly idle also, and, with the strength and energy of a female Hercules, would desert scrubbing-brush or broom at the merest sound of a labourers whistle; and let our dinner get cold while she was gossiping in the yard with another of the same fraternity. - u What can they see in her to admire?" I would say, de- spairingly, to Emily after we had caught some handsome, strapping fellow casting hopeless sheep's-eyes at our draggled " Dowsabel " ; and Emily would answer, smiling, " I don't know, dear ; 1 think it is her tongue — she bullies them all so ; and then there are so few women here." I expect the latter was the real reason ; and yet qui salt ? Every man on the farm was at Janet's feet; while the cook, a French Canadian, and a tidy, nice-looking, soft-spoken creature, merely came in for what the other girl insolently called her " leavings." ^ Digitized by VjOOQIC 74 Si. James's Magazine. If ever two women hated one another those two did. I could understand it with F&ice, who was really a superior young woman, and could hardly be expected to like being shut up with no female society but that fille du diable, as I once heard her mutter plaintively in Janet's direction. But she at least conducted her dislike under decent veils, while the younger girl's voice, raised to storming pitch, and launching out unqualified abuse, would even penetrate to the sitting- room, and call for remonstrance from her mistress. Very prettily Janet was wont to receive such mediation. I can see her now, her cheeks redder than ever, her arms akimbo, and her eyes flashing unsubdued scorn as she retorted. " Makin' a noise ? I dare say I was makin' a noises an' so 'ould you b6, ma'am, if you'd an aggravatin' faggot like that there in the parlour! Why, she'd strip the skin off a live eel with her lies and wiciousness, the weasel ! " to which Felice would only reply, with a slight shrug of her trim shoulders, and a mild *Ne faut pas vous deranger, Madame. Je m'y suis bien accoutum^e. Of course you English people wonder why we kept such a firebrand and ne'er-do-well in the house. In London she would have been turned into the streets at a moment's notice ; or rather never taken thence at all. Unfortunately, however, women in the backwoods are as much too scarce as they are too plentiful at home ; and women servants are as black swans for rarity, hard t© find, and harder still to keep. Under these circumstances Janet had to be taken in default of a better ; and though never a day passed without her receiving at least a dozen well-merited rebukes, and our resolving as many times to get rid of her before another week, the rebukes were as u water spilt upon the plain," and the resolutions went with others to pave a certain place. The fact was we could not get another girl in the neighbour- hood ; and Emily's health was too delicate either to do without a second, or to stand the fatigue of a journey to Montreal in search of a better. As for Janet, she seemed provokingly satisfied both with her place and her employers ; and though making our lives miserable, causing endless quarrels among the men by her coqueteries, and scandalising her fellow- servant's notions of propriety at every turn, she persisted in Digitized by VjOOQ IC A Troublesome GirL 75 snubbing each and all of the offers of marriage lavished on her, and regarded herself in the light of the guardian angel and support of our household, without whom indeed we should have been left helpless and desolate. " If Liz were gone, perhaps I might think on settling/* she would say, if Emily gently reminded her of the folly, to say the least, of her numerous flirtations ; " but I ain't such a brute as to leave you to the like o* her. Don't you fear ! Why, she'd poison you right off as soon as not ; an' master's that soft he'd never see through her. Men are so precious green, ma am. I happened to be rn the next room when I heard myself thus flatteringly described to the wife of my bosom ; but I honestly believe it would have made no difference had I been actually present. Like Alaric of old, Janet feared neither God nor man. Emily used to try and excuse her sometimes, and say she had a good heart at bottom. The fact is, that once when my wife was very ill Janet nursed her night and day, never even taking off her clothes for three weeks, and somehow managing to do the best part of her work as well, and with less noise and destruction than usual. Emily never forgot this, and used to hold it up as a proof of underlying virtues, even though Janet (who slept in her mistress's room for the time) used to avail herself of the dressing-room window as a medium for holding lengthy midnight conversations with one of her lovers, the invalid lying all the while with the door of com- munication open between her and the cold night air. I spoke to her very sharply about it ; not on the score of propriety, (Janet being perfectly hardened there, and fond of boasting . that she was quite capable of " taking keer on herself against a bushel of such poor, miserable things as men, silly bodies ! ") hut simply to remark that if she would talk to Martin at that hour, she might have shut the door into my wife's room. Janet stared at me : "Shut the door! Why, dear sake! didn't I leave it opei a' purpose in case she should want somethin'. I aren't a girl to leave Madam a-callin' for an hour: an' fresh air never hurt no one in summer yet, an' didn't her either." It is worthy of note that Janet never attempted to deny or gloss over any of her malpractices, a trait which Emily alluded Digitized by VjOOQIC 76 5/. James's Magazine. to as " frankness/' and I as "insolence." My wife's judgment is apt to be biassed by partiality ; and she is besides one of those persons who would find some good in the Prince of Evil if you were to say too much against him. One day Janet fell in love. The object was a young Englishman whom I had recently hired as foreman, a good-looking young fellow of very re- spectable parentage ; and I was not displeased to see that his first impression of our handmaidens was decidedly in favour of the Canadian. A little admiration might do our clever modest Felice no harm, while Janet rather wanted a dose of snubbing, which the men in general did not seem inclined to give her. "It is reaHy disgraceful to ourselves to have such a girl in the kitchen," I said to Emily. " Tom Carter looked at her as if she were a wild beast when I told him he must mess with the women here till his cabin was built If it were not for Felice, I should feel quite ashamed to ask him to sit down with such a savage." Alas! alas! before a week was over all my hopes were dashed to the ground. Tom Carter preferred savagery to civilisation ; Felice was nowhere ; and Janet, who had set out to conquer, fell hopelessly in love with her easily subjugated victim. I think she felt that the subjugation was only apparent. Respectable as were Tom's parents, the man himself was a bit of a scamp in matters of morality, and decidedly more skilled in flirtations than our simple, country-bred louts. Janet- was the girl before whom all the other men bowed ; therefore Tom felt bound to "go in" for her also, oust the others, and teach her to bow to him. To do this required a good deal of trouble and ardour, (Janet not appreciating lukewarm devotion,) and Tom accordingly lavished on her such superfine worship that the young woman was fairly caught, and was soon ready to kiss the ground on which her lover trod. No housework was done now! If Janet was indoors, she was either sitting with her hands in her lap dreaming of Tom, or else botching up her miserable wardrobe to make herself look more worthy in his eyes. Love indeed did what neither self-respect nor reproaches had hitherto achieved. Digitized by VjOOQ IC A Troublesome Girl. 77 Her hair was prettily arranged ; she became almost tidy in her dress, and grew quite friendly with Felice, confiding all her hopes and happiness to that young woman, and paying her libe- rally for assistance in the mysteries of cap and collar making. Emily used to say that if Felice had a fault it was over- acquisitiveness, and that, despite the animosity between the girls, she never made Janet a present of clothing or other needful, but that it, or part of it, was certain to revert to Felice's wardrobe before many days were over. I know nothing about this, of course, but I do know that if love made Janet neater it had no good influence i:i any other respect. She was hardly ever in the house at all now, and took to haunting Tom's footsteps and hindering his work, until more than once I threatened to send them both away, and warned Janet that another offence would entail instant dismissal on herself at any rate. It had no effect. She only waited till dark instead, and then slipped out, keeping us waiting for tea, or preventing Felice from shutting up for the night while she was rambling about the farm-quarters phi- landering with Tom. Even Emily said that for the girl's own sake she feared it would be better to send her away, and wait for the chance of another turning up. Fate, or Providence, however, arranged otherwise. The winter was setting in with an aoiount of cold unusual even in Canada; and strong as Janet was, she was not strong enough to brave with impunity constant rushes out of the hot kitchen into the bitter evening frost, to stand about, often with arms and head uncovered, talking to rur lover in the yard. One evening she came in looking flushed and speaking hoarsely. Before morning she was dangerously ill. It was an attack of bronchitis, combined with inflammation of the lungs, and so bad that for nearly five weeks she never left her room. For the first two days of her illness Tom Carter lounged about in rather an aimless way, and came once or twice into the kitchen to inquire for her. ' On the third he turned his attentions to Felice ; and before the end of a fortnight Felice came to my wife and told her very prettily and modestly that she and Carter were engaged to be married, and would only wait till he had had time to get his cabin finished and furnished. Digitized by VjOOQIC 78 St. fames' s Magazine. "And Janet?" Emily asked, rather shocked. " Jeanette ? " and Felice smiled superiorly. " Tom was only amusing himself with Jeanette. She also amuses herself, and with all men, voyez-vous, Madame ? £a ne fait rien avec ccs femmes-ci. Du reste, she has not of any ' dot.' One does not marry with a girl who has nothing, if one is a prudent man. Pour moi, I have put away two hundred francs in the last two years alone/' And indeed, leaving the " dot " alone, I was obliged to tell Emily that the girl was rightly served, and only being paid in her own coin. Who told her I don't know. It was the day after she had first come downstairs, and I was in the hall giving some directions to one of the labourers, a half-silly creattre, and one of Janet's most slavish and ill-used admirers, when the girl came up to us. Her face, which seemed shrunk to half its usual size, was white as paper, and her voice, still husky and weak from illness, sounded hardly intelligible. " Lend me your clasp knife, will you ? " she said, her breath coming in heavy pants between each word, and her lips shaking like leaves in a hot wind. Sam, at whom she looked, only stared foolishly ; and I asked her what she wanted it for. Her answer made me start. " To kill Liz. Look here, master," coming nearer to me, and gazing up wildly into my face, her black eyes big and hollow enough now; "did you know she'd been an' took Tom from me? They said so, an' I didn't believe it. I couldn't believe it, even on her — her who knew all along. . . . But it's true. I heard him myself tell her, now this minute, in the yard, as he'd only been playing with me, to take me down a bit. Playing with me ! Good God, master, do lend me a knife, an' I'll take tier down. Aye, that I will. Do, master, please ! " The girl seemed out of her mind. Her thin hands were burning hot and clenched ; her big, wasted limbs, trembling from head to foot. Emily came out and tried to soothe and take her away. All her persuasions, however, could not damp Janet's rage for vengeance; and Felice, really fright- ened, kept out of her way with care, and slept with the dairyman's wife at night, to be out of the house. The following day happened to be Sunday, and Felice Digitized by VjOOQ IC A Troublesome Girl. 79 who had kept the kitchen door locked all the morning, ob- tained leave to go out for a walk as soon as the early dinner was over. Naturally, Carter was going with her; but not approving of his volatility, I had forbidden him the house for the present Two hours later, " Silly Sam," as they called the softy, /S;> - came into the kitchen where Janet was sitting, crouched over /c*** the fire, and coughing dismally. Jfy ' -;- ~ Felice is out wi' Tom," he said shortly. «£& ^ shame of the thing would be punishment enough, but I can- Digitized by VjOOQIC "Groweth down like a Toadstool" 97 not help saying that what you did was very improper, to say the least of it." " And shall not occur again," Kate replies. " Amen," add I. And then papa rises, and I drive with him to the railway station, discussing my travels and the consequences that will be necessitated thereby. It is pleasant bowling along the fresh country lanes, now all green, and freed from the dust that covered them. The thunder shower of the previous evening has enlightened all nature. Trees and hedges seem born to new life ; grass is growing beneath one's sight ; the birds are about on sprig and in hedge ; and up aloft in the sky is the cheerful lark, singing all day long the song of the love of the sunshine. The cattle are enjoying their breakfast, or what seems an equal pleasure to them with that of eating, ruminating. The little river, when we pass it, looks fuller and fresher than it has done for days, and wafts over our faces a breath of pure air as we cross the bridge. I leave my father at the station, having seen him safely into a carriage, and return to the house. I find Kate lazying on a . bench (the grass is still damp), and down I sit plump beside her. Round her neck go my arms, and I give her a good hug and a couple of kisses, by way of giving vent to my high spirits. " Ain't this awfully jolly,little Kate ? I am going away ; and youll have silk dresses, and diamond rings, and a horse to ride, and lots of books, — oh my ! you will be a fine lady now. Kate, well never be different to what we have been — we're alone dear little sis ! " " Reginald," she answers, putting her arm in mine affection- ately, "lam not sure that money means happiness. I felt a sudden joy when papa first said it, but now I don't seem to care a bit ; besides, you are going away, and I shall be so dull in a big house." " Nonsense, womany, youll get used to it ; besides, when you are out, and drive in a carriage, and dress well, everybody will be running after 'that pretty Miss Thompson.' Oh, I know the world, my child, though I am only just past eigh- teen." And I smile with a sense of inward satisfaction at my extensive knowledge upon these important points. VqL# j Digitized bJ Digitized by ^jC " She clutched the coverlet convulsively, and pushed back the hair from her brow." [Seepage u lJ ^J V -*-..- Digitized by LjOOQ IC Promethia. By ELLIS J. DAVIS, AUTHOR OF "SEEN FROM THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL'S," ETC. CHAPTER V. AT MIDNIGHT. Y eyes opened on a black and sombre scene. The wall opposite to the bed on which I lay was covered with a dark paper. The curtains of the couch were black velvet, and the furniture was of the same ebon hue. It was nearly dark, and the fading. light did not tend to relieve the cheerlessness of such surroundings. I lay in a semi-somnolent state, as if just recovering from a powerful opiate, and the gloom was ex* ceedingly oppressive, while I had a dull sensation of pain in my head which was anything but encouraging. A silence as of the grave hung upon all. Not the roll of a wheel, not the twitter of a bird, not the sound of a voice. All quiet as death itself. Indeed I might very well have been lying in my own coffin for what I felt Presently the door of my room opened slowly and a gentleman entered. He was dressed in a plain black morning suit, and to all appearances did not .know for a moment whether I was awake or asleep. He paused by my bedside, pressed his hand on my pulse, and felt my arms and my skin to see if there was any vital heat Being satisfied that I was not dead or insensible, he seemed disposed to move, but I turned a little and essayed to speak. He drew back, and I had a good view of his countenance as he said^ — "You feel better ? Where is your pain ? " He spoke like a medical man, and I concluded he was the owner and proprietor of the private lunatic asylum under the roof of which I had doubtless been conveyed. Digitized by VjOOQIC 120 St. Janus' s Magazine. I could not for a moment make a sensible reply, but lay there staring at him, and anything but master of the situation, as was usually my wont Something seemed to have happened to me which entirely altered my demeanour, and I lay there like a baby, quiet, and simply gazing upwards. He moved away, and took from a table in the corner a glass full of some fluid, which he made me drink, and I at once felt benefited by the stimulant. rt I am afraid you had a serious fall/' he said gently, in a voice peculiarly low and soft, and yet a tone that indicated the speaker to be a man of great physical power and endurance. Voice is often a perfect index to character and bodily type. " I remember falling, but how far or where I do not I::io\v," I replied, trembling a little. " I presume I am in the presence of a medical gentleman." I said this mechanically, and not as I generally expressed myself, but it seemed to me that I was obliged to speak whether I would or no. He answered without taking his eyes off me, but he smiled a pleasant cheerful smile. * My name is Magnus Delgardo. You are welcome in my house, though I regret the accident which has brought you here. I am indebted to you for restoring to me one of my patients. Don't speak any more now ; rest, and I will send you something to eat" I was about to deprecate his intention, but he stole away before I could utter a word. The celerity of his movements struck me very forcibly, and I lay a long time thinking of him. Presently a woman dressed in black calico entered with a tray, and she persuaded me, like a kind nurse, to sit up and eat something. They had certainly a good cook in the house, for little as was my inclination to partake of food, the savoury odour and the taste of the first few morsels woke within me a powerful appetite, and I made a good meal. She gave me some brandy and water to drink with it, and then bade me lie down again and keep quiet. As she left me I put my hand up to my face, and for the first time discovered that my head was bandaged. I conjectured that in falling I must have hurt myself severely, and rather congratulated myself on having obtained such excellent assistance so immediately. My nurse did not light any gas or leave a candle, but quitted the room and left me to the gloom and my own reflections. Digitized by VjOOQ IC Prometkia* 121 It certainly was not lively in a dark room hung with such a sombre-tinted paper, and the heavy palHike curtains drooping above my head. But my senses were not very active, and I imagine I soon dropped asleep, for when I woke there was a faint light as from a night-light in the room, and I fancied I heard the door open slowly. Not for the moment remem- bering where I lay, my first impulse was to shout, but I con* trolled it, and presently by the light, such as it was, I saw a figure, the outline of which was female, advancing towards my bed. Surprised and astonished, for I saw more by her movement than any other indication that it was not the nurse, I remained perfectly silent, and breathed regu- larly as one in sleep might da My mind was agitated, but I thought it best to be still and await the result of this nocturnal visit. She came slowly up to the foot of the bed,— it had no curtains around it ; and she placed the light she had carried in her hand on a little table near, while with a steady fixed look she watched me. Then folding her arms on the top of the footpiece of the bed, she gazed at me with an earnest intensity. My mind was strangely troubled. At first I thought, "This is some terrible nightmare ; " then, " This is one of the doctor's patients ; " finally, " This woman mistakes me for somebody else," But as she did nothing else than remain there looking at me, I came to the conclusion that she meant me no harm, and kept my position and deceptive demeanour. She did not seem to think it strange that my eyes were open, but her gaze dwelt steadily on me for a long time, while on my part I occupied myself by examining her as closely as the dim candle-light would permit She was somewhat above the middle height of woman; her form and figure perfect and most beautiful. By the development of the latter I judged her to be not more than twenty, and age had written no line upon her brow. She did not seem to be a woman of earthly mould. Her marble forehead gleamed white and pure as a snow-clad mountain in the moonlight, and the golden-brown hair slept in serene peace above it. Beneath her finely pencilled eyebrows there came forth an intense light, a glow anything but natural. It seemed to me wild and shadowy, as of one looking into a looking- glass and catching the reflection of one's own face with a Digitized by VjOOQ IC 122 Si. James's Magazine. feeling of mingled dread and horror, — such a look as a child might give when presented unawares, and for the first time, to the mocking image. The gleam of the candle permitted me to form no idea of the color of those eyes. That they were beautiful, I felt rather than saw ; there was about their glance a certain fascination, and yet not a fearsome fascination, but a kind of controlling impulse. Have you ever sat in the room with a person from whose face you cannot keep your gaze ? This visitor was to me one of these fascinators, and I was compelled to look at her. The lower part of her face was a little less perfect and admirable. The nose was a fairly good shape, and the lips delicate and gracefully curved, but the chin had an indefinable want of make about it, and the cheeks seemed strangely hollow for one so young. I thought she must have gone through a great deal of trouble and sorrow to look so pale, but the eyes and the general expression did not confirm arty such opinion, and possibly it was due to the abseace of suffi- cient light to relieve the shadows in which her position had cast the lower portion of her visage. I noticed also her dress, which was less peculiar than anything else about her, for she wore a plain stuff body over a coarse striped garment without trimming, and made of a dark winter material, while no ornaments of any kind broke the quiet of the costume, or detracted from the serenity of the pose of her limbs. She seemed perfect master of herself, and wore nothing round her delicate throat but a plain gold band, which fell into the lines of the flesh most gracefully. She clasped her hands together, and now and again seemed to be muttering some- thing, but the purport I could not hear. Presently she ap- peared to wake up, and for the first time I listened to the accents of a voice than which I never heard a sweeter. " He sleeps calmly and peacefully. I saw him brought in, and I thought he was dead. What is he ? How fair, how pure his cheeks ; and he has no whiskers like " She men- tioned a name to herself, and continued slowly, " Is he going to stay ? Shall I see him to-morrow ? or will he vanish as the others vanish ? What have I seen in any of them ? They stare at me and turn away and go, and I see them no more. He shall not go. He shall stay. He is beautiful, handsome, lovely, and I like to look at him. Shall I make him stay ? Digitized by VjOOQ IC Promethia. 123 Perhaps I need not He will stay if I ask him in the morn- ing. But shall I see him ? Shall I wake him now ? " She seemed to hesitate a long time, and I was afraid to speak for fear of frightening her. I was, in truth, too fasci- nated to move or think of anything but what she was going to do next, and as she started to make her way to the head of the bed, slowly and with stealthy footsteps, I began to feel a little nervous. Supposing this was one of the lunatics, and a dangerous one ? For one moment she clutched the coverlet convulsively, and pushed back the hair from her brow ; the next, she advanced close to me, and stooping over me examined my face with the greatest care. Into my eyes she peeped, not apparently noticing that they were wide open, and then she passed her hand over my features with a strange in- quisitiveness. I trembled, and yet as the delicate flesh came near my lips I could not resist the natural gallantry of my feelings, and I kissed her palm gently. She started back like one stung. " He is awake, and he will see me here, and tell." Then, without a word or a sound, so very noiselessly did she tread, she took her candle and left the room. She neither glanced at me nor turned round ; my touch seemed to have overcome every other feeling but one of fear at the idea of being found there at that hour of the night, and she rushed away, but with the gliding motion of a snake, and as noiselessly as if she wore no boots or shoes, which was perhaps the case. I sat up in bed when she shut the door and I trembled violently all over as I heard it close. "What!" I thought to myself, "am I mad? Have the events of the day turned me crazy? Could there possibly have been a woman of flesh and blood looking at me and running from me like that ? What shall I do ? Where shall I fly, and to whom shall I call for assistance ?" I tried to jump out of bed and scream. I found no voice but the effort to move brought on such an attack of pain in my head that I lay still, and was unable to think of anything but my own sufferings for the next few hours. As I became more comfortable, and dropped into a sort of half dose, the image of this woman arose before me again, and it seemed to me that I had at some other time — somewhere, but where I knew not — seen the form and features of this exquisite Digitized by VjOOQ IC 1^4 $/• Jatneis Magazine. creature. I longed to see more of her ; she bad fascinated me; and it was with that desire uppermost in my breast that I sank into the oblivion of sleep, and slumbered till day- break CHAPTER VI. AN INTRODUCTION. MORNING broke very differently to what I had expected. The first light of dawn fell Upon me through the half-closed ctirtains, and revealed a clear sky, from which the cloud* and mists had long since rolled away, and where there was already promise of a bright winter sunshine. My eyes opened slowly and somewhat wearily ; but as the cheerful daylight entered them I recovered by degrees, and the oppression of the night with its shadowy visitations wore away. About nine o'clock, as far as I could judge — for my watch had stopped in the night, as I had forgotten to wind it up — the doefr of my room opened, and the same nurse who had attended me the previous evening brought me some breakfast a*?d asked how I felt. Until I heard her question I had not thought of my state of health, save only when the paia in my head reminded me of my disabled condition. I was obliged to consider before answering, and tried to rise in the bed, but I was weak and feeble, and the effort cost me a good deal of discomfort and pain. I relapsed into a recumbent posture, and replied, " I feel weak this morning, bat I suppose I shall be all right in an hour or so, and then I must get up and go." " Indeed, you will not," she answered ; " so make your mind easy. You have had a very serious accident, and you must be prepared to remain here for some days at least But the doctor will see you, and arrange all matters for your comfort, I have no doubt." With tiiis agreeable intelligence she placed the tray within my reach, and persuaded me to eat as much as I could. There are very few situations in which I have ever found myself at a loss for an appetite, and this morning I felt ravenous, though ill. So I made the most of the food allowed me, and while I was eating said aothing to draw the atten* Digitized by VjOOQ IC Promethia. 125 tion of my nurse from the satisfaction of my creature comforts, the ministration to which seemed to be her only duty in the room. No sooner, however, did I feel satisfied, than I began to ask her questions about the house and its owner ; but she was too well trained to give me any satisfaction. All she did was to shrug her shoulders, and answer with a "Yes" or " No," when there was really no information to be given by such a reply to my question. At last, in despair of ascer- taining anything from her, I demanded, 44 Is the doctor coming to see me ?" ** Certainly," she replied, " as soon as ever you feel disposed to receive him, but he is very busy, and will not come until you send for him." " Fetch him by all means," 9aid I ; "as soon as ever he can come, I shall be glad to see him." She left the room immediately, and in little more than two minutes the doctor made his appearance, and smiled to me a good morning. •'And how do we feel this morning?" was his greeting. " Did you have a good night's rest ? I came in to see you before, but found you fast asleep, and it is a rule with rop^^^V never to disturb a patient when in a'natural slumber. If yjW?^W^> have a fancy for anything, let me know it at once." j f? \v He came close to me as he said these words, and felt my \ . pulse after true doctor fashion. His brow was mild, art4 relaxed considerably as he ascertained my strength to be - good. \£, "You will do very well," he said; "thank God for your "* wonderful constitution. In a day or so you will be able to get out of bed, if the wound in your head heals as it should. I do not think it will hurt you to talk a little, and perhaps you may have something on your mind for the relief of which you will be thankful. Speak freely, and let me know if I can add in any way to your comfort. You need not regret giving me trouble, for you have done me a great service." " I am," I answered, " under considerable obligation to you, and I have no one anxious about me. If you will let me send a line to my hotel, I shall be glad, and then there is nothing more on my mind, I assure you. I am sorry to be so much trouble — that is all." Digitized by VjOOQIC 126 Si. James's Magazine. " I shall be glad to know something of my patient," said the doctor, coming down by the side of the bed, and bringing near to me a table constructed for the express purpose of allowing an invalid to write in a nearly recumbent position. * Write your letter, and then talk to me. I will just go and finish my rounds, after which I shall be at your service." He gave me a pen and ink, and assisted me to write to the landlord of my hotel, telling him that I had met with an accident which would confine me to bed for a day or two; but he suggested as an alteration that I should say nothing about the accident, so I had to write the note over again, and on his advice added that I was staying some days with a friend. I wrote as he wished, and gave the letter to him, and then he left me for a time, while I lay thinking of the strange events of the previous day, and wondering whether it would be prudent or not to take the doctor into my confidence concerning them. It seemed to me unadvisable to do so for more reasons than one. In the first place, the things I had witnessed were hardly worthy of credence, and from his speech I gathered that the woman I had sent back to his place was one of his patients, and he, having secured her, would hardly care to examine the haunted house again. Besides, I had quite made up my mind to do so at the first opportunity, and see what part of my fit had been caused by real events, and what by the fateful absurdity of temporary indigestion or foolish imaginary dread. Then I thought, " It is very unwise in my present state to say anything that might lead him to think my mind in the least affected by the fall I have had," so on the whole I concluded it to be the wisest course to hold my tongue and hear what he had to say. I did not at all object to the prospect of passing a few days or even a week under the doctor's roof, if there was any chance of my last night's visitant with the beautiful eyes coming near me again, for I confess the more I thought of her as I lay in a lazy, indolent manner, occupied with nothing, the more it struck me that she was a very extraordinary woman, and one well worth the trouble of trying to see again if the chance occurred. My reflections had come to a satisfactory termination when the doctor entered and took a chair by my bedside. He seemed rather tired from his exertions, and appeared inclined Digitized by VjOOQIC Promethia. 127 to silence. I let him remain quiet, but I noticed that if his mouth was at rest, his eyes were not, and he looked at me as closely as a dog watches a cat His motives for this scrutiny did not occur to me, so I rested quietly under his gaze, making not the least objection to being stared out of counte- nance, and only on my part retaliating by keeping his features well in view as he sat a little back towards the black curtain of the bed. He was the first to break into conversation. "You are an American," he said; "and you came to England for the purpose of finding excitement? Has the old world more life in it than the new? or have you new world -men found out that fast life is not always exciting ?" u How you know my thoughts I cannot divine," I replied quietly ; " but you have hit on the object of my visit to this country. It is not the first time I have been here, though. I found that all the worlds— both old and new— presented no novelty to me, and I should have buried myself long ago if the fear of a dull grave, and unlively company had not im- pressed itself upon my imagination." Dr. Delgardo smiled. "You never did any work, I presume?" " Indeed you are mistaken. I have tried work, but that is no relief at all, because there is no work which takes long enough. They applied to me once to assist in the reduction of the national debt, and in ten minutes I drew up a scheme for the perfect liquidation and complete removal of the whole incubus. Of course they turned me out at once." "Well, no wonder; you are too clever for the age, and of course it rebels against you. Time brooks no master, and you would make it your absolute slave. If ever you find rest and peace, it will only be when your energies are worn out." I laughed at him. " Indeed ! — a pleasant consolation. Throw that sort of physic a little farther than the dogs, doctor. I mean to enjoy life yet, if there is anything left to enjoy." " You have but one chance, and that lies in matrimony. The union of your restless spirit with another one not equally restless might have the advantage of quickening her life and subduing yours. Try it when you leave me." " I should get tired of the nicest woman that ever lived in a week, if not before. Oh, doctor, you men of method are Digitized by UOOQ IC 128 Si. Jamefs Magazine. to be envied ; you even subdue your feelings to regulation movements. Now I never know what it is to BE at all : I think and I act, and then I weary — not of the labour, but of the want of satisfaction in the work." " Well, but has no woman," he asked, returning to the theme of marriage, " has no woman ever charmed you into something of excitement and passionate desire ? " " For half an hour, yes ; but for longer, never. I believe there is such a thing as love, but not for me. I am quite impervious to the charms of a host of Venuses ; they would not even draw from me a look unless it were given freely or accidentally." The doctor smiled at me incredulously ; after a pause, he added, " If this be so you are a grand exception to the rule both for all men and especially for your own countrymen ; they at least are never wanting in appreciation of the charms of beauty, and I should be sorry to trust my loves, if they happened to be very pretty women, with an American, even if he professed more than you a hundred times over." I smiled in my turn. " My dear doctor, you only know a few phases, a very few phases of human nature. All our countrymen are not cast upon one model. Do you know that I am only two-and-twenty, and I have traversed the whole of the habitable globe, and a good deal of earth that is uninhabitable also. Well, in every country I have been in I have made it a rule to see the pret- tiest and most lovable women, and I have never yet — I do not mind telling you the truth — taken a fancy to any woman for more than a few hours at the very outside. Bring me the most beautiful, perfect, fascinating creature that ever existed, and it will be very curious if I am not tired of her society before she has sat in that chair for half an hour. You do not know all natures, and you cannot imagine what a man feels who began the world at three." He stared at me, but not in an impertinent way, and after a moment his gaze softened into that peculiar expression of seeking to look me through which had first impressed me that morning. I submitted, however, not wishing to be rude to the man to whom I owed so much, and presently I resumed the conversation. " You must not imagine I was never inclined to the senti- Digitized by LiOOQ IC Pronpethia. 129 ment of love, For during my youth — that is, while I was ten or eleven years old — I had the same romantic tempera- ment as most persons, but that is all over long ago, and I would give a very large sum of money to be able to experi- ence the sentiment again." * And supposing you did," he asked, with an evident object in the queston, " would you marry ? or would you fly from the presence of the temptation i " " Marry, doctor ! " I replied with a start. " Am I mad, or do you think my brain already requires the benefit of your sana- torial treatment ? Do sane men ever marry ? " He fairly laughed. Until that time I had doubted whether he could laugh, and now that I witnessed his features convulsed with a broad grin and the free flow of a genuine hilarity, I became more easy with him. " You see there are different opinions on the question in the new world and the old, but I never express anybody else's opinion upon a subject, not because I am conceited, but because I am individual. I believe marriage was an invention of some evil-minded person for the purpose of propagating the race of man and enjoying the misery of the sufferings of flesh. There, now you have it; and if you like to write a book with that as the text of your labour, I shall be most happy to assist you and to make over to you the copyright of the idea." He did not answer for a few moments, but appeared thinking. u My friend, you will be very dull here/' he said at last ; " if I introduced to you for a companion a most lovely and lovable woman, could I depend upon you not to abuse the introduction ? " " Certainly, my dear fellow ; and you might rely upon me simply because I should have no inclination so to do. Can you, however, depend on the lady ? — because I have always found mysdf irresistible, you know, and it is difficult to with- stand the fascinations of a woman in love with you. You know well enough that if a woman makes up her mind to secure a man's attentions, it is not easy for the most stoical and passionless to avoid her." " Ah," he answered, " but therein lies the danger, for yon never can tell, with a woman young and comparatively un- tried in the affections of the heart, what sort of fancy she may take. Love is a thing I have never been able to quite Digitized by VjOOQ IC 130 5/. yamefs Magazine. comprehend, though I think I know the workings of every human passion, and even up to a certain point manage to deal with that of love. But there are at times and in certain dis- positions sudden and unaccountable vagaries of the passion which absolutely baffle all attempts at explanation, and if you should happen to become the subject of such a one — for I must confess you are a good-looking man — would you have the nobility and generosity of character to tell me so ere it became too late ? " "Indeed there is not the slightest cause to fear me," I answered, somewhat puzzled to think what all this was to lead to. " If it were your wife who made love to me, it would be no use. I speak personally, because I feel sure if you have a wife she must be charming, — I hardly know why, except there is something in your eye which speaks of the appreciation of that which is beautiful." " You are right in saying so," he answered cheerfully, though a shade passed over his fine features at the mention of his wife ; " I love all that is lovely, but the possession of the beau- tiful is often as much beyond us as the possession of the good." " Still," I answered in a consolatory tone, " we all strive for the good, or pretend to do so ; and we must be satisfied if we reach part of the way towards our aspirations." He sighed and rose as I spoke. " I am very busy this morning," he said, " but I will see you again ; and Mrs. Taylor will give you every attention, and dress your wound when it is requisite. You shall not be alone ; but remember your promise to me with the companion I am about to introduce to you." " You are too kind," I returned. " Please do not let me interfere with any of your arrangements : I am by this time pretty well accustomed to the misery of loneliness." " My guest is entitled to the best I have," was all he replied ; and then he shook my hand and moved slowly to the door. The light of the sun's rays shining through a window fell upon his head as he opened the door and stood on the threshold, and at the moment I thought to myself that he was, or had been, a very handsome, noble-looking man, and that a little care on his part now would restore a good deal of youth and beauty to his features. But he seemed utterly uncon- Digitized by VjOOQ IC Promethia. 131 scious of my observation. He put his head out into the pas- sage and pronounced a single word in a soft but clear tone. "Promethia!" The sound of his voice appeared to me to be echoed a long way among or through many passages, and to be reflected from projecting walls and hollow doorways. The silence returned unbroken, however, and my feelings were those of the most painful apprehension. It was useless my wondering at the state of my nerves. It seemed to me as if my whole constitution were upset, and I had lost the usual powers of mind for which I had been remarkable from youth upwards. For me to be lying in bed and trembling from head to foot at the sound of a voice was as rare an occurrence as for me to be amused by anything or anybody ; but certainly the one was taking place, and, for the other, the conversation of the doctor had afforded me unquestionable entertainment. If the fall and wound had affected me seriously, the only thing I could do was to remain quiet and trust to my new friend's care to restore me to health. He was doubtless a skilled practitioner, but if after a day or two I did not find myself as well as I expected, it would be easy for me to suggest — in a modest manner of course, and without wounding his feelings — that I should like to have the benefit of other advice. I might feel quite well in the morning ; at any rate I should not improve matters by worrying myself about imaginaty sensa- tions. I lay still, therefore, and waited for what was next to happen. Nor did the event keep me long in suspense. The doctor uttered the strange name once more, and, as before, it was echoed along the passages ; but this time it appeared to be responded to by the opening of a door and the sharp click of the lock of a closing portal. Then there was the light sound of footsteps as of a woman coming along the passage slowly and regularly. They grew more distinct as they neared the room in which I lay. My ears caught every sound. The person paused apparently before my doorway, and I heard the voice of my friend the doctor speaking in a decided tone, — " Promethia," he said, " my friend Mr. Harte is confined to his bed, and will need cheerful society. I wish you to do your best to amuse him while he is with me. You can make him Digitized by VaOOQ IC 132 Si. James* s Magazine. feel the time less heavy than it otherwise would, and I rely on you to do so. I shall expect tt of you, and " The concluding words did not reach my ear. He then seemed to await a reply, but if any was given I did not catch it, and I next heard the sound of footsteps, distinctly those of a man, going away in the direction from which the sound of the opening door had proceeded Naturally I expected the advent of the young lady or old lady — I did not know which— who was to amuse me ; but I lay long in silent anticipation — so long, indeed, that I was almost dropping asleep, tedium having its effect and overcoming completely the excitement of curiosity which I had begun to experience. The first thing which roused me was the striking of a clock. It must, I thought, be a very hollow house, for every sound, however trifling, echoed and re-echoed on all sides in a way positively awful. It was just ten. I turned to the window, and saw the sun shining with tolerable brightness ; the air was clear, and above in the pure sky there seemed to be a cheerful tone, which made me rather regret that I could not share the joy of Nature in the brightness of her autumnal weather. Still, if I could not get out, it was pleasant to look at the sky and catch the light of the snn, and listen to what I fancied I could hear, though I was not quite certain, — the song of a happy bird. How different was the appearance of the prospect I could see from where I lay to what it ought to have been judging from my anticipations of this house on the previous day. The sombre, dreary pile with the faded creepers looked to me then as if no blue sky ever condescended to canopy it, and the miserable mist and damp had appeared as part and parcel of the establishment over which their gloom presided. The changes of Nature are very wonderful. Somehow I got led on into a train of thought to which I was not much accustomed, and I almost fancy I might have been heard muttering to myself some of the poets' praises of Nature. I forgot the anticipated visitor ; I forgot my present condition, and the wound in my head ; I foigot the weariness of life ; and I even believe that in a few moments more I should have begun to sing, or attempt to sing, when on turning my head from the window, behold, before me stood the woman who had paid my room a visit on the previous night I Digitized by VjOOQlC Protnethia. 133 CHAPTER VII. PROMETHIA. She stood in the full sunlight, with bare brow and hands folded on her breast, her head slightly inclined forward ; and there was a dubious look in her eyes as if she feared her reception. The extreme beauty of her features was far more striking by day than it had been by the dull light of the candle, but there was no mistake about her being the same person. How shall I describe her once more ? The task is well-nigh impossible. There are some things for which we find no words. She was herself, — a woman, and yet not a woman. No female had ever produced on me the same im- pression. There she stood, silent and pensive, with her eyes furtively resting on my face, and her hands clasped rigidly on the home of so much beauty, while as the warm breath coursed in and out of the ruby lips, her bosom rose and fell, and the hands upon it claimed attention by their exceeding whiteness and perfect shape. But she was not a creature to be looked at for long, I tremble to think of all that passed through my brain as I gazed on her. I had heard of thcTJ woman, and I never believed it possible for any man m\fc>s , v sober senses to go to the lengths I had read and heard of ; W now it seemed as if all my firm resolves, all my stoical feeling^) were passing away. There was a maddening passion in her gaze. It was rapture to behold a thing, a being so perfect; it was terror, and yet it was delight ; it was joy and intense pain ; it thrilled me ; it made me feel as I never felt before. I looked and feared, and a desire to clasp her hand or press her lips struggled for the mastery. I trembled through every fibre ; I felt a cold shock at my heart. Then my head was burning. I know not what other sensations I experienced, until at length, moved by a feeling I could not repress, I turned and hid my face in the pillows of my couch. What she thought of my behaviour I do not know, but she took no notice, and a few moments which seemed to me like , ages passed away. All the time I had the knowledge of something to be loved or feared being near me, and the vol. 1. Digitized MGoogle madness of love, I had heard of the wild things that rawprn *c S all ages, and not least in this one, have done for the fiawbnj 134 Si. James's Magazine. horror and intense feeling made me press my face closer and closer and closer to the pillow like a frightened child. At length a voice broke the dread silence of the room. It was hers, — sweet, musical, and melodious, like the sound of a harp. I felt the most pleasing sensation as it fell upon me, and ere it ceased I raised my head and looked at her calmijr and without dread or doubt Every sensation gave place to one of tranquillity and peaceful delight, yet she spoke sadly, — "Am I so fearsome— so hideous ? He does not tell me so, and yet it must be. That woman shrinks from me, spurns me, hates me, curses me ; and now this one turns away and fears." Then more particularly to me, she continued, — " Look at me and tell me. I will know, and I can bear the truth. Am I ill-formed and hideous ? Do my looks inspire you with terror ? Tell me, and oh, do not have pity. I am but as I was made. Oh, pity me. You will not say I am all ugly — that I am a fear and a horror ? Spare me." As I looked fixedly at her, my sense completely shocked by this strange address, a change came over my feelings* It no longer appeared to me that I was in the presence of a woman out of the common, of a being not of my own sphere. All her coldness and rigidity, her majestic features, and her grandiose of head and figure, softened down, and she was a very woman. I was somewhat surprised at the words she used, but if her utterances were sincere, as it appeared, the pain and anguish she was undergoing must be intense, and I hastened to say what I could to give her relief. " How strange," I began, not wishing to be too sudden in the expression of my opinion, " that Nature should leave her most beautiful creations in ignorance of their own perfections I Will you believe in my sincerity if I say all I feel about you ?" She stared, and for a moment covered her face with her hands ; then drawing them rapidly away, she said, " You do not mean it — you are not going to tell me the truth." But my expression seemed to change her opinion, and, folding her arms once more on her breast, she concluded, u Say all you mean." " Well, then, I would tell you, however imperfect my power of praising such beauty may be, that you are aHJloveliness and Digitized by VjOOQ IC Promeihicu 135 grace ; and my opinion is not to be despised," I continued, going back to my usual self-sufficient style of conversation, " for I have seen the prettiest woman of the day in all parts of the world, and — come here, I will tell you the truth." She obeyed my request and my motion, and drew near to the bed I leant over towards her, and whispered,— " You are without exception the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." " Is it so ? " she asked, trembling all over with an emotion the power of which I could not understand. " Is it so ? — am I fair ? am I to be looked upon with anything but dread ? Oh, if you are good — and you must be good— tell me for the dear sake of nature is this true, or are you making fun of me ? He said once I was hideous, and she I am fearsome. Oh, do not deceive me, or I will not stay here, though he told me I must. Do tell me, is this true ? " The appeal in her voice and gesture was irresistible. I do not think I could have refused such an entreaty from any woman, but it was impossible for man to deny the request of such a woman as this. " I have spoken the truth, as God is my judge ! " I replied solemnly. " Never through all the years of my life, — and though in number not many, they have been filled with strange experiences, — have I seen or heard of any woman so beautiful as you are. It is not that there may fail more pretty women, with brighter eyes, or clearer skins, or fairer complexions, women to whom many men might bow down, and forget at their feet their manhood, their duty, their God, all of life here and hereafter ; but not one ever influenced me as you have done, and never have I till this moment felt what the real power of beauty is." She smiled now, and with the agreeable relaxation of her features a new glory awoke in her face. Her eyes sparkled , her cheeks flushed with warm rich blood. Never had I seen anything so magnificent. I was betrayed into an exclamation which to a lady was rude, to say the least, but she accepted it as earnest of my good faith and truth, and returned, — " You have made me feel happier than I have ever been since that woman told me of — of myself. Ah, then it was not true?" " Certainly not, if she disparaged your beauty ; and when Digitized by VjOOQ IC 136 £/• Jamefs Magazine. I see your slanderer, I will not be slow, I assure you, in telling so." u And you, — have you thought of ever seeing anything like me?" (t Like you ? no! I never believed the earth held any woman so fair. I shall thank the accident which brought me here, and I hope while I remain you will let me see plenty of you." She stooped down suddenly on her knees by the bedside and took my hand in hers. Then, ere I could prevent it, she moved it to her lips, and I felt her warm breath steal over the veins and send a quick pulsation through my entire frame. She however did it innocently and in all purity of thought. She was divinely simple. " If you nurse me like that," I said, half inclined to bend over and stroke the beautiful golden-brown hair, " I shall get well very soon, but — I shall not say so." She rose to her feet and folded her arms once more, while her brow saddened. " You are so kind and have done me so much good that I will be to you anything you wish," she said bluntly. " What shall I do ? Alas, I know little of the ways of the world that are called amusements, though I have read of them." " Miss Delgardo," I began, but a start on her part cut me short. " Not that name — not that name ! I hate it. I have no right — I dare not use it. She said so. No, be good, be kind, and call me by my other name, — do ! do ! do ! " There could be no great harm in humouring her whim, though to me it was unintellible, I did not believe this woman was my host's wife, and the natural conclusion which had forced itself on my mind was that she stood in the rela- tionship of a daughter, probably by a foreign woman. It is in the fruit of such unions that the most beautiful and often the most characteristic forms of nature are seen, and it occurred to me that some such circumstance might account for the peculiarity of this strange person. What was I to do to please her ? "Anything that is agreeable to you I will do, but it is usual to call young ladies by their surnames," said I, smiling. Digitized by VjOOQIC Promethia. 137 " Call me Promethia," she said ; 4< it is my name. He calls me so, and I want no other." " Ah," thought I, " she loves him, then ; but they are not married, and this woman she talks about is an interferer." But she divined my thoughts, apparently. u No ! no ! not that. It is not for that, but I like the name. If you wish me to be happy and good, call me nothing else." There was nothing for it but acquiescence. I was also afraid that if I failed to humour my new beauty, she would take to the usual resort of her sex and seek safety in flight. Then conceive how much more lonely my position would be than hitherto. No, I must keep on good friends with my visitor, and leave time to explain what was anomalous about her. She watched me closely, with her eyes fixed and her lips shut. There was an expression I did not altogether like about the resolute closing of her mouth ; it seemed to indi- cate cruelty and resolution to evil. But the expressions of a face under strong excitement are often fallacious. I motioned her to sit down, and said, " If you wish it, I will call you by that very classical appel- lation, though to my mind you are more of a Minerva than an indefinite nobody. Can you tell me how you came by that strange name ? " " When I know you better I will tell you all I know, for you have been very, very good to me. Let me amuse you now. What can I do ? " " Ah," said I, smiling, " that is for you to say ; I am help- less. The wound in my head does not hurt very much, but the loss of blood has weakened me." She started up with a sudden cry like that of a wounded tiger. " Was it you lost blood ?— oh, horror ! " And she sank back in the chair which stood by my bedside. I was startled completely out of my wits. I rubbed my eyes. Was it broad daylight ? was I dreaming ? or had the fall and subsequent event paralysed my brain and made an idiot of me ? No, it was not so. To convince myself, I pulled my watch out from under my pillow and wound it up. I recom- mend any one in a similar position to do likewise, — the click of the turning wheels will convince a man whether he really ys awake even if the sight of the enemy Time does not Well, Digitized by VjOOQ IC 13$ St. James9 s Magazine. then, if I was in my senses, what could be the meaning of her exclamation, unless she was so delicately sensitive to the sight and idea of blood that the mere mention of it caused her to feel faint. I put my hand out to her and touched her cheek. She revived, and rose. "No, it could not have been you," she said, "for you only came yesterday. You are not very ill, are you ? " " Oh dear, no. I fell down somewhere in the garden and hurt my head, and I suppose it bled a good deal ; but I did not think it would distress you, or I would not have mentioned if She seemed to understand what was passing in my mind, and hastened to relieve the impression. " It was not that, but I thought you had suffered for me, and I should have been so sorry." Nothing could equal the tenderness in her tone and the feeling of her regard as she said this. I am not a vain man, but I felt I had attracted her, and to win the notice only of such a woman might have made any man place a high value on himself. I could but smile and thank her for her attention, assure her I was not hurt much, and if she nursed me should soon be well. " And now," she said, rising, lc you are dull : I will fetch my music. Do you like music ? " " As much as anything," I replied, relapsing into my old self. She took no notice of the weary tone in my answer, but left the room, and I remained gazing after her in silence and sus- pense until she reappeared with a harp in one hand. Another wonder — she carried a large and massive gilt harp in one hand as easily as a strong man would bear a walking-stick. I expressed myself glad to see the instrument she had chosen, and she took a seat on a low chair by the side of my couch. CHAPTER VIII. THE QUARREL. Sue settled beeself in an easy posture and rested the harp against a footstool. She leant forward, and let her fingers stray Digitized by VjOOQ IC Prometkia. 139 for some moments among the strings, without visible object or audible sound save a low murmuring as of falling water in the •distance. Then, suddenly raising bar fair head, she swept the ■strings with a brilliancy of touch and power, of execution which entranced me. I am always susceptible to the charms of music, but it had never before been my good fortune to hear such exquisite strains. The air she played seemed com- posed of several others mingled together, and I fancied I could distinguish notes of well-known melodies, but not of any one in particular. I did not disturb her, but listened in silence. As she sat there with the light falling full upon her head and shoulders, and the exertion revealing the outline of the muscles of neck and chest, I thought to myself that I had never been in the presence of such a lovely being. While she -was playing, the weird appearance, the strange aspect of countenance which had repelled me from her at first, wore off entirely, and the majestic outline of the features softened into a most womanly contour. The eyes lost their fiery glow, and beamed soft and mild, yet full of a poetic expression. Her breath flowed freely, her golden-brown hair loosened slightly from the fillet which bound it, and streamed downwards in two long plaits or braids, while the front portion was drawn in simple bands across her fair forehead. The marble whiteness of this and, the delicate hue of the cheeks, was particularly .striking; and the full shapely neck and throat joined and bore the head erect as a column of Parian stone might do some noble statue. She did not assume, but she fell into, a graceful attitude, and as she played her perfections grew upon me more and more. I was entranced. I listened, and felt happier than I had been for years,— happier, if I tell the truth, than I had ever been. So does the loveliness of nature affect even the most stoical of us ; and so did this rare and singular woman enthrall me with her beauty and her song-music. There was but one blemish I noticed in her ; it would have •escaped me but for the fact that in bending towards her instrument she displayed her neck very fully, and there, just above the collar-bone I discovered a small abrasion or mark. It seemed of recent origin, and had the appearance of a wound but badly healed. It had a hard, gristly look about it, and the veins in the immediate neighbourhood seemed thick and .coarse in comparison with the extreme delicacy of the others. Digitized by G00gle 140 5/. Jatnefs Magazine. I could trace nearly every one of them beneath the skin, which was as fair and transparent as the skin of a baby. A fault in one so perfect beautiful attracted some attention, and I made a mental note to ask the cause or accident which had occa- sioned the mischief. Presently, with a loud crash, she brought the melody to a close, and demanded of me how I liked it. " Please go on," I replied ; " you make me feel so happy." " I will play no more," she responded, in a tone full of the utmost sweetness. " May I sing ? " " Sing ! can you sing ? Oh, do, by all means." She asked no further permission, but bent over her harp and struck a few cords of a sweet plaintive melody, to which she sang the following words, in a voice which hardly seemed to me like a voice of this world : PROMETHIA'S SONG. Neither sleep nor wake, oh earth, When the morning gilds the sky ; Kiss thy hand and welcome mirth From the east when day draws nigh Listen to the approach of morn Through the rolling vault of blue ; Tremble as the light is born, And the day-star loves renew. Joy, oh earth, in rising day, Joy in light and peaceful love ; Kiss the flowers in gentle play, Smile to greet the sun above. Earth subdues her hardened breast 'Neath the rosy light of morn ; Life is welcomed from her nest, Life and love with daylight born. She ceased, and I must confess, though her song thrilled me to the very depths of my being, I could not understand more than that there was a sweet melody and a clear ringing voice. The words seemed of another world ; and yet as I have written them down* there is nothing extraordinary about them, and as far as I can find out they have no special meaning beyond their literal sense. Still, as she sang them they affected me as no other song ever did or ever will, and I could only fold my hands together and implore her to go on. Digitized by VjOOQIC Promethia. 141 She, with her harp and her song, bewitched me as a syren might have done, and I had no choice but to worship, and pray for the continuance of the fatal joy, if fatal it was to prove. And when she ceased to sing, the glamour of her voice rested upon me, and it was some time before I could think of what to say. At length she relieved me of the necessity of exerting myself. " Shall I leave you now ? " *' No, please remain and sing on for ever," I broke forth ; u never yet have I heard such a voice. Who taught you to sing? She looked at me with surprise. . " What do you mean by ' taught ' ? " I stared at her. lC I mean, who gave you instruction in music and singing ? You never could have learnt to sing like that without a master." She appeared more and more surprised as I continued, and at length rose from the chair and placed her hand on my head. ''Quite cool. You are not going like them ; but you talk so strangely. What do you mean ? Do I not sing nicely ? Even she said I did." " Nicely ! your singing is charming — perfection ; I could listen to you for ever; but surely you must have had some one to teach you the harp and the use of your voice." She only shook her head backwards and forwards a little sadly, and took up her harp on her hand as one might take up a little parcel. "I must put him away" — she smiled — "and then T will come back and try and understand what you say. I often hear things which puzzle me. Goodbye/' She waved her hand to me from the door, and I could only mutter — " Come back soon." She scarcely seemed to hear, or, if she did, heeded not my words, but went straight on. Presently I heard a sound as of voices in the passage, and one of them was unquestionably hers. The first speaker had a shrill voice, and it struck me I had heard it before. w You here again ? " it said. * Is there never to be a chance Digitized by VjOOQIC 142 Si. Jamefs Magazine. of moving without seeing you. Not that I should have come back Why did I come to see your horrid face again ? " The reply came with a laugh. *' Horrid I '—I am beautiful ; and I care not for you and what you say. He says I am lovely, beautiful. He says so, — do you hear ? I am lovely, and you hate me because I am prettier than you." After a pause — " There can be no such thing. You are ugly, hideous, un- natural ; and I hate you, it is true ; but you deserve nothing but hatred. You are to me a fearful thing.- Out of my way ; I am still mistress here." a Indeed ! and how will you prove it ? I am mistress, and will show you," replied the voice of Promethia. " If I were really ugly, hideous, terrible, — if I merited no love or pity or compassion, as you have said so often, you should do what you like with me ; but he says I am beautiful, and for you and what your envy says I will care no more ; I will see if >ou are for ever to taunt me with the falsehoods you think I shall believe. Will you confess I am lovely ?" "Lovely indeed !" and there was a suppressed scorn which I could distinguish in the tones of the answering voice ; " you lovely ? — you are more hideous than the blackness of the grave. Do you think that white skin and those fair cheeks make beauty ? Where did you come from ? who was your mother ? and where is now your father ? eh ? — answer that. You are some wretch raised from a dunghill to gratify my husband's low desires. Begone. Get back to your room, or your hole ; never let me see your hideous face again. Why do you not leave us altogether ? Why does not God have mercy on me and hide your horror in the grave ?" There was apparently a moment's pause in the dispute, during which I imagine Promethia was trying to curb the evil spirit rising within her. Then I heard a scuffle. Little chance would any woman, or even man, stand with that superb creature. Remembering how she carried the harp, I trembled to think that she would in all probability annihilate her opponent with one blow. I tried to rise from my bed and see what was going on, and I managed to peer round the corner and obtain a glimpse of them through the crack of the