So Margaret went down laden with shawls, and snuffing up their spicy Eastern smell. Her aunt asked her to stand as a sort of lay figure on which to display them, as Edith was still asleep. No one thought about it; but Margaret's tall, finely made figure, in the black silk dress which she was wearing as mourning for some distant relative of her father's, set off the long beautiful folds of the gorgeous shawls that would have half-smothered Edith. Margaret stood right under the chandelier, quite silent and passive, while her aunt adjusted the draperies. Occasionally, as she was turned round, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the chimney-piece, and smiled at her own appearance there--the familiar features in the usual garb of a princess. She touched the shawls gently as they hung around her, and took a pleasure in their soft feel and their brilliant colours, and rather liked to be dressed in such splendour--enjoying it much as a child would do, with a quiet pleased smile on her lips. Just then the door opened, and Mr. Henry Lennox was suddenly announced. Some of the ladies started back, as if half-ashamed of their feminine interest in dress. Mrs. Shaw held out her hand to the new-comer; Margaret stood perfectly still, thinking she might be yet wanted as a sort of block for the shawls; but looking at Mr. Lennox with a bright, amused face, as if sure of his sympathy in her sense of the ludicrousness at being thus surprised.

So Margaret went down laden with shawls. Her aunt asked her to stand as a model on which to display them, since Edith was still asleep. Margaret's tall figure set off the long folds of the gorgeous shawls that would have half-smothered Edith. She stood under the chandelier, quite silent and passive, while her aunt adjusted the draperies. Occasionally, as she was turned round, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and smiled at her own appearance there in the garb of a princess. She touched the shawls gently, and was enjoying their brilliant splendour as a child would do, when the door opened, and Mr. Henry Lennox was announced.
Some of the ladies started back, as if ashamed of their feminine interest in dress. Mrs. Shaw held out her hand to the newcomer; Margaret stood perfectly still, thinking she might be yet wanted to model the shawls; but looking at Mr. Lennox with a bright, amused face, as if sure of his sympathy in her ludicrous situation.


Her aunt was so much absorbed in asking Mr. Henry Lennox--who had not been able to come to dinner--all sorts of questions about his brother the bridegroom, his sister the bridesmaid (coming with the Captain from Scotland for the occasion), and various other members of the Lennox family, that Margaret saw she was no more wanted as shawl-bearer, and devoted herself to the amusement of the other visitors, whom her aunt had for the moment forgotten. Almost immediately, Edith came in from the back drawing-room, winking and blinking her eyes at the stronger light, shaking back her slightly-ruffled curls, and altogether looking like the Sleeping Beauty just startled from her dreams. Even in her slumber she had instinctively felt that a Lennox was worth rousing herself for; and she had a multitude of questions to ask about dear Janet, the future, unseen sister-in-law, for whom she professed so much affection, that if Margaret had not been very proud she might have almost felt jealous of the mushroom rival. As Margaret sank rather more into the background on her aunt's joining the conversation, she saw Henry Lennox directing his look towards a vacant seat near her; and she knew perfectly well that as soon as Edith released him from her questioning, he would take possession of that chair. She had not been quite sure, from her aunt's rather confused account of his engagements, whether he would come that night; it was almost a surprise to see him; and now she was sure of a pleasant evening. He liked and disliked pretty nearly the same things that she did. Margaret's face was lightened up into an honest, open brightness. By-and-by he came. She received him with a smile which had not a tinge of shyness or self-consciousness in it.

Her aunt became absorbed in asking Mr. Henry Lennox about his brother the bridegroom and various other members of the Lennox family; and Margaret saw she was no more wanted as shawl-bearer. She devoted herself to amusing the other visitors, whom her aunt had for the moment forgotten. Edith came in, blinking at the stronger light, shaking back her slightly-ruffled curls, and altogether looking like the Sleeping Beauty just startled from her dreams. A Lennox was worth rousing herself for; and she had questions to ask about her unseen future sister-in-law, for whom she professed so much affection that Margaret might have almost felt jealous.
As soon as Henry Lennox was released by Edith, he went to sit by Margaret. She had not been certain whether he would come that night; now she was sure of a pleasant evening. He liked and disliked pretty nearly the same things that she did. Her face lit up into an honest, open brightness, and she received him with a smile which had not a tinge of shyness or self-consciousness.


"Well, I suppose you are all in the depth of business--ladies' business, I mean. Very different to my business, which is the real true law business. Playing with shawls is very different work to drawing up settlements."

'Well, I suppose you are all in the depths of ladies' business,' he said. 'Very different to my business of law. Playing with shawls is very different work to drawing up settlements.'


"Ah, I knew how you would be amused to find us all so occupied in admiring finery. But really Indian shawls are very perfect things of their kind."

'Ah, I knew you would be amused to find us all so occupied in admiring finery. But really, Indian shawls are very perfect things of their kind.'


"I have no doubt they are. Their prices are very perfect, too. Nothing wanting."

'No doubt. Their prices are very perfect, too.


The gentlemen came dropping in one by one, and the buzz and noise deepened in tone.


"This is your last dinner-party, is it not? There are no more before Thursday?"

This is your last dinner-party, is it not? There are no more before Thursday?'


"No. I think after this evening we shall feel at rest, which I am sure I have not done for many weeks; at least, that kind of rest when the hands have nothing more to do, and all the arrangements are complete for an event which must occupy one's head and heart. I shall be glad to have time to think, and I am sure Edith will."

'No. After this evening we shall feel at rest, which I have not done for many weeks. I shall be glad to have time to think, and I am sure Edith will.'


"I am not so sure about her, but I can fancy that you will. Whenever I have seen you lately, you have been carried away by a whirlwind of some other person's making."

'I am not so sure about her; but I can fancy that you will. Whenever I have seen you lately, you have been carried away by a whirlwind of some other person's making.'


"Yes," said Margaret, rather sadly, remembering the never-ending commotion about trifles that had been going on for more than a month past: "I wonder if a marriage must always be preceded by what you call a whirlwind, or whether in some cases there might not rather be a calm and peaceful time just before it."

'Yes,' said Margaret, rather sadly, remembering the never-ending commotion about trifles that had been going on for a month. 'I wonder if a marriage must always be preceded by a whirlwind, or whether there might not rather be a calm and peaceful time before it.'


"Cinderella's godmother ordering the trousseau, the wedding-breakfast, writing the notes of invitation, for instance," said Mr. Lennox, laughing.


"But are all these quite necessary troubles?" asked Margaret, looking up straight at him for an answer. A sense of indescribable weariness of all the arrangements for a pretty effect, in which Edith had been busied as supreme authority for the last six weeks, oppressed her just now; and she really wanted some one to help her to a few pleasant, quiet ideas connected with a marriage.

An indescribable weariness of all the arrangements for a pretty effect oppressed her now; and she really wanted someone to help her to a few pleasant, quiet ideas about marriage.


"Oh, of course," he replied with a change to gravity in his tone. "There are forms and ceremonies to be gone through, not so much to satisfy oneself, as to stop the world's mouth, without which stoppage there would be very little satisfaction in life. But how would you have a wedding arranged?"

'Oh, of course,' he replied in a graver tone. 'There are forms and ceremonies to be gone through, not so much to satisfy oneself, as to stop the world's mouth. But how would you have a wedding arranged?'


"Oh, I have never thought much about it; only I should like it to be a very fine summer morning; and I should like to walk to church through the shade of trees; and not to have so many bridesmaids, and to have no wedding-breakfast. I dare say I am resolving against the very things that have given me the most trouble just now."

'I have never thought much about it; only I should like it to be a fine summer morning; and I should like to walk to church through the shade of trees; and to have fewer bridesmaids, and no wedding-breakfast.'


"No, I don't think you are. The idea of stately simplicity accords well with your character."

'The idea of stately simplicity accords well with your character.'


Margaret did not quite like this speech; she winced away from it more, from remembering former occasions on which he had tried to lead her into a discussion (in which he took the complimentary part) about her own character and ways of going on. She cut his speech rather short by saying:

Margaret did not quite like this speech. She winced away from it, remembering former occasions on which he had tried to compliment her about her character. She said:


"It is natural for me to think of Helstone church, and the walk to it, rather than of driving up to a London church in the middle of a paved street."

'It is natural for me to think of Helstone church, and the walk to it, rather than of driving up a paved street to a London church.'


"Tell me about Helstone. You have never described it to me. I should like to have some idea of the place you will be living in, when ninety-six Harley Street will be looking dingy and dirty, and dull, and shut up. Is Helstone a village, or a town, in the first place?"

'Tell me about Helstone. I should like to have some idea of the place you will be living in, when this house is shut up. Is Helstone a village, or a town?'


"Oh, only a hamlet; I don't think I could call it a village at all. There is the church and a few houses near it on the green--cottages, rather--with roses growing all over them."

'Oh, only a hamlet; I don't think I could call it a village. There is the church and a few houses on the green - cottages, rather, with roses growing all over them.'


"And flowering all the year round, especially at Christmas--make your picture complete," said he.

'And flowering all the year round, especially at Christmas - make your picture complete,' said he.


"No," replied Margaret, somewhat annoyed, "I am not making a picture. I am trying to describe Helstone as it really is. You should not have said that."

'No,' replied Margaret, somewhat annoyed, 'I am not making a picture. I am trying to describe Helstone as it really is.'


"I am penitent," he answered. "Only it really sounded like a village in a tale rather than in real life."

'I am penitent,' he answered. 'Only it sounded like a village in a tale rather than in real life.'


"And so it is," replied Margaret, eagerly. "All the other places in England that I have seen seem so hard and prosaic-looking, after the New Forest. Helstone is like a village in a poem--in one of Tennyson's poems. But I won't try and describe it any more. You would only laugh at me if I told you what I think of it--what it really is."

'And so it is,' she replied eagerly. 'All the other places in England that I have seen appear so hard and prosaic-looking, after the New Forest. Helstone is like a village in one of Tennyson's poems. But I won't try and describe it any more. You would only laugh.'


"Indeed, I would not. But I see you are going to be very resolved. Well, then, tell me that which I should like still better to know: what the parsonage is like."

'Indeed, I would not. But I see you are resolved. Well, then, tell me what I really want to know: what the parsonage is like.'


"Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, and I can't put its charm into words."

'Oh, I can't describe it. It is home, and I can't put its charm into words.'


"I submit. You are rather severe to-night, Margaret."

'I submit. You are rather severe tonight, Margaret.'


"How?" said she, turning her large soft eyes round full upon him. "I did not know I was."

'How?' said she, turning her large soft eyes full upon him. 'I did not know I was.'


"Why, because I made an unlucky remark, you will neither tell me what Helstone is like, nor will you say anything about your home, though I have told you how much I want to hear about both, the latter especially."

'Why, because I made an unlucky remark, you will neither tell me what Helstone is like, nor will you say anything about your home, though I have told you how much I want to hear about it.'


"But indeed I cannot tell you about my own home. I don't quite think it is a thing to be talked about, unless you knew it."

'But indeed I cannot tell you about my own home.'


"Well, then"--pausing for a moment--"tell me what you do there. Here you read, or have lessons, or otherwise improve your mind, till the middle of the day; take a walk before lunch, go a drive with your aunt after, and have some kind of engagement in the evening. There, now fill up your day at Helstone. Shall you ride, drive, or walk?"

'Well, then-' pausing for a moment - 'tell me what you do there. Here, you read, or have lessons, or otherwise improve your mind, till mid-day; take a walk before lunch, go for a drive with your aunt after, and have engagements in the evening. At Helstone, shall you ride, drive, or walk?'


"Walk, decidedly. We have no horse, not even for papa. He walks to the very extremity of his parish. The walks are so beautiful, it would be a shame to drive--almost a shame to ride."

'Walk, decidedly. We have no horse, not even for papa. He walks all over his parish. The walks are so beautiful, it would be a shame to drive.'


"Shall you garden much? That, I believe, is a proper employment for young ladies in the country."

'Shall you garden much? That, I believe, is a proper employment for young ladies in the country.'


"I don't know. I am afraid I shan't like such hard work."

'I don't know. I am afraid I shan't like such hard work.'


"Archery parties--pic-nics--race balls--hunt balls?"

'Archery parties - picnics - hunt-balls?'


"Oh no!" said she, laughing. "Papa's living is very small; and even if we were near such things, I doubt if I should go to them."

'Oh, no!' said she, laughing. 'Papa's living is very small; and even if we were near such things, I doubt if I should go to them.'


"I see, you won't tell me anything. You will only tell me that you are not going to do this and that. Before the vacation ends, I think I shall pay you a call, and see what you really do employ yourself in."

'I see; you won't tell me anything. You will only tell me that you are not going to do this and that. Before the vacation ends, I think I shall pay you a call, and see what you really do.'


"I hope you will. Then you will see for yourself how beautiful Helstone is. Now I must go. Edith is sitting down to play, and I just know enough of music to turn over the leaves for her; and, besides, Aunt Shaw won't like us to talk."

'I hope you will. Then you will see for yourself how beautiful Helstone is. Now I must go. Edith is sitting down to play the piano, and I just know enough music to turn the pages for her; and Aunt Shaw won't like us to talk.'


Edith played brilliantly. In the middle of the piece the door half-opened, and Edith saw Captain Lennox hesitating whether to come in. She threw down her music, and rushed out of the room, leaving Margaret standing confused and blushing to explain to the astonished guests what vision had shown itself to cause Edith's sudden flight. Captain Lennox had come earlier than was expected; or was it really so late? They looked at their watches, were duly shocked, and took their leave.

Edith played brilliantly. In the middle of the piece the door half-opened, and Edith saw Captain Lennox outside. She threw down her music and rushed out of the room, leaving Margaret confused and blushing, to explain to the astonished guests what vision had caused the sudden flight. Captain Lennox had come earlier than expected; or was it really so late? They looked at their watches, were duly shocked, and took their leave.


Then Edith came back, glowing with pleasure, half-shyly, half-proudly leading in her tall handsome Captain. His brother shook hands with him, and Mrs. Shaw welcomed him in her gentle kindly way, which had always something plaintive in it, arising from the long habit of considering herself a victim to an uncongenial marriage. Now that, the General being gone, she had every good of life, with as few drawbacks as possible, she had been rather perplexed to find an anxiety, if not a sorrow. She had, however, of late settled upon her own health as a source of apprehension; she had a nervous little cough whenever she thought about it; and some complaisant doctor ordered her just what she desired--a winter in Italy. Mrs. Shaw had as strong wishes as most people, but she never liked to do anything from the open and acknowledged motive of her own good will and pleasure; she preferred being compelled to gratify herself by some other person's command or desire. She really did persuade herself that she was submitting to some hard external necessity; and thus she was able to moan and complain in her soft manner, all the time she was in reality doing just what she liked.

Then Edith came back, glowing with pleasure, half-shyly, half-proudly leading in her tall handsome Captain. Mrs. Shaw welcomed him in her kindly way, which had always something plaintive in it, arising from the long habit of considering herself a victim to an uncongenial marriage. With the General gone, she had a good life, with few drawbacks, and had been rather perplexed to find an anxiety. She had, however, settled upon her health as a source of apprehension; she had a nervous little cough whenever she thought about it; and some complaisant doctor ordered her just what she desired - a winter in Italy. Thus she was able to complain in her soft manner, while in reality doing just what she liked.


It was in this way she began to speak of her own journey to Captain Lennox, who assented, as in duty bound, to all his future mother-in-law said, while his eyes sought Edith, who was busying herself in re-arranging the tea-table, and ordering up all sorts of good things in spite of his assurances that he had dined within the last two hours.

It was in this way she began to speak of her journey to Captain Lennox, who agreed to all she said, while his eyes sought Edith, who was ordering up good things to eat, in spite of his assurances that he had dined within the last two hours.


Mr. Henry Lennox stood leaning against the chimney-piece, amused with the family scene. He was close by his handsome brother; he was the plain one in a singularly good-looking family; but his face was intelligent, keen, and mobile; and now and then Margaret wondered what it was that he could be thinking about, while he kept silence, but was evidently observing, with an interest that was slightly sarcastic, all that Edith and she were doing. The sarcastic feeling was called out by Mrs. Shaw's conversation with his brother; it was separate from the interest which was excited by what he saw. He thought it a pretty sight to see the two cousins so busy in their little arrangements about the table. Edith chose to do most herself. She was in a humour to enjoy showing her lover how well she could behave as a soldier's wife. She found out that the water in the urn was cold, and ordered up the great kitchen tea-kettle; the only consequence of which was that when she met it at the door, and tried to carry it in, it was too heavy for her, and she came in pouting, with a black mark on her muslin gown, and a little round white hand indented by the handle, which she took to show to Captain Lennox, just like a hurt child, and, of course, the remedy was the same in both cases. Margaret's quickly-adjusted spirit-lamp was the most efficacious contrivance, though not so like the gypsy-encampment which Edith, in some of her moods, chose to consider the nearest resemblance to a barrack-life.

Mr. Henry Lennox stood leaning against the chimney-piece, amused with the family scene. He was the plain one in a singularly good-looking family; but his face was intelligent, keen, and mobile; and Margaret wondered what he was thinking about, while he kept silence, but observed her and Edith with slightly sarcastic interest. The sarcastic feeling was caused by Mrs. Shaw's conversation; his interest was in what he saw - the pretty sight of the two cousins busy in little arrangements about the table.
Edith enjoyed showing her lover how well she could behave as a soldier's wife. She found that the water in the urn was cold, and ordered up the great kitchen tea-kettle; but when she met it at the door, and tried to carry it in, it was too heavy, and she came in pouting, with a black mark on her muslin gown, and a little round white hand indented by the handle, which she showed to Captain Lennox, just like a hurt child; and, of course, the remedy was the same in both cases. Margaret's quickly-adjusted spirit-lamp was more effective, though not so like Edith's idea of barrack-life.


After this evening all was bustle till the wedding was over.


Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the north of England: they lie very thick on the hills; every parish has one or more of them; they are young enough to be very active, and ought to be doing a great deal of good. But not of late years are we about to speak; we are going back to the beginning of this century: late years--present years are dusty, sunburnt, hot, arid; we will evade the noon, forget it in siesta, pass the midday in slumber, and dream of dawn.

Lately an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the north of England: they lie very thick on the hills; every parish has one or more of them. But not of recent years are we about to speak; we are going back to the beginning of this century. Present years are dusty, sunburnt, hot, arid; we will avoid the noon, forget it in siesta, pass the midday in slumber, and dream of dawn.


If you think, from this prelude, that anything like a romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more mistaken. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and reverie? Do you expect passion, and stimulus, and melodrama? Calm your expectations; reduce them to a lowly standard. Something real, cool, and solid lies before you; something unromantic as Monday morning, when all who have work wake with the consciousness that they must rise and betake themselves thereto. It is not positively affirmed that you shall not have a taste of the exciting, perhaps towards the middle and close of the meal, but it is resolved that the first dish set upon the table shall be one that a Catholic--ay, even an Anglo-Catholic--might eat on Good Friday in Passion Week: it shall be cold lentils and vinegar without oil; it shall be unleavened bread with bitter herbs, and no roast lamb.

If you think, from this prelude, that a romance is waiting for you, reader, you never were more mistaken. Do you expect sentiment, passion, and melodrama? Calm your expectations. Something real, cool, and solid lies before you; something unromantic as Monday morning, when people wake knowing that they must rise and go to work. You may have a taste of the exciting, perhaps towards the middle and close of the meal, but the first dish set upon the table shall be one that a Catholic might eat on Good Friday: it shall be cold lentils and vinegar; unleavened bread with bitter herbs, and no roast lamb.


Of late years, I say, an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the north of England; but in eighteen-hundred-eleven-twelve that affluent rain had not descended. Curates were scarce then: there was no Pastoral Aid--no Additional Curates' Society to stretch a helping hand to worn-out old rectors and incumbents, and give them the wherewithal to pay a vigorous young colleague from Oxford or Cambridge. The present successors of the apostles, disciples of Dr. Pusey and tools of the Propaganda, were at that time being hatched under cradle-blankets, or undergoing regeneration by nursery-baptism in wash-hand basins. You could not have guessed by looking at any one of them that the Italian-ironed double frills of its net-cap surrounded the brows of a preordained, specially-sanctified successor of St. Paul, St. Peter, or St. John; nor could you have foreseen in the folds of its long night-gown the white surplice in which it was hereafter cruelly to exercise the souls of its parishioners, and strangely to nonplus its old-fashioned vicar by flourishing aloft in a pulpit the shirt-like raiment which had never before waved higher than the reading-desk.

Lately, I say, an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the north of England; but in 1811 that rain had not descended. Curates were scarce then: there was no Pastoral Aid to stretch a helping hand to worn-out old rectors, allowing them to pay a vigorous young colleague from Oxford or Cambridge.


Yet even in those days of scarcity there were curates: the precious plant was rare, but it might be found. A certain favoured district in the West Riding of Yorkshire could boast three rods of Aaron blossoming within a circuit of twenty miles. You shall see them, reader. Step into this neat garden-house on the skirts of Whinbury, walk forward into the little parlour. There they are at dinner. Allow me to introduce them to you: Mr. Donne, curate of Whinbury; Mr. Malone, curate of Briarfield; Mr. Sweeting, curate of Nunnely. These are Mr. Donne's lodgings, being the habitation of one John Gale, a small clothier. Mr. Donne has kindly invited his brethren to regale with him. You and I will join the party, see what is to be seen, and hear what is to be heard. At present, however, they are only eating; and while they eat we will talk aside.

Yet even in those days of scarcity, curates might be found. A certain favoured district in the West Riding of Yorkshire could boast three blossoming within a circuit of twenty miles.
You shall see them, reader. Step into this neat garden-house on the edge of Whinbury; walk forward into the little parlour. There they are at dinner. Allow me to introduce them to you: Mr. Donne, curate of Whinbury; Mr. Malone, curate of Briarfield; Mr. Sweeting, curate of Nunnely. These are Mr. Donne's lodgings; Mr. Donne has kindly invited his brethren to dine. You and I will join the party, and hear what is to be heard. At present, however, they are only eating; and while they eat we will talk aside.


These gentlemen are in the bloom of youth; they possess all the activity of that interesting age--an activity which their moping old vicars would fain turn into the channel of their pastoral duties, often expressing a wish to see it expended in a diligent superintendence of the schools, and in frequent visits to the sick of their respective parishes. But the youthful Levites feel this to be dull work; they prefer lavishing their energies on a course of proceeding which, though to other eyes it appear more heavy with _ennui_, more cursed with monotony, than the toil of the weaver at his loom, seems to yield them an unfailing supply of enjoyment and occupation.

These gentlemen have all the activity of youth - an activity which their moping old vicars wish would be channelled into their pastoral duties, superintending the schools, and visiting the sick. But the young curates feel this to be dull work; they prefer to lavish their energies on visiting each other,


I allude to a rushing backwards and forwards, amongst themselves, to and from their respective lodgings--not a round, but a triangle of visits, which they keep up all the year through, in winter, spring, summer, and autumn. Season and weather make no difference; with unintelligible zeal they dare snow and hail, wind and rain, mire and dust, to go and dine, or drink tea, or sup with each other. What attracts them it would be difficult to say. It is not friendship, for whenever they meet they quarrel. It is not religion--the thing is never named amongst them; theology they may discuss occasionally, but piety--never. It is not the love of eating and drinking: each might have as good a joint and pudding, tea as potent, and toast as succulent, at his own lodgings, as is served to him at his brother's. Mrs. Gale, Mrs. Hogg, and Mrs. Whipp--their respective landladies--affirm that "it is just for naught else but to give folk trouble." By "folk" the good ladies of course mean themselves, for indeed they are kept in a continual "fry" by this system of mutual invasion.

 rushing backwards and forwards between their respective lodgings - a triangle of visits, which they keep up all the year through. Season and weather make no difference; through snow and hail, wind and rain, they go and dine with each other.
What attracts them it would be difficult to say. It is not friendship, for whenever they meet they quarrel. It is not religion; for they may discuss theology occasionally, but piety - never. It is not the love of eating and drinking: each might have as good a joint and pudding at his own lodgings as at his brother's. Mrs. Gale, Mrs. Hogg, and Mrs. Whipp - their respective landladies - affirm that "it is just to give folk trouble." By "folk" the good ladies of course mean themselves.


Mr. Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner; Mrs. Gale waits on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen fire is in her eye. She considers that the privilege of inviting a friend to a meal occasionally, without additional charge (a privilege included in the terms on which she lets her lodgings), has been quite sufficiently exercised of late. The present week is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday Mr. Malone, the curate of Briarfield, came to breakfast and stayed dinner; on Tuesday Mr. Malone and Mr. Sweeting of Nunnely came to tea, remained to supper, occupied the spare bed, and favoured her with their company to breakfast on Wednesday morning; now, on Thursday, they are both here at dinner, and she is almost certain they will stay all night. "C'en est trop," she would say, if she could speak French.

Mr. Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner; Mrs. Gale waits on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen fire is in her eye. She considers that the privilege of inviting a friend to a meal has been over-exercised of late. On Monday Mr. Malone came to breakfast and stayed to dinner; on Tuesday Mr. Malone and Mr. Sweeting came to tea, stayed to supper, occupied the spare bed, and ate breakfast on Wednesday morning; now, on Thursday, they are both here at dinner, and she is almost certain they will stay all night.


Mr. Sweeting is mincing the slice of roast beef on his plate, and complaining that it is very tough; Mr. Donne says the beer is flat. Ay, that is the worst of it: if they would only be civil Mrs. Gale wouldn't mind it so much, if they would only seem satisfied with what they get she wouldn't care; but "these young parsons is so high and so scornful, they set everybody beneath their 'fit.' They treat her with less than civility, just because she doesn't keep a servant, but does the work of the house herself, as her mother did afore her; then they are always speaking against Yorkshire ways and Yorkshire folk," and by that very token Mrs. Gale does not believe one of them to be a real gentleman, or come of gentle kin. "The old parsons is worth the whole lump of college lads; they know what belongs to good manners, and is kind to high and low."

Mr. Sweeting is complaining that his slice of roast beef is very tough; Mr. Donne says the beer is flat. If they would only be civil Mrs. Gale wouldn't mind it so much; but "these young parsons is so high and scornful, they set everybody beneath them. They don't treat her civilly, and they are always speaking against Yorkshire ways and Yorkshire folk." Mrs. Gale does not believe them to be real gentlemen. "The old parsons are worth the whole lump of college lads; they have good manners, and are kind to high and low."


"More bread!" cries Mr. Malone, in a tone which, though prolonged but to utter two syllables, proclaims him at once a native of the land of shamrocks and potatoes. Mrs. Gale hates Mr. Malone more than either of the other two; but she fears him also, for he is a tall, strongly-built personage, with real Irish legs and arms, and a face as genuinely national--not the Milesian face, not Daniel O'Connell's style, but the high-featured, North-American-Indian sort of visage, which belongs to a certain class of the Irish gentry, and has a petrified and proud look, better suited to the owner of an estate of slaves than to the landlord of a free peasantry. Mr. Malone's father termed himself a gentleman: he was poor and in debt, and besottedly arrogant; and his son was like him.

"More bread!" cries Mr. Malone, in an accent which proclaims him a native of Ireland. Mrs. Gale hates Mr. Malone more than the other two; but she fears him also, for he is tall and strongly-built, with a high-featured, North-American-Indian sort of face, and a petrified, proud look. Mr. Malone's father called himself a gentleman; he was poor, in debt, and arrogant; and his son was like him.


"Cut it, woman," said her guest; and the "woman" cut it accordingly. Had she followed her inclinations, she would have cut the parson also; her Yorkshire soul revolted absolutely from his manner of command.

"Cut it, woman," said her guest; and the "woman" cut it accordingly. Had she followed her inclinations, she would have cut the curate also.


The curates had good appetites, and though the beef was "tough," they ate a great deal of it. They swallowed, too, a tolerable allowance of the "flat beer," while a dish of Yorkshire pudding, and two tureens of vegetables, disappeared like leaves before locusts. The cheese, too, received distinguished marks of their attention; and a "spice-cake," which followed by way of dessert, vanished like a vision, and was no more found. Its elegy was chanted in the kitchen by Abraham, Mrs. Gale's son and heir, a youth of six summers; he had reckoned upon the reversion thereof, and when his mother brought down the empty platter, he lifted up his voice and wept sore.

The curates had good appetites, and though the beef was "tough," they ate a great deal of it. They swallowed a large amount of the "flat beer," while a dish of Yorkshire pudding and two tureens of vegetables disappeared like leaves before locusts. The cheese, too, was eaten, and a spice-cake vanished like a vision. It was mourned in the kitchen by Abraham, Mrs. Gale's son; he had reckoned upon leftovers, and when his mother brought down the empty plate, he lifted up his voice and wept.


The curates, meantime, sat and sipped their wine, a liquor of unpretending vintage, moderately enjoyed. Mr. Malone, indeed, would much rather have had whisky; but Mr. Donne, being an Englishman, did not keep the beverage. While they sipped they argued, not on politics, nor on philosophy, nor on literature--these topics were now, as ever, totally without interest for them--not even on theology, practical or doctrinal, but on minute points of ecclesiastical discipline, frivolities which seemed empty as bubbles to all save themselves. Mr. Malone, who contrived to secure two glasses of wine, when his brethren contented themselves with one, waxed by degrees hilarious after his fashion; that is, he grew a little insolent, said rude things in a hectoring tone, and laughed clamorously at his own brilliancy.

The curates, meantime, sat and sipped their wine. Mr. Malone, indeed, would rather have had whisky; but Mr. Donne did not keep any. While they sipped they argued, not on politics, nor philosophy, nor even theology - but on minute points of ecclesiastical discipline, frivolities which seemed empty as bubbles to all except themselves. Mr. Malone, after two glasses of wine, grew hilarious after his fashion; that is, he said rude things in a hectoring tone, and laughed clamorously at his own brilliance.


Each of his companions became in turn his butt. Malone had a stock of jokes at their service, which he was accustomed to serve out regularly on convivial occasions like the present, seldom varying his wit; for which, indeed, there was no necessity, as he never appeared to consider himself monotonous, and did not at all care what others thought. Mr. Donne he favoured with hints about his extreme meagreness, allusions to his turned-up nose, cutting sarcasms on a certain threadbare chocolate surtout which that gentleman was accustomed to sport whenever it rained or seemed likely to rain, and criticisms on a choice set of cockney phrases and modes of pronunciation, Mr. Donne's own property, and certainly deserving of remark for the elegance and finish they communicated to his style.

His companions were the butt for his humour. Malone had a stock of jokes which he used regularly, seldom varying his wit; for he never considered himself monotonous, and did not care what others thought. He favoured Mr. Donne with sarcasms about his thinness, his turned-up nose, and a threadbare coat which Mr. Donne used to wear when it rained.


Mr. Sweeting was bantered about his stature--he was a little man, a mere boy in height and breadth compared with the athletic Malone; rallied on his musical accomplishments--he played the flute and sang hymns like a seraph, some young ladies of his parish thought; sneered at as "the ladies' pet;" teased about his mamma and sisters, for whom poor Mr. Sweeting had some lingering regard, and of whom he was foolish enough now and then to speak in the presence of the priestly Paddy, from whose anatomy the bowels of natural affection had somehow been omitted.

Mr. Sweeting was bantered about his small stature and his musical accomplishments - he played the flute and sang hymns like an angel (so some young ladies of his parish thought) - sneered at as "the ladies' pet;" teased about his mamma and sisters, for whom poor Mr. Sweeting had some lingering regard, and of whom he was foolish enough now and then to speak to Malone, from whose nature all feelings of affection had somehow been omitted.


The victims met these attacks each in his own way: Mr. Donne with a stilted self-complacency and half-sullen phlegm, the sole props of his otherwise somewhat rickety dignity; Mr. Sweeting with the indifference of a light, easy disposition, which never professed to have any dignity to maintain.

The victims met these attacks each in his own way: Mr. Donne with a stilted complacency; Mr. Sweeting with the indifference of a light, easy nature.


When Malone's raillery became rather too offensive, which it soon did, they joined, in an attempt to turn the tables on him by asking him how many boys had shouted "Irish Peter!" after him as he came along the road that day (Malone's name was Peter--the Rev. Peter Augustus Malone); requesting to be informed whether it was the mode in Ireland for clergymen to carry loaded pistols in their pockets, and a shillelah in their hands, when they made pastoral visits; inquiring the signification of such words as vele, firrum, hellum, storrum (so Mr. Malone invariably pronounced veil, firm, helm, storm), and employing such other methods of retaliation as the innate refinement of their minds suggested.

When Malone's raillery became too offensive, they turned the tables on him by asking him how many boys had shouted "Irish Peter!" after him in the street that day (his name being Peter Augustus Malone); asking whether it was the fashion in Ireland for clergymen to carry loaded pistols and a shillelagh when they made pastoral visits; and inquiring what he meant by storrum (as he pronounced storm).


This, of course, would not do. Malone, being neither good-natured nor phlegmatic, was presently in a towering passion. He vociferated, gesticulated; Donne and Sweeting laughed. He reviled them as Saxons and snobs at the very top pitch of his high Celtic voice; they taunted him with being the native of a conquered land. He menaced rebellion in the name of his "counthry," vented bitter hatred against English rule; they spoke of rags, beggary, and pestilence. The little parlour was in an uproar; you would have thought a duel must follow such virulent abuse; it seemed a wonder that Mr. and Mrs. Gale did not take alarm at the noise, and send for a constable to keep the peace. But they were accustomed to such demonstrations; they well knew that the curates never dined or took tea together without a little exercise of the sort, and were quite easy as to consequences, knowing that these clerical quarrels were as harmless as they were noisy, that they resulted in nothing, and that, on whatever terms the curates might part to-night, they would be sure to meet the best friends in the world to-morrow morning.

Malone was soon in a towering passion. He shouted and gesticulated; Donne and Sweeting laughed. He reviled them as Saxons and snobs at the very top of his voice; they taunted him with coming from a conquered land. The little parlour was in uproar. It seemed a wonder that Mr. and Mrs. Gale did not send for a constable to keep the peace. But they were used to these clerical quarrels, and knew that they were as harmless as they were noisy, and that the curates would be the best of friends tomorrow morning.


As the worthy pair were sitting by their kitchen fire, listening to the repeated and sonorous contact of Malone's fist with the mahogany plane of the parlour table, and to the consequent start and jingle of decanters and glasses following each assault, to the mocking laughter of the allied English disputants, and the stuttering declamation of the isolated Hibernian--as they thus sat, a foot was heard on the outer door-step, and the knocker quivered to a sharp appeal.

As the Gales were sitting by their kitchen fire, listening to the thump of Malone's fist on the parlour table, and to the consequent jingle of glasses - as they thus sat, a foot was heard on the door-step, and the knocker rapped sharply.


"Whom have you upstairs in the parlour?" asked a voice--a rather remarkable voice, nasal in tone, abrupt in utterance.

"Whom have you upstairs in the parlour?" asked a voice - a rather remarkable voice, nasal and abrupt.


"O Mr. Helstone, is it you, sir? I could hardly see you for the darkness; it is so soon dark now. Will you walk in, sir?"

"Mr. Helstone, is it you, sir? I could hardly see you in the dusk. Will you walk in?"


"I want to know first whether it is worth my while walking in. Whom have you upstairs?"

"I want to know first whether it is worth my while. Whom have you upstairs?"


With these words a person entered--a middle-aged man, in black. He walked straight across the kitchen to an inner door, opened it, inclined his head forward, and stood listening. There was something to listen to, for the noise above was just then louder than ever.

With these words entered a middle-aged man, in black. He walked across the kitchen, opened the inner door, and stood listening to the noise above, which was louder than ever.


"Hey!" he ejaculated to himself; then turning to Mr. Gale--"Have you often this sort of work?"

"Hey!" he exclaimed; "Have you often this sort of work?"


Mr. Gale had been a churchwarden, and was indulgent to the clergy.


"They're young, you know, sir--they're young," said he deprecatingly.

"They're young, you know, sir," said Mr. Gale deprecatingly.


"Young! They want caning. Bad boys--bad boys! And if you were a Dissenter, John Gale, instead of being a good Churchman, they'd do the like--they'd expose themselves; but I'll----"

"Young! They want caning. Bad boys! but I'll-"


By way of finish to this sentence, he passed through the inner door, drew it after him, and mounted the stair. Again he listened a few minutes when he arrived at the upper room. Making entrance without warning, he stood before the curates.

He passed through the inner door and mounted the stair. Making his entrance without warning, he stood before the curates.


And they were silent; they were transfixed; and so was the invader. He--a personage short of stature, but straight of port, and bearing on broad shoulders a hawk's head, beak, and eye, the whole surmounted by a Rehoboam, or shovel hat, which he did not seem to think it necessary to lift or remove before the presence in which he then stood--_he_ folded his arms on his chest and surveyed his young friends, if friends they were, much at his leisure.

They were silent; they were transfixed. The invader - short of stature, but straight and broad shouldered, with a hawk's head, beak, and eye - folded his arms and surveyed his young friends, if friends they were.


"What!" he began, delivering his words in a voice no longer nasal, but deep--more than deep--a voice made purposely hollow and cavernous--"what! has the miracle of Pentecost been renewed? Have the cloven tongues come down again? Where are they? The sound filled the whole house just now. I heard the seventeen languages in full action: Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea, and Cappadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, in Egypt and in the parts of Libya about Cyrene, strangers of Rome, Jews and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians; every one of these must have had its representative in this room two minutes since."

"What!" he began, in a voice made purposely deep and hollow. "What! has the miracle of Pentecost been renewed? Have the cloven tongues come down again? The sound filled the whole house just now. I heard the seventeen languages in full action two minutes since."


"I beg your pardon, Mr. Helstone," began Mr. Donne; "take a seat, pray, sir. Have a glass of wine?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Helstone," began Mr. Donne; "take a seat, sir. Have a glass of wine."


His civilities received no answer. The falcon in the black coat proceeded,--

But the falcon in the black coat went on:


"What do I talk about the gift of tongues? Gift, indeed! I mistook the chapter, and book, and Testament--gospel for law, Acts for Genesis, the city of Jerusalem for the plain of Shinar. It was no gift but the confusion of tongues which has gabbled me deaf as a post. _You_, apostles? What! you three? Certainly not; three presumptuous Babylonish masons--neither more nor less!"

"Why do I talk about the gift of tongues? Gift, indeed! It was the confusion of tongues which has gabbled me deaf as a post!"


"I assure you, sir, we were only having a little chat together over a glass of wine after a friendly dinner--settling the Dissenters!"

"I assure you, sir, we were only having a little chat together over a glass of wine after dinner - settling the Dissenters!"


"Oh! settling the Dissenters, were you? Was Malone settling the Dissenters? It sounded to me much more like settling his co-apostles. You were quarrelling together, making almost as much noise--you three alone--as Moses Barraclough, the preaching tailor, and all his hearers are making in the Methodist chapel down yonder, where they are in the thick of a revival. I know whose fault it is.--It is yours, Malone."

"Oh! settling the Dissenters, were you? Was Malone settling the Dissenters? It sounded to me much more like he was settling you. Your quarrel was making almost as much noise as Moses Barraclough, the preaching tailor, makes in the Methodist chapel down yonder. It is your fault, Malone."


"Yours, sir. Donne and Sweeting were quiet before you came, and would be quiet if you were gone. I wish, when you crossed the Channel, you had left your Irish habits behind you. Dublin student ways won't do here. The proceedings which might pass unnoticed in a wild bog and mountain district in Connaught will, in a decent English parish, bring disgrace on those who indulge in them, and, what is far worse, on the sacred institution of which they are merely the humble appendages."

"Yours, sir. Donne and Sweeting were quiet before you came. I wish you had left your Irish habits behind you. Dublin student ways won't do here. Behaviour which might pass unnoticed in a wild Irish bog will, in a decent English parish, bring disgrace on you, and, far worse, on the church you represent."


There was a certain dignity in the little elderly gentleman's manner of rebuking these youths, though it was not, perhaps, quite the dignity most appropriate to the occasion. Mr. Helstone, standing straight as a ramrod, looking keen as a kite, presented, despite his clerical hat, black coat, and gaiters, more the air of a veteran officer chiding his subalterns than of a venerable priest exhorting his sons in the faith. Gospel mildness, apostolic benignity, never seemed to have breathed their influence over that keen brown visage, but firmness had fixed the features, and sagacity had carved her own lines about them.

Mr. Helstone, standing straight as a ramrod, looked - despite his clerical hat, coat and gaiters - more like a veteran officer chiding his subalterns than a priest exhorting his sons in the faith. Gospel mildness seemed never to have breathed over that keen brown face, on which firmness and sagacity had carved their lines.


"I met Supplehough," he continued, "plodding through the mud this wet night, going to preach at Milldean opposition shop. As I told you, I heard Barraclough bellowing in the midst of a conventicle like a possessed bull; and I find _you_, gentlemen, tarrying over your half-pint of muddy port wine, and scolding like angry old women. No wonder Supplehough should have dipped sixteen adult converts in a day--which he did a fortnight since; no wonder Barraclough, scamp and hypocrite as he is, should attract all the weaver-girls in their flowers and ribbons, to witness how much harder are his knuckles than the wooden brim of his tub; as little wonder that _you_, when you are left to yourselves, without your rectors--myself, and Hall, and Boultby--to back you, should too often perform the holy service of our church to bare walls, and read your bit of a dry discourse to the clerk, and the organist, and the beadle. But enough of the subject. I came to see Malone.--I have an errand unto thee, O captain!"

He continued, "I heard Barraclough this wet night bellowing like a bull in the opposition shop; and I find you, gentlemen, tarrying over your half-pint of muddy port wine, and scolding like angry old women. Barraclough, hypocrite as he is, should not attract all the weaver-girls in their ribbons to his chapel. It's little wonder that you perform the holy service of our church to bare walls. But enough of that. I came to see Malone. I have an errand for thee, O captain!"


"What is it?" inquired Malone discontentedly. "There can be no funeral to take at this time of day."


"Arms, sir?--yes, and legs." And he advanced the mighty members.


"I have the pistols you gave me yourself. I never part with them. I lay them ready cocked on a chair by my bedside at night. I have my blackthorn."

"I have the pistols you gave me. I never part with them. I lay them by my bedside at night. And I have my shillelagh - my blackthorn club."


"Very good. Will you go to Hollow's Mill?"


"Nothing as yet, nor perhaps will be; but Moore is alone there. He has sent all the workmen he can trust to Stilbro'; there are only two women left about the place. It would be a nice opportunity for any of his well-wishers to pay him a visit, if they knew how straight the path was made before them."

"Nothing as yet, nor perhaps will be; but Moore is alone there. He has sent all the workmen he can trust to Stilbro'; there are only two women left in the place. It would be a nice opportunity for any of his well-wishers to pay him a visit."


"I am none of his well-wishers, sir. I don't care for him."


"You know me better than that. If I really thought there was a chance of a row I would go: but Moore is a strange, shy man, whom I never pretend to understand; and for the sake of his sweet company only I would not stir a step."

"You know me better than that. If I really thought there was a chance of a row I would go: but Moore is a strange man, whom I never pretend to understand; and for the sake of his company I would not stir a step."


"But there _is_ a chance of a row; if a positive riot does not take place--of which, indeed, I see no signs--yet it is unlikely this night will pass quite tranquilly. You know Moore has resolved to have new machinery, and he expects two wagon-loads of frames and shears from Stilbro' this evening. Scott, the overlooker, and a few picked men are gone to fetch them."

"But there is a chance of a row," said Mr. Helstone. "Even if a positive riot does not take place, it is unlikely this night will pass tranquilly. You know Moore has resolved to have new machinery in his mill, and he expects two wagon-loads of frames and shears from Stilbro' this evening. Scott, the overlooker, and a few other men are gone to fetch them."


"They will bring them in safely and quietly enough, sir."

"They will bring them in safely enough, sir."


"Moore says so, and affirms he wants nobody. Some one, however, he must have, if it were only to bear evidence in case anything should happen. I call him very careless. He sits in the counting-house with the shutters unclosed; he goes out here and there after dark, wanders right up the hollow, down Fieldhead Lane, among the plantations, just as if he were the darling of the neighbourhood, or--being, as he is, its detestation--bore a 'charmed life,' as they say in tale-books. He takes no warning from the fate of Pearson, nor from that of Armitage--shot, one in his own house and the other on the moor."

"Moore says so, and affirms he wants nobody. Some one, however, he must have, in case anything should happen. I call him very careless. He sits in the counting-house with the shutters open; he goes out after dark, wanders right up the hollow, and down Fieldhead Lane, just as if he were the darling of the neighbourhood, rather than its detestation. He takes no warning from the fates of the mill-owners Pearson and Armitage - both shot, one in his own house and the other on the moor."


"But he should take warning, sir, and use precautions too," interposed Mr. Sweeting; "and I think he would if he heard what I heard the other day."

"But he would take warning, sir," interposed Mr. Sweeting, "if he heard what I heard the other day."


"When Mike has been drinking for a few weeks together, he generally winds up by a visit to Nunnely vicarage, to tell Mr. Hall a piece of his mind about his sermons, to denounce the horrible tendency of his doctrine of works, and warn him that he and all his hearers are sitting in outer darkness."

Well, when he has been drinking for a few weeks, he generally goes up to Nunnely vicarage to tell Mr. Hall a piece of his mind about his sermons, and warn him that he is sitting in outer darkness."


"Well, that has nothing to do with Moore."


"Besides being an Antinomian, he is a violent Jacobin and leveller, sir."

"He is a violent Jacobin and leveller, sir."


"I know. When he is very drunk, his mind is always running on regicide. Mike is not unacquainted with history, and it is rich to hear him going over the list of tyrants of whom, as he says, 'the revenger of blood has obtained satisfaction.' The fellow exults strangely in murder done on crowned heads or on any head for political reasons. I have already heard it hinted that he seems to have a queer hankering after Moore. Is that what you allude to, Sweeting?"

"I know," said Mr. Helstone. "When he is very drunk, his mind is always running on regicide."


"You use the proper term, sir. Mr. Hall thinks Mike has no personal hatred of Moore. Mike says he even likes to talk to him and run after him, but he has a _hankering_ that Moore should be made an example of. He was extolling him to Mr. Hall the other day as the mill-owner with the most brains in Yorkshire, and for that reason he affirms Moore should be chosen as a sacrifice, an oblation of a sweet savour. Is Mike Hartley in his right mind, do you think, sir?" inquired Sweeting simply.

"Mr. Hall thinks that Mike has no personal hatred of Moore, but that he wants Moore to be made an example of. Is Mike Hartley in his right mind, do you think, sir?" inquired Sweeting.


"Can't tell, Davy. He may be crazed, or he may be only crafty, or perhaps a little of both."

"Can't tell, Davy. He may be crazed, or only crafty, or perhaps both."


"Ay! He is a very Ezekiel or Daniel for visions. He came just when I was going to bed last Friday night to describe one that had been revealed to him in Nunnely Park that very afternoon."

"Ay! He is a very Daniel for visions. He came last Friday night to describe one that had been revealed to him in Nunnely Park that afternoon."


"Tell it, sir. What was it?" urged Sweeting.


"Davy, thou hast an enormous organ of wonder in thy cranium. Malone, you see, has none. Neither murders nor visions interest him. See what a big vacant Saph he looks at this moment."


"I thought you would not know. You may find it out. It is biblical. I know nothing more of him than his name and race; but from a boy upwards I have always attached a personality to Saph. Depend on it he was honest, heavy, and luckless. He met his end at Gob by the hand of Sibbechai."


"Davy, thou shalt hear. Donne is biting his nails, and Malone yawning, so I will tell it but to thee. Mike is out of work, like many others, unfortunately. Mr. Grame, Sir Philip Nunnely's steward, gave him a job about the priory. According to his account, Mike was busy hedging rather late in the afternoon, but before dark, when he heard what he thought was a band at a distance--bugles, fifes, and the sound of a trumpet; it came from the forest, and he wondered that there should be music there. He looked up. All amongst the trees he saw moving objects, red, like poppies, or white, like may-blossom. The wood was full of them; they poured out and filled the park. He then perceived they were soldiers--thousands and tens of thousands; but they made no more noise than a swarm of midges on a summer evening. They formed in order, he affirmed, and marched, regiment after regiment, across the park. He followed them to Nunnely Common; the music still played soft and distant. On the common he watched them go through a number of evolutions. A man clothed in scarlet stood in the centre and directed them. They extended, he declared, over fifty acres. They were in sight half an hour; then they marched away quite silently. The whole time he heard neither voice nor tread--nothing but the faint music playing a solemn march."

"Davy, thou shalt hear. Mike is out of work, like many others, unfortunately. Sir Philip Nunnely's steward gave him a job about the priory. Mike said he was busy hedging late in the afternoon, when he heard a band at a distance - bugles, fifes, and a trumpet. He looked up and amongst the trees he saw moving objects, red and white. The wood was full of them; they poured out and filled the park. He perceived they were soldiers - tens of thousands; but silent as they marched, regiment after regiment, across the park. He followed them to Nunnely Common; the music still played soft and distant. They were in sight half an hour; then they marched away. The whole time he heard neither voice nor footsteps - nothing but the faint music playing a march."


"Towards Briarfield. Mike followed them. They seemed passing Fieldhead, when a column of smoke, such as might be vomited by a park of artillery, spread noiseless over the fields, the road, the common, and rolled, he said, blue and dim, to his very feet. As it cleared away he looked again for the soldiers, but they were vanished; he saw them no more. Mike, like a wise Daniel as he is, not only rehearsed the vision but gave the interpretation thereof. It signifies, he intimated, bloodshed and civil conflict."

"Towards Briarfield. Mike followed them, but a column of smoke rolled over the fields, he said, and when it cleared away the soldiers had vanished. Mike decided the vision meant bloodshed and conflict."


"Do you credit it, sir?" asked Sweeting.

"Do you believe it, sir?" asked Sweeting.


"Do you, Davy?--But come, Malone; why are you not off?"

"Do you, Davy? - but come, Malone; why are you not off?"


"I am rather surprised, sir, you did not stay with Moore yourself. You like this kind of thing."


"So I should have done, had I not unfortunately happened to engage Boultby to sup with me on his way home from the Bible Society meeting at Nunnely. I promised to send you as my substitute; for which, by-the-bye, he did not thank me. He would much rather have had me than you, Peter. Should there be any real need of help I shall join you. The mill-bell will give warning. Meantime, go--unless (turning suddenly to Messrs. Sweeting and Donne)--unless Davy Sweeting or Joseph Donne prefers going.--What do you say, gentlemen? The commission is an honourable one, not without the seasoning of a little real peril; for the country is in a queer state, as you all know, and Moore and his mill and his machinery are held in sufficient odium. There are chivalric sentiments, there is high-beating courage, under those waistcoats of yours, I doubt not. Perhaps I am too partial to my favourite Peter. Little David shall be the champion, or spotless Joseph.--Malone, you are but a great floundering Saul after all, good only to lend your armour. Out with your firearms; fetch your shillelah. It is there--in the corner."

"So I should have done," said Mr. Helstone, "if I had not invited Boultby to sup with me. I promised to send you as my substitute; though Moore did not thank me. He would much rather have had me than you, Peter. Should there be any real need of help I shall join you. The mill-bell will give warning. Meantime, go - unless Davy Sweeting or Joseph Donne prefers going. - What do you say, gentlemen?"


With a significant grin Malone produced his pistols, offering one to each of his brethren. They were not readily seized on. With graceful modesty each gentleman retired a step from the presented weapon.


"I never touch them. I never did touch anything of the kind," said Mr. Donne.

"I never touch weapons," said Mr. Donne.


"I am almost a stranger to Mr. Moore," murmured Sweeting.


"If you never touched a pistol, try the feel of it now, great satrap of Egypt. As to the little minstrel, he probably prefers encountering the Philistines with no other weapon than his flute.--Get their hats, Peter. They'll both of 'em go."


"No, sir; no, Mr. Helstone. My mother wouldn't like it," pleaded Sweeting.

"No, no, Mr. Helstone. My mother wouldn't like it," pleaded Sweeting.


"And I make it a rule never to get mixed up in affairs of the kind," observed Donne.


Helstone smiled sardonically; Malone laughed a horse-laugh. He then replaced his arms, took his hat and cudgel, and saying that "he never felt more in tune for a shindy in his life, and that he wished a score of greasy cloth-dressers might beat up Moore's quarters that night," he made his exit, clearing the stairs at a stride or two, and making the house shake with the bang of the front-door behind him.

Helstone smiled sardonically; Malone laughed a horse-laugh. He took his pistols, hat and cudgel, and saying that "he never felt more in tune for a shindy in his life," he left, making the house shake with the bang of the front door behind him.


Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character and doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may have, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house in Welbeck Street. Lady Carbury spent many hours at her desk, and wrote many letters,--wrote also very much beside letters. She spoke of herself in these days as a woman devoted to Literature, always spelling the word with a big L. Something of the nature of her devotion may be learned by the perusal of three letters which on this morning she had written with a quickly running hand. Lady Carbury was rapid in everything, and in nothing more rapid than in the writing of letters. Here is Letter No. 1;--

Let me introduce Lady Carbury, as she sits at her writing-table in her house in Welbeck Street. Lady Carbury spent many hours at her desk, writing letters, and much else besides. She spoke of herself as a woman devoted to Literature, always spelling the word with a big L. The nature of her devotion may be learned by viewing the three letters she had written this morning.
Here is Letter No. 1:


I have taken care that you shall have the early sheets of my two new volumes to-morrow, or Saturday at latest, so that you may, if so minded, give a poor struggler like myself a lift in your next week's paper. Do give a poor struggler a lift. You and I have so much in common, and I have ventured to flatter myself that we are really friends! I do not flatter you when I say, that not only would aid from you help me more than from any other quarter, but also that praise from you would gratify my vanity more than any other praise. I almost think you will like my "Criminal Queens." The sketch of Semiramis is at any rate spirited, though I had to twist it about a little to bring her in guilty. Cleopatra, of course, I have taken from Shakespeare. What a wench she was! I could not quite make Julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over so piquant a character. You will recognise in the two or three ladies of the empire how faithfully I have studied my Gibbon. Poor dear old Belisarius! I have done the best I could with Joanna, but I could not bring myself to care for her. In our days she would simply have gone to Broadmore. I hope you will not think that I have been too strong in my delineations of Henry VIII. and his sinful but unfortunate Howard. I don't care a bit about Anne Boleyne. I am afraid that I have been tempted into too great length about the Italian Catherine; but in truth she has been my favourite. What a woman! What a devil! Pity that a second Dante could not have constructed for her a special hell. How one traces the effect of her training in the life of our Scotch Mary. I trust you will go with me in my view as to the Queen of Scots. Guilty! guilty always! Adultery, murder, treason, and all the rest of it. But recommended to mercy because she was royal. A queen bred, born and married, and with such other queens around her, how could she have escaped to be guilty? Marie Antoinette I have not quite acquitted. It would be uninteresting;--perhaps untrue. I have accused her lovingly, and have kissed when I scourged. I trust the British public will not be angry because I do not whitewash Caroline, especially as I go along with them altogether in abusing her husband.

You shall have the early copies of my two new volumes tomorrow, so that you may, if you wish, give a poor struggler like myself a lift in your next week's paper. Do give a poor struggler a lift. You and I have so much in common, and I hope that we are really friends! Aid from you would help me more than from any other quarter; and praise from you would gratify me more than any other praise.
I almost think you will like my "Criminal Queens." The sketch of Semiramis is spirited, though I had to twist it about a little to bring her in guilty. Cleopatra I have taken from Shakespeare. I have done the best I could with Joanna, though in our days she would simply have gone to Broadmoor. I hope you will not think that I have been too strong in my depiction of Henry VIII and his unfortunate Catherine Howard. I don't care a bit about Anne Boleyn; and I trust you go with me in my view of the Queen of Scots. Guilty! guilty always! Adultery, murder, treason, and all the rest of it. Marie Antoinette I have accused lovingly. I trust the British public will not be angry because I do not whitewash Caroline.


But I must not take up your time by sending you another book, though it gratifies me to think that I am writing what none but yourself will read. Do it yourself, like a dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful. Or rather, as you are a friend, be loving.

But I must not take up your time. Dear man, as you are great, be merciful on my book. Or rather, as you are a friend, be loving.


After all how few women there are who can raise themselves above the quagmire of what we call love, and make themselves anything but playthings for men. Of almost all these royal and luxurious sinners it was the chief sin that in some phase of their lives they consented to be playthings without being wives. I have striven so hard to be proper; but when girls read everything, why should not an old woman write anything?

P.S. I have tried hard to be proper; but when girls read everything, why should not an old woman write anything?


This letter was addressed to Nicholas Broune, Esq., the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table," a daily newspaper of high character; and, as it was the longest, so was it considered to be the most important of the three. Mr. Broune was a man powerful in his profession,--and he was fond of ladies. Lady Carbury in her letter had called herself an old woman, but she was satisfied to do so by a conviction that no one else regarded her in that light. Her age shall be no secret to the reader, though to her most intimate friends, even to Mr. Broune, it had never been divulged. She was forty-three, but carried her years so well, and had received such gifts from nature, that it was impossible to deny that she was still a beautiful woman. And she used her beauty not only to increase her influence,--as is natural to women who are well-favoured,--but also with a well-considered calculation that she could obtain material assistance in the procuring of bread and cheese, which was very necessary to her, by a prudent adaptation to her purposes of the good things with which providence had endowed her. She did not fall in love, she did not wilfully flirt, she did not commit herself; but she smiled and whispered, and made confidences, and looked out of her own eyes into men's eyes as though there might be some mysterious bond between her and them--if only mysterious circumstances would permit it. But the end of all was to induce some one to do something which would cause a publisher to give her good payment for indifferent writing, or an editor to be lenient when, upon the merits of the case, he should have been severe. Among all her literary friends, Mr. Broune was the one in whom she most trusted; and Mr. Broune was fond of handsome women. It may be as well to give a short record of a scene which had taken place between Lady Carbury and her friend about a month before the writing of this letter which has been produced. She had wanted him to take a series of papers for the "Morning Breakfast Table," and to have them paid for at rate No. 1, whereas she suspected that he was rather doubtful as to their merit, and knew that, without special favour, she could not hope for remuneration above rate No. 2, or possibly even No. 3. So she had looked into his eyes, and had left her soft, plump hand for a moment in his. A man in such circumstances is so often awkward, not knowing with any accuracy when to do one thing and when another! Mr. Broune, in a moment of enthusiasm, had put his arm round Lady Carbury's waist and had kissed her. To say that Lady Carbury was angry, as most women would be angry if so treated, would be to give an unjust idea of her character. It was a little accident which really carried with it no injury, unless it should be the injury of leading to a rupture between herself and a valuable ally. No feeling of delicacy was shocked. What did it matter? No unpardonable insult had been offered; no harm had been done, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made at once to understand that that wasn't the way to go on!

This letter was addressed to Nicholas Broune, the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table, a newspaper of high character, considered to be the most important of the three daily papers. Mr. Broune was a powerful man - and fond of ladies.
Lady Carbury in her letter called herself an old woman, but she was satisfied that no one else regarded her as old. She was forty-three, but still beautiful. And she used her beauty calculatingly, to increase her influence, and assist her in earning her bread. She did not fall in love, she did not flirt, she did not commit herself; but she smiled and whispered, and looked into men's eyes as though there might be some mysterious bond between her and them. This was to induce a critic to be kind, or an editor to be lenient, so that she would be well paid for indifferent writing.
Among her literary friends, Mr. Broune was the one she most trusted; and Mr. Broune was fond of handsome women. It may be as well to describe a scene which had taken place between them a month previously. She had wanted him to take a series of articles for the Morning Breakfast Table, and to pay her for them at rate No. 1. However, she suspected that he doubted their merit, and knew that without special favour, she could not hope for payment above rate No. 2, or even No. 3. So she had looked into his eyes, and had left her soft hand for a moment in his.
A man in such circumstances is so often awkward! Mr. Broune, in a moment of enthusiasm, had put his arm round Lady Carbury's waist and kissed her. Lady Carbury was not angry, for no harm had been done, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made to understand that that wasn't the way to go on!


Without a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm, and then made him an excellent little speech. "Mr. Broune, how foolish, how wrong, how mistaken! Is it not so? Surely you do not wish to put an end to the friendship between us!"

Without a flutter or a blush, she escaped from his arm, and then made an excellent little speech.
"Mr. Broune, how foolish, how mistaken! Surely you do not wish to put an end to the friendship between us!"


"Put an end to our friendship, Lady Carbury! Oh, certainly not that."

"End our friendship, Lady Carbury! Oh, no."


"Then why risk it by such an act? Think of my son and of my daughter,--both grown up. Think of the past troubles of my life;--so much suffered and so little deserved. No one knows them so well as you do. Think of my name, that has been so often slandered but never disgraced! Say that you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten."

"Then why risk it by such an act? Think of my son and my daughter - both grown up. Think of the past troubles of my life - so much suffered and so little deserved. Think of my name, so often slandered but never disgraced! Say that you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten."


When a man has kissed a woman it goes against the grain with him to say the very next moment that he is sorry for what he has done. It is as much as to declare that the kiss had not answered his expectation. Mr. Broune could not do this, and perhaps Lady Carbury did not quite expect it. "You know that for worlds I would not offend you," he said. This sufficed. Lady Carbury again looked into his eyes, and a promise was given that the articles should be printed--and with generous remuneration.

When a man has kissed a woman it goes against the grain with him to say the very next moment that he is sorry. Mr. Broune could not do this, and perhaps Lady Carbury did not quite expect it.
"You know that for worlds I would not offend you," he said. This sufficed. Lady Carbury again looked into his eyes, and he promised that the articles should be printed - with generous payment.


When the interview was over Lady Carbury regarded it as having been quite successful. Of course when struggles have to be made and hard work done, there will be little accidents. The lady who uses a street cab must encounter mud and dust which her richer neighbour, who has a private carriage, will escape. She would have preferred not to have been kissed;--but what did it matter? With Mr. Broune the affair was more serious. "Confound them all," he said to himself as he left the house; "no amount of experience enables a man to know them." As he went away he almost thought that Lady Carbury had intended him to kiss her again, and he was almost angry with himself in that he had not done so. He had seen her three or four times since, but had not repeated the offence.

Lady Carbury regarded this interview as quite successful. She would have preferred not to have been kissed; but what did it matter?
With Mr. Broune the affair was more serious.
"Confound all women," he said to himself as he left the house. He almost thought that Lady Carbury had intended him to kiss her again, and he was almost angry with himself for not doing so. He had seen her three or four times since, but had not repeated the offence.


We will now go on to the other letters, both of which were addressed to the editors of other newspapers. The second was written to Mr. Booker, of the "Literary Chronicle." Mr. Booker was a hard-working professor of literature, by no means without talent, by no means without influence, and by no means without a conscience. But, from the nature of the struggles in which he had been engaged, by compromises which had gradually been driven upon him by the encroachment of brother authors on the one side and by the demands on the other of employers who looked only to their profits, he had fallen into a routine of work in which it was very difficult to be scrupulous, and almost impossible to maintain the delicacies of a literary conscience. He was now a bald-headed old man of sixty, with a large family of daughters, one of whom was a widow dependent on him with two little children. He had five hundred a year for editing the "Literary Chronicle," which, through his energy, had become a valuable property. He wrote for magazines, and brought out some book of his own almost annually. He kept his head above water, and was regarded by those who knew about him, but did not know him, as a successful man. He always kept up his spirits, and was able in literary circles to show that he could hold his own. But he was driven by the stress of circumstances to take such good things as came in his way, and could hardly afford to be independent. It must be confessed that literary scruple had long departed from his mind. Letter No. 2 was as follows;--

We will now go on to the other letters, which were addressed to the editors of other newspapers. The second was written to Mr. Booker, of the Literary Chronicle. Mr. Booker was a hard-working professor of literature, now sixty, with a large family of daughters. He had five hundred a year for editing the Literary Chronicle, and kept his head above water; he held his own in literary circles. But he was driven by the stress of circumstances to take such good things as came in his way, and it must be confessed that literary scruple had long departed from his mind. Letter No. 2 was as follows;-


I have told Mr. Leadham--[Mr. Leadham was senior partner in the enterprising firm of publishers known as Messrs. Leadham and Loiter]--to send you an early copy of my "Criminal Queens." I have already settled with my friend Mr. Broune that I am to do your "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast Table." Indeed, I am about it now, and am taking great pains with it. If there is anything you wish to have specially said as to your view of the Protestantism of the time, let me know. I should like you to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical details, which I know you can safely do. Don't put it off, as the sale does so much depend on early notices. I am only getting a royalty, which does not commence till the first four hundred are sold.

I have told my publishers Leadham and Loiter to send you an early copy of my "Criminal Queens." I have already settled with my friend Mr. Broune that I am to review your "New Tale of a Tub" in the Breakfast Table. Indeed, I am busy with it now, and am taking great pains with it. If there is anything you wish to have specially said about your view of the Protestantism of the time, let me know. I should like you to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical details, which I know you can safely do. Don't put it off, as the sale does so much depend on early notices. I am only getting a royalty after the first four hundred are sold.


ALFRED BOOKER, Esq., "Literary Chronicle," Office, Strand.


There was nothing in this which shocked Mr. Booker. He laughed inwardly, with a pleasantly reticent chuckle, as he thought of Lady Carbury dealing with his views of Protestantism,--as he thought also of the numerous historical errors into which that clever lady must inevitably fall in writing about matters of which he believed her to know nothing. But he was quite alive to the fact that a favourable notice in the "Breakfast Table" of his very thoughtful work, called the "New Tale of a Tub," would serve him, even though written by the hand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunction as to repaying the service by fulsome praise in the "Literary Chronicle." He would not probably say that the book was accurate, but he would be able to declare that it was delightful reading, that the feminine characteristics of the queens had been touched with a masterly hand, and that the work was one which would certainly make its way into all drawing-rooms. He was an adept at this sort of work, and knew well how to review such a book as Lady Carbury's "Criminal Queens," without bestowing much trouble on the reading. He could almost do it without cutting the book, so that its value for purposes of after sale might not be injured. And yet Mr. Booker was an honest man, and had set his face persistently against many literary malpractices. Stretched-out type, insufficient lines, and the French habit of meandering with a few words over an entire page, had been rebuked by him with conscientious strength. He was supposed to be rather an Aristides among reviewers. But circumstanced as he was he could not oppose himself altogether to the usages of the time. "Bad; of course it is bad," he said to a young friend who was working with him on his periodical. "Who doubts that? How many very bad things are there that we do! But if we were to attempt to reform all our bad ways at once, we should never do any good thing. I am not strong enough to put the world straight, and I doubt if you are." Such was Mr. Booker.

There was nothing in this which shocked Mr. Booker. He laughed inwardly, as he thought of Lady Carbury dealing with his views of Protestantism - and as he thought also of the numerous historical errors into which that clever lady must fall in writing about matters of which he believed her to know nothing. But he was quite aware that a favourable notice in the Breakfast Table of his very thoughtful work, the "New Tale of a Tub," would help him, and he would have no compunction about repaying her by praising her book in his newspaper. He would probably not say that the book was accurate, but he would declare that it was delightful reading, and would make its way into all drawing-rooms.
He was adept at this sort of work. He could almost do it without reading the book. And yet he was an honest man.


Then there was letter No. 3, to Mr. Ferdinand Alf. Mr. Alf managed, and, as it was supposed, chiefly owned, the "Evening Pulpit," which during the last two years had become "quite a property," as men connected with the press were in the habit of saying. The "Evening Pulpit" was supposed to give daily to its readers all that had been said and done up to two o'clock in the day by all the leading people in the metropolis, and to prophesy with wonderful accuracy what would be the sayings and doings of the twelve following hours. This was effected with an air of wonderful omniscience, and not unfrequently with an ignorance hardly surpassed by its arrogance. But the writing was clever. The facts, if not true, were well invented; the arguments, if not logical, were seductive. The presiding spirit of the paper had the gift, at any rate, of knowing what the people for whom he catered would like to read, and how to get his subjects handled, so that the reading should be pleasant. Mr. Booker's "Literary Chronicle" did not presume to entertain any special political opinions. The "Breakfast Table" was decidedly Liberal. The "Evening Pulpit" was much given to politics, but held strictly to the motto which it had assumed;--

Then there was letter No. 3, to Mr. Ferdinand Alf. Mr. Alf managed the Evening Pulpit, which aimed not only to give its readers all the daily news, but to prophesy with wonderful omniscience what would be the sayings and doings of the next twelve hours. This it frequently did with an ignorance hardly surpassed by its arrogance. But the writing was clever. The facts, if not true, were well invented; the arguments, if not logical, were seductive. Mr. Alf knew what his audience liked to read. The Evening Pulpit was much given to politics, in the


"Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri;"--


and consequently had at all times the invaluable privilege of abusing what was being done, whether by one side or by the other. A newspaper that wishes to make its fortune should never waste its columns and weary its readers by praising anything. Eulogy is invariably dull,--a fact that Mr. Alf had discovered and had utilized.

form of abusing whatever was being done by either side. A newspaper should never weary its readers by praising anything. Praise is dull - a fact that Mr. Alf had discovered.


Mr. Alf had, moreover, discovered another fact. Abuse from those who occasionally praise is considered to be personally offensive, and they who give personal offence will sometimes make the world too hot to hold them. But censure from those who are always finding fault is regarded so much as a matter of course that it ceases to be objectionable. The caricaturist, who draws only caricatures, is held to be justifiable, let him take what liberties he may with a man's face and person. It is his trade, and his business calls upon him to vilify all that he touches. But were an artist to publish a series of portraits, in which two out of a dozen were made to be hideous, he would certainly make two enemies, if not more. Mr. Alf never made enemies, for he praised no one, and, as far as the expression of his newspaper went, was satisfied with nothing.

Mr. Alf had discovered another fact. Censure from those who are always finding fault becomes so much as a matter of course that it ceases to be objectionable. The caricaturist who draws only caricatures may take any liberties he likes with a man's face. It is his trade. But if an artist were to publish a series of portraits, in which two out of a dozen were hideous, he would certainly make enemies. Mr. Alf never made enemies, for in his newspaper he praised no one and nothing.


Personally, Mr. Alf was a remarkable man. No one knew whence he came or what he had been. He was supposed to have been born a German Jew; and certain ladies said that they could distinguish in his tongue the slightest possible foreign accent. Nevertheless it was conceded to him that he knew England as only an Englishman can know it. During the last year or two he had "come up" as the phrase goes, and had come up very thoroughly. He had been black-balled at three or four clubs, but had effected an entrance at two or three others, and had learned a manner of speaking of those which had rejected him calculated to leave on the minds of hearers a conviction that the societies in question were antiquated, imbecile, and moribund. He was never weary of implying that not to know Mr. Alf, not to be on good terms with Mr. Alf, not to understand that let Mr. Alf have been born where he might and how he might he was always to be recognised as a desirable acquaintance, was to be altogether out in the dark. And that which he so constantly asserted, or implied, men and women around him began at last to believe,--and Mr. Alf became an acknowledged something in the different worlds of politics, letters, and fashion.

Mr. Alf was a remarkable man. No one knew whence he came. He was supposed to have been born a German Jew; yet he knew England as only an Englishman can know it. During the last year or two he had "come up" in society very thoroughly. He had been black-balled at three or four clubs, but had gained entrance to two or three others, and spoke of those which had rejected him as if they were imbecile, and moribund. He always implied that not to know Mr. Alf was to be altogether out in the dark. Those around him began to believe it - and Mr. Alf became an acknowledged something in the worlds of politics, letters, and fashion.


He was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carrying himself as though he was much younger, spare, below the middle height, with dark brown hair which would have shown a tinge of grey but for the dyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smile constantly on his mouth the pleasantness of which was always belied by the sharp severity of his eyes. He dressed with the utmost simplicity, but also with the utmost care. He was unmarried, had a small house of his own close to Berkeley Square at which he gave remarkable dinner parties, kept four or five hunters in Northamptonshire, and was reputed to earn 6,000 a year out of the "Evening Pulpit" and to spend about half of that income. He also was intimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury, whose diligence in making and fostering useful friendships had been unwearied. Her letter to Mr. Alf was as follows;--

He was a good-looking man of about forty, with a pleasant smile belied by the sharp severity of his eyes. He also was intimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury, who was diligent in fostering useful friendships. Her letter to Mr. Alf was as follows;-


Do tell me who wrote the review on Fitzgerald Barker's last poem. Only I know you won't. I remember nothing done so well. I should think the poor wretch will hardly hold his head up again before the autumn. But it was fully deserved. I have no patience with the pretensions of would-be poets who contrive by toadying and underground influences to get their volumes placed on every drawing-room table. I know no one to whom the world has been so good-natured in this way as to Fitzgerald Barker, but I have heard of no one who has extended the good nature to the length of reading his poetry.

Do tell me who wrote the review on Fitzgerald Barker's last poem. I remember nothing done so well. I should think poor Barker will hardly hold his head up again. But it was fully deserved. I have no patience with the pretensions of would-be poets who contrive by toadying to get their volumes placed on every drawing-room table. I know no one to whom the world has been so good-natured in this way as to Fitzgerald Barker, but equally no one has extended the good nature to the length of reading his poetry.


Is it not singular how some men continue to obtain the reputation of popular authorship without adding a word to the literature of their country worthy of note? It is accomplished by unflagging assiduity in the system of puffing. To puff and to get one's self puffed have become different branches of a new profession. Alas, me! I wish I might find a class open in which lessons could be taken by such a poor tyro as myself. Much as I hate the thing from my very soul, and much as I admire the consistency with which the "Pulpit" has opposed it, I myself am so much in want of support for my own little efforts, and am struggling so hard honestly to make for myself a remunerative career, that I think, were the opportunity offered to me, I should pocket my honour, lay aside the high feeling which tells me that praise should be bought neither by money nor friendship, and descend among the low things, in order that I might one day have the pride of feeling that I had succeeded by my own work in providing for the needs of my children.

Is it not singular how some authors continue to obtain reputations simply by puffing? To puff and to get one's self puffed have become branches of a new profession. Alas! I wish I could take lessons in it myself. Much as I hate the thing, I am struggling so hard to make a honest living, that I think, were the opportunity offered to me, I should pocket my honour, and descend among the low things, so that I might have the pride of feeling that I had succeeded by my own work in providing for my children.


But I have not as yet commenced the descent downwards; and therefore I am still bold enough to tell you that I shall look, not with concern but with a deep interest, to anything which may appear in the "Pulpit" respecting my "Criminal Queens." I venture to think that the book,--though I wrote it myself,--has an importance of its own which will secure for it some notice. That my inaccuracy will be laid bare and presumption scourged I do not in the least doubt, but I think your reviewer will be able to certify that the sketches are life-like and the portraits well considered. You will not hear me told, at any rate, that I had better sit at home and darn my stockings, as you said the other day of that poor unfortunate Mrs. Effington Stubbs.

But I have not yet commenced the descent; and therefore I am still bold enough to tell you that I shall look, not with concern but with a deep interest, for anything which may appear in the Pulpit about my "Criminal Queens." That my inaccuracy will be laid bare I do not doubt, but I think your reviewer will be able to say that the sketches are life-like and well considered.


I have not seen you for the last three weeks. I have a few friends every Tuesday evening;--pray come next week or the week following. And pray believe that no amount of editorial or critical severity shall make me receive you otherwise than with a smile.

I have not seen you for the last three weeks. I have a few friends every Tuesday evening; pray come next week or the week following. And pray believe that no amount of editorial severity shall make me receive you otherwise than with a smile.


Lady Carbury, having finished her third letter, threw herself back in her chair, and for a moment or two closed her eyes, as though about to rest. But she soon remembered that the activity of her life did not admit of such rest. She therefore seized her pen and began scribbling further notes.

Lady Carbury, having finished her third letter, threw herself back in her chair, and for a moment closed her eyes, as though about to rest. But she soon remembered that the activity of her life did not allow such rest. She seized her pen and began scribbling further notes.


I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly consider'd how much depended upon what they were then doing; --that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind; --and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost; ----Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly, ----I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world from that in which the reader is likely to see me. --Believe me, good folks, this is not so inconsiderable a thing as many of you may think it; --you have all, I dare say, heard of the animal spirits, as how they are transfused from father to son, &c., &c. --and a great deal to that purpose: --Well, you may take my word, that nine parts in ten of a man's sense or his nonsense, his successes and miscarriages in this world depend upon their motions and activity, and the different tracts and trains you put them into, so that when they are once set a-going, whether right or wrong, 'tis not a halfpenny matter, --away they go cluttering like hey-go mad; and by treading the same steps over and over again, they presently make a road of it, as plain and as smooth as a garden-walk, which, when they are once used to, the Devil himself sometimes shall not be able to drive them off it.

I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both, had minded what they were about when they begot me. Had they considered how much depended upon what they were doing; - that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned, but the happy formation of his body and the very cast of his mind - for all they knew, the fortunes of his whole house might depend on the humours which were uppermost in them at the time of conception - had they duly weighed all this, and proceeded accordingly, I should have made a quite different figure in the world.
-Believe me, good folks, this is not so slight a thing as you may think.
You have all, I dare say, heard of the animal spirits, and how they are transfused from father to son in the act of procreation, &c., &c. -Well, you may take my word, that nine parts in ten of a man's sense or his nonsense, his successes and failures, depend upon those spirits' activity, and the different paths you put them into, so that when they are once set a-going, whether right or wrong, away they go cluttering like hey-go mad; and by treading the same steps over and over, they make a road as smooth as a garden-walk, which the Devil himself shall not be able to drive them off it.


_Pray, my Dear_, quoth my mother, _have you not forgot to wind up the clock? ------Good G--!_ cried my father, making an exclamation, but taking care to moderate his voice at the same time, ----_Did ever woman, since the creation of the world, interrupt a man with such a silly question?_ Pray, what was your father saying? ------Nothing.

'Pray, my Dear,' quoth my mother, 'have you not forgot to wind up the clock?'
'Good G__!' cried my father, taking care to keep his voice down. -'Did ever woman, since the creation of the world, interrupt a man with such a silly question?'
Pray, what was your father saying when she interrupted?
Saying? -Nothing.