The Press.
London, England, 1858-06-26 00:00:00

THE

PRES

Dr. Wylie discusses at some length the ques-
tion of the origin of the Waldenses, and adheres,
as might be expected, to the theory that they
were a race who had preserved the true form of
doctrine from the very earliest times, uncon-
taminated by any mixture of I i 1 ul superstition ;
and rejects altogether the notion that they were
derived from Peter Waldo of Lyons. His reasons
are ably stated, but we think he has not given
sufficient weight to those which have been urged
by Dr. Maitland (whose views on this point
appear to have the support of Mr. Hallam) on
the other side. It would undoubtedly be more
satisfactory if we could adopt the tbrmer opinion,
but our enthusiasm for the Waldenses need not
be lessened because we suppose them to have
originated only in the eleventh century. Their
creed and practice is pure, front whatever source
it may have flowed ; and if they effected their
own reform, the greater credit is due to them thr
having done so in an age so directly urovourable
to it. II •, !II 'I

The general features and arrangement of the
district are indicated in the following extract :
Suppose, reader, you are standing at La Torre, with your
face towards the Alps, running right out before you is the
Valley of Luserna—the great trunk valley, we may call it.
It is a grassy strsth, with a well of rock on either hand
climbing to the clouds, and gigantic doors of rock closing
it at its further extremity. On your right hand is the
Valley of Angrogna, and on the lelt is the Valley of Bora.
These three valleys spread out like the spokes of a wheel,
the spot on which you stand being the nave. Of course
they ore divided, the one from the other, by ►ines of moun-
tains, with chailets and chestnut trees climbing up their
aides, and hanging on to almost their naked ridges. Be-
yond the mountains whigh shot in the three valleys just
named, lie the valleys of Pradi,lttgloretto, San Martino, and
Peruse, forming, as it were, the rim of the wheel. If you
go round that rim, you fall in again at the entronee of
Luserna Thus the Waldensiaa territory iii what in Scot
land would be called " self-contained." It is shut in on
all aides by a wall exceeding great and high," and rising
up to heaven. I t has but one gate properly—the Valley of
Luserna ; and even that is strongly barricaded by the
heights of Prarustino and Ran Giovanni, which lie along
in front of the entrance of Luserna. These are the out-
works of this great citadel.
Each valley is a fortress in itself. It has its own wall of
defence, and its gate of ingress. It has within numerous
places of defence and of retreat, and labyrinths and sur-
prises, so admirably planned that the highest engineering
skill in the world could not have better adapted them to
their end. And while it is the fact that these valleys form
a congeries of fortresses, it is also a remarkable fact that
they are so connected together, and so open into one an-
other, that, taking tnem as a whole, they form one fortress
of mighty and matchless strength.

The fertile character of the Valleys, without
which all their rocky defences'would have been
useless, is a point to which Dr. Wylie gives due
importance in the following observations, which
place in a clear light the kind of natural ad-
vantages which the population enjoyed during
their severe struggles:—

When ascending to this village, I had a fine opportunity
of atutlying the arrangement of these mountains, and of
satisfying myself as t, the amount of fruit bearing soil
which lies concealed amongst them, and which is far
greater than one who confines his wanderings to the bottom
of the valleys can have any idea of. Had I contented
myself with simply passing along through the Valley of
Pra I [mould have thought of it as being but a narrow
strip of pasturage and corn land, lying within mountains
covered over with pine forests and great rocks; bat now
I found that I had seen bnt a portion of its arable soil.
Looking across to tLe mountains opposite, I could see on
the top of what, when in the valley below, I had taken to
he naked precipices ending in the clou Is, a large plateau,
with a village, and several hundreds of acres of corn lend
lying around it. Running ont from the plateau were other
streths, each with its village or villages, and their mom-
panying cornfields and plantations of fruit-trees. The
traveller below sees nothing of all this. To him the
country is like a map folded up and put into its box. He
wonders where the many thousands of the IYa'dense, can
dwell, or where the corn can grow that is to feed them.
It is only when von climb the mountains that the country
unfolds itself. There opens to your delighted eye more
than silent wilds and solitary herdsmen. Stratbs gleam-
ing with ripening grain, slopes shady with fruit trees, and
vocal with the noise of falling torrents, stretch out before
Ton ; while dotting these high lying valleys are namerous
farmhouses, with their etymal rivulet hard by, murmuring
within their fringe of verdite. Every such strath has,
too, its own special scenery—its fairy nooks, newtr visited
by tourists, its wild crags and its dark summits—of which
it is possible the traveller may catch a glimpse, as the
valley opens momentarily to his eye as he hurries past.
One of these upland " straths," the Pra del Tor
(meadow of the tower), was the scene of an
exploit memorable in a country where every
spot which did not show the valour of Ther-
mopylie would have shared the fate of Cawn-
pore or Plattea:—
It was the year 15611, and the Coda Trinita, with his
s 'ldlers, lay encamped at the entrance of the Valleys.
Having lulled the suspicions of the Vaudois by engaging

,••••••• •. • •.

them in negotiations for peace, he perfidiously essaulted
the Valley of Angrogna on the morning of the 19th of April.
To the Pra del Tor, as the strongest position which their
mountains afforded, bad almost all the Waldensian families
been removed fur asylum. They had assembled at day-
break, as their custom then was, to engage in united social
prayer. The first rays of the sun were beginning to lit up
their mountains, and the last cadences of their morning
psalm was dying away in the Pra del Tor, when the slam
was given that La Triode, with his soldiers, was advancing
to attack them.
On the instant six of their bravest mountaineers, dash-
ing down the valley, posted themselves in the narrow
defile. The first two knelt down ; the second two stood
erect, pri_pared to fire over the heads of their compatriots ;
the renthicing two charged themselves with the loading of
the muskets. The host came on, in long glittering tile,
two abreast. The first two were shot down; the second
shared the same fate; and so, too, did the third. The
Piedmontese were confounded and staggered by an attack
that was as deadly as it was unexpected ; and these six men
were able to keep in check the whole army, till seetiour
had time to arrive from those behind them. Meanwhile
the less warlike of the Waldenses betook them to the hill-
side, and began to roil down stones and rocks on the host
below. The forces of La Trinita were unable to advances-
they were unable even to fight. Jammed in the narrow
defile, they perished where they stood, by the firing kept
up upon them in front, and the rocks that were rolled upon
them from above, and which crushed them by dozens at a
time. Panic seized them. In their haste to escape they
jostled and trod upon one another, and, falling swot the
precipices, were dashed on the rocks, or drownsCha tha
river.
ft.;
But they were not always so fortunate; aid sWii
great massacre of 1655, perpetrated by sohliery
whom they had been induced by false its
to
admit into their fastnesses, exceeds in its extent
and the horrible nature of its details the worst
cruelties which have been attributed to the
natives of India during the present mutiny.
The aspect of the people themselves is such as
might be expected from traditions and ex-
periences like these, so different to anything
which the rest of Italy can show :
The dress of the people is plain to severity. The
garments of the men are of coarse woollen ; and those of
the women of equally coarse cotton, made up in the most
primitive style. Nor is there any variety of colour to
atone for the homely materials which compose their attire ;
the colour of all is a deep blue, and the sombre aspeet
presented by a mass of several hundreds may easily be
imagined. The monotonous and dreary expanse is un-
relieved, save by the white caps of the iv iwen, and the
high shirt-necks of the men. Crinolines have not yet
found their way into the Valleys. In fact the commonest
ornaments with us are unknown to them, cud would he
accounted a most extravagant finery. Anil the wind*
aspect o: the people is in keeping with their dress. -Their
appearance bespeaks continual familiarity with privation
and toil. They are of low stature, their frames are, as it
were, pressed down, their faces are farrowed, many of
them wrinkled with premature age. There is, with them,
an entire absence of that unthinking clownish gaiety, that
childish mirthfulness, which mark the faoes of the pea,
sentry of the surrounding country. The Vaudois fate is
earnest, deep, grave—grave to sadness. It betokens,
nevertheless, a most extraordinary power of passive en-
durance. Through the air of sorrowful seclusion that
hangs upon that face, there can be traced a quiet resolute
courage, which could enable its owner to face death a
thousand times rather than yield—a settled purpese of
soul not to be shaken or overborne by any power that may
be brought against it, and investing the very sentiment
which Wordsworth has clothed in so fitting expression:—
Btu who would force the soul, tilts with a straw
Against a champion eased in adamant.
We must bear in mind that the Vaudois face was
moulded under persecution—a persecution which far ex-
ceeded in severity, as it did in duration, any persecution
that ever befel any other race. The Waldenses have, from
first to last, endured upwards of thirty perseentions. In
these we do not include the perpetual kidnappings of their
children, the ever-recnrring martyrdoms of their pastors
and missionaries, the civil and political grievances under
which they lay, which made their state, for five long cen-
turies, a normal state of persecution : we have respeet, in
this enumeration, to ontstanding periods of violence and
martyrdom which were inflicted upon them, Between the
years 1501 and £686, there were no less than sixty-eight enact-
ments against them, which is at the ra:e of rather more than
one every two years. How impossible that such a state
of things should not leave its impress upon the reenact
and the faces of the people! It has unquestionably done
so in the blending of opposite qualities. Timidity and
endurance, a manner betraying at once submission and a
lofty indomitable courage, mark the inhabitants of the
Valleys. Their great woes project their dark shadows
back upon them. True, they are now etnaneiptlad; ink
their liberty dates only from In-19, sad the belkaillbe
existing generation grew up under a state ofinfilefis and
cranapin; bondage.
!• off sit
The extracts we have given are favourable
specimens of the style of the book, which would
have been better if written in a quieter tone.
Though it cannot be said that the author's en-
thusiasm is misplaced, either as regards the
country or the inhabitants, it is pitched in so lofty
a key as occasionally to become rather monoto,
nous from the evident effort required to sustain it.
This is especially observable in the more am-
bitious descriptions, which, however, we suspect

Clll

zw rf

608

are leer calculated to convey clear ideas of what
they profess to portray than the soberer volumes
of Dr. Gilly. But Dr. Wylie, in this age of
tourists, is nght in re-directing public attention
to a district so well worthy of it ; and his volume,
though not without some sins of taste, will
doubtless prove a useful handbook to the Valleys,
and bring the requisite historical reminiscences
to bear upon the spots where the ordinary
traveller is most likely to require them.

EWE

Letters, Conversations, and Recollections of S.
T. Coleridge. Edited by Thomas Allsop,
Second Edition. London : Groombridge and
Sons.
Tins book is curious, not only on account of the
recently-acquired notoriety of its editor, but as
a specimen of the peculiar influence exerted by
Coleridge upon hie disciples. That influence was
of a very various character. It varied according
to the disposition of the disciple. There are
some who owe to Coleridge their manner of
thinking and philosophizing ; others received
from:hira the artistic and poetic spirit; others
inherited his theologl ; others caught his taste
in' the accurate discrimination of words. Among

'writers now living, Dean Trench may be said to
represent his philological, and Mr. Maurice his
theological aspect ; the Laureate would probably
acknowledge that he owes to him much of the
melody and music of his poetical style ; and the
whole ochool of Idealists in England confess their
thobligaticas to him. The gift, however, which
Apo post characteristic of Coleridge was diffe-
mid *om all these, and far less transferable.
The prodigious abundance and readiness of his
eloquence, which astonished all who encountered
him, even to his landlord in Newgate-market,
cannot easily be reproduced in a disciple. There
are some, however, of his followers who betray
their connection with him chiefly in their style.
Of these Mr. de Quincey is perhaps the best
known. His own daughter and nephew, too,
belong to this class; and in this class, also, Mr.
Allsop is to be placed.
Whatever the merits of this style may be, it is
not one which a wise man will choose for a
model. There are very few subjects which can
be advantageously treated in it, and even in
Coleridge's own works it has almost as many
faults as merits. It reflects all the infirmities
as well as all the excellences of Coleridge's own
character. Its merits, its strenglie neatness, and
splendour, are obvious at first sight. But Cole-
ridge passed almost his whole life in pouring
forth metaphysical declamations. Now a meta-
physical declamation is an anomalous, almost a
self-contradictory, phrase. It seems clear that
in such a conjunction either the declamation or
sustain damage.
metaphysics lost
man may be
ever lived, and
perfect mastery
able to expound
accurately in con-
It is true, and
of the course
did not regard
and poetry as
philosophic insight,
that the Intel-
be joined with
wing, and that the
is as necessary as the
lenient of the understanding to the percep-
,of spiritual truth. Still philosophy, like
everything else which requires clearness and
preFsion, can never be properly conveyed in
nod and brilliant orations. The orderly pro-
, ef demonstration is deranged by the fervour
the orator; much must be taken for granted;
!Important steps of reasoning must be thrown
Attu) parentheses; the hearer has no time to
/(pe'tgh one proposition. before another is presented
Wm. In short, it seems unnecessary to en-
)
upo
Ise hod u
, andiihteis esolmtreemwheatinsienugu
niveniar tchnacte
oneof who
crel to follow Plato was in this respect
playing the Sophist, and rendering him-
self obnoxious, by indulging in more than the
fAeepox.y:e of Gorgias, to those biting sarcasms
against fluent metaphysicians which occur in every
pageof Plato.
But much as philosophy may suffer from this
mode of treatment, the philosopher suffers still

es.

more. In one of the letters contained in this
volume Coleridge says :—" Eloquence itself—l
"speak of it As habitual and at call—too often is,
" and is alwAys like to engender, a species of his-
" trionism. He goes on to explain by what
means he himself has been preserved, as he
trusts, from falling into this fault. We cannot
refrain from regarding this as an example of
self-ignorance. We think that no one could
read this volume or any of Coleridge's works
without feeling that his prodigious command of
language and of plausible subtleties betrayed
him into exaggeration and ostentation. Scarcely
a sentence in the most familiar letter but con-
tains some feat of analysis or verbal discrimina-
tion ; he cannot convey to a friend the common
assurances of goodwill and esteem without a
rhapsody of transcendental self-devotion. It is
impossible not to suspect that the skill with
which he produced these philosophical and
poetical extravagances was not acquired by habit,
but that the habit sprang from a consciousness of
the skill. His eloquence did really, we think,
betray him into a species of histrionism.

This would be pardonable enough, considering
the temptation, if it applied only to his conversa-
tion and his letters. Who is there among us
who, conscious of such unrivalled facility in
brilliant composition, could warrant himself
never to overstep the bounds of sincerity in the
use of it? It is the most universal of infirmities
to be wanton in the use of power, and the
triumph of self-restraint is to have a giant's
strength and yet not to use it like a giant. The
misfortune is that the same fault which
infects the letters and the Table-talk in-
fects the philosophical treatises of Coleridge.
For, indeed, Coleridge most religiously fol-
lowed Plato's rule, that the philosopher should
make conversation his business and the writing
of books his recreation. He deviated, how-
ever, from it in one point, which Plato would
have considered all-important, by conversing,
not in dialogue, but in monologue. The result
is that the reader of Coleridge's books has to
make just as much allowance and to put up with
just as many deficiencies and omissions as he
would have done if he had been listening to
Coleridge's conversations. And in the conversa-
tion of Coleridge there would be more inaccuracy
and omission than in that of other men, because,
through his practice of monopolizing the con-
versation, he rendered it impossible for his hearers
to pnt him in mind of his omissions, and Frew
more inaccurate than he might have been if he
had been accustomed to listen to the voice of
criticism. The result of this error to Coleridge
himself has been that a man who has perhaps
never had his equal in England in the union of
philosophical with poetical genius, and who
might assuredly have produced works deserving
to live for ever, is now, like Dr. Johnson, one
whose great qualities we in a great degree take
on trust from those who had the good fortune to
see and hear him.

The result has been as bad to those of his
disciples who have endeavoured to imitate his
style. The blemishes of this style, the excessive
and fatiguing condensation of thought, the dis-
phiportion between assertion and proof, the
grandiloquence, were far more pardonable in
Coleridge than they can be in his disciples,
Where he made assertions without proving them,
the reader might allow him some credit for being
able to prove them ; when he perplexed the
reader with unnecessary parenthetical subtleties,
there was a fair probability that these subtleties,
however unnecessary, might be true or at the
least worthy of attention ; when his style seemed
to rise out of proportion to the subject, some-
thing might be excused to the restless fervour of
a poet's imagination. But his followers have not
earned the right to any such forbearance ; and
when '6O assume the dignity and philosophic
pretensinn of his style, his resounding periods
and ambitious imagery, the result is often, as
might be expected, mere bombast; when they
crowd their pages with subtle distinctions, they
become merely pedantic; and when' they treat
the most thorny philosophical controversies with
his careless familiarity, they only show them-
selves ostentatious and conceited. The most
distinguished of this class, as we 'lure 'said, is
!Ir. De Quincey, a man of m*ny gifts, and
capable, if he had chosen to be himself, of doing
great things, but in fact the author of nothing
that is likely to endure, because he chose to be a

Coleridge in tpiniatine. Who can refntin
from
smiling at the -hollow bombast and affectation of
uht
many passages in his recollections of his own
childhoodiiP
Mr. Asop
is another member of this class.He is afflicted with the mania of believing him-
self a sage of the first class, and, having caught
his master's phrases and Insist of his master's
fluency, he takes occasion by way of comment
upon the poet's letters to introduce long-winded
discussions upon various subjects, and sometimes
upon no very definite subject at all. This ill-
judged loquacity seriously diminishes the enter-
tainment which the book might otherwise afford.
Coleridge's letters are hard morsels in them-
selves; they must be read with close attention if
they are read at all, and, even if carefully read,
they suggest so much and prove so little that the
reader feels that of doubtful and questionable
matter he gets more than he can carry, and of
certain, demonstrated truth scarcely anything at
all. This being the case with the letters, the
editorial comments should certainly have been
plain, sensible, unpretending. The reader, jaded
and cloyed with the unceasing torrent of philo-
sophical declamation, falls back for relief upon
the editor, and gets no relief. He too is declaim-
ing—not half so well, to be sure, but quite as
copiously, quite as vaguely, and with quite as
much satisfaction to himself. Overwrought
cleverness pervades the book ; no plain sense, no
kindly platitudes anywhere; page after page is
profound, sagacious, eloquent, until stupidity
itself would be welcome for variety's sake. It
was written too soon, we suppose, after Cole-
ridge's death for any one to take a favourable
view of his character without overrating his
merit and being unduly influenced. But there
is certainly still room, and perhaps the time has
now come, for a cautious and fair estimate and
biography of one who, of all the literary men
whose genius was kindled by the great revolu-
tionary convulsion which closed the eighteenth
century, was,perina and is now
the most Infille*M4flq Root 'Stin rtOrittr
Antim
aronian; kr Thelisseithos. By the Rev. F.
"Metcalfe, Author of "The Oxonian in Nor-
way." London: Hurst and Illackett.
Iv has sometimes been said that the reader's
satisfaction with an author is likely to be in an
inverse ratio to the author's satisfaction with
himself. However true in the graver .44iiitt-
ments of literature, the dictum does not seam ap-
plicable to works of a lighter, and intended to be
of a more exclusively amusing, purpppe. Here,
when not carried into egotism, a ckfierful self-
complacency. is not only. tolerable in a writer,
but even desirable, as it is calculated to produce
a facility and buoyancy of style which is often
his chief recommendation. Whether Mr. Met-
calfe has hit this golden mean, or has exceeded it,
is a point on which people probably will differ.
As far as we ourselves are concerned, we can
only say that a certain brisk self-assurance which
is present to us in every page of these volumes is
not exhibited offensively. In default of any very
exciting'adventures or very interesting people, it
contributes to make the book readable. When
united, as it sometimes is, with real native
uaintness, it provokes friendly laughter. If M.r.
etcalfe occasionally struts, he is never stiff; and
if now and then silly, is never dull.
If the ave remarks seem somewhat less
favourable *wow observations on Mr. Met-
calfe's previous work, we can only assure him
that our opinion of his literary ability has not
really changed. But he has, unfortunately for
himself, abandoned, to a great extent, those
special subjects which constituted the great
attraction of " The Oxonian in Norway." We
augured badly for our future entertainment when
we read in the fifth page of the first volume that
" on this occasion he should bestow less attention
" on the wild sports than on other matters., . No
doubt the sportsman " whose game is man" has
a Liner theme for his pen than the pursuer of
ptarmigan and salmon. But in either case
everything depends upon the hunting-ground.
And it seems to us that the country over which
Mr. Metcalfe travelled, though supplying
him
with racy bits of character here and there, must
be better adapted tbr the labours of the fisher-
man than the social philosopher. The question
is, whether in a region so thinly peopled
1:17 the
human race, and so abounding in all) varieties of

the metaphysics could not but si
Probably both did, but the mi
more than the declamation. A
the greatest philosopher that e'
have at the same time the most p
of language, but he will never be
philosophy satisfactorily or accu
tinuous impassioned harangues.
it forms the best justification I
which Coleridge adopted, that he
the emotions excited by rhetoric
disturbing the clearness of philc
but, on the contrary, maintained
lect cannot see clearly unless it 1
the heart in the act of perceiving
excitement of the feelings is as
excitement of the understanding
tion of spiritual truth. Still p

the fern' nature, it was not a mistake in Mr.
Metcalfe to subordinate the latter to the former. I
As it is, we have none of those exciting descrip-
tions to present to our readers which we were
able to offer them before ; and must content our-
selves instead with a few little pictures of human
life, drawn by Mr. Metcalfe in that queer style
of his which fluctuates between humour and
absurdity :
Halvor Halvorsen, my guide, is a poor weakly fellow,
and having seen me prescribe for Ingulfsland, he asks me
if I can do anything for him. Good living and less hard
work are all he wants; but, unfortunately, while he
has plenty of the latter, he gets but little of the former.
On hie back is a great load of milk-pails, and some pro-
visions \ potatoes and fladhrod.. for his spouse, who is
taking care of a steter, which we shall pass.
At length we arrive there • it is a cot of unhewn stone
slabs, and before the door a lot of dried juniper bushes,
the only firing which the desolate plateau affords. lino
Jobennsdatter, a really pretty-looking young woman,
with delicate features, smiles in a subdued manner as we
enter, and thanks her husband quietly and monosyllabi-
cally for bringing up the food. This, together with her
little boy, she proceeds to examine with inquisitive, eager
eye. The larder was doubtless nearly empty. She then
gives her husband, whom she had not seen for some time,
a furtive look of affection, but nothing more—no embrace,
no kiss. How undemonstrative these people are ! It is a
remarkable characteristic of the lower orders of Norway,
that, unlike their betters, they never think of kissing or
embracing before strangers. Compare this with those de-
monstrations in Germany and France, where not the
opposite sexes, but great bearded men, will kiss each
other on either cheek with the report of popguns, regard-
less of bystanders.
Presently they go into the inner compartment of the hnt,
and then at length I believe I heard the sound of a kiss.
While she makes up the fire, and boils some milk for her
husband, who has many hours of mountain still before
him, I endeavour to take a slight sketch of her and the
abode.
No sooner does she become aware of my intentions,
than, with true feminine insinct, she lugs me to wait
a moment, while she divests herself of an ugly clout of a
kerchief which hides a very pretty neck. The sketch con-
cluded, she asks for a sight of it, and, with a pleased
smile, exclaims, " No, no ; I'm not so amuk (pretty
smug) as that."
The "popguns" are really a stroke of genius ;
while the moderation with which the author states
his opinion of what took place in the "inner com-
partment" shows all the diffidence of true philoso-
phy, and is well worthy of a great investigator of
manners. We trust we may yet have to con-
gratulate him on becoming an eye witness of
this secret and gentle ceremony,—a reward to
which his deep interest in the subject, and his
obvious exertions to attain it, alike entitle him.
We should advise him to lay a trap for two
eligible parties, and then photograph them in the
act, as a naturalist stuffs a rare bird, or pickles
a " feathery-gilled serpula."
The following specimen of Dutch patriotism is
worth extracting :
Magoon, the innkeeper, is evidently a man making
haste to be rich. He has cows in plenty on the moon-
twins, but he takes care to keep them there, and there is,
consequently, not a vestige of cream or milk in his estal•
lishment, let alone meat, or anything but flailbrod and
salted trout. He exultingly tells me that he was the guide-
in-chief to the Dutch prince, and what a lot of dollars he
got for it. I do'nt know whether these people belie his
royal highness, bnt here is another anecdote at his expense.
" Magnus," said the prince, after paying hint, " are you
content? Have I paid as much u any Englishman ever
(lid? For if any Englishman ever paid snore, tell me,
and I'll not be beaten."
As far as I could gather, Magnus, in reply, hummed
and hawed in a somewhat dubious manner, and thus
managed to extract a dollar or two more from his highness.
The next passage we shall give shows Mr.
Metcalfe himself in an interesting light, as a lady's
man and a gay worldling. lie has renewed his
acquaintance with the clergyman's family to
whom he introdieed. nig fn his "Norway," and
the following dialogue ensues
Miss Lisa blushed and. smiled, and did not know what
to make of it, when 1 wickedly proposed that she should
come with me to Oxford.
" No," said mamma, " If you Wei* twenty years older,
perhaps." •i •;11 l;
" And I hope, when next you visit us," said Vie, POPtp
"you'll be married, and bring Mrs. M."
Married! you know what I've told you about Fellow-
ships. We are Protestant monks."
" Well," retorted his reverence, " I always say England
is a great and enlightened country ; but if you wish to ace
an effete custom clung to with desperate tenacithrOo to
England."
This dangerous youth, be it known, fa 'asarly
the Senior Fellow of his College; and it strikes
us there might have been a latent sarcaam in the
mamma's observation which Mr. Metcalfe did not
detect.

1 . Jill iluv
Thei legendary stories which Mt. iillOtilfe has
woven into his narrative seenlAwstell* worth so