MACMILLAN’S MAGAZINE.

DECEMBER, 1867.

REALMAH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “ FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.”

CHAPTER IV.

Dr. Jonnson used to say, that a con- cern for public affairs never took away any man’s appetite for dinner. He was certainly wrong, for poor Mr. Milverton has been in the most depressed state lately ; and I think his dinners have been seriously affected by the impending war in Europe.

When next we met, it happened to be a wet day ; and we agreed that we would have our reading in the library. All about the library were strewed maps of the probable seat of war, showing what had_been Mr. Milverton’s recent objects of study. Just after we had met, Mr. Milverton rushed into the house, and begged us all to come into the garden to see something. We all came at once. He seldom notices natural phenomena; or, if he does notice them, he does not talk about them, which made us come more readily. He brought us in a minute or two to a spot where there was a pitched. battle going on between an army of red and an army of black ants. What surprised me was this: I had always understood, from books on natural history, that the red ants were much stronger than the black ants, but in this case the little black fellows fought admirably ; and,

No, 98.—vou, xvi.

while we remained, I could not foresee on which side the victory would be.

We re-entered the house, and went into the library, where the ladies joined us.

Ellesmere. There is one advantage of a wet day—namely, that we do not have our meetings in that stupid summer-house. There one sits up, very uncomfortably, on a hard bourd, leaning against some out-jutting piece of rustic abomination, which is meant to be very picturesque, and which certainly does possess that element of the picturesque which consists in ruin and decay. The whole thing partakes of the nature of a pic- nic; and pic-nics are my abhorrence. A meal is too serious a thing to be treated in that light manner.

Lady Ellesmere. What a hard, sensual man you are ! El e. Oh, yes! women like these

foolish things, it gives them an opportunity for fuss and bustle ; and, after all, they are sure to forget the salt, or the vinegar, or something or other which is an essential element to human happiness during dinner- time.

Mauleverer. I am quite of Sir John’s opinion. No sensible man, after he has attained the age of twenty-two—if he is not in love—cares about pic-nics.

Ellesmere. You look very miserable, Milverton. I know what is worrying you. What is the good of fretting about these turbulent and foolish people? If they will go to war, they must ; and I suppose it is necessary, for some good end or other, that they should do so.

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96 Realmah.

Milverton. I cannot get over it. War horrifies me. On all sides, loss, destruction, waste, turmoil, cruelty, sickness, horses slain, olive-trees cut down, bridges blown up, roads obliterated.

Ellesmere. Don’t go on. We know all that. It needs no ghost to tell us that.

Milverton. Yes: but there is something you do not know. There is not only the active mischief of war, but all the prepara- tion for war, which is perhaps the greater evil, in the long run, of the two. Did it ever enter into your mind to cansider what an unproductive creature a soldier is, and what an immense difference it makes to the welfare of the human race, whether you have all these stalwart men employed in producing, or in merely consuming and destroying ?

Ellesmere. Yes: now you talk like a sound political economist and sensible man.

Milverton. Then, you know, it does thoroughly dishearten one to find that Christianity, during all these years, has been able to do so little towards the prevention of war. Nobody seems to see the beauty of renunciation. Nobody seems to see the merit of being content to be second or third instead of first in the great game of life. But I am unjust: private persons do some- times see this beauty and this merit. I do believe that the first impulses of jealousy, of revenge, and of injustice, are constantly restrained by Christianity in the breasts of private individuals ; but in nations never. Honour! glory ! rights! claims! balance of power! these are the words which still dominate nations. Statesmen are like lawyers, who often give their clients advice which is harsh and self-seeking, telling them never to give up their rights and their claims—advice which, if the case were their own, they would not give themselves—being more generous, as they think it right to be, for themselves, than for their clients.

Ellesmere. Yes: we lawyers are very good people: it is our clients who make us wicked, whenever we are wicked ; which is very rarely.

Mauleverer. Man is meant to be miser- able, and he always will be.

Ellesmere. 1 do not see that. Paley’s argument is better than yours; but people who are fond of fishing are always wiser than other men. As Paley justly says, “Teeth were made to eat with, and not to ache.” If we injudiciously contrive to make our teeth ache, it is our own fault; and the same thing applies to all our conduct. I have just as good a right to say that men were meant to be happy, as that men were meant to be miserable, Mr.

Mauleverer. But do not let us interrupt Milverton : he will not be endurable until he has had his full moan over the present state of European affairs ; which, however, are enough to make anybody moan.

Milverton. There is one point connected with this matter that I often blame myself for not having spoken about. It is the use that we Britishers make of our capital. How we send it out to the most distant regions, often to be used against ourselves, and indeed against the dearest and best interests of mankind, I think that upon this subject —to speak without arrogance—I am really an authority. Iwas the last surviving com- missioner of foreign claims,—that means, of the claims of British subjects against foreign nations for injuries done in the wars that were closed by Waterloo. It may appear strange to you that I should ever have held such an office, for I am not yet, I trust, a very aged individual ; but there were several commissions before I was appointed, and the commissioners died out, leaving us the last set to wind up the affairs. I had, of course, to look into all the old papers ; and I found that there was no form of confiscation which had not been adopted with regard to British property. For instance, a foreign merchant owed a British merchant money : in his books it was a book-debt. The Government of the country said, “ Pay us that debt which, according to your books, you owe the Englishman, and we will give you a receipt, so that you cannot be molested for the debt in any of our courts.”

Well, then I will pursue the subject further. Is it not lamentable that, with the tields of England not half tilled, with the poor people of England not half housed, with every branch of industry that England possesses requiring capital, we should ever send our money out to be invested in Congo Fives or Timbuctoo Seven per Cents., or whatever other tempting but foolish invest- ment is offered to us by some distant country or colony? I believe [ should have fulfilled my part in the world, if I had only persuaded my fellow-conntrymen never to invest in anything which they cannot go and see, and respecting which their own laws give them a remedy, if any wrong is done them. I know it is of no use attempting by any legislative measures to prevent the efflux of capital. It is only to be done by persua- sion ; but, really, if men would only look to their own interests, they would be very shy of foreign investments. Now, I would ask the question, Has any man ever invested, twenty or thirty years ago, in land on British soil, and has not that investment increased at least forty per cent. in value ?

Realmah.

However, I have said my say upon this subject, and you may believe me, or not ; but I am quite sure that the increased interest never balances the increased danger which is to be found in making foreign investments.

Sir Arthur. To return to the main ques- tion of war, you cannot say, Milverton, that we have not gained a great deal of wisdom upon this point—that we are not wiser than other nations as regards it—for we have come to the conclusion that extension of territory is nearly always bought at too high a price.

Ellesmere. This has arisen from our insular position. You must not give us any great credit for being wiser than any other nation.

Milverton. There you are unjust. I would not exactly say that we are wiser than other nations; but I do honestly think that we are more conscientious. There is no doubt we are a very warlike nation, and that the great bulk of every people delight in war: but we have come to the conclu- sion that it is a very dangerous thing for our future welfare—I mean not temporal, but eternal welfare—to indulge in any war that is not a war of defence or a war of pro- tection to some oppressed people. I think that the religious movement which com- menced in the latter part of the last century and the beginning of this—of which Wilberforce may be chosen as a repre- sentative—had a great effect upon the minds of the British people. It cancelled slavery ; it improved our criminal code ; it made all men, even statesmen, obliged to refer their conduct to the highest religious principles ; and, you may depend upon it, it has proved a great check upon our naturally warlike instincts. This is what I think foreign nations do not understand, when they contemplate our sedulous observance of neutrality. They think it is shopkeeping which restrains us, whereas it is a fear of violating the highest moral and religious principles. I may be mistaken; but I sincerely believe what I say.

Only let some foreign nation attack us, and see what Berserkers we should become. I do not believe that the fighting element has gone out of us, but only that we are terribly afraid of fighting, except upon some thoroughly good cause—some cause which we believe would be approved of in heaven, as well as upon earth.

Nir Arthur. I am entirely in accordance with Mr. Milverton.

Mauleverer. I am not. Did you ever know the bulk of any nation ruled by any great, or humane, or religious principle ?

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Ellesmere. 1 think you all go too far in your respective theories. I think that, partly from a view of their interests, partly perhaps from religious principles, partly perhaps from their just contempt of the frivolous causes which often provoke war, the British people have come to a con- clusion against it ; but I am not inclined to give all the weight that Milverton does to Wilberforce, and the Wilberforcians of the last generation.

Milverton. At any rate, Ellesmere, you perceive the great change that has taken place in the minds of the British people about war.

Ellesmere. Well, there isa great change in the French people ; and to whom is this due?

Sir Arthur. The French people have re- ceived great lessons in political wisdom. Count Darn, I believe, told them that he had made calculations, by which it appeared that the height of men in France had been lowered one inch and a half, or two inches, by the wars of the first Napoleon. You see how this happens; the taller men are perpetually chosen for war, and are carried off to be slaughtered before they have produced any progeny.

Ellesmere. And you think that the arguments to be derived from such facts as these have any weight against “national glory, national honour, and rectification of frontiers ?”

Milverton. I do. Besides, the French are the most industrious people in Europe, and they love to see the fruits of their ° industry. I may be sanguine, but I be- lieve that the French are rapidly entering upon the same platform as ourselves ; and that, if our statesmen manage well, we might yet have them nearly always on our side for the maintenance of the peace of Europe.

Ellesmere. Well, we have had enough of foreign politics : let us go to the men who, untold years ugo, dwelt upon the Swiss lakes. I will bet anything Milverton makes them talk and think as if they were profound political economists of the present day ; and if Realmah does not talk to these fishy men much as Milverton would talk to us, my name is not John Ellesmere.

Milverton. I can only tell you what I know to have occurred. I may use modern terms, and sometimes modern modes of thought in speaking of the lake-men ; but what I know is, that I shall give a most true account of the thoughts and doings of the great Realmah.

Hereupon the reading commenced, and was as follows. n 2

98 Realmah.

THE STORY OF REALMAH. CHAP, III. THE TWO WIVES.

Art the time when this story commenced, Realmah had already received the two wives who were bestowed upon a man of his rank by the laws of the nation.

The cousin-wife, the Varnah, as she was called, was a plain young woman, possessing sundry good qualities as a housewife. She was regular, punctual, methodical, and a great lover of, posses- sions, not from avarice, but from a desire to have many things to furbish up, and to put in their right places. The heads of Realmah’s tribe had given her to Realmah with a kindly wish to compensate in some measure for his infirmities. He would never be able to acquire much property, they thought ; but whatever he did acquire would be taken care of, and made the most of, by his Varnah.

The alphabet-wife (the Ainah) was one of those girls whose personal appear- ance it is so difficult to describe, because there are no general terms which can be applied to it. She was neither beau- tiful, nor handsome, nor pretty; nor was she even what is called interesting- looking. In truth, her whole appear- ance was at first sight rather insignificant, and nobody would have turned to look at her as she passed them. Yet she was worth looking at, if looked at with a loving attention. Her small features were full of subtle mobility, and readily expressed the swift change of her thoughts. Her hair was a reddish brown, not unbeautiful; her deep-set eyes, of a dark blue colour, were really very expressive when you came to look into them; and there was an air of great resolve about her well-formed lips. She was one of those people in whom dress and distinction of any kind make such a difference. If she had been a little princess, one could have made something of her. But she never

was well dressed ; and, as to distinction of any kind, she had none.

The poor Ainah had never been taught those graceful movements which were carefully cultivated from their earliest youth by the girls of the higher class of the Sheviri.

And then, again, her hands and feet were by no means small.

I wish I could in honesty speak more favourably of the personal appear- ance of the Ainah; but, to tell the truth, it was unmistakeably plebeian. She had sprung from one of the lowest tribes of the nation—namely, that of the fishermen. After the manner of her tribe, she pronounced some of the commonest words quite wrongly. Louvarah (house) she made into luffee : darumid (people) into roomee: volata (provisions) into vlatee ; with a hundred other gross errors of language. Realmah was well skilled in his language ; and the poor Ainah never uttered a sentence in which she did not sorely shock his sensitive ears. Yet, in reality as Real- mah was the most thoughtful man of his nation, so his Ainah was the girl of the largest mind and nature in that town. This was totally unknown to him; and he had received her as he would have received any other chattel assigned to him by the laws of his country. It was not in his nature to be unkind to any one ; but such an idea as that of loving his Ainah never entered his mind, and would have been received by him from any one else with a smile of derision.

Tt was on the morning succeeding the night during which Realmah had uttered the soliloquy mentioned in the first chapter, that the young man entered his abode, and began talking with his two wives—not with a hope of gaining any ideas from them, or with much care for their sympathy, but from a natural wish to talk out his own ideas to some- body—to give them, as it were, shape by utterance.

“ Have you seen the ambassador from the Phelatahs?” said Realmah.

“ Yes,” replied the wives.

“ And what do you think of him ?”

“He is beautifully dressed,” said the Varnah, “and his presents are of the

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Realmah. 99

first quality. He has given us a vase with heads all round it, and serpents crawling up it, which meet, and together form the handles: it is quite a treasure.”

It may here be remarked that all the nations of the lake excelled in pottery. It was not that they understood the art of burning; but individual thought and skill were thrown into each article, and the variety and strangeness of the designs compensated in great measure for the want of knowledge shown in completing the processes of manufacture.

“ Yes, yes,” said Realmah, somewhat peevishly, “the presents that will return to the giver hereafter as spoil, may well be handsome ; but what do you think of the man himself? For my part,” he exclaimed with vehemence, “I believe him to be false as the hooded adder.”

“When did you get truth from any of his nation?” replied the Varnah. (This was the general opinion of the Phelatahs entertained by the Sheviri, and was the correct common-place for the Varnah to utter.)

“Tdo not mind that,” replied Real- mah; “what I want to know is, whether the story which this man brings us is a mere pretext or not. Is our nation to be the slave, and not the ally ?”

By the way, Realmah, in his lordly indifference, had never told his wives what was the pretext upon which the ambassador had come.

“ And what do you think, Ainah ?”

**T noted him well,” she answered. “He looks straight into people’s eyes, because it is the habit of honest men to do so, and he knows it is the way to gain credit; but I could see that it gave him pain, and that it was a great effort.”

Realmah, who had been looking down upon the ground, lost in meditation, suddenly raised his eyes, and gazed with astonishment at the Ainah.

“ And who told you to observe this ?” he said.

“ My heart,” she answered.

“Pray do not say phonee, my good Ainah.” (That was the word amongst the fishermen for ‘ heart.’) “ Why turn

everything into that foolish ee? Cannot you say phonata ?”

“ Phonata, then,” said the Ainah, timidly, with the tears rising to her eyes.

‘‘ Any one that has got eyes with any power of insight, even the women can see it,” muttered Realmah; “ but our elders, though they have the wisdom and experience of grey hairs, cannot. I must, at all risks, foree my suspicions upon them.”

“Do not go now,” said the Varnali. “You must come and see my bridal room, which the dear little Ainah” (she really loved the Ainah, because the girl was so useful and unselfish) “ has helped me to decorate.”

Realmah, who, like most great men, was essentially good-natured, consented to follow the Varnah to the bridal room. She led the way, expecting a burst of applause from him. The Ainah fol- lowed ; and as she followed, sighed.

There is no knowing how many thousands of years have passed since those three human beings walked into that bridal room ; but, ancient as the time was, that sigh which tells so much about a wounded heart was still more ancient, and had not been unknown even in the primeval Paradise.

Realmah walked about the bridal room, and did his best to appear pleased with the clay vases, the various orna- ments formed of feathers, the flint and bronze weapons, and the woven hang- ings ; but his mind was in the assembly of his chiefs, composing a speech which should be endured even from a young man, which should rouse suspicion, and compel a clear and decided course of action.

Suddenly he exclaimed, “If this is truth, then are the ways of falsehood much maligned ; if this is policy, then are the ways of children politic ; if this is the prudence of great chieftains, then are great chieftains little removed from ordinary men; if this is statesmanship, then are statesmen blind alike to the history of the past, and to the just fore- casting of the future.”

Saying which, Realmah made two pro-

100 Realmah.

found bows, one to his Varnah, and the other to the Ainah (for that was high courtesy according to the customs of his nation), and rushed from the bridal chamber into the open air. His wives looked after him amazed. As the hang- ings closed behind him, the Varnah said, “ Poor Realmah ! we should live but meanly if it depended on him to provide for us. But let us look again over all our presents.” The Varnal was very skilful in obtaining presents, and had laid all her relations under strict con- tribution. With her father she was an especial favourite. Ever since the death of his last wife, she had made the old chief very comfortable ; and it was with the greatest reluctance, and only from a strong sense of duty, that he had given her up to Realmah. The wonderful flint knives, and many of the bronze ornaments that adorned the Varnah’s bridal-room, had belonged to the old chief; but, as the Varnah judiciously observed, why could he not glory over them as well in his daughter’s house as in his own? And the old chief did come frequently to his daughter’s house, and was always kindly treated by the Varnah, for she was not like one of King Lear’s daughters, but loved her father and her kindred. Only where she was, the property must also be, that it might be duly cared for, and kept in order.

The Ainah sighed again, and she also said “‘ Poor Realmah!” and only God could know what depths of tenderness, sympathy, appreciation, and hopelessness were contained in those two words ; for the Ainah was well aware that she was but the slave of a great man—and nothing more than the slave.

Meanwhile Realmah bent his steps slowly and thoughtfully towards the great council-chamber, where, under the presidency of his uncle, the chief of the East, the assembled chiefs and their principal councillors were considering what answer should be given to the ambassador of the Phelatahs.

CHAP. IY. THE COUNCIL,

Tue chiefs were assembled in a long low room of great antiquity. It had beew the council-room of the town ever since it had been first raised upon the waters by a few fugitives who, in earlier days, had fled from the persecutions of those warriors who possessed weapons of bronze.

At the time that Realmah entered, the chief of the East was addressing the assembly. He was an old man, of great authority amongst the people, and of considerable natural sagacity ; but his ideas were wont rather to travel in a groove, and to take the form of melan- choly forebodings.

Realmah bent himself to the ground. The assembled chiefs looked at him with a cold haughty stare which said more plainly even than words could say: * What, young man, is the need of your presence here ¢”

Meanwhile the chief of the East, utterly ignoring the interruption, although he was Realmah’s uncle, thus continued his speech. “I foresee the time—I say, I distinctly foresee the time, when from the constant irruption of these bar- barians, life will become so difficult and so precarious for us, we shall be so hunted down by these new comers, that instead of building on the waters, our people will have to place their miserable habitations on dryland. They will thus become the prey of every passer-by. No one will sleep in peace. No one will feel secure, that in the morning he and his family will rise to pay their devotions to the sun. With this in- security, will come an indifference to all the arts of life; and the whole race will degenerate into inferior animals.

**My voice is for war; my voice is for allying ourselves at once with the Phelatahs. If the nations that sur- round this great lake can but remain united, they may force back those enemies, who, superior in weapons, but far inferior in true courage, now, according to the warning words of that

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Realmah. 101

noble ambassador, who has just retired from the assembly, threaten the entire destruction of our heaven-descended race.”

A murmur passed through the assembly—a murmur which could not be construed otherwise than into an approval of the sentiments which the aged chief of the East had brought for- ward with unwonted eloquence.

It was at this inopportune moment that poor Realmah had to explain his unasked-for presence amongst them. After another profound obeisance, he thus began : “Great lords and dividers of bread, I am but a child, and how shall I dare to address this reverend assem- blage? But, while you have been de- bating upon this grave matter, I have been examining with anxious care the manner of that ambassador. In one word, my gracious fathers, it is not that of atrueman. His gifts are everywhere. With whom, when out of your gracious presence, has he been most in company? With the most easily beguiled and the weakest persons of our town. From them, I know, he has ascertained the number of our warriors, the strength of our fortresses, and the extent of our hunting-fields. He has made the most curious inquiries into our arms of attack und defence, into the state of our hoarded provisions, into the fidelity of our subject tribes. What then, I ask, is his object ? I do not deny that his nation, like ours, dreads the approach of a people far superior to either in the weapons of war, all of whom carry arms which are possessed only by a few of our wealthiest chiefs, and which are looked upon rather as curiosities thanas the daily implements of warfare. The policy of the Phelatahs, if I read this man rightly, is to render our nation subject and tributary to theirs, and so to oppose a bold front to the common enemy. But what matters it to whom we are subject, if we are sub- jected at all? What 1 would, with the due humility of youth, propose is, that if we send our forces to join with theirs, we should not send at once the whole flower of our army, but should divide it into two bands, one of which should

openly unite with them, while the other, concealed, should be ready to counteract the effect of any attempt on their part to take captive our men, and employ them hereafter as vassals against the common foe.”

Realmah ceased speaking ; and there was again the same look of polite in- difference which had greeted him upon his entrance. He bowed, and withdrew.

It may be noticed, by the way, that he quite forgot, or was too nervous, to deliver the fine peroration to his speech with which he had favoured his wives.

The debate was resumed ; but the words of the chief of the East were not so powerful as they had been. The chief of the North, whether really convinced by Realmah’s speech, or being anxious to break the power of the East by en- couraging family differences, leant en- tirely to Realmah’s view of the question.

“To adopt the young man’s suggestion would,” he said, “ make no real difference except in detail. Two troops might as well be sent out asone. The Phelatahs had always been false ; and he had found that the nettle did not sting yesterday, or to-day, for the first time ; but, as far as his poor experience went back, it had always been a stinging plant ; and, as far as his poor discernment foresaw, it always would be. He reminded them of the proverb, ‘That if judgment belongs to the old, quickness of percep- tion belongs to the young ;’ or, to speak in the language of the people, that the young foal of the ass might have better sight than the father of lions. That, for his part, he had noticed that even the prejudices of the vulgar were often based upon something substantial, which chiefs of high lineage might not have con- descended to observe. Even the in- firmities of Realmah might have rendered his observation very keen—keen as that of a woman ; and the great chiefs then present knew full well that their wives sometimes made observations which were worth attending to, and which they themselves, conscious of their own power and dignity, had not cared to make, The weasel in its own small circuit saw more clearly than the bison.

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which relied upon its force, and not upon its sharpness of vision.

“Ina word, he was not for discarding a prudent suggestion, from whatever source it might come, and his vote should be heartily given in favour of that young man’s proposal who had just withdrawn from them, and to whom he should be more inclined to listen, from the fact that the young man must have imbibed some of the wisdom of his uncle, the great chief of the East.”

This artful and judicious speech had great weight with the assemblage ; and, after long debate, it was finally agreed that the plan proposed by Realmah

should be adopted by the Council.

After the reading was ended, there was no conversation of any importance to record, and the party separated ; Ellesmere merely saying that he should, hereafter, have a few remarks to make upon the singular advantages of being a savage like Realmah, and having three wives ; even though two of them should be obviously plain and prosaic; two of whom he would always be able to set against the third.

CHAPTER V.

My master, Mr. Milverton, delighted in frequent excursions of a very humble kind. He used to say that we did not make half use enough of our opportuni- ties while living in the country: that there was always much to be seen within a circle of fifteen miles radius —all manner of beautiful and interest- ing things. His idea of a tour was not rushing off to Spain or Italy at the rate of thirty miles an hour, but going up a canal in a little boat, or travelling along rustic roads in a pony carriage at the rate of five miles an hour, and taking everything very coolly. “Look,” he would say, “ at the charming uncertainty you have about your dinner in these excursions. Then, again, how amused you always are at a country inn. The pictures alone are quite a treat, and convey to you some-

Realmah.

thing of the history of the last seventy years.”

Ellesmere, of course, opposed and ridiculed Mr. Milverton’s views. He maintained there was nothing like sitting in a comfortable room where there were nice, sleep-provoking arm- chairs ; not that, as he used to observe, Milverton’s arm-chairs were comfort- able, but that they were well-intended. It used to amuse me, this praise of sitting at home, coming from one of the most restless mortals that was ever born; for he never could keep quiet for a quarter of an hour toge- ther, but would walk round the room while the others were ‘talking; and a favourite mode of motion of his was to place the chairs so that he could step from one to the other, and thus expend his terrible restlessness. How- ever, though invariably opposing Mil- verton’s excursions, he was always ready to join in them.

Un the present occasion Mr. Milverton suggested that we should go to a little inn about eight miles distant, which overlooked a small arm of the sea, where it is proposed to construct a harbour. We set off on a beautiful day, and soon reached our inn. The tide was out, and there was a huge expanse of mud visible.

Ellesmere. What a delicious odour of mud! How gratifying it is to have ex- changed our own poor atmosphere for this ——s air. ;

ilverton. I always think when I see this place at the time of the receding tide, which gives somewhat of an ungracious aspect to the landscape, how like it is to a person of a fitful temper. The present state represents a sullen mood ; but soon you will see the pleasant tide come up again, and all the scenery about you will become most beautiful—as the human being does, when he has thrown off his sullenness.

Ellesmere. I think I have heard you indulge in this simile before. I should be very sorry to show that it does not walk on four legs ; but I cannot help observing that the tide ebbs and flows with regularity, whereas the temper, if I may judge from Lady Ellesmere’s, is apt to be a little un- certain in its movements.

Lady Ellesmere. It cannot be said, my

Realmah.

love, that your temper partakes of un- certainty.

Ellesmere. A truly conjugal remark, and as true as it is conjugal.

We then separated until dinner-time, rambling about amongst the rocks and the mud, active as any children in pick- ing up sea-weed and shells, and catching crabs : one of which gave a severe bite to Ellesmere, who, with his accustomed good-nature, did not avenge the bite upon the crab, but merely observed, as he put it into its little pool again, “that he was sure it was a female, and did not understand when any kindness was meant for it.”

We had a very pleasant dinner, and were somewhat scolded by the landlady of the inn for our sad deficiency of appetite ; though I thought we all ate like ploughboys.

After dinner Mr, Cranmer talked in a most official manner about all the things which he foresaw would happen in foreign and domestic politics ; not without sun- «ry sneers and sniffs from Sir John Elles- mere, whom Mr. Cranmer’s talk always provokes to all kinds of sarcastic oppo- sition. The conversation proceeded thus, as well as I can recollect it.

Milverton. ll political prophecy is so difficult. Ellesmere owns that he cannot foresee what will happen in the course of a three-volume novel. Now, I do not feel such difficulty in that. If there is a stream near the principal house, there is sure to be an accident on the water; one of the chief personages—generally a lady—tum- bles in, and, of course, there is to be a rescue from a watery grave. If a distant uncle is mentioned, he is sure to make his appearance, dead or alive, in the third volume at a very convenient time for the fortunes of the hero or heroine. No: I do not feel that difficulty about novels. There you have only to watch the mind of one man, the author ; but, as regards political prophecy, it is a very different thing. Now I wish, for the sake of making a curious experiment, that any one of you, at the outset of any political movement, would write down (it must be in writing) what you really think will happen. You will, I believe, be astonished to find how mistaken your prophecy will be. Where men are so deluded, and think that they foresee far more than they do, is in this way—that

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they keep on modifying, from day to day, their prophecy, in correspondence with the daily changes of events. I have watched this matter for years—at least, as regards my own mind—and have often found how wrong my prophetic anticipations have been. I remember hearing one of the shrewdest ministers of our time say that he joined a ministry, thinking it would only last seven weeks. “You see,” he said, “they were old friends of mine, and they had asked me to join them. And I felt that, being old friends, I was quite willing to bao of their downfall ; and here I have been years in office with them.”

No one can see how a ministry will fall, or how a war will end, or how any series of political events will come to a conclusion.

declare I never knew a ministry go out upon the exact questions they were expected to go out upon.

Sir Arthur. We are thrown back to the old French proverb, “Nothing is certain but the unforeseen.”

Ellesmere. I hate proverbs; they are such bumptious things : they are like boys of sixteen ; they all want taking down, not one peg, but many pegs.

Sir Arthur. I must say I delight in French proverbs. Now, what can be better than the celebrated proverb, “ Nothing suc- ceeds like success” ?

Milverton. The opposite is quite as true, “Nothing succeeds like the want of success ;” or, to put it in another way, “None are so successful as the unsuc- cessful.” It all depends upon the meaning you give to the word success. Do you remember how the late Lord Carlisle, good man, used to delight in a saying (where it originally came from I do not know) which ran thus, “ Heaven is a place made for the unsuccessful”? You may depend upon it there is, even in this world, nothing in the world so dangerous for a man as to be for a long time supremely successful. I think on this head that the first Napoleon’s career is one of the most instructive that the world has ever seen. If he had had but a little less success before he made that fatal blunder of invading Russia, he might have acted with something like wisdom; and an unin- terrupted dynasty of his might still be upon the throne of France.

By the way, I was reading the other day another account of that invasion of Russia (a portion of history which I am never tired of reading), and I observed that one division of the army—I think it was Murat’s—had been reduced before it returned to Wilna to 400 infantry and 500 dismounted cavalry, without any guns, or any materials of

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war of any kind. Now, that division probably started with 60,000 or 70,000 men. But the most instructive thing of that campaign is to observe the won- derful pedantry and perverse obstinacy, in ignoring the most obvious facts, which that great man Napoleon manifested to the end of the campaign. He would draw up the most admirable orders of the day, but unfortunately facts were against him ; ani it was no good ordering that 20,000 men should go here, and 30,000 men go there, when the division in question was almost annihilated. From the first opening of the campaign, however, there was the same want of skill manifested, and the same abjuration of facts. Now, it was thought a wonderfully clever thing throughout Europe, that the Emperor should have arranged his 5,000 wagons in military fashion ; but any man, who knows anything about wagons, carters, and oxen—Wren Hoskyns or Mr. Mechi, for instance—could have told him that a transport of this kind could not be arranged in a purely military fashion.

Ellesmere. For goodness’ sake do not let Milverton get upon the subject of war. At all hazards he should be stopped in talking about it.

Let me see, what were we talking about before? Oh! proverbs: well, I say a pro- verb is like a rule in grammar. I remember there was a detestable Greek grammar, which was the torment of my early days, and which used to lay down some rule, and then there used to come pages of exceptions. In my perverse way, I used to make one of the exceptions the rule, and throw the rule into one of the exceptions. I hate grammar!

But to return to proverbs: as I suid before, they are such bumptious things. It may be said of them what the late Lord Melbourne said of dear Macaulay, “ They are so cock-sure about everything.”

Cranmer. I wonder to hear you say “dear Macaulay ;” I should have thought that, being such a great talker, he would have interfered with you, Sir John.

Ellesmere. Do you? you are quite mis- taken then. Who was it said of Matt Lewis—

“T would give many a sugar-cane,

Matt Lewis were alive again ” !

so I, being by nature a poet, say—

“T would bear a load of pain, So Macaulay were alive again.”

If I were invited to meet him, I always

went. It is true he was a great talker, but who talked so well? There was no vanity in his talk. There was simply an exuberant

Realmah.

knowledge and an exquisite enjoyment of the subject he was discoursing about. I can tell you, I did not interrupt him: I was always too glad to hear him talk. He would lay hold of a particular author, and in a short time (say twenty minutes) give you the whole pith and marrow of that author. I remember his doing so once with Cobbett, and one had, I believe, in this brief twenty minutes all the best things ever said by that most vigorous writer.

Then if any of the less prominent characters in history were mentioned, he had anecdotes about them which were known to no one else.

I remember his once describing to us the character and sayings of Lord Thurlow ; and he told a story of that large-eye-browed personage which I never heard before, and each of you ought to give me half-a-crown at least, if I agree to tell you. Are the half-crowns forthcoming? (We nodded assent.)

Well, those were days when we had not the infliction of railways, and when bar- risters, even on the Northern circuit, tra- velled in post-chaises. It fell to the lot of a very saintly, good man, to have to travel with Thurlow, who was then Attorney- General. A journey to the North was a serious thing in those times, and my saintly friend dreaded the long journey, with the blustering Attorney-General, who he was sure would utter many naughty words befure they arrived at York.

They had hardly left London before the good man remarked, “ We shail have a long journey, Mr. Attorney, and so I thought | would bring some books to amuse us. | daresay it is a long time since you have read Milton’s ‘ Paradise Lost.’ Shall I read some of it to you? It will remind us of our younger days.” (In those days men read vreat works; for there were not so many books of rubbishing fiction, to which the reading energies of the present day are directed.) “ Oh, by all means!” said Thur- low, “I have not read a word of Milton for years.”

The good man began to read out his Milton : presently he came to the passage where Satan exclaims, “ Better to reign in hell than serve in Heaven.” Upon which Thurlow exclaimed, ‘‘ A d——-d fine fellow, and I hope he may win.” My saintly friend in horror shut up his “ Paradise Lost,” and felt that it would be no good reading to the Attorney-General, if he was to be in- terrupted by such wicked expressions of sentiment.

Milverton. Did you ever read Macaulay’s poem on his defeat at Edinburgh? It isa

Realnah.

most noble production. I am ashamed to say I cannot recollect it correctly ; but the next time we meet I will read it out to you.

Cranmer. I really cannot understand how Sir John could have endured the en- forced silence which Lord Macaulay’s talk must have imposed upon him.

Ellesmere. I am a misunderstood man, not only by Secretaries of the Treasury, but by all people who come near me. I am un homme incompris. Now, I ask you all, did I interrupt Milverton when he was going on with his “ Realmah” story? If a talk or reading is good, I am the last man in the world to interrupt it. I only interrupt folly, irrelevancy, inaccuracy, and incom- plete logic. Iam the best listener in the United Kingdom when there is anything worth listening to; but I am, I repeat, a misunderstood man. Poor dear Charles Lamb complains that he was in the same plight. Nine-tenths of the world do not understand a joke ; and no official man, Mr, Cranmer, ever does. Why even my wife does not understand me.

Lady Ellesmere. No, my dear, it would

take nine of the cleverest women in England to understand you, and they must pass the chief part of their time in interchanging

notes about your character.

Ellesmere. Let us enumerate the nine— only, for goodness’ sake, do not let them be nine Muses.

Let me see, what should be their func- tions ?—

1. The arch-concoctor of salads.

2. The sewer-on of buttons.

3. The intelligent maker of bread-sauce,

. The player of Beethoven’s music. 5. The player of common tunes,—“ Old Dog Tray,” “ Early in the Morning,” “ Pop Goes the Weasel,” and “ Pad- dle your own Canoe,” all of which tunes I think beautiful; but, of course, because the populace approves of them, which populace is the best judge of such things: my Lady Ellesmere must needs turn up her nose (and a very pretty one it is) against any one who admires these tunes, and she declines to play them to me.

Lady Ellesmere. I can well imagine you do admire these “tunes,” as you call them. It is certainly worth my while to get up Beethoven for you, when “Early in the Morning ” satisfies you quite as well.

But pray go on with your list of wiyes, Sir John.

Ellesmere.

6. The consoler under difficulties.

7. The good reader.

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8. The one beloved wife (dear deluded creature) who always believes in her husband, and takes him to be the discreetest, virtuousest, and most ill- used of mortal men. 1 do love her!

9. The manager of the other wives.

By the way, has there not been some talk of a tenth Muse? Well, if I am to have a tenth wife, she shall be the noble and rare creature who can cook a potato. My list is now complete. My polygamic nature is satisfied with these ten adorable beings.

Sir Arthur. Which will you be, Lady Ellesmere !

Lady Ellesmere. The sewer-on of buttons. I do not feel equal to the bread-sauce, though that would be the lighter work of the two if one’s mind could master it.

Ellesmere. But, come, let us go on with Realmah, alias Milverton—the Milverton who existed when that ground which is now at the bottom of the Swiss lakes was at the surface. I do like a story !

Mrs. Milverton. Is it not somewhat of a confession of weakness on the part of Sir John Ellesmere, that he likes a story? And was he not a few minutes ago abusing tiction ?

Ellesmere. No, it is not a confession of weakness, Mrs. Milverton. And as for in- consistency—to be consistent, one must be dull ; and nobody can accuse me of that.

From the earliest ages of the world, when men dwelt in tents, and looked out upon the stars at midnight, delighting in them more than in any other created thing, men and women would gather round a fire, and listen entranced through the dark hours of night, to any one who would tell them a story ; however absurd, however inconsistent, however improbable, that story might be. Not that I mean for a moment to say, Mrs. Milverton, that your husband invents absurd, inconsistent, and improbable stories. Doubtless all that he says is absolutely true, and must, as he assures us, have happened. Did not his nymph tell him ?—By the way, I wonder you are not jealous of that same nymph : women can contrive to be jealous of any thing, or person, or animal, or even insect— and you see how she inspires him with a higher degree of inspiration than can be gained from yourself, or any other person who exists upon this solid earth.

Mrs. Milverton. I do not know what jealousy is, Sir John.

Ellesmere. Happy woman! I observe that Milverton is silent: he knows very well what jealousy is, at least on your part. Why, if 1 were to poke the fire in his study, you would be jealous that you had

106 Realmah.,

not done it : you are all alike, and jealousy is nine-tenths of your love. Whereas, with us men, jealousy is almost a thing unknown.

By the way, which of the three young savage ladies, that we are introduced to in Realmah, do you think you most resemble ? Is it the prudent Varnah, the beautiful Talora, or the incomparable Ainah (with large hands and feet), that you are willing — classed with ?

Milverton. Mrs. Milverton possesses the merits of all the three in her own person— the beauty of Talora, the prudence of the pa a and the sympathetic nattire of the Ainah.

Ellesmere. You have not a few shillings about you, have you, Mrs. Milverton, that you could give your husband for that speecli ? for I am sure it is one that requires to be paid for.

Now, Milverton, do zo on: I declare seriously I am thoroughly interested in your story, and will not make a single interrup- tion, until those shining waters desert their charming mud, and the stars come out, and we order our horses, and return to the solid comforts and second-rate arm-chairs in Milverton’s smoke-dried study.

THE STORY OF REALMAH. CHAP. V. REALMAH VISITS TALORA,

TueErE are few words more abused than the word “love.” It is the most com- monly-used word in all languages, except the word “money,” and some short emphatic word, or other, signifying a curse. But as to the substance, it is rare. Now Talora was a girl incompetent to love any person supremely but herself.

In that age of the world beautiful women must have suffered from the loss of one great source of pleasure. They hal no looking-glasses. This want they endeavoured to supply, in a very dim and poor manner, by burnished shells. And there was always the glassy water from which the fair dwellers on the lake could gain some indistinct notion of their beauty.

From what has been said above, it must not be supposed that Talora was a peculiarly heartless person. She was fond of her father, when he did not thwart her, and yery gracious and good- natured to her companions, when they

submitted to her rule. Greatly admired in her own section of the city, she put a high value on herself, and was much afraid of contracting any marriage that should not be fully worthy of her.

In personal appearance she was tall, shapely, and bright-looking ; with crisp, wavy hair, brilliant eyes, that had not much meaning in them, a pleasant smile, and some very engaging dimples. Her high rank, for she was the only daughter of the chief of the North, entitled her to be sought for by the noblest youths of the city.

This was the maiden in whose favour Realmah had placed all his future hopes of happiness. She regarded him witha certain kindliness, and even perceived that he was the most intelligent man she had ever seen ; but his infirmity, which she naturally thought would surely pre- vent his attaining the highest rank, rendered her very careful of giving him encouragement.

Athlah, the second son of the chief of the South, was also one of her suitors. He was a coarse, violent man, who, as far as bravery was concerned, had already distinguished himself in war; and he looked with supreme contempt upon the presumption of Realmah, whom he held to be a poor feeble creature, destined for ever to partake of the occupations of women.

Athlah was not a man of sound judg- ment, or far-seeing sagacity; but he had considerable gifts of Nature, which gained for him credit and high standing amongst the men of his own town. Besides being a brave warrior, he was a bold, fluent, and forcible speaker. His speeches abounded in strong metaphors, quaint similes, and homely proverbs ; and, in speaking, he was ever most powerful when most abusive.

In the Council of the Four Hundred he was always gladly listened to, and men renowned for state-craft rejoiced to see Athlah rise in the debate ; for they felt certain that somebody was then going to be soundly chastised, and that there would be fun and life and real battle.

It is a strange thing to say, but when the number of any public body exceeds

- ae

that of forty or fifty, the whole assembly has an element of joyous childhood in it, and each member revives at times the glad, mischievous nature of his schoolboy days. aie themselves the first-rate statesmen spoke depreciatingly of Athlah, as a man whose opinion in public affairs was worth very little; but, as I said before, they were all (all but the victim who probably foresaw his fate) delighted when the tall form of Athlah rose in the assembly, for they knew that some- thing was coming which would break through the pattering monotony of dull, though wise, debate.

Athlah was a perfect master of the art of sneering, which, however, is not an art that demands the highest ability.

It was to the apartments of Talora that Realmah betook himself after his speech in the council. He told her what he had done, and she sympathised with him to a certain extent. She also made many inquiries about the dress of the ambassador from the Phelatahs, and how he wore his beard. Then she amused herself and Realmah, by making ugly faces—as far as Talora vould make ugly faces—to imitate the grim chief of the South ; and walked about the room with pompous step, and head thrown back, to imitate the dignified gestures of the proud chief of the West. For Talora was a great mimic. Realmah, deep in love, mistook this mimicry for wit.

At this moment Athlah coming in, and not being over-pleased to see Realmah there, sarcastically inquired whether he had come to help Talora to spin, whereupon she smiled pleasantly at the new comer, and seemed to enjoy the jest. She then told Athlah that Realmah had been present at the great council, and recounted the advice he had urged upon the chiefs.

Athlah was provoked at what he con- sidered the presumption of Realmah, in venturing to enter a council-room, where he (Athlah) would not have dared to intrude.

“ Ah!” he exclaimed, “I see we are going to borrow an arrow from the sheaf

Realmah.

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of that wise tribe, the Doolmies. When they go to war, there is always a band of girl-warriors ; and these are found to be very useful in killing those who are too badly wounded to make any resistance, and in despoiling the dead. Indeed, they are serviceable in many ways after a battle, and we call them the Doolmie she-crows, birds not quite as noble as vultures, but nearly as useful. I sup- pose” (turning to Realmah) “ you will take the command of this redoubtable band, and they will doubtless becalled the Realmahras, Oh! it is not for nothing that you stay at home with the women, and that your knitted brows bear the signs of such deep thought. Your subtle wit becomes almost equal to that of the other girls. The council must have been delighted with this wise advice which they received from one so skilled in war.”

Then Athlah went on to say, “Seta weasel to catch a rat. I do not won- der that Realmah sees through the deep designs of the false Phelatah. Even, with my poor wit, I have observed that these emissaries, called ambassadors, are not so very unlike old women, being taken from the ranks of those elderly warriors who have not been greatly re- nowned in war, and have somehow, from excess of bravery nodoubt, managed, through a long career of warlike service, to return from battle without such vulgar signs of it as wounds. We, mere rough men of war, often fail to under- stand those sage ambassadors ; but femi- nine craft, when matched against theirs, from its kindred nature, easily discovers their false designs and cunning purposes. Realmah dear,! I congratulate you upon your rendering such great service to the state.”

Realmah had not attempted to inter- rupt this sneering tirade of Athlah’s, nor did he show, by look or gesture, that it affected him in the least. It was not quite the same when Talora, after laughing heartily at Athlah’s sayings, maliciously added, “ That Athlah must recollect that, if Realmah had not had

1 Athlah used the word klava, the feminine form of the word ‘‘dear.”,

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much practice in the art of war, he had invented two or three new ways of playing mikree.! Besides, with his elever tongue, he would outtalk even the girls, and so keep them in order.”

Realmah laid his hand lightly upon Athlah’s arm, and said, “The All- powerful One, not to be named, has given you strong arms and brave ones, Athlah ; He has also given you a strong and cruel tongue; but He has not blessed you with a big heart; for if He had, you would not pour insult upon one who has been weak and maimed from his birth, and who cannot answer you in the only way in which you deserve to be an- swered, and which you would best understand,”

Athlah, who, though coarse and violent, was not really a bad-liearted fellow, and a thoroughly brave man, felt the rebuke keenly, and blushed a blush that was quite visible even under his dusky skin, stammering out something about people not understanding what was merely spoken in jest.

ltealmah then approached Talora, and said, “ Always as witty as beautiful ; but still I think Talora might have been kinder to her poor slave, remembering too that it was to please her, when they were boy and girl together, that he invented the new ways of playing mikree, which he is proud to see still find favour with the mikree-playing boys and girls of Abibah.”

He then smiled, bowed, and began to retire.

As he reached the matted hanging which was at the entrance of the apart- ment, he found that Athlah had inter- cepted him, who, in an awkward way, held out his hand. Realmah grasped it warmly, for he felt that the rude soldier meant to offer an apology, which was a great effort of good-nature for him. While still retaining Athlah’s hand in his, Realmah said, ‘* You have a bigger and a better heart than I sup- posed, Athlah ; forgive me for having spoken so unjustly and unkindly.”

Realmah then took his departure, and walked wearily back to his own home,

1 A sort of game like prisoner's bars.

where he neither expected, nor sought for, consolation.

As he walked he muttered to himself, “The she-spider for fierceness, and the she-adder for spite” (a proverb of the Sheviri, probably directed against women). “I suppose the proverb is true,” he added ; “and that the same thing holds good throughout all nature.”

But not the less did he love Talora. Tier faults were the faults of her sex ; her merits, all her own. If the tolerance that is created by love could be carried into other relations of human life, what a happy world it would be !—almost realizing Christianity.

When he had returned to his own home, he was kindly greeted by his wives, the Varnah and the Ainah. The Ainah looked wistfully at him, expecting and hoping to hear some account of his success. But he was silent upon that subject.

The good Varnah scolded him heartily for being late for his meal, and said that he was like no other person in Abibah, but was always late. She had, how- ever, prepared for him, knowing that he would be tired, what she had heard him say that he liked best. Realmah thanked her, and praised her for her thoughtful- ness, and then, during the meal, chatted pleasantly about household matters and household goods, to the great delight of the Varnah, who said to herself that some day Realmah might become quite like other people, which was the greatest praise that she could give to anybody.

The Ainah said nothing, fearing to ask the questions which she longed to ask, and conjecturing his failure at the council from his silence.

Realmah’s heart and soul were far away from household stuff, meditating battles, sieges, and surprises, in which

tealmah himself was not to take a small or unimportant part.

CHAP. VI.

THE TREACHERY OF THE PHELATAIIS.

Reatman felt bitterly the cold recep- tion he had met with from the council of

Realmah.

the chiefs; and he had not the slightest idea that his proposition had received a favourable hearing.

On the ensuing day, after the council had been held, the ambassador from the Phelatahs was dismissed, with an as- surance, however, that in two months’ time the forces of the Sheviri should join those of the Phelatahs, just where the river Coolahva falls into the great lake.

Notwithstanding this friendly assu- rance the council had resolved to adopt Realmah’s advice—at least, so far as to «divide their forces into two bands: the one was to march along the margin of the lake, while the other, starting a day or two earlier, was to make its way through the woods—the two divisions having previously arranged a system of correspondence by means of signals

Athlah was entrusted with the com- mand of the main body, which moved along the margin of the lake, while Realmah had the guidance of the de- tachment that was to force its way through the woods. There was much murmuring at Realmah’s being entrusted with the command of these troops. The excuses given for his appointment were, that the idea of sending this second division was his; that the men of whom it consisted were not the flower of the army; that, in all probability, they would never be engaged, and that they were merely sent by way of precaution, and were to return, if possible, unper- ceived by their allies, shoul their coun- trymen not require their assistance.

Every arrangement having now been made, the expedition set out and joined the Phelatahs. Nothing occurred for some little time to justify any suspicion. At length, however, it was to be ob- served that the Phelatahs far outnum- bered their allies ; that, when the united forces halted during the march, it was the Phelatahs who occupied always the most commanding positions ; and, more- over, there was an air of triumph about them that did not fail to rouse the atten- tion even of the fearless and unsuspect- ing Athlah.

The united troops continued their

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march. Slight occasions of dispute arose which were made the most of by the chiefs of the Phelatahs. Finally, under pretence of there being insubor- dination (although there had been no questicn of allowing supremacy to the Phelatahs) the principal leaders of the Sheviri were seized and bound ; gratuities were offered to the common soldiers ; the mask was entirely thrown off ; and the unfortunate Sheviri found them- selves incorporated in a foreign army.

Gratuities, however, do not compen- sate for insults ; and the common sol- diers felt themselves as much aggrieved as their chiefs, who had been released from their bonds, but who were strictly guarded as they marched along, and were treated in all respects as hostages, if not as captives.

Tidings of this treachery on the part of the Phelatahs did not fail to reach Realmah. He skilfully prepared a night surprise, which was so far successful that, after a fearful and confused con- test, he was able to liberate the chiefs of the Sheviri, and to cover the flight of the main body of men into the adja- cent woods, from whence, burning with a sense of injury, they returned to their own town in a few weeks alter they had left it.

The whole army felt that Realmah’s prudence had saved them; and he became, for the moment, the hero of the Sheviri.

His return to the city was welcomed in a triumphal manner, for, though the Sheviri had suffered much in the night attack and in the subsequent contest, to have escaped so great a disaster as the capture of their finest body of troops was held to be a signal cause of tri- umph.

Immediately a meeting of the great Council of the Four Hundred was held, and the whole of the transactions of the short campaign were explained to them by Athlah and Realmah.

Xealmah’s speech was eminently judi- cious. He said not a word in self-glo- rification, nor did he in any way refer to his past warnings, but merely men- tioned to the great council that he had

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laid some facts before the Council of the Three Fours, which facts had acci- dentally come to his notice, and which had led them, in their high wisdom, to make such arrangements of the forces as had insured a complete defeat of the wicked design of the Phelatahs. When he left the council he had not by self- praise exhausted any of the gratitude and respect which he now felt sure would be entertained for him by his nation.

That there is nothing new under the sun is the remark of wearied Solomon. Not wholly a true remark ; for was not Christianity a new thing? But still the saying holds good for the most part in human affairs. The system of the Roman Empire of having a Cesar as well as an Augustus had been adopted, or rather anticipated, long ago by the Sheviri, and had doubtless been bor- rowed by them from some more ancient nation. There was at this moment a

vacancy in the office of Cesar, 7.e. of

second in command, to the chief of the East. The name of this office was Lu- athmor. By general acclamation this great office was conferred upon Real- mah. The insignia consisted of a coronet rudely formed of dark polished stones and feathers, and of a blue scarf called the shemar. The shemar, however, did not strictly belong to the office of the Luathmor, but had almost always been granted at the same time to the person on whom that office had been conferred.

No one murmured when it was de- creed unanimously by the Council of the Four Hundred and by the Council of the Three Fours that permission to wear the blue shemar should be con- ferred upon this young chief, Realmah, whose sagacity had gone far to save the republic ; for men are always very grate- ful just at first, and when the remem- brance of the service rendered is fresh and warm in their minds.

After the reading had finished, I am sorry to say that we had rather a painful scene. Sir John Ellesmere has great merits, as every one knows; and I am sure no one admires him more than I

‘tuse, Sir John.

Realmah.

do ; but he is one of those persons who indulge in intellectual antipathies. This Mr. Cranmer is just the man to keep Sir John in a perpetual state of irritation.

I cannot recollect exactly how the conversation began, but I think it was by either Mrs. Milverton or Lady Elles- mere saying, “ Oh, how I wish our dear Mr. Dunsford were alive ; how delighted he would be with the character of Real- mah, and with all the proceedings that took place in the great Lake City.”

My readers may perhaps remember that the former conversations of the “ Friends in Council” were collected by a good clergyman of the name of Duns- ford, who had been tutor to Mr. Milver- ton and Sir John Ellesmere.

Mr. Cranmer then remarked, that Sir John must have been a great torment to Mr. Dunsford, and must have given him many an unhappy hour.

Ellesmere. Sir, I did nothing of the kind. Dunsford thoroughly understood me. I never gave him an unhappy hour, or an un- happy five minutes. It was impossible to admire a man more than I admired Duns- ford; and of course he knew it. These simple, unselfish, transparently good people, like Dunsford, are the salt of the earth, and happily they are to be found everywhere. You cannot enter into any small portion of society, but you find them there, believing in the good of everybody, and bringing out the good points of every character. Sir, I am not such a fool as not to have known how far I could go with dear old Dunsford. I never provoked him more than such aman ought to be provoked, in order to show forth the full beauty of his character.

Cranmer. Crushed herbs are very sweet.

Ellesmere. Sir, he was never crushed by me. He was not one of those men who require to be trepanned in order that a joke, or a jesting objection, should be inserted into their dense brains. He was a good clergy- man, and not an obtuse official man.

Cranmer. Oh, of course, I am very ob- I am sure I did not mean any offence.

[Ellesmere got up, and, in his pleasantest manner, offered his hand to Mr. Cranmer. |

Ellesmere. Now don’t be angry with me, there’s a good fellow: we shall be famous friends when we understand one another better ; only it is rather hard upon one to be obliged to explain that one does not mean any harm by one’s foolish talk. Don’t

imagine, Mr. Cranmer, that I don’t appre- ciate you. Didn't I listen to you most patiently, and vote with you too in all emergencies, when you were fighting the estimates the last session when you and I were in office together? and I declare no man could have done it better than you did, and I sympathised with you thoroughly. [Turning to us, Ellesmere continued :] What a hand at explanation he was! Some foolish person wished to understand something about an estimate, and presumed to ask a question. Cranmer rose to explain ; he was lucid, frank, candid, especially candid ; and when he sat down, the House felt that something had been well explained, and yet one understood less about the subject gene- rally than one did before. Now I take this to be a triumph of skill on the part of a great Government official.

Moreover, it is not a delusion impressed upon us by him, for really one does often find that when an explanation is given of any complicated matter, one understands less about it than one fancied one did before ; and that the question one had asked was silly and irrelevant. I can assure you, grave official men on both sides of the House used to nod approval, when Cranmer was giving any of his clear and candid explanations.

{Mr. Cranmer took Sir John Ellesmere’s hand, and gave it a most friendly grasp. The ~ about the estimates had mollified him.

Cranmer. It is impossible to be angry with you, Sir John ; you make such pleasant fun of all of us.

Ellesmere. It does me good to hear you say so : we will never have a dispute again. Quarrels are such vulgar things ; and you xre the last man in the world I should like to quarrel with. You are made to be in office ; and does not one always want some little job or other done, which the Secretary of the Treasury can further ?

(We all made a point of laughing loudly at this last speech, and harmony was from that moment re-established ; Sir John EI- lesmere resumed the conversation. ]

Ellesmere. I must show Cranmer that I can be very serious, and I declare I am really much interested in this history of Realmah.

But it is not asking too much from us to believe that this semi-savage was such a great politician ?

Sir Arthur. Mr. Milverton has been making me read that epic he talked to us about—namely, the “ Araucana;” and I do assure you that there are speeches in that epic which show us that some of those savages—as you call them—possessed a No. 98,—vou. xv.

Realmah.

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high kind of political wisdom. “ Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona;” and I do not see why there should not have lived con- siderable statesmen in the earliest times of the world’s history. You must remember. too, that their statesmanship was of a much easier character than ours: that they had not the complicated questions arising out of a state of high civilization to deal with.

Ellesmere. You have been in high office, Sir Arthur, and you might really tell us whether Milverton speaks truly and justly, when he asserts that there is so much to be done in the way of improving Government action, even amongst ourselves, who imagine that we are the best governed people upon the earth.

Sir Arthur. If I understand Mr. Mil- verton, I think he is quite right. I can see that he wants more intellectual power brought to the aid of Government. You and I were at college together, Ellesmere ; though I am sorry to say we saw very little of one another.

Ellesmere. I was a poor man, a sizar, and had to make my way in the world ; you were a xich one; and people do not often meet who live at different poles of the pecuniary world.

Str Arthur. But I have no doubt you knew Alwin ?

Ellesmere. Oh yes: the cleverest fellow I ever did know.

Sir Arthur. Well, when I came into office, one of my first thoughts was whether I could get Alwin into the service of the Government ; but he is a married man, and has a large family, and is making a lot of money quietly as a consulting counsel. There was nothing I could offer him. What would the Treasury have said to me if I had asked them to give 3,000/. a year to what Milverton calls an “in-doors states- man?” It would have been no good point- ing out to them that such a man might save us 30,0001. a year. Mr. Cranmer is not on my side of politics, but he knows very well what an enormous difficulty I should have had, to persuade any Secretary of the Trea- sury to give 3,0001. a year to such a man.

Well, there is nothing hardly that that man does not know, besides being a good lawyer. He is a man of the greatest general knowledge that I ever met with ; and it happened that he was especially skilled in matters relating to my department. But | might as well have tried to have got the man in the moon to work with me as to have got Alwin.

Ellesmere. Milverton’s nymphs are very valuable personages ; and they never charge any money for their advice.

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112 Realmah.

Milverton. Do not sneer at my nymphs ; they are as useful to me as Pope’s sylphs were to him in the “ Rape of the Lock.”

But to talk seriously about Government. Do look at the difficulties ; consider that at every step that a Government takes it is beset by importunate and powerful interests. Then look at the overwork of the principal men connected with the Government. Then see how the House of Commons is absorbed, not in its own proper work so much as in that which scarcely belongs to it, in executive as well as in legislative business. Giving Par- liament credit for immense ability, we must admit that it is a body not fit for every kind of business.

Ellesmere. Bureaucracy! bureaucracy ! Milverton always associates himself ‘in ima- gination, and probably in reality, with whatever is bureaucratic.

Milverton. I do not admit that. But I want to bring before you another matter bearing closely upon this subject, and that is the unpleasantness of the capital as a place of residence. This will some day exercise a most malign influence over public affairs.

Ellesmere. This is a new idea: but I really do not see exactly what it means.

Milverton. I almost despair of making you see it ; but I can tell you that the per- manent officers of State—those men upon whom every Government must mainly rely —would well understand what I mean. No sooner does any opportunity arise for getting away from London, than all important people quit it.

But I return to Ellesmere’s attack upon me respecting my bureaucratic tendencies.

I maintain that there is not a person in England who has a greater horror of bureav- cracy than I have. I only want to point out to you, that there are certain things which can only be done by bureaucracy. I[ have talked all this out before, and there- fore I am aware that I am only repeating myself. Do you remember that passage in Aristophanes, where some good citizen re- solves to make peace or war upon his own account simply, and to deal with the enemy himself ?

Ellesmere. I never read that improper book Aristophanes, but I am willing to take for granted what you say.

Milverton. Well, you see how absurd it is for a private individual to talk of making peace or war by himself alone. But perhaps you do not see that there are many other matters in which also he cannot act alone. What I am driving at is, to establish a wide distinction between those things that can be done by a private individual, and in

which he ought not to be interfered with, and those things in which the State must act for him.

Take sanitary matters—take education ; these are things in which a private individual cannot act very forcibly. They must be transacted by Government.

Ellesmere. True: speaking as an indi- vidual, I decline to have anything to do with main drainage, or the Conscience Clause.

Milverton. Then you admit that there are some subjects in which the bureau must act for the general community ; and I am quite willing that the bureau should be con- fined to this action.

Ellesmere. I was greatly struck, Milver- ton, by the remark you made a little time ago, that the aversion to London on the part of men of importance isa serious injury to public business. Do you hold to it, and is it really your own !

Milverton. I do hold to it, but it is not altogether my own. A late Under-Secretary of State used often to talk over the matter with me, and we thoroughly agreed upon it. I maintain that the celebrated Chancellor Oxenstiern’s maxim, “ Quantuld sapientid regitur mundus,” is only partially true, and that “ Quantulo tempore regitur mundus” would be a much more valuable maxim. The truth is, most men of average ability are very capable of estimating good argu- ments, pro or con, about any matter ; and for my own part, I would rather have the attention of an average man for two hours, when the business really requires that time for discussion, than the attention of the cleverest man in England who will only give you one hour.

Ask any person who has really mastered the details of any great subject, and who has had to lay them before other people for decision. You will seldom find that he complains of any want of apprehension on their part, but that he will bitterly complain that he was not allowed time enough to lay before them the whole matter with all its bearings.

Now, the time to be given for considering a great subject is sure to be very much limited when people are very anxious to get away from the spot where the discussion takes place. And so it becomes a matter of great importance that the capital of every country should be a pleasant place for resi- dence, as the main business of the country must be transacted there.

In all committees and councils, it is to be observed that the man of endurance and perseverance, who may, after all, be a very inferior man in point of thoughtfulness, will

Realmah. 113

ultimately have too much power and influ- ence. And it will be putting additional leverage into his hands, if he knows that the cleverest men amongst his opponents will be anxious to get away at a certain time, and that he can gain his point by outstaying them, whether he outreasons them or not.

Sir Arthur. I want to bring another branch of the subject before you. I think there might be a better division than there is of the functions of government. For in- stance, I would have a Minister of Justice, who should attend to matters of justice only. I would at the same time have a minister whose sole duty it should be to attend to the physical weli-being of the com- munity. I am not sure that I would not also throw upon him the business of educa- tion. And then, to make room for this important minister, I would cancel those offices which are becoming obsolete. I would, for instance, cancel the Privy Seal, in order to make room for a Minister of Health and Education.

Milverton. I entirely agree with you, Sir Arthur. Then there is another thing I would do. I would certainly make more use of the men who hold second-class places in Government. I think it is very hard upon them that, for the most part, they have their tongues tied, and that they are distanced in public estimation by those who are called independent members, who, being free from official trammels, have oppor- tunities of distinguishing themselves Thich are denied to official personages of the second class.

Sir Arthur. This is very difficult, Mil- verton. You see, it would be a very serious thing for an Under-Secretary of State to be speaking in a contrary sense to his chief.

Milverton. I know all that, but I would occasionally give him an opportunity of dis- tinguishing himself. I would entrust him, for instance, with the sole conduct of some great measure.

Ellesmere. How true men are to them- selves and their old positions! Sir Arthur cannot forget that he has been a Secretary of State.

Milverton. But where the greatest oppor- tunities for improvement in Government lie, are in Colonial affairs. We really must come, before long, to some definite principles as to how we are to deal with our Colonies; and in any change of Government, the minister about whose appointment I feel the most anxiety is the Minister for our Colonial affairs. No father ever had a more difficult problem put before him, when he has growing-up boys to deal with, than we have in the management of our Colonies. It would be very hard upon England to be dragged into an expensive war for any of these Colonies.

Sir Arthur. On the other hand, it would be very hard to desert them in the time of need.

Milverton. How to reconcile, in a just manner, these two lines of policy is, you may depend upon it, the greatest question of the present day.

Nobody seemed inclined to combat this proposition. The ladies said it was getting late; and so we ordered the car- riages and returned to Worth-Ashton, after a very pleasant day spent at the little inn near the harbour, which, as we left it, was overflowed by the full tide, and, with the setting sun upon it, looked most beautiful and attractive.

As we drove away, Ellesmere nudged Milverton, and said, “ You see good temper has come over the landscape, and over us.” Then in a whisper, “ I assure you I won’t break out again with Cran- mer, whatever he may say tome. But then, you know how I loved Dunsford ; and I believe he was nearly as fond of me as he was of you, though of course your views always suited him better than mine did. Poor dear man! What a large bit of life the loss of such a man takes out from us for ever! Yes, for ever!”

To be continued,

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A PLAIN VIEW OF RITUALISM.

BY FRANCIS T, PALGRAVE, LATE FELLOW OF EXETER COLLEGE, OXFORD.

Awmonc those arts which have been recovered after long loss, has anyone yet thought of including the art of building churches? Public attention is always called to discoveries in science or art, and those who make or, utilize an invention receive due notice and honour; but at the present day it is so natural a thing to see a new spire rising in all populous districts, and so easy to put one up, that perhaps it hardly strikes anybcdy who is not almost professionally familiar with the history of English architecture, that all these buildings are, in fact, examples of what is even rarer than the advent of a fresh art,—the recovery of a lost one. Yet this is almost literally the case. Some not very frequent or conspicuous work was going on a hundred years ago among our Nonconformists ; but a new church seemed nearly as impossible a thing to members of the Church of England, as a new hundred to a county magistrate. Population was in the full tide of increase after the first century of internal peace which England had hitherto known. Manufacturing in- dustry was beginning its immense career. Cities were enlarging with a rapidity which would have terrified James the First. Moors hitherto left to grouse and otters were turning into cities. But a plain brick box, with square windows and a square pigeon-house over one end; inside; a series of uniform painted deal packing-cases, one larger than the rest in the middle ; wine-vaults below, and houses on each side ;—such was the ideal of the provision which the pious of a church, rich enough for more liberal things, though then far from being the richest in Europe, were satisfied to make. They were so proud of the performance, that it seemed

to require a name of its own. It was called a Proprietary Chapel.

There is no need to sketch the con- trasted picture of the costly church of our own time, or to quote facts in proof of the facility with which it is now provided. Much more has been done within one generation than was done during any period of similar length when one-third of the whole country was in ecclesiastical hands ; and if we set aside the sentiment of antiquity, it may be added, more beautifully and inventively done. The number, according to recent accounts, must exceed three thousand within the last thirty years ; a similar activity has been excited among the Nonconformists of almost every kind ; and in all cases the demand is for further richness of structure and elaborateness of decoration. Probably it is as easy now to obtain 10,000/. to spend on ecclesiastical architecture, as it was to obtain 10/. a hundred years ago. But churches are built for use. And as the Proprietary chapel of 1767 is to the church of 1867, such is the service. The “divine worship” of the last century is— the “ Ritualism” of this.

Undoubtedly a vast change is implied in this multiplication and metamor- phosis both of the building and of the service. But, deferring for the moment what may be said on the good and the evil of it, must we not concede, whether high church, low church, or no church, that the change is in itself a perfectly natural one? The plainest and cheapest structure, and the fewest possible of them, answered to the church-founding ideas of the last century. Ever since that period, the complaint that the English ritual was dull and unatiractive, has been one of the commonplaces of

A | a. lt in.

A Plain View of Ritualism.

conversation and of literature. A praiseworthy effort to remedy this com- plaint through the medium of increased vivacity and vitality in the sermons, was made by the “ Evangelical” party of fifty years since. But this (may it be said without offence?) broke down through the inherent impossibility of finding ten thousand men who, a hundred times or more in a twelve- month, could speak with the impres- siveness of a great orator upon subjects which, if the most important, are also the most familiar that can be brought before human ears. In place of the hideous chapel we have now churches by scores, which outstrip in expense and often in beauty, the most expensive and the most beautiful of those built in the so-called “‘ Ages of Faith.” At first the remarkable movement which led to this revolution, appeared confined to the wish to provide for what were then named “ heathen populations.” Then it appeared to limit itself to architectural splendour. But it may be put to the reader’s common sense and knowledge of human nature, whatever his sym- pathies, whether it was likely that the revolution should stop here? Would it not seem becoming that the service should be made to correspond to the structure? Was it not inevitable that a man inducted fresh from Oxford or Cambridge into a building all covered with carving and colours, should try to enliven the “dulness of the English service” with music, processions, ban- ners, lights, and the rest of a “ ritual- istic” performance? His church,—nay, his Nonconformistchapel,—is gorgeously Gothic. By a sort of natural law, his service becomes gorgeous and Gothic also. The “Evangelical” service of 1867 would seem quite alarmingly Popish to the Evangelical of 1827, could he by some strange effort recall the Sunday of his boyhood. There is many a meeting-house of the present day, the sight of which would be no less of a shock to a Foxe or a Bunyan, than St. Alban’s itself is to a Protestant visitor. Let those who are surprised at or dissent from this historical sketch re-

A Plain View of Ritualism.

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mark, further, that this change, so far as we have hitherto examined it, is not by any means confined to ecclesiastical structures, furniture, or ceremonies. A hundred years ago the English—rivals in love of fine art at one time with the best of the continental races — had reached the lowest point of indifference to beauty in all the applied or practical fine arts. We had Reynolds and his contemporaries ; but to all the decora- tive arts of life that age was curiously apathetic. Josiah Wedgwood is perhaps the one great exception ; and (admirable as what he did was) yet his higher efforts were not only limited to works in a Greek or Renaissance style, but obtained their popularity among a class who had a literary rather than a spon- taneous appreciation of their beauty. Without discussing what compensating good existed in return for this deadness to taste in common life (a curious in- quiry which would here lead us too far), it is certain that in almost every direc- tion we have reversed the feeling of our great-grandfathers. In place of brick, and plainness, and Anglo-Grecian ef- forts at external architecture, we have Gothic and Italian, and brilliancy of colour, and vivacity of form everywhere. Enough has been already said of our churches. Compare the architecture of Scho Square and its neighbourhood, the fashionable quarter of Dr. John- son’s time, with the new streets on the Grosvenor estate; compare the old Montagu House in Whitehall with the new; the Horseguards with the Indian Court in Downing Street. If we turn to interiors—although at all times private wealth and taste have here and there provided brilliant effects, yet is it not notorious that art and forms of beauty or brightness have now pene- trated everywhere? The colours worn are more varied ; the illustrations of | books are multiplied ; a child for six- pence gets a story with prints which no money would have procured fifty years since. The dethronement of the famous “ willow-pattern” is a symbol of a na- tional change in taste, which the Ma- caulay of the future, should the future

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evs See eee eee

116 A Plain be fortunate enough to have one, will not regard as below the notice of his- torical dignity. Add the wonderful popularization of music ; add our pala- tial warehouses; add the multiplied popular exhibitions of art: in a word, without entering on the chapter of blun- ders, or the question how far our taste is improved, it is certain that the age of plainness has given place, on all these matters, to an age of display.

The foregoing particulars have been put together, not because they are, in- dividually, likely to be new to the reader, but because, when we look at them together in their historical se- quence, they really explain the greater part of what is now expressed by “ Ri- tualism.” We know the details of our own century so well that we often do not perform the process for ourselves ; we wait till the historian shall come and join cause and effect in order for us. If we attempt the work, even slightly, we may obtain the great benefit which men reap from the study of history—calm- ness and sobriety of judgment. We see that much of what seems strange or undesirable is a simple reproduction of past phases in human experience ; that changes of taste follow like the seasons by a regular process of action and reac- tion; that novelty is transformed an- tiquity, and that antiquity anticipates to-day. We may learn also another truth—that the great general changes in taste or sentiment which we un- consciously follow are precisely those changes against which it is most hope- less to contend ; we may moderate the current by good sense and charity and toleration—to turn it back is impossible. It is not intended here to take any side on the subject; the writer’s education and sympathies (if, in the hope of en- forcing his argument, he may so far allude to himself) by no means lead him to St. Alban’s : his wish is to bring satis- factory proofs that the phenomenon which so alarms or delights many, is one to be regarded mainly, though not exclusively, with simple acquiescence, as the result of things neither alarming nor obscure, but rather of a remarkable

"iew of Ritualism.

revolution in English taste, taking this outlet for its gratification along with many others. In a word, nine-tenths of Ritualism are, in the strict sense, simply matters of taste. This is impor- tant and serious in its way, but that way has little to do with religion. Ritualism, in the far larger proportion of its dis- play, is the reaction from plainness and severity ; though not equally, it affects all our theological parties, as the weather works more on some constitutions than others, but works somehow on all ; it is no more a matter for angry strife or passionate pleading than climatic varia- tions, or the last fashion in dress. In a gorgeous house propriety demands gor- geous liveries.

Many excellent people simply look at Ritualism in its extremest forms, and are shocked, without trying to analyze the movement, or inquiring into the historical and secular antecedents which enter so largely into it; and it is pro- bable that the above conclusion will be more distasteful to them, whilst the con- troversy rages, than a strong opinion for or against the ecclesiastical practice im question. They will say, “ that serious issues are involved in matters which appear only external and trifling to a spectator :” that “even a dress may be a symbol of vital interests, though Gal- lio cannot see it,” or that “ acquiescence in the historical sequence of cause and effect is a disguised and cowardly fatal- ism.” Noris it to be denied or concealed that there is some real, as well as much plausible truth in such charges. Were the subject not of some seriousness, it would not deserve examination. Asa matter of taste, Ritualism is important. In its connexion with what we have called the rediscovery of the art of church-building, it is important. This, which happened to be the first and natural step to “ Ritualism,” is obviously a mat- ter of no little significance ; but it lies be- yond the space and object of this paper. Ritualism, as an expression of taste, or as immediately derived from the splen- dour and style of our new and restored churches, is not what excites popular apprehension and clerical sympathy.

A Plain View of Ritualism.

On these grounds, no one has been moved about it. There is, however, another aspect of Ritualism which has @ distinct doctrinal character, which is at the bottom of the main controversy, and on which a few words will presently be added. Meanwhile, for the relief of those who are strongly and conscien- tiously moved, it is worth while reflect- ing how many not less bitter controver- sies, each supposed to be of similar profundity and significance, have quietly died out within the sphere of theology alone. Practical opinion (at least in England) buries the great controversies of election, of predestination, of the fate of unchristened children—nay (to take a case more precisely analogous) those bitter disputes about the organ north of the Tweed, or the surplice south of it, which have distracted so many house- holds, and wounded so many hearts. The remains of extinct species are hardly more completely fossilized. For cha- rity’s sake, let us at least be allowed to express the hope that the same dust may cover the relics of the ritualistic controversy :

Motus animorum atque hee certamina tanta !

It is only natural and right that excite- ment should have been caused; the English mind would have been very dead to religious matters had it not been so; but we should be on our guard against overrating the importance of dress and decoration. Nor are there any so much interested in taking a just view as those whose feelings are con- scientiously roused against these novel- ties. An adversary never gains more than when his doings are exalted to a “sensational” importance. The alarm of one side always generates the con- fidence of the other.

Nine-tenths of Ritualism have been traced above to a change of taste in regard to the applied fine arts, which is not less secular than ecclesiastical, and may be seen in shawls and gowns as much as in stoles and tunicles. The

change is curious and important ; but, as has been already observed, its import-

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ance is not theological. A deeper and a totally different origin and intention must, however, be assigned to the remaining portion. The desire to imitate the variety and cvlour of the Roman Catholic service, and the wish to ex- press by appropriate and telling symbols doctrines more or less approaching cer- tain doctrines prominent in the teaching of that church, cannot reasonably be denied,— would often not be denied,— by those who have carried “Ritualism ” to its most marked development. It is, of course, this element in Ritualism which has moved the popular mind in England. History proves with perfect distinctness that that mind has at no time accepted the claims or adopted the sentiments of the Papal system, with the devotion exhibited by the races of “Latin” descent or Latin civilization. Nor can those who persuade themselves that any serious change in the Protestant feeling of the country is probable, be considered other than victims of a delu- sion, which is most likely to influence the most conscientious members of the Roman church. It was hence, again, natural that the strong feeling should be roused by Ritualism which has ex- pressed itself in Parliament. It cannot be thought strange that the proscription of the new ceremonial should have been loudly demanded ; nor is it unnatural (however unjust, from the point of view here taken), that the popular wrath should have included that far larger portion of Ritualism which is simply an expression of public taste, in the general condemnation.

Whilst this element in the contro- versy is fully allowed, there are, how- ever, very powerful reasons which should moderate the sensation roused. Admit the occasional wish to “ get rid of the dreariness of the Hanoverian Protestant service,” and to make the English rites as like the Roman as may decently be managed. Admit the wish to symbolize by ceremonies doctrines of a Roman character. Admit that things seen are more impressive than things heard, and that an English Protestant congregation may naturally be shocked and pained by

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sights which they can hardly bear to look at without immediate protest. These feelings may be just, not less than natural ; but into that side of the ques- tion it is not needful here, to enter. For it is hardly possible to deny that, rightly or wrongly, the Roman doctrines corresponding to these Roman rites have been, for twenty years and more, openly preached and published by many Eng- lish clergymen, some of a certain dis- tinction ; and that no attempt hitherto made to prove such teaching absolutely beyond the liberal bounds of what is legally permitted has practically suc- ceeded. The fact stands thus, whether agreeable to the reader’s sense of what should be, or not. Now, if this is so, must it not be conceded that men may show the doctrines they maintain by the services they conduct? Their doctrines would be but superficially held did they not thus endeavour to show them. How- ever invincibly averse the English mind may be from the Roman theory of the Eucharist and the Priesthood, natural justice seems to require that if a man may preach this theory within the pale of a Protestant church, he may also act it. It would be ridiculous on the face of it to leave his tongue free, and devote ourselves to simplifying his dress, or fettering his gestures. But in truth it would be worse than ridiculous; for such constraint (whether based on fos- silizing the form into which the ser- vice had fallen, before Ritualism began, under the name of “ prescription,” or on new legislation) must inevitably bear the look of persecution, and persecution of that most mischievous kind which meddles with externals, while it cannot touch the points of vital moment. Nor can one readily imagine a worse or more unhealthy frame of mind than would be generated by penal legislation of the kind. Ritualists would fight for an attitude or an altar-cloth as if it were the palladium of their faith. Anti- ritualists would put themselves in the absurd and contradictory light of men who, leaving the ceremonial or sacrificial spirit untouched, wage war against its dress and furniture. Evasions of the

A Plain View of Ritualism.

most provoking and puerile order would be followed by lawsuits as provoking and puerile. ‘The world outside would laugh or be scandalized with good reason. And what wise men would think of the controversy, may be Jeft to the reflections of the reader.

It is supposed here that the extreme section of our Ritualists do not break any actual law or canon in their cere- monial, This point has yet to be tested ; but the law of rites threatens to prove even more vague and liberal than that of doctrines ; and meanwhile the Ritualists may fairly claim that, like other Englishmen, they shall be pre- sumed to be acting legally until the reverse is proved. They may also, as one of our bishops lately observed, witlr a quiet impartiality which is the most annoying and irresistible of arguments, justly claim a strict rubrical obedience from antagonists who have unconsciously lapsed into neglect of the rubric to which they are appealing.

But, whatever the exact legal position may be, the foregoing considerations, if valid, render it, in any case, highly in- expedient to aim at a solution through the courts. Even if Ritualism trans- gresses the law, it would still be unde- sirable to put the lawin force. For this would again be to meddle with the dress, and miss the doctrine. The attempt at limitation by an appeal to prescription or established custom is unmeaning as well as unfair. When one asks what “established custom” is to be thus solely privileged, it immediately ap- pears that the limit must be quite arbi- trary. Is it to be the church-service of 1730, or of 1830, or of 1845, or which? And again, as rites always have followed doctrines, what right or power is there implicitly to limit doc- trines to the ritual custom to be thus selected and fossilized? And the same reasons clearly hold good against the stricter definition of allowable rites, or the introduction of a new and less de- monstrative ritual, which have been also recently proposed. To bind the hands, whilst the tongue is left free, is neither sense nor justice.

A Plain View of Ritualism.

So far as the Ritualist Commission and Parliament are concerned, the result of these considerations points to mode- ration on the part of those who are alarmed and pained, however naturally and conscientiously, by the movement. Let us briefly sum them up. The powerful underlying element in it, and that which really holds by far the largest share in its manifestations, is simply and purely a matter of taste, and only the ecclesiastical side of a change which is gradually pervading the com- mon life and secular habits of the country. It has but the real (though imperfectly understood) importance which belongs to matters of taste ; but in that importance there is nothing specially theological. The remaining element, though strongly and avowedly such, does not appear to transcend the limits of what have hitherto been proved to be the doctrinal possibilities of the Church of England. It is simply the outward expression of convictions which members of that church are permitted to maintain and assert. As such,— whilst the convictions are legally ten- able,—even extreme Ritualism demands toleration. That ceremonies should not be free to conform to doctrines—the symbol to the thing symbolized — would be a puerile and an untenable position. If any change is to be made, —a point on which no judgment is here attempted,—it must be a change alto- gether. Rites must stand or fall with doctrines.

This result will appear very weak and unsatisfactory to many excellent people, whose peace of mind has been broken just where peace is most valued, by the sight of practices which revolt them, and by the sensational narratives of Ritualistic performances which en- liven the papers, whilst the Emperor is not making a new blunder, or the Count re-arranging Europe. It will be hardly more satisfactory to those who, with equal good faith, ascribe great value to the present fashion of church services, or (in some cases) are under the belief that the crowds at St. Alban’s indicate a gradual but sure reversion of the Eng-

119

lish mind towards a medizval Chris- tianity. They will repudiate the reduc- tion of so much in Ritualism to “mere matter of taste,” and that a taste not exclusively ecclesiastical. They will quote well-filled churches, and other proofs of religious activity, to support their faith in the progress of the people to their form of orthodoxy. Such con- clusions are natural and inevitable — till we look at the question in the calm light of its history, and with an im- partial tenderness to the consciences of those from whom we differ. But a few results of the preceding argument may be added, in the hope that, as they are not so likely to be disputed, they may serve, in some slight degree, to allay the agita- tion which Ritualism has aroused among its defenders and its antagonists alike. Supposing that the policy of non- intervention here advocated be the one —as, after all, in this country is not im- probable—ultimately pursued ; we may find some grounds for anticipating that the movement will shortly present itself in a moderate form. If in a very large measure it may be reduced to a matter of general taste, experience, especially in England, may assure us that the taste for splendour and decoration will be, at no distant time, followed by a reaction in favour of plainness and severity. Indeed, if we may diverge from the narrow subject of this paper into larger political fields, causes are already at work which at least point in this direc- tion. Our recent love of display has rested in no small measure on the im- mense and rapid increase in national wealth. This increase has rested, again, partly on the energy of our capitalists and workmen, partly on the fact that we have till lately been the chief manufacturers of those common things which are incomparably the greatest sources of wealth, for western Europe and for America. Dut we can hardly avoid recognizing symptoms, especially within the last two years, which render it probable or possible that this immense increase may not be maintained. Even were we, not warned by all history that no nation long keeps its pre-eminence

A Plain View of Ritualism.

in any point of superiority, (purely in- tellectual superiority perhaps excepted), it would be self-deceit not to note a growing rivalry abroad, as each nation learns in- evitably to do for itself what we once did for it ; a want of confidence and tone in our employing classes ; even, perhaps, a loss in our position, as men of mind and trustworthiness. Without entering here on the proof of these statements, or of the larger causes on which this depres- sion partly depends, it may be enough to draw the inference that we should not unhesitatingly look forward to a perpetuity of doubling our national in- come every twenty or thirty years. Judging by history, it is not rash to conjecture that we may be near— that we may have even passed—the zenith of prosperity allotted to us during the nineteenth century. And, if this be so, one of the earliest con- sequences will probably be, a reduction of our free expenditure on the decora- tive or gorgeous side of life. Art has

never been the first love of England.

Another equally plain and prosaic reason to expect moderation in Ritualism, lies in the fact that one main object of its promoters is the laudable object of filling their churches or chapels, by a more lively and interesting style of service. Nor can it fairly be denied, that (putting the extreme section by) the buildings where service is performed to good music, ina stately way, and with the accompaniment of lights and colours, do generally succeed in attractiveness,!

1 It is not here assumed that this is an advance ; with what seems rational or religious in a good sense, it may also connote one phase of that materialism which is the prevailing tone of the time in several directions ; in the attitude of physical science; in the exagge- rated reliance upon tangible facts ; and in the coarse and violent counsels so common in our politics and our literature. These considera- tions may suggest some of the wider bearings of ‘‘Ritualism.” All human controversies have a great as well as a little side ; opening avenues, notwithstanding their ostensible nar- rowness, into vast and hardly soluble ques- tions, as whenever we look up, our eyes always run into the infinite. But the little side, which is almost always that belonging to the matter of controversy itself, is generally the only one in prominent view.

The new forms of public worship un- mistakeably fall in with the present popular taste ; Ritualism, in this larger sense, is gradually pervading the country, and readers may easily find examples of it within walls where episcopacy meets with no favour. But it is obvious, from the very excitement for which it is the wish of the writer to point out lenitives, that the strongly or Romanistically pro- nounced mode of service arouses a vast and general dislike. It is hence nota rash inference that those who wish to attract congregations by ceremonialism, when left to themselves, will drop what offends and empties the churches they wish to fill. If not, it is surely equally obvious that their congregations will retaliate by simply leaving them. The remedy is in the hands of the objectors. Is it not enough to remark that this is hardly a country where one can imagine reluctant crowds faithfully attending a service from which they have a con- scientious aversion ?

Before, however, matters reach this stage in any place, there will be much offence given, horror excited, and every feeling roused but those which people should take to church with them. Some persons will always be found whose convictions lead them to ceremonies, as they lead them to sermons, of a strongly anti-Protestant character. But it may be observed, that if the attempt to limit Ritualism by main force be abandoned, there is then a better chance that these advanced or extreme thinkers will be more ready to listen to the moderating voice of ecclesiastical or lay authorities. Indeed, there is a voice within them, which (as with all men) they are most likely to hear when the noise of antago- nist controversy has lulled: nor does it seem fanciful to anticipate that the dis- covery will be made, that not to offend those who are considered weaker brethren, and to do things decently and in order, are duties paramount to the very strongest impulse towards pictures, incense, elevations, and genuflexions.

Lastly, a more general reflection must not be omitted, which may serve to lift the subject to a higher region than the

A Plain View of Ritualism.

somewhat unspiritual and narrow pre- cincts of Ritualism. In an age which would deserve the censures passed on it by grumblers and theorists, were it not critical and inquiring, sceptical and self- conscious, cries of alarm or of satisfac- tion are constantly raised, that faith is dead or dying, Christianity about to disappear, and the like. As there is a Scottish theologian famous for fixing the end of the world within the next ten years, so there are many able philo- sophers who, with equal confidence and good faith, announce a rapid extinction of the creed of Christendom. Those who believe in that creed may, indeed, wisely learn from thoughtful antagonists that if it ceases to preserve its hitherto progressive character, and to adapt its expression and aims to the new exi- gencies of modern life, the spirit may depart from it. Treasures may be more surely lost by burying them than by spending them. Meanwhile, however (to drop matters greater than the subject of this paper), looking again at the present rather than the dim future of civiliza- tion, the world goes on, and a new lease, for the last time, has to be granted to it and to Christianity alike by the fol- lowers of Cumming and the followers of Comte. Each successive prophecy of final catastrophe is issued with undi- minished confidence at the date which should have marked the fulfilment of the former. But, abandoning the sterile field of theological or scientific predic- tion, and confining our view for brevity’s sake to England, whatever weak points may exist in English theology, theo- retical, and practical ; whatever indif- ference and hesitation may lie beneath outward conformity and ceremonialism ; whatever intellectual blindness to the demands of the age, critical and scientific, may be urged against ecclesiastical leaders, whether in the English Church or among Nonconformists (points upon which readers will differ very widely), it is at least highly probable that the enormous increase in the activity of all Christian ministers and organized bodies, . few fading sects excepted, carrying with it an immense expenditure of that

121

which in England is rarely given except under real conviction, implies some cor- responding increase in the present reli- gious faith of the country. To doubt this is indeed a high point of scep- ticism. A man must have immense confidence in his own theory, or immense indifference to what goes on about him, to set aside the evidences of the religious energy of the last fifty years. We see a practical proof of this every day in the conduct of our most sagacious states- men; we have each of us to acknow- ledge it in turn (whatever our individual opinions) whenever any question is raised which in any vital sense touches on the doctrine or practice of a reli- gious body. Those points of weakness, apathy, scepticism, and intellectual blindness, just alluded to as noticeable among us, are points familiar to the student who has approached his subject with an open mind, in love neither with theological nor with scientific theories, at every century of ecclesias- tical history ; they change their colour, but their essential nature now is what it was a thousand years ago: they are among the limitations of “poor hu- manity.”!_ The Church, as one has

1 In proof of what is here advanced, and as an example of the moderating influence which history, fairly studied, may exert in allaying the causeless panics or unfounded anticipa- tions to which the mind, educated only in the present, is often subject, two passages, each written by men of unusual sense and observa- tion, about a century and a half since, may be subjoined. They suggest the narrow circle within which our ideas move; they may sug- gest also a reasonable confidence to those who are distressed by two classes of alarm widely prevalent among us. The first is from Daniel de Foe. He is speaking of a ‘*Schism Bill” brought in by Lord Bolingbroke.

“Who are they that at this juncture are clamorous against Dissenters, and are eagerly soliciting for a further security to the Church ? Are they not that part of the clergy who have already made manifest advances towards the synagogue of Rome? they who preach the in- dependency of the Church on the State? who urge the necessity of auricular confession, sacerdotal absolution, extreme unction, and prayer for the dead? who expressly teach the real presence in the Lord’s Supper, which they will have to be a proper sacrifice ?”

Except the phrase ‘‘synagogue of Rome,” might not this have been an extract from yester-

a es

122 A Soul in Prison.

said, “has seen many latter days:” it is as easy to prophesy her fall as her triumph ; it is perhaps even not more unprofitable. If we look upon past and present with equal eyes, accepting facts without attempting to distort them into doctrines, or pervert them into predic- tion, it is possible that a sane judgment might rather prefer to call this the “Age of Faith” (a title which, however, leaves much to be desired) than those which generally bear the name.

It may be enough here to suggest, as one element in a judgment from which many readers will be inclined to dissent without examination, the vast extension of the European races, and especially of our own ; apparently destined, unless some singular catastrophe should occur, day’s ‘* Record” ? Turn now to Bishop Butler. His anxiety is in an opposite direction.

“It is come, I know not how, to be taken for granted by many persons, that Christianity is not so much as a subject for inquiry ; but that it is, now at length, discovered to be fictitious. And accordingly they treat it, as if, in the present age, this were an agreed point among all people of discernment, and nothing remained, but to set it up as a prin- cipal subject of mirth and ridicule.”

Historical students could hardly do a more valuable or a more interesting work than by collecting, in sequence of date, passages show- ing the chronic recurrence of certain com- plaints and panies, which have appeared amongst the civilized races from the very beginning of conscious civilization.

within one century, to equal or ex- ceed any other single family upon earth in number. The Christianity which these nations will carry with them will, doubtless, have a colour of its own, and one different from that which we are familiar with; but it is certain that what they now mean to carry with them is Christianity. From this aspect even the comparatively petty question of Ritualism gains importance. This paper, which aims at allaying the heat and anger generated by the controversy, is itself an acknowledgment how deep and strong those convictions are, without which the controversy would not have been excited.

Let us close the discussion with Mr. M. Arnold’s fine and thoughtful words :—

Children of men! the unseen Power, whos

eye :

For ever doth gmc. 0 A mankind,

Hath look’d on no religion scornfully That ever man did find.

Which has not taught weak wills how much they can? 7 Which has not fall’n on the dry heart like rain ? Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man, Thou imust be born again!

Children of men! not that your age excel In pride of life the ages of your sires, But that you think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well, The Friend of man desires.

A SOUL IN PRISON,

(The Doubter luys aside his book.)

“ Answered a score of times.” Oh, looked-for teacher, Is this all you will teach me? I in the dark

Kteaching my hand for you to help me forth

To the happy sunshine where you stand, “Oh shame, To be in the dark there prisoned!” answer you; “There are ledges somewhere there by which strong feet

Might scale to daylight.

I would lift you out

With just a touch, but that your need’s so slight.

There are ledges somewhere.’

Think I’ve found footing

om

,

And I grope and strain,

and slip baftled back,

Slip, maybe, deeper downwards. “Oh, my guide, Say at least

I find no ledges. Help me.

A Soul in Prison.

Where they are placed, that I may know to seek.” But you, in anger, “ Nay, wild wilful soul, Thou wilt rot in the dark, God’s sunshine here At thy prison’s very lip. Blame not the guide: Have I not told thee there is footing for thee?” And so you leave me, and with even tread Guide men along the highway... where, I think, They need you less. Say ’twas my wanton haste Or my drowsed languor, my too earthward eyes Watching for hedge flowers, or my too rapt gaze At the mock sunshine of a sky-born cloud, That led me, blindling, here: say the black walls Grew round me while I slept, or that I built With ignorant hands a temple for my soul To pray in to herself, and that, for want Of a window heavenwards, a loathsome night Of mildew and decay festered upon it, Till the rotted pillars fell and tombed me in: Let it so be my fault, whichever way, Must I be left to die? A murderer Is helped by holy hands to the byway road That comes at God through shame; a thief is helped ; A harlot; a sleek cozener that prays, Swindles his customers and gives God thanks, And so to bed with prayers. Let them repent, Nay let them not repent, you'll say, “ These souls May yet be saved, and make a joy in heaven.” You are thankful you have found them, you whose charge Is healing sin: but I, hundreds as IJ, Whose sorrow ’tis only to long to know, And know too plainly that we know not yet, We are beyond your mercies. You pass by And note the moral of our fate: ‘twill point A Sunday’s sermon... for we have our use, Boggarts to placid Christians in their pews— “Question not, prove not, lest you grow like these.” And then you tell them how we daze ourselves On problems now so many times resolved That you'll not re-resolve them, how we crave New proofs, as once an evil race desired New signs and could not see, for stubbornness, Signs given already. Proofs enough, you say, Quote precedent, “Hear Moses and the prophets.” 1 know the answer given across the gulf, 3ut I know too what Christ did. There were proofs, Enough for John and Peter, yet He taught New proofs and meanings to those doubting two Who sorrowing walked forth to Emmaus And came back joyful.: “They,” you'd answer me, If you owned my instance, “sorrowed in their doubt, And did not wholly doubt, and loved.”

A Soul in Prison.

Oh, men

That read the age’s heart in library books Whit by our fathers, this is how you know it. Do we say, “The old faith is obsolete ; The world wags all the better, let us laugh.” We of to-day? Why will you not divine The fathomless sorrow of doubt? Why not divine The yearning to be lost from it in love? And who doubts wholly? That were not to doubt. Doubt’s to be ignorant, not to deny: Doubt’s to be wistful after perfect faith. You will not think that. You come not to us To ask of us who know doubt what doubt is, But one by one you pass the echoes on, Each of his own pulpit, each of all the pulpits, And in the swelling sound can never catch The tremulous voice of doubt that wails in the cold: You make sham thunder for it, outpeal that With your own better thunders.

You wise man And worthy, utter honest in your will, I love you and I trust you ; so I thought **Here’s one whose love keeps measure to belief With onward vigorous feet, one quick of sight To catch the clue in scholars’ puzzle-knots, Deft to unweave the coil to one straight thread, One strong to grapple vague Protean faith And keep her to his heart in one fixed shape And living: he comes forward in his strength as to a battlefield to answer challenge, As in a storm to buffet with the waves For shipwrecked men clutching the frothy crests And sinking: he is stalwart on my side— Mine, who, untrained and weaponless, have warred At the powers of unbelief, and am borne down ; Mine, who am struggling in the sea for breath.” I looked to you as the sick man in his pain Looks to the doctor whose sharp medicines Have the taste of health behind them, looked to you For—— Well, for a boon different from this. My doctor tells me, “Why, quite long ago They knew your fever (or one very like) : And they knew remedies, you'll find them named Jn many ancient writers ; let those serve.” And “Thick on the commons, by the daily roads, The herbs are growing that give instant strength To palsied limbs like yours, clear such filmed sight. You need but eyes to spy them, hands to uproot, That’s all.”

All, truly.

Strong accustomed eyes, Strong tutored hands, see for me, reach for me! But there’s a cry like mine rings through the world, And no help comes. And with slow severing rasp

A Soul in Prison.

At our very heart-roots the toothed question grates, “Do these who know most not know anything?”

Oh, teachers, will you teach us? Growing, growing, Like the great river made of little brooks,

Our once unrest swells to a smooth despair:

Stop us those little brooks ; yon say you can.

Oh, teachers, teach us, you who*have been taught ; Learn for us, you who have learned how to learn. We, jostling, jostled, through the market world Where our work lies, lack breathing space, lack calm, Lack skill, lack tools, lack heart, lack everything For your work of the studies. Such roughed minds We bring to it as when the ploughman tries

His hard unpliant fingers at the pen ;

So toil and smudge, then put the blurred scrawl by, Unfinished, till next holiday comes round.

Thus maybe I shall die and the blurred scrawl

Be still unfinished where I try to write

Some clear belief, enough to get by heart.

Die still in the dark! Die having lived in the dark! There’s a sort of creeping horror thinking that. ’Tis hard too, for I yearned for light, grew dazed, Not by my sight’s unuse and choice of gloom, But by too bold a gazing at the sun, Thinking to apprehend his perfect light Not darkly through a glass.

Too bold, too bold. Would I had been appeased with the earth’s wont Of helpful daily sunbeams bringing down Only so much Heaven’s light as may be borne— Heaven’s light enough for many a better man To see his God by. Well, but it is done: Never in any day shall I now be As if I had not gazed and seen strange lights Swim amid darknesses against the sky. Never; and, when I dream as if I saw, *Tis dreaming of the sun, and, when I yearn In agony to see, still do I yearn, Not for the sight I had in happier days, But for the eagle’s strong gaze at the sun.

Ah, well! that’s after death, if all be true. Nay, but for me, never, if all be true. I love not God, because I know Him not, I do but long to love Him—long and long With an ineffable great pain of void ;— I cannot say I love Him: that not said, They of the creeds all tell me I am barred From the very hope of knowing.

Maybe so ; For daily I know less. "Tis the old tale Of men lost in the mouldy vaults of mines

A Soul in Prison.

Or dank crypt cemeteries—lamp puffed out, (iuides, comrades, out of hearing, on and on Groping and pushing he makes farther way From his goal of, open daylight. Best to wait Till some one come to seck him. But the strain Of such a patience !—and “if no one comes!” He cannot wait. If one could hear a voice, “Not yet, not yet: myself have still to find What way to guide you forth, but I seek well, I have the lamp you lack, I have a chart : Not yet; but hope.” So might one strongly bear Through the long night, attend with harkening breath For the next word, stir not but as it bade. Who will so cry to us? P Or is it true You could come to us, guide us, but you will not? You say it, and not we, teachers of faith ; Must we believe you? Shall we not more think Our doubt is consciousness of ignorance, Your faith unconsciousness of ignorance ; So you know less than we? My author here, Honest at heart, but has your mind a warp— The zealot’s warp, who takes believed for proved ; The disciple’s warp, who takes all heard for proved ;

The teacher's warp, who takes all taught for proved, And cannot think “I know not?” Do you move One stumbling-block that bars out souls from Heaven? Your back to it, you say, “I see no stone.

“Lis a fool’s dream, an enemy’s false tale

To hinder passengers.” And I who lean

Broken against the stone ?

Well, learned man, I thank you for your book. ‘Tis eloquent, Tis subtle, resolute; I like the roar Of the big battling phrases, like those frets Of hissing irony—a book to read. It helps one too—a sort of evidence— ‘lo see so strong a mind so strongly clasped To creeds whose truth one hopes. What would I more ? *Tis a dark world, and no man lights another: "Tis a dark world, and no man sees so plain As he believes he sees... excepting those Who are mere blind and know it.

Here’s a man Thinks his eyes’ stretch can plainly scan out God, And cannot plainly scau his neighbour's face— He'll make you a hobgoblin, hoofs and horns, Of a poor cripple shivering at his door Begging a bit of food. We get no food ;

Stones, stones: but then he but half sees, he trows Tis honest bread he gives us.

The Chaplet of Pearls ; or, The White and Black Ribaumont. 127

A blind world.

Light! light! oh God, whose other name is Light,

If

Ay, ay, always if Thought’s cursed with is. Well, where’s my book ?—No “ifs” in that, I think. A readable shrewd book; twill win the critics.

Avucusta WEBSTER.

THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS; OR, THE WHITE AND BLACK RIBAUMONT,

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE.”

CHAPTER V. THE CONVENT BIRD.

** Young knight, whatever that dost armes professe, And through long labours huntest after

fame, Beware of fraud, beware of ficklenesse, In choice and chaunge of thy beloved dame.” Spenser, Faéry Queene.

Berencer’s mind was relieved, even while his vanity was mortified, when the Chevalier and his son came the next day to bring him the formal letter re- questing the Pope’s annulment of his marriage. After he had signed it, it was to be taken to Eustacie, and, so soon as he should attain his twenty-first year he was to dispose of Chateau Leurre, as well as of his claim to the ancestral castle in Picardy, to his cousin Narcisse, and thus become entirely free to transfer his allegiance to the Queen of England. It was a very good thing—that he well knew; and he had a strong sense of virtue and obedience, as he formed with his pen the words in all their full- ness, Henri Béranger Eustache, Baron de Ribaumont et Seigneur de Leurre. He could not help wondering whether the lady who looked at him so admir- ingly really preferred such a mean-look- ing little fop as Narcisse, whether she were afraid of his English home and breeding, or whether all this open co- quetry were really the court manners of No. 98.—vol. xvi.

ladies towards gentlemen, and he had been an absolute simpleton to be flat- tered. Any way, she would have been a most undesirable wife, and he was well quit of her; but he did feel a certain lurking desire that, since the bonds were cut and he was no longer in danger from her, he might see her again, carry home a mental inventory of the splendid beauties he had renounced, and decide what was the motive that actuated her in rejecting his own handsome self. Meantime, he proceeded to enjoy the amusements and advantages of his so- journ at Paris, of which by no means the least was the society of Philip Sidney, and the charm his brilliant genius im- parted to every pursuit they shared. Books at the University, fencing and dancing from the best professors, Italian poetry, French sonnets, Latin epigrams ; nothing came amiss to Sidney, the flower of English youth: and Berenger had taste, intelligence, and cultivation enough to enter into all in which Sidney led the way. The good tutor, after all his mi- series on the journey, was delighted to write to Lord Walwyn, that, far from being a risk and temptation, this visit was a school in all that was virtuous and comely.

If the good man had any cause of dissatisfaction. it was with the Calvin- istic tendencies of the Ambassador's household. Walsingham was always on the Puritanical side of Elisabeth’s court, and such an atmosphere as that of Paris,

K

. The Chaplet of Pearls ; or,

where the Roman Catholic system was at that time showing more corruption than it has ever done before or since in any other place, naturally threw him into sympathy with the Reformed. The reaction that half a century later filled the Gallican Church with saintliness had not set in; her ecclesiastics were the tools of a wicked and bloodthirsty court, who hated virtue as much as schism in the men whom they persecuted. The Huguenots were for the most part men whose instincts for truth and virtue had recoiled from the popular system, and thus it was indeed as if piety and mo- rality were arrayed on one side, and superstition and debauchery on the other. Mr. Adderley thus found the tone of the ambassador's chaplain that of far more complete fellowship with the Reformed pastors than he himself was disposed to admit. There were a large number of these gathered at Paris ; for the lull in persecution that had followed the battle of Moncontour had given hopes of a final accommodation between the two parties, and many had come up to con- sult with the numerous lay nobility who had congregated to witness the King of Navarre’s wedding. Among them, Be- renger met his father’s old friend, Isaac Gardon, who had come to Paris for the purpose of giving his only surviving son in marriage to the daughter of a watch- maker to whom he had for many years been betrothed. By him the youth, with his innocent face and gracious respectful manners, was watched with delight, as fulfilling the fairest hopes of the poor Baron, but the old minister would have been sorely disappointed had he known how little Berenger felt inclined towards his party.

The royal one of course Berenger could not love, but the rigid bareness, and, as he thought, irreverence of the Calvinist, and the want of all forms, jarred upon one used to a ritual which retained much of the ancient form. In the early years of Elizabeth, every possible diversity pre- vailed in parish churches, according to the predilections of rector and squire ; from forms scarcely altered from those of old times, down to the baldest, rudest

neglect of all rites; and Berenger, in his country home, had been used to the first extreme. He could not believe that what he heard and saw among the Sacré- mentaires, as they were called, was what his father had prized ; and he greatly scandalised Sidney, the pupil of Hubert Languet, by openly expressing his dis- taste and dismay when he found their worship viewed by both Walsingham and Sidney as a model to which the English Protestants ought to be brought.

However, Sidney excused all this as mere boyish distaste to sermons and love of externals, and Berenger himself re- flected little on the subject. The aspect of the venerable Coligny, his father’s friend, did far more to mike him a Huguenot thanany discussion of doctrine. The good old Admiral received him affectionately, and talked to him warmly of his father, and the grave, noble countenance and kind manner won his heart. Great projects were on foot, and were much relished by the young King, for raising an army and striking a blow at Spain by aiding the Reformed in the Netherlands ; and Coligny was as ardent as a youth in the cause, hoping at once to aid his brethren, to free the young King from evil influences, and to strike one good stroke against the old national enemy. He talked eagerly to Sidney of alliances with England, and then lamented over the loss of so pro- mising a youth as young Ribaumont to the Reformed cause in France. If the marriage with the heiress could have taken effect, he would have obtained estates near enough to some of the main Huguenot strongholds to be very im- portant, and these would now remain under the power of Narcisse de Ribau- mont, a determined ally of the Guise fac- tion. It was a pity, but the Admiral could not blame the youth for obeying the wish of his guardian grandfather ; and he owned, with a sigh, that England was a more peaceful land than his own be- loved country. Berenger was a little nettled at this implication, and began to talk of joining the French standard in a campaign in the Netherlands: but when the two young men returned.

to their present home and described the conversation, Walsingham said,—

“The Admiral’s favourite project ! He would do wisely not to brag of it so openly. The King of Spain has too many in his interest in this place not to be warned, and to be thus further egged on to compass the ruin of Coligny.”

“ Tshould have thought,” said Sidney, “that nothing could add to his hatred of the Reformed.”

“ Scarcely,” said Walsingham ; “save that it is they who hinder the Duke of Guise from being a good Frenchman, and a foe to Spain.”

Politics had not developed themselves in Berenger’s mind, and he listened inattentively while Walsingham talked over with Sidney the state of parties in France, where natural national enmity to Spain was balanced by the need felt by the Queen-mother of the support of that great Roman Catholic power against the Huguenots ; whom Walsingham be- lieved her to dread and hate less for their own sake than from the fear of loss of influence over her son. He believed Charles IX. himself to have much lean- ing towards the Reformed, but the late victories had thrown the whole court entirely into the power of the Guises, the truly unscrupulous partisans of Rome. They were further inflamed against the Huguenots by the assassina- tion of the last Duke of Guise, and by the violences that had been committed by some of the Reformed party, in especial a massacre of prisoners at Nérae.

Sidney exclaimed that the Huguenots had suffered far worse cruelties.

“That is true,” replied Sir Francis, “but, my young friend, you will find, in all matters of reprisals, that a party has no memory for what it may commit, only for what it may receive.”

The conversation was interrupted by an invitation to the ambassador's family and guests to a tilting-mateh and subse- quent ball at the Louvre. In the first Berenger did his part with credit; to the second he went feeling full of that strange attraction of repulsion. He

knew gentlemen enough: in Coligny’s suite for it to be likely that he might

The White and Black Ribaumont.

129

remain unperceived among them, and he knew this would be prudent, but he found himself unexpectedly near the ranks of ladies, and smile and gesture absolutely drew him towards his semi- spouse, so that he had no alternative but to lead her out to dance.

The stately measure was trod in silence as usual, but he felt the dark eyes study- ing him all the time. However, he could bear it better now that the deed was done, and she had voluntarily made him less to her than any gallant parading or mincing about the room.

“So you bear the pearls, Sir?” she said, as the dance finished.

“ The only heirloom I shall take with me,” he said.

“Ts a look at them too great a favour to ask from their jealous guardian ?” she asked.

He smiled, half ashamed of his own annoyance at being obliged to place them in her hands. He was sure she would try to cajole him out of them, and by way of asserting his property in them he did not detach them from the band of his black velvet cap, but gave it with them into her hand. She looked at each one, and counted them wistfully.

‘* Seventeen!” she said; “and how beautiful! I never saw them so near before. They are so becoming to that fair cheek that I suppose no offer from my—my uncle, on our behalf, would in- duce you to part with them ?”

An impulse of open-handed gallantry would have made him answer, “No offer from your uncle, but a simple re- quest from you ;” but he thought in time of the absurdity of returning without them, and merely answered, “I have no right to yield them, fair lady. They are the witness to my forefather’s fame and prowess.”

“Yes, Sir, and to those of mine also,” she replied. “ And you would take them over to the enemy from whom that prowess extorted them ?”

“The country which honoured and re- warded that prowess!” replied Berenger.

She looked at him with an interroga- tive glance of surprise at the readiness of his answer; then, with half a sigh,

K 2

said, “ There are your pearls, Sir ; I can- not establish our right, though J verily believe it was the cause of our last quarrel ;” and she smiled archly.

“T believe it was,” he said gravely ; but added, in the moment of relief at re- covering the precious heirloom, “ though it was Diane who inspired you to seize upon them.”

“ Ah! poor Diane ! you sometimes re- member her then? If I remember right, you used to agree with her better than with your little spouse, cousin !”

“ Tf I quarrelled with her less, I liked her less,” answered Berenger—who, since the act of separation, had not been so guarded in his demeanour, and began to give way to his natural frankness.

“Indeed? Diane would be less grati- fied than I ought to be. And why, may Task?”

“Diane was more caressing, but she had no truth.”

“Truth! that was what few M. le Baron ever talked of ; what Huguenots weary one with.”

“And the only thing worth seeking, the real pearl,” said Berenger, “ without which all else is worthless.”

“Ah!” she said, “who would have thought that soft, youthful face could be so severe! You would never forgive a deceit #”

“ Never,” he said, with the crystal hardness of youth ; “ or rather, I might forgive ; I could never esteem.”

“ What a bare, rude world yours must be,” she said, shivering. ‘ And no weak ones in it! Only the strong can dare to be true.”

“Truth is strength!” said Berenger. “For example: I see yonder a face without bodily strength, perhaps, but with perfect candour.”

“ Ah! some Huguenot girl of Madame Catherine’s, no doubt—from the depths of Languedoc, and dressed like a fright.”

“No, no; the young girl behind the pale, yellow-haired lady.”

“* Comment, Monsieur. Do you not yet know the young Queen ?”

“ But who is the young demoiselle !— she with the superb black eyes, and the ruby rose in her black hair?”

The Chaplet of Pearls ; or,

“Take care, Sir, do you not know I have still a right to be jealous?” she said, blushing, bridling, and laughing.

But this pull on the cords made him the more resolved; he would not be turned from his purpose. “ Who is she?” he repeated, “have I ever seen her before? Iam sure I remember that innocent look of espiéglerie.”

“You may see it on any child’s face fresh out of the convent; it does not last a month!” was the still displeased, rather jealous answer. “ That little thing—lI believe they call her Nidemerle —she has only just been brought from her nunnery to wait on the young Queen. Ah! your gaze was perilous, it is bringing on you one of the jests of Madame Marguerite.”

With laughter and gaiety, a troop of gentlemen descended on M. de Ribau- mont, and told him that Madame Mar- guerite desired that he should be pre- sented to her. The princess was stand- ing by her pale sister-in-law, Elizabeth of Austria, who looked grave and an- noyed at the mischievous mirth flashing in Marguerite’s dark eyes.

“M. de Ribaumont,” said the latter, her very neck heaving with suppressed fun, “I see I cannot do you a greater favour than by giving you Mademoiselle , de Nidemerle for your partner.”

Berenger was covered with confusion to find that he had been guilty of such a fixed stare as to bring all this upon the poor girl He feared that his vague sense of recognition had made his gaze more open than he knew, and he was really and deeply ashamed of this as his worst act of provincial ill-breeding.

Poor little convent maid, with crimson cheeks, flashing eyes, panting bosom, and a neck evidently aching with proud dignity and passion, she received his low bow with a sweeping curtsey, as lofty as her little person would permit.

His cheeks burnt like fire, and he would have found words to apologize, but she cut him short by saying, hastily and low, “ Not a word, Monsieur! Let us go through it at once. No one shall make game of us.”

He hardly durst look at her again;

ee wa we”

but as he went through his own elabo- rate paces he knew that the little crea- ture opposite was swimming, bending, turning, bounding with the fluttering fierceness of an angry little bird, and that the superb eyes were casting flashes on him that seemed to carry him back to days of early boyhood.

Once he caught a mortified, pleading, wistful glance that made him feel cs if he had inflicted a cruel injury by his thoughtless gaze, and he resolved to plead the sense of recognition in excuse ; but no sooner was the performance over than she prevented all conversation by saying, “ Lead me back at once to the Queen, Sir ; she is about to retire.”” They were already so near that there was not time to say anything; he could only hold as lightly as possible the tiny fingers that he felt burning and quivering in his hand, and then, after bringing her to the side of the chair of state, he was forced to release her with the mere whisper of “ Pardon, Mademoiselle ;” and the request was not replied to, save by the additional stateliness of her curtsey.

It was already late, and the party was breaking up; but his head and heart were still in a whirl when he found himself seated in the ambassadorial coach, hearing Lady Walsingham’s well- pleased rehearsal of all the compliments she had received on the distinguished appearance of both her young guests. Sidney, as the betrothed of her daughter, was property of her own; but she also exulted in the praises of the young Lord de Ribaumont, as proving the excel- lence of the masters whom she had recommended to remove the rustic clownishness of which he had been accused.

“ Nay,” said Sir Francis ; “ whoever called him too clownish for court spake with design.”

The brief sentence added to Beren- ger’s confused sense of being in a mist of false play. Could his kinsman be bent on keeping him from court ? Could Narcisse be jealous of him? Mademoi- selle de Ribaumont was evidently in- clined to seek him, and her cousin

The White and Black Ribaumont.

131

might easily think her lands safer in his absence. He would have been will- ing to hold aloof as much as his uncle and cousin could wish, save for an angry dislike to being duped and cajoled; and, moreover, a strong curiosity to hear and see more of that little passionate bird, fresh from the convent cage. Her ges- ture and her eyes irresistibly carried him back to old times, though whether to an angry blackbird in the yew-tree alleys at Leurre, or to the eager face that had warned him to save his father, he could not remember with any dis- tinctness. At any rate, he was sur- prised to find himself thinking so little in comparison about the splendid beauty and winning manners of his discarded spouse, though he quite believed that, now her captive was beyond her grasp, she was disposed to catch at him again, and try to retain him, or, as his titillated vanity might whisper, his personal graces might make her regret the family reso- lution which she had obeyed.

CHAPTER VI. FOULLY COZENED. ‘* 1] was the more deceived.” —Hamlet.

Tue unhappy Charles IX. had a dis- position that in good hands might have achieved great nobleness ; and though cruelly bound and trained to evil, was no sooner allowed to follow its natural bent than it reached out eagerly towards excellence. At this moment, it was his mother’s policy to appear to leave the ascendency to the Huguenot party, and he was therefore allowed to contract friendships which deceived the intended victims the more completely, because his admiration and attachment were spon- taneous and sincere. Philip Sidney’s varied accomplishments and pure lofty character greatly attracted the young King, who had leant on his arm con- versing during great part of the ball, and the next morning sent a royal messenger to invite the two young gentlemen to a party at pall-mall in the Tuileries gardens.

The Chaplet of Pearls ; or,

Pall-mall was either croquet or its near- est relative, and was so much the fashion that games were given in order to keep up political influence, perhaps, because the freedom of a garden pastime among groves and bowers afforded opportunities for those seductive arts on which Queen Catherine placed so much dependence. The formal gardens, with their squares of level turf and clipped alleys, afforded excellent scope both for players and spectators, and numerous games had been set on foot, from all of which, however, Berenger contrived to exclude himself, in his restless determination to find out the little Demoiselle de Nide- merle, or, at least, to discover whether any intercourse in early youth accounted for his undefined sense of remembrance.

He interrogated the first disengaged person he could find, but it was only the young Abbé de Meéricour, who had been newly brought up from Dauphiné by his elder brother to solicit a benefice, and who knew nobody. To him, ladies were only bright phantoms such as his books had taught him to regard like the temptations of St. Anthony, but whom he actually saw treated with as free admiration by the ecclesiastic as by the layman.

Suddenly a clamour of voices arose on the other side of the closely-clipped wall of limes by which the two youths were walking. There were the clear tones of a young maiden expostulating in indignant distress, and the banter- ing, indolent determination of a male annoyer.

“ Hark !” exclaimed Berenger ; “ this must be seen to.”

“Have a care,” returned Méricour ; “T have heard that a man needs look twice ere meddling.”

Scarcely hearing, Berenger strode on as he had done at the last village wake, when he had rescued Cis of the Down from the impertinence of a Dorchester serivener. It was a like case, he saw, when breaking through the arch of clipped limes he beheld the little De- moiselle de Nidemerle, driven into a corner and standing at bay, with glowing cheeks, flashing eyes, and hands clasped

over her breast, while a young man, dressed in the extreme of foppery, was assuring her that she was the only lady who had not granted him a token—that he could not allow such pensionnaire airs, and that now he had caught her he would have his revenge, and win her rose-coloured breastknot. Another gentleman stood by, laughing, and keep- ing guard in the walk that led to the more frequented part of the gardens.

“ Hold !” thundered Berenger.

The assailant had just mastered the poor girl’s hand, but she took advantage of his surprise to wrench it away and gather herself up as for a spring, but the Abbé in dismay, the attendant in anger, cried out, “Stay—it is Mon- sieur.”

“ Monsieur ; be he who he may,” ex- claimed Berenger, ‘no honest man can see a lady insulted.”

“ Are you mad? It is Monsieur the Duke of Anjou,” said Méricour, pouncing on his arm.

“Shall we have him to the guard- house?” added the attendant, coming up on the other side; but Henri de Valois waved them both back, and burst into a derisive laugh. “No, no; do you not see who itis? Monsieur the English Baron still holds the end of the halter. His sale is not yet made. Come away, D’O, he will soon have enough on his hands without us. Farewell, fair lady, another time you will be free of your jealous giant.”

So saying, the Duke of Anjou strolled off, feigning indifference and contempt, and scarcely heeding that he had been traversed in one of the malicious ad- ventures which he delighted to recount in public before the discomfited victim herself, often with shameful exaggeration.

The girl clasped her hands over her brow with a gesture of dismay, and cried, “Oh ! if you have only not touched your sword,”

“Let me have the honour of recon- ducting you, Mademoiselle,” said Be- renger, offering his hand ; but after the first sigh of relief, a tempestuous access seized her. She seemed about to dash away his hand, her bosom swelled with

The White and Black Ribaumont.

resentment, and with a voice striving for dignity, though choked with strangled tears, she exclaimed, “‘ No, indeed ! Had not M. le Baron forsaken me I had never been thus treated!” and her eyes flashed through their moisture.

“ Eustacie! You are Eustacie!”

“Whom would you have me to be otherwise? I have the honour to wish M. le Baron a good morning.”

“Eustacie! Stay! Hearme! Itcon- cerns my honour. [I see it is you—but whom have I seen? Who was she?” he cried, half wild with dismay and confusion. “ Was it Diane ?”

“You have seen and danced with Diane de Ribaumont,” answered Eus- tacie, still coldly ; “but what of that? Let me go, Monsieur ; you have cast me off already.”

“T! when all this has been of your own seeking ?”

“Mine?” cried Eustacie, panting with the struggle between her dignity and her passionate tears. “I meddled not. I heard that M.le Baron was gone to a strange land, and had written to break off old ties.” Her face was in a flame, and her efforts for composure absolute pain.

“1!” again exclaimed LBerenger. “ The first letter came from your uncle, declaring that it was your wish!” And as her face changed rapidly, “Then it was not true! He has not had your consent ?”

“What! would I hold to one who despised me—who came here and never even asked to see this hated spouse !”

“T did! lIcentreated to see you. [ would not sign the application till—Oh, there has been treachery! And have they made you too sign it?”

“ When they showed me your name they were welcome to mine.”

Berenger struck his forehead with wrath and perplexity, then cried, joy- fully, ‘‘ It will not stand for a moment. So foul a cheat can be at once exposed. Eustacie, you know—you understand, that it was not you but Diane whom I saw and detested ; and no wonder, when she was acting such a cruel treason !”

“ Oh no, Diane would never so treat

133 me,” cried Eustacie. “I see how it was! Youdid not know that my father was latterly called Marquis de Nid-de- Merle, and when they brought me here, they would call me after him : they said a maid of honour must be Demoiselle, and my uncle said there was only one way in which I could remain Madame de Ribaumont! And the name must have deceived you, Thou wast always a great dull boy,” she added, with a sudden assumption of childish intimacy that annihilated the nine years since their parting.

“Had I seen thee, I had not mis- taken for an instant. This little face stirred my heart; hers repelled me. And she deceived me wittingly, Eustacie, for I asked after her by name.”

“ Ah, she wished to spare my em- barrassment. And then her brother must have dealt with her.”

“T see,” exclaimed Berenger, “ I am to be palmed off thus that thou mayst be reserved for Narcisse. Tell me, Eustacie, wast thou willing ?”

“ T hate Narcisse !” she cried. oh, I am lingering too long. Monsieur will make some hateful tale! I never fell into his way before, my Queen and Mme. la Comtesse are so careful. Only to-day, as I was attending her alone, the King came and gave her his arm, and I had to drop behind. I must find her; I shall be missed,” she added, in sudden alarm. “Oh, what will theysay ?”

“No blame for being with thy hus- band,” he answered, clasping her hand. “Thou art mine henceforth. I will soon cut our way out of the web thy treacherous kindred have woven. Meantime——”

“Hush! There are voices,” cried Eustacie in terror, and, guided by some- thing he could not discern, she fled with the swiftness of a bird down the alley. Following, with the utmost speed that might not bear the appearance of pur- suit, he found that on coming to the turn she had moderated her pace, and was more tranquilly advancing to a bevy of ladies, who sat perched on the stone steps like great butterflies sunning them- selves, watching the game, and receiving

“ But

a

the attentions of their cavaliers. He saw her absorbed into the group, and then began to prowl round it, in the alleys, in a tumult of amazement and indigna- tion. He had been shamefully deceived and cheated, and justice he would have ! He had been deprived of a thing of his own, and he would assert his right. He liad been made to injure and disown the creature he was bound to protect, and he must console her and compensate to her, were it only to redeem his honour. He never even thought whether he loved her ; he merely felt furious at the wrong he had suffered and been made to commit, and hotly bent on recovering what belonged tohim. He might even have plunged down among the ladies and claimed her as his wife, if the young Abbé de Méricour, who was two years older than he and far less of a boy for his years, had not joined him in his agitated walk. He then learnt that all the Court knew that the daughter of the late Marquis de Nid-de Merle, Comte de Kibaumont, was called by his chief title, but that her marriage to himself had been forgotten by some and unknown to others, and thus that the first error between the cousins had not been wonderful in a stranger, since the cheva- lier’s daughter had always been Mdlle. de Ribaumont. The error once made, Berenger’s distaste to Diane had been so convenient that it had been carefully encouraged, and the desire to keep him at a distance from Court and throw him into the background was accounted for. The Abbé was almost as indignant as Berenger, and assured him both of his sympathy and his discretion.

“T see no need for discretion,” said Berenger. “I shall claim my wife in the face of the sun.”

“Take counsel first, I entreat,” ex- claimed Méricour. ‘The Ribaumonts have much influence with the Guise family, and now you have offended Monsieur.”

“Ah! where are those traitorous kinsmen ?” cried Berenger.

“ Fortunately all are gone on an ex- pedition with the Queen-mother. You will have time to think. I have heard

The Chaplet of Pearis ; or,

my brother say no one ever prospere:l who offended the meanest follower of the house of Lorraine.”

“T do not want prosperity, I only want my wife. I hope I shall never see Paris and its deceivers again.”

“Ah! but is it true that you have applied to have the marriage annulled at Rome ?”

“We were both shamefully deceived. That can be nothing.”

“A decree of his Holiness: you a Huguenot ; she an heiress. All is against you. My friend, be cautious,” exclaimed the young ecclesiastic, alarmed by his passionate gestures. “To break forth now and be accused of brawling in the palace precincts would be fatal—fatal — most fatal!”

“T am as calm as possible,” returned Berenger. “I mean to act most reason- ably. I shall stand before the King and tell him openly how I have been tampered with, demanding my wife before the whole Court.”

“Long before you could get so far the ushers would have dragged you away for brawling, or for maligning an honourable gentleman. You would have to finish your speech in the Bastille, and it would be well if even your English friends could get you out alive.”

“Why, what a place is this!” began Berenger ; but again Méricour entreate: him to curb himself; and his English education had taught him to credit the house of Guise with so much mysterious power and wickedness, that he allowed himself to be silenced, and promised to take no open measures till he had con- sulted the Ambassador.

He could not obtain another glimpse of Eustacie, and the hours passed tardily till the break up of the party. Charles could scarcely release Sidney from his side, and only let him go on condition that he should join the next day in an expedition to the hunting chateau of Montpipeau, to which the King seemed to look forward as a great holiday and breathing time.

When at length the two youths did return, Sir Francis Walsingham was completely surprised by the usually

The White and Black Ribaumont.

tractable, well-behaved stripling, whose praises he had been writing to his old friend, bursting in on him with the out- ery, “Sir, sir, I entreat your counsel! I have been foully cozened.”

“ Of how much ?” said Sir Francis, in a tone of reprobation.

“Of my wife. Of mine honour. Sir, your Excellency, I crave pardon if I spoke too hotly,” said Berenger, collect- ing himself, “ but it is enough to drive a man to frenzy.”

“Sit down, my Lord de Ribaumont. Take breath, and let me know what is this coil. What hath thus moved him, Mr. Sidney?”

“ Tt is as he says, Sir,” replied Sidney, who had heard all as they returned ; “ he has been greatly wronged. The Chevalier de Ribaumont not only writ to propose the separation without the lady’s know- ledge, but imposed his own daughter on our friend as the wife he had not seen since infancy.”

“ There, Sir,” broke forth Berenger ; “ surely if I claim mine own in the face of day, no man can withhold her from me!”

“ Hold!” said Sir Francis. ‘ What means this passion, young sir? Me- thought you came hither convinced that both the religion and the habits in which the young lady had been bred up rendered your infantine contract most unsuitable. What hath fallen out to make this change in your mind ?”

“That I was cheated, Sir. The lady who palmed herself off on me as my wife was a mere impostor, the Chevalier’s own daughter !”

“That may be ; but what know you of this other lady? Has she been bred up in faith or manners such as your parents would have your wife?”

“ She is my wife,” reiterated Berenger. “My faith is plighted to her. That is enough for me.”

Sir Francis made a gesture of despair. “He has seen her, I suppose,” said he to Sidney. ;

“ Yes truly, sir,” answered Berenger ; “and found that she had been as greatly deceived as myself.”

155

“Then mutual consent is wanting,” said the statesman, gravely musing.

“That is even as I say,” began Berenger, but Walsingham held up his hand, and desired that he would make his full statement in the presence of his tutor. Then sounding a little whistle, the aimbassador despatched a page tu request the attendance of Mr. Adderley, and recommended young Ribaumom in the meantime to compose himself.

Used to being under authority as Berenger was, the somewhat severe tone did much to allay his excitement, and remind him that right and reason were so entirely on his side, that he had only to be cool and rational to make them prevail. He was thus able to give « collected and coherent account of his discovery that the part of his wife had been assumed by her cousin Diane, and that the signature of both the young pair to the application to the Pope had been obtained on false pretences. That he had, as Sidney said, been foully cozened in both senses of the word, was as clear as daylight ; but he was much angered and disappointed to find that neither the ambassador nor his tutor could see that Eustacie’s worthiness was proved by the iniquity of her relations, or that any one of the weighty reasons for the expe- diency of dissolving the marriage was removed. The whole affair had been in such good train a little before, that Mr. Adderley was much distressed that it should thus have been crossed, and thought the new phase of affairs would be far from acceptable at Combe Walwyn.

“Whatever is just and honourable must be acceptable to my grandfather,” said Berenger.

“ Even so,” said Walsingham ; “ but it were well to consider whether justice and honour require you to overthrow the purpose wherewith he sent you hither.”

“Surely, sir, justice and honour re- quire me to fulfil a contract to which the other party is constant,” said Berenger, feeling very wise and prudent for calling that wistful, indignant crea- ture the other party.

eS.

136

“That is also true,” said the ambas- sador, “ provided she be constant ; but you own that she signed the requisition for the dissolution.” ,

“She did so, but under the same deception as myself, and further morti- fied and aggrieved at my seeming faith- lessness.” :

“So it may easily be represented,” muttered Walsingham.

“ How, sir?” cried Berenger, impe- tuously ; “ do you doubt her truth?”

“ Heaven forefend,” said Sir Francis, “that I should discuss any fair lady’s sincerity! The question is how far you are bound. Have I understood you that you are veritably wedded, not by a mere contract of espousal ?”

Berenger could produce no documents, for they had been left at Chateau Leurre, and on his father’s death the Chevalier had claimed the custody of them; but he remembered enough of the cere- menial to prove that the wedding had been a veritable one, and that only the papal intervention could annul it.

Indeed an Englishman, going by English law, would own no power in the Pope nor any one on earth, to sever the sacred tie of wedlock ; but French courts of law would probably ignore the mode of application, and would certainly endeavour to separate between a Catholic and a heretic.

“T am English, sir, in heart and faith,” said Berenger, earnestly. “Look upon me as such, and tell me, am [ married or single at this moment?”

“ Married assuredly. More’s the pity,” said Sir Francis.

“* And no law of God or man divides us without our own consent.” There was no denying that the mutual consent of the young pair at their present age was all that was wanting to complete the inviolability of their marriage con- tract.

Berenger was indeed only eighteen, and Eustacie more than a year younger, but there was nothing in their present age to invalidate their marriage, for per- sons of their rank were usually wedded quite as young or younger. Walsingham ‘was only concerned at his old friend’s dis-

The Chaplet of Pearls ; or,

appointment, and at the danger of the young man running headlong into acon- nexion probably no more suitable than that with Diane de Ribaumont would have been. But it was not convenient to argue against the expediency of a man’s loving his own wife ; and when Berenger boldly declared he was not talking of love but of justice, it was only possible to insist that he should pause and see where true justice lay.

And thus the much perplexed ambas- sador broke up the conference with his hot and angry young guest.

“And Mistress Lucy ?” sighed Mr. Adderley, in rather an inapropos fashion it must be owned ; but then he had been fretted beyond endurance by his pupil striding up and down his room, reviling Diane, and describing Eustacie, while he was trying to write these uncomfortable tidings to Lord Walwyn.

“Lucy! What makes you bring her up to me?” exclaimed Berenger. * Little Dolly would be as much to the purpose !”

“Only, sir, no resident at Hurst Walwyn could fail to know what has been planned and desired.”

“Pshaw!” cried Berenger; “ have you not heard that it was a mere fig- ment, and that I could scarce have wedded Lucy safely, even had this matter gone as you wish. This is the luckiest chance that could have befallen her.”

“That may be,” said Mr. Adderley ; . “T wish she may think so— sweet young lady!” 7

“T tell you, Mr. Adderley, you should know better! Lucy has more sense. My aunt, whom she follows more than any other creature, ever silenced the very sport or semblance of love passages between us even as children, by calling them unseemly in one wedded as I am. Brother and sister we have ever been, and have loved as such—aye, and shall ! I know of late some schemes have crossed my mother’s mind—”

“Yea, and that of others.”

* But they have not ruffled Lucy’s quiet nature—trust me! And for the

The White and Black Ribaumont.

rest? What doth she need of me in comparison of this poor child? She— like a bit of her own grey lavender in the shadiest nook of the walled garden, tranquil there—sure not to be taken there, save to company with fine linen in some trim scented coffer, while this fresh glowing rosebud has grown up pure and precious in the very midst of the foulest corruption Christendom can show, and if I snatch her not from it, I, the only living man who can, look you, in the very bloom of her innocence and sweetness, what is to be her fate? The very pity of a Christian, the honour of a gentleman would urge me, even if it were not my most urgent duty !”

Mr. Adderley argued no more. When Berenger came to his duty in the matter he was invincible, and moreover all the more provoking, because he mentioned it with a sort of fiery sound of relish, and looked so very boyish all the time. Poor Mr. Adderley! feeling as if his trust were betrayed, loathing the very idea of a French Court lady, saw that his pupil had been allured into a head- long passion to his own misery, and that of all whose hopes were set on him, yet preached to by this stripling scholar about duties and sacred obligations ! Well might he rue the day he ever set foot in Paris.

Then, to his further annoyance, came a royal messenger to invite the Baron de Ribaumont to join the expedition to Montpipeau. Of course, he must go, and his tutor must be left behind, and who could tell into what mischief he might not be tempted !

Here, however, Sidney gave the poor chaplain some comfort. He believed that no ladies were to be of the party, and that the gentlemen were chiefly of the King’s new friends among the Huguenots, such as Coligny, his son-in- law Teligny, Rochefoucauld, and the like, among whom the young gentleman could not fall into any very serious harm, and might very possibly be in- fluenced against a Roman Catholic wife. At any rate, he would be out of the way, and unable to take any dangerous

steps.

137

This same consideration so annoyed Berenger that he would have declined the invitation, if royal invitations could have been declined. And in the morn- ing, before setting out, he dressed him- self, point device, and with Osbert behind him marched down to the Croix de Lorraine, to call upon the Chevalier de Ribaumont. He had a very fine speech at his tongue’s end when he set out, but a good deal of it had evaporated when he reached the hotel, and perhaps he was not very sorry not to find the old gentleman within.

On his return, he indited a note to the Chevalier, explaining that he had now seen his wife, Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont, and had come to an un- derstanding with her, by which he found that it was under a mistake that the application to the Pope had been signed, and that they should, therefore, follow it up with a protest, and act as if no such letter had been sent.

Berenger showed this letter to Wal- singham, who, though much concerned, could not forbid his sending it. “ Poor lad,” he said to the tutor; “’tis an ex- cellently writ billet for one so young. I would it were in a wiser cause. But he has fairly the bit between his teeth, and there is no checking him while he has this show of right on his side.”

And poor Mr. Adderley could only beseech Mr, Sidney to take care of him.

CHAPTER VIL THE QUEEN’S PASTORAL.

‘* Either very gravely gay, Or very gaily grave.” W. M. Praep.

Montr1Peav, though in the present day a suburb of Paris, was in the sixteenth century far enough from the city to form a sylvan retreat, where Charles IX. could snatch a short respite from the intrigues of his Court, under pretext of enjoying his favourite sport. Surrounded with his favoured associates of the Hu- guenot party, he seemed to breathe a

138

purer atmosphere, and to yield himself up to enjoyment greater than perhaps his sad life had ever known.

He rode among his gentlemen, and the brilliant cavalcade passed through pop- lar-shaded roads, clattered through vil- lages, and threaded their way through bits of forest still left for the royal chase. The people thronged out of their houses, and shouted not only “‘ Vive le Roy,” but “ Vive l'Amiral,” and more than once the cry was added, ‘‘ Spanish war, or civil war!” The heart of France was, if not with the Reformed, at least against Spain and the Lorrainers, and Sidney perceived, from thé con- versation of the gentlemen round him, that the present expedition had been devised less for the sake of the sport, than to enable the King to take mea- sures for emancipating himself from the thraldom of his mother, and engaging the country in a war against Philip II. Sidney listened, but Berenger chafed, feeling only that he was being further carried out of reach of his explanation with his kindred, and thus they arrived at Montpipeau, a tower, tall and narrow, like all French designs, but expanded on the ground floor by wooden buildings capable of containing the numerous train of a royal hunter, and surrounded by an extent of waste land, without fine trees, though with covert for deer, boars, and wolves sufficient for sport to royalty and death to peasantry. Charles seemed to sit more erect in his saddle, and to drink in joy with every breath of the thyme-scented breeze, from the moment his horse bounded on the hollow-sounding turf; and when he leapt to the ground, with the elastic spring of youth, he held out his hands to Sidney and to Teligny, crying “ Wel- come, my friends. Here I am indeed a king!”

It was a lovely summer evening early in August, and Charles bade the supper to be spread under the elms that shaded a green lawn in front of the chateau. Etiquette was here so far relaxed as to permit the sovereign to dine with his suite, and tables, chairs, and benches were brought out, drapery festooned in

The Chaplet of Pearls ; or,

the trees to keep off sun and wind, the King lay down in the fern and let his happy dogs fondle him, and as a herd- girl passed along a vista in the distance, driving her goats before her, Philip Sidney marvelled whether it was not even thus in Arcadia.

Presently there was a sound of horses trampling, wheels moving, a party of gaily gilded archers of the guard jingled up, and in their midst was a coach. Be- renger’s heart seemed to leap at once to his lips, as a glimpse of ruffs, hats, and silks dawned on him through the windows.

The King rose from his lair among the fern, the Admiral stood forward, all heads were bared, and from the coach- door alighted the young Queen; no longer pale, subdued, and indifferent, but with a face shining with girlish delight, as she held out her hand to the Admiral. “Ah! this is well, this is beautiful,” she exclaimed ; “it is like our happy chaces in the Tyrol. Ah, Sire !” to the King, “ how I thank you for letting me be with you.”

After her Majesty, descended her gentleman-usher. Then came the lady- in-waiting, Madame de Sauve, the wife of the state secretary in attendance on Charles, and a triumphant, coquettish beauty, then a fat, good-humoured Aus- trian dame, always called Madame la Comtesse, because her German name was unpronounceable, and without whom the Queen never stirred, and lastly a little figure, rounded yet slight, slender yet soft and plump, with a kitten-like alert- ness and grace of motion, as she sprang out, collected the Queen’s properties of fan, kerchief, pouncet-box, mantle, &c., and disappeared into the chateau, with- out Berenger’s being sure of anything but that her little black hat had a rose- coloured feather in it.

The Queen was led to a chair placed under one of the largest trees, and there Charles presented to her such of his gentlemen as she was not yet acquainted with, the Baron de Ribaumont among the rest.

“T have heard of M. de Ribaumont,” she said, in a tone that made the colour

The White and Black Ribaumont. 139

mantle in his fair cheek, and with a sign of her hand she detained him at her side till the King had strolled away with Madame la Sauve, and no one remained near but her German countess. Then, changing her tone to one of con- fidence, which the highbred homeliness of her Austrian manner rendered inex- pressibly engaging, she said, “I must apologize, monsieur, for the giddiness of my sister-in-law, which I fear caused you some embarrassment.”

“ Ah, madame,” said Berenger, kneel- ing on one knee as she addressed him, and his heart bounding with wild, un- defined hope; “I cannot be grateful enough. It was that which led to my being undeceived.”

“Tt was true, then, that you were mistaken ?” said the Queen.

“ Treacherously deceived, madame, by those whose interest it is to keep us apart,” said Berenger, colouring with indignation ; “they imposed my other cousin on me as my wife, and caused her to think me cruelly neglectful.”

“T know,” said the Queen. “ Yet Mile. de Ribaumont is far more admired than my little blackbird.”

“That may be, madame, but not by me.”

“ Yet is it true that you came to break off the marriage?”

“Yes, madam,” said Berenger, honestly, “but I had not seen her.”

“ And now?” said the Queen, smiling.

“T would rather die than give her up,” said Berenger. “Oh, madame, help us of your grace. Everyone is try- ing to part us; everyone is arguing against us, but she is my own true wedded wife, and if you will but give her to me, all will be well.”

“T like you, M. de Ribaumont,” said the Queen, looking him full in the face. “You are like our own honest Germans at my home, and I think you mean all you say. I had much rather my dear little Nid-de-Merle were with you than left here, to become like all the others. She is a good little Liebling,—how do you call it in French? She has told me all, and‘truly I would help you with all my heart, but it is not as if I were the

Queen-mother. You must have recourse to the King, who loves you well, and at my request included you in the hunting- party.”

Berenger could only kiss her hand in token of earnest thanks, before the repast was announced, and the King came to lead her to the table spread beneath the trees. The whole party supped together, but Berenger could have only a distant view of his little wife, looking very demure and grave by the side of the Admiral.

But when the meal was ended, there was a loitering in the woodland paths, amid heathy openings or glades trimmed into discreet wildness fit for royal rus- ticity ; the sun set in parting glory on one horizon, the moon rising in crimson majesty on the other. A musician at intervals touched the guitar, and sang Spanish or Italian airs, whose soft or quaint melody came dreamily through the trees. Then it was that with beat- ing heart Berenger stole up to the maiden as she stood behind the Queen, and ventured to whisper her name and clasp her hand.

She turned, their eyes met, and she let him. lead her apart into the wood. It was not like a lover’s tryst, it was more like the continuation of their old childish terms, only that he treated her as a thing of his own, that he was bound to secure and to guard, and she received him as her own lawful but tardy pro- tector, to be treated with perfect reliance but with a certain playful resentment.

“You will not run away from me now,” he said, making full prize of her hand and arm.

“ Ah! is not she the dearest and best of queens?” and the large eyes were lifted up to him in such frank seeking of sympathy that he could see into the depths of their clear darkness.

“Tt is her doing, then. Though, Eustacie, when I knew the truth, not flood nor fire should keep me long from you, my heart, my love, my wife.”

“What! wife in spite of those villan- ous letters?” she said, trying to pout.

“Wife for ever, inseparably. Only you must be able to swear that you

140 The Chaplet of Pearls ; or,

knew nothing of the one that brought me here.”

“Poor me! No, indeed! There was Céline carried off at fourteen, Madame de Blanchet a bride at fifteen; all marrying hither and thither ; and I—” she pulled a face irresistibly droll—* I growing old enough to dress St. Cathe- rine’s hair, and wondering where was M. le Baron.”

“They thought me too young,” said Berenger, “to take on me the cares of life.”

“So they were left to me?”

“Cares! what cares have you but finding the Queen’s fan ?”

« Little you know!” she said, half contemptuous, half mortified.

“ Nay, pardon me, za mie. Who has troubled you?”

“Ah! you would call it nothing to be beset by Narcisse ; to be told one’s husband is faithless, till one half believes it ; to be looked at by ugly eyes ; to be liable to be teased any day by Monsieur, or worse, by that mocking ape, M. d’Alengon, and to have nobody who can or will hinder it.”

She was sobbing by this time, and he exclaimed, “ Ah, would that I could revenge all! Never, never shall it be again! What blessed grace has guarded you throngh all ?”

“ Did I not belong to you?” she said exultingly. “And had not Sister Mo- nique, yes, and M. le Baron striven hard to make me good? Ah, how kind he was !”

“My father? Yes, Enustacie, he loved you to the last. He bade me, on his deathbed, give you his own Book of Psalms, and tell you he had always loved and prayed for you.”

“Ah! his Psalms! I shall love them! Even at Bellaise, when first we came there, we used to sing them, but the Mother Abbess went out visiting, and when she came back she said they were heretical. And Sceur Monique would not let me say the texts he taught me, but I weuld not forget them. I say them often in my heart.”

“Then,” he cried joyfully, “ you will willingly embrace my religion ?”

“ Be a Huguenot!” she said dis- tastefully.

“T am not precisely a Huguenot ; I do not love them,” he answered hastily, “but all shall be ‘made clear to you at ~1y home in England.”

“ England !” she said. ‘ Must we live in England? Away from everyone ?”

“ Ah, they will love you so much! I shall make you so happy there,” he answered. “ There you will see what it is to be true and trustworthy.”

“JT had rather live at Chateau Leurre, or my own Nid-de-Merle,” she replied. “ There I should see Sur Monique, and my aunt, the Abbess, and we would have the peasants to dance in the castle-court. Oh! if you could but see the orchards at le Bocage, you would never want to go away. And we could come now and then to see my dear Queen.”

“Tam glad at least you would not live at Court.”

“Oh, no, I have been more unhappy here than ever I knew could be borne.”

And a very few words from him drew out all that had happened to her since they parted. Her father had sent her to Bellaise, a convent founded by the first of the Angevin branch, which was presided over by his sister, and where Diane was also educated. The good sister Monique had been mistress of the pensionnaires, and had evidently taken much pains to keep her charge innocent and devout. Diane had been taken to Court about two years before, but Eustacie had remained at the convent till some three months since, when she had been appointed Maid of Honour to the recently-married Queen ; and heruncle had fetched her from Anjou, and had informed her at the same time that her young husband had turned Englishman and heretic, and that after a few for- malities had been complied with, she would become the wife of her cousin, Narcisse. Now there was no person whom she so much dreaded as Narcisse, and when Berenger spoke of him asa feeble fop, she shuddered as though she knew him to have something of the tiger.

“Do you remember Benoit?” she said, “ poor Bénoit, who came to Nor-

“TT lhlCU?OrOlUC SEC, CUTCCn!lhUhlc TC

The White and Black Ribaumont.

mandy as my laguais? When I went back to Anjou he married a girl from Leurre, and went to aid his father at the farm. The poor fellow had imbibed the Baron’s doctrine—he spread it. It was reported that there was a nest of Huguenots on the estate. My cousin came to break it up with his gendarmes. O Berenger, he would hear no entreaties, he had no mercy ; he let them assemble on Sunday, that they might be all together. He fired the house; shot down those who escaped : if a prisoner were made, gave him up to the Bishop’s Court. Bénoit, my poor good Bénoit, who used to lead my palfrey, was first wounded, then tried, and burnt—burnt in the place at Lucon! I heard Nar- cisse langh—laugh as he talked of the cries of the poor creatures in the con- venticle. My own people, who loved me! Iwas but twelve years old, but even then the wretch would pay me a half-mocking courtesy, as one destined to him ; and the more I disdained him and said I belonged to you, the more both he and my aunt, the Abbess, smiled, as though they had their’bird in a cage ; but they left me in peace till my uncle brought me to Court, and then all began again : and when they said you gave me up, I had no hope, not even of a convent. But ah, it is all over now, and I am so happy! You are grown so gentle and so beautiful, Berenger, and so much taller than 1 ever figured you to myself, and you look as if you could take me up in your arms, and let no harm ever happen to me.”

“ Never, never shall it,” said Berenger, feeling all manhood, strength, and love stir within him, and growing many years in heart in that happy moment. ‘“ My sweet little faithful wife, never fear again, now you are mine.”

Alas! poor children. They were a good way from the security they had begun to fancy for themselves. Early the next morning, Berenger went in his straightforward way tothe King, thanked

him, and requested his sanction for at.

once producing themselves to the Court as Monsieur and Madame la Baronne de Ribaumont.

141

At this Charles swore a great oath, as one in perplexity, and bade him not go so fast.

“See here,” said he, with the rude expletives only too habitual with him ; “ she is a pretty little girl, and she and her lands are much better with an honest man like you than with that pendard of a cousin ; but you see he is bent on having her, and he belongs to a cut-throat crew that halt at nothing! I would not answer for your life, if you tempted him so strongly to rid himself of you.”

“ My own sword, sire, can guard my life.”

“Plague upon your sword! What does the foolish youth think it would do against half-a-dozen poniards and pistols in a lane black as hell’s mouth ?”

The foolish youth was thinking how could a king so full of fiery words and strange oaths bear to make such an avowal respecting his own capital and his own courtiers. All he could do was to bow and reply, “ Nevertheless, sire, at whatever risk, I cannot relinquish my wife ; I would take her at once to the ambassador's.”

“ How! sir!” interrupted Charles, haughtily and angrily, “if you forget that you are a French nobleman still, I should remember it! The ambassador may protect his own countrymen—none else.”

“T entreat your Majesty’s pardon,” said Berenger, anxious to retract his false step. ‘“ It was your goodness and the gracious Queen’s that made me hope for your sanction.”

“ All the sanction Charles de Valois can give is yours, and welcome,” said the King, hastily. The sanction of the King of France is another matter! To say the truth, I see no way out of the affair but an elopement.”

“Sire!” exclaimed the astonished Berenger, whose strictly-disciplined edu- cation had little prepared him for such counseL

“Look you! If I made you known as a wedded pair, the Chevalier and his son would not only assassinate you, but down on me would come my brother,

a

a ge ee ee ee

=

and my mother, and M. de Guise, and all their crew, veritably for giving the prize out of the mouth of their satellite, but nominally for disregarding the Pope, favouring a heretical marriage, and I know not what, but, as things go here, that I should assuredly get the worst of it; but if you made salely off with your prize, no one could gainsay you— I need know nothing about it—and lady and lands would be yours without dispute. You might ride off from the skirts of the forest ; I would lead the hunt that way, and the three days’ riding would bring you to Normandy, for you had best cross to England im- mediately. When she is once there, owned by your kindred, Monsieur le cousin may gnash his teeth as he will, he must make the best of it for the sake of the honour of his house, and you can safely come back and raise her people and yours to follow the Oriflamme when it takes the field against Spain. What ? you are still discontented ! Speak out! Plain speaking is a treat not often reserved for me.”

“Sire, 1 am most grateful for your kindness, but I should greatly prefer going straightforward.”

“ Peste! Well is it said that a blun- dering Englishman goes always right hefore him! There, then! As your King on the one hand, as the friend who has brought you and your wife together, sir, it is my command that you do not compromise me and embroil zreater matters than you can understand by publicly claiming this girl. Pri- vately I will aid you to the best of my ability ; publicly, I command you, for my sake, if you heed not your own, to be silent !”

Berenger sought out Sidney, who smiled at his surprise.

“To you not see,” he said, “that the King is your friend, and would be very glad to save the lady’s lands from the Guisards, but that he cannot say so; he can only befriend a Huguenot by stealth.”

“JT would not be such a king for worlds !”

However, Eustacie was enchanted.

The Chaplet of Pearls ; or,

It was like a prince and princess in Mére Perinne’s fairy tales. Could they go like a shepherd and shepherdess? She had no fears—no scruples. Would she not be with her husband? It was the most charming frolic in the world. So the King seemed to think it, though he was determined to call it all the Queen’s doing—the first intrigue of her

own, making her like all the rest of us’

—the Queen’s little comedy. He un- dertook to lead the chase as far as pos- sible in the direction of Normandy, when the young pair might ride on to an inn, meet fresh horses, and proceed to Chateau Leurre, and thence to Eng- land. He would himself provide a safe conduct, which, as Berenger suggested, would represent them as a young Eng- lishman. taking home his young wife. Eustacie wanted at least to masquerade as an English woman, and played off all the fragments of the language she had caught as a child, but Berenger only laughed at her, and said they just fitted the French bride. It was very pretty to laugh at Eustacie; she made such a droll pretence at pouting with her rose- bud lips, and her merry velvety eyes belied them so drolly.

Such was to be the Queen’s pastoral ; but when Elisabeth found the respon- sibility so entirely thrown on her, she began to look grave and frightened. It was no doubt much more than she had intended when she brought about the meeting between the young people, and the King, who had planned the elope- ment, seemed still resolved to make all appear her affair. She looked all day more like the grave, spiritless being she was at Court than like the bright young rural queen of the evening before, and she was long in her little oratory chapel in the evening. Berenger, who was waiting in the hall with the other Huguenot gentlemen, thought her devo- tions interminable since they delayed all her ladies. At length, however, a page came up to him, and said in a low voice, “The Queen desires the presence of M. le Baron de Ribaumont.”

He followed the messenger, and found himself in the little chapel, before a

Sm teed Oe at ot 4

——————S—— ll ee oe

1 od

The White and Black Ribaumont. 143

gaily-adorned altar, and numerous little shrines and.niches round. Sidney would have dreaded a surreptitious attempt to make him conform, but Berenger had no notion of such perils,—he only saw that Eustacie was standing by the Queen’s chair ; the King sat carelessly, perhaps a little sullenly, in another chair, and a kindly-looking Austrian priest, the Queen’s confessor, held a book in his hand.

The Queen came to meet him. “ For my sake,” she said, with all her sweet- ness, “to ease my mind, I should like to see my little Eustacie made entirely your own ere you go. Father Meinhard tells me it is safer that, when the parties were under twelve years old, the troth should be again exchanged. No other ceremony is needed.”

“T desire nothing but to have her made indissolubly my own,” said Be- renger, bowing.

“And the King permits,” added Elisabeth.

The King growled out, “It is your comedy, Madame ; I meddle not.”

The Austrian priest had no common language with Berenger but Latin. He asked a few questions, and on hearing the answers, declared that the sacra- ment of marriage had been complete, but that—as was often done in such cases—he would once more hear the troth-plight of the young pair. The brief formula was therefore at once ex- changed—the King, when the Queen looked entreatingly at him, rousing him- self to make the bride over to Berenger. As soon as the vows had been made, in the briefest manner the King broke in boisterously: ‘There, you are twice married, to please Madame there ; but hold your tongues all of you about this scene in the play.”

Then almost pushing Eustacie over to Berenger, he added, “ There she is ; take your wife, sir: but mind, she was as much yours before as she is now.”

But for all Berenger had said about “his wife,” it was only now that he really felt her his own, and became hus- band rather than lover—man instead of boy. She was entirely his own now,

No. 98.—voL. xvi.

and he only desired to be away with her; but some days’ delay was neces- sary. A chase on the scale of the one that was to favour their evasion could not be got up without some notice ; and, moreover, it was neeessary to pro- cure money, for neither Sidney nor tibaumont had more than enough with them for the needful liberalities to the King’s servants and huntsmen. Indeed Berenger had spent all that remained in his purse upon the wares of an Italian pedlar whom he and Eustacie met in the woods, and whose gloves “as sweet as fragrant posies,” fans, scent-boxes, pocket mirrors, Genoa wire, Venice chains, and other toys, afforded him the means of making up the gifts that he wished to carry home to his sisters ; and Eustacie’s counsel was merrily given in the choice. And when the vendor began with a meaning smile to recom- mend to the young pair themselves a little silver-netted heart as a love-token, and it turned out that all Berenger’s money was gone, so that it could not be bought without giving up the scented casket destined for Lucy, Eustacie turned with her sweetest, proudest smile, and said, “ No, no, I will not have it; what do we two want with love-tokens now?”

Sidney had taken the youthful and romantic view of the case, and consi- dered himself to be taking the best possible care of his young friend, by enabling him to deal honourably with so charming a little wife as Eustacie. Ambassador and tutor would doubtless be very angry ; but Sidney could judge for himself of the lady, and he therefore threw himself into her interests, and sent his servant back to Paris to procure the necessary sum for the journey of Master Henry Berenger and Mistress Mary, his wife. Sidney was, on his return alone to Paris, to explain all to the elders, and pacify them as best he could ; and his servant was already the bearer of a letter from Berenger that was to be sent at once to England with Walsingham’s despatches, to prepare Lord Walwyn for the arrival of the runaways. The poor boy