CHAPTER VIII.ITALY.

ABOVE.I.O dwellers in the valley land,Who in deep twilight grope and cower,Till the slow mountain’s dial-handShortens to noon’s triumphant hour—While ye sit idle, do ye thinkThe Lord’s great work sits idle too,That light dare not o’erleap the brinkOf morn, because ’tis dark with you?Though yet your valleys skulk in night,In God’s ripe fields the day is cried,And reapers, with their sickles bright,Troop, singing, down the mountain-side:Come up, and feel what health there isIn the frank Dawn’s delighted eyes,As, bending with a pitying kiss,The night-shed tears of earth she dries.The Lord wants reapers: oh, mount up,Before Night comes, and cries “Too late!”Stay not for taking scrip or cup,The Master hungers while ye wait;’Tis from these heights alone your eyesThe advancing spears of day may see,Which o’er the eastern hill-tops riseTo break your long captivity.BELOW.II.Lone watcher on the mountain height!It is right precious to beholdThe first long surf of climbing lightFlood all the thirsty east with gold:But we, who in the twilight sit,Know also that the day is nigh,Seeing thy shining forehead litWith his inspiring prophecy.Thou hast thine office: we have ours:God lacks not early service here,But what are thine eleventh hoursHe counts with us as morning cheer;Our day for Him is long enough,And when He giveth work to do,The bruisèd reed is amply toughTo pierce the shield of error through.But not the less do thou aspireLight’s earlier messages to teach,Keep back no syllable of fire—Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech.Yet God deems not thine aëried flightMore worthy than our twilight dim—For brave obedience, too, is Light,And following that is finding Him.

ABOVE.I.

ABOVE.

O dwellers in the valley land,Who in deep twilight grope and cower,Till the slow mountain’s dial-handShortens to noon’s triumphant hour—While ye sit idle, do ye thinkThe Lord’s great work sits idle too,That light dare not o’erleap the brinkOf morn, because ’tis dark with you?

O dwellers in the valley land,

Who in deep twilight grope and cower,

Till the slow mountain’s dial-hand

Shortens to noon’s triumphant hour—

While ye sit idle, do ye think

The Lord’s great work sits idle too,

That light dare not o’erleap the brink

Of morn, because ’tis dark with you?

Though yet your valleys skulk in night,In God’s ripe fields the day is cried,And reapers, with their sickles bright,Troop, singing, down the mountain-side:Come up, and feel what health there isIn the frank Dawn’s delighted eyes,As, bending with a pitying kiss,The night-shed tears of earth she dries.

Though yet your valleys skulk in night,

In God’s ripe fields the day is cried,

And reapers, with their sickles bright,

Troop, singing, down the mountain-side:

Come up, and feel what health there is

In the frank Dawn’s delighted eyes,

As, bending with a pitying kiss,

The night-shed tears of earth she dries.

The Lord wants reapers: oh, mount up,Before Night comes, and cries “Too late!”Stay not for taking scrip or cup,The Master hungers while ye wait;’Tis from these heights alone your eyesThe advancing spears of day may see,Which o’er the eastern hill-tops riseTo break your long captivity.

The Lord wants reapers: oh, mount up,

Before Night comes, and cries “Too late!”

Stay not for taking scrip or cup,

The Master hungers while ye wait;

’Tis from these heights alone your eyes

The advancing spears of day may see,

Which o’er the eastern hill-tops rise

To break your long captivity.

BELOW.II.

BELOW.

II.

Lone watcher on the mountain height!It is right precious to beholdThe first long surf of climbing lightFlood all the thirsty east with gold:But we, who in the twilight sit,Know also that the day is nigh,Seeing thy shining forehead litWith his inspiring prophecy.

Lone watcher on the mountain height!

It is right precious to behold

The first long surf of climbing light

Flood all the thirsty east with gold:

But we, who in the twilight sit,

Know also that the day is nigh,

Seeing thy shining forehead lit

With his inspiring prophecy.

Thou hast thine office: we have ours:God lacks not early service here,But what are thine eleventh hoursHe counts with us as morning cheer;Our day for Him is long enough,And when He giveth work to do,The bruisèd reed is amply toughTo pierce the shield of error through.

Thou hast thine office: we have ours:

God lacks not early service here,

But what are thine eleventh hours

He counts with us as morning cheer;

Our day for Him is long enough,

And when He giveth work to do,

The bruisèd reed is amply tough

To pierce the shield of error through.

But not the less do thou aspireLight’s earlier messages to teach,Keep back no syllable of fire—Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech.Yet God deems not thine aëried flightMore worthy than our twilight dim—For brave obedience, too, is Light,And following that is finding Him.

But not the less do thou aspire

Light’s earlier messages to teach,

Keep back no syllable of fire—

Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech.

Yet God deems not thine aëried flight

More worthy than our twilight dim—

For brave obedience, too, is Light,

And following that is finding Him.

The pleasure of having my brother as an inmate was scarcely dimmed by this disappointment, and he remained with us until the autumn of 1850, a white nine months in my life. Your grandfather wrote of him a year later, when he had engaged himself to be married: “I cannot exactly fancy George a married man, seeing that to the latest period his ways in this house have been precisely the same as when he was a Rugby boy—as few wants, and as little assumption, though I have exhorted him to swagger and order a little.” And, as it was at Donnington, so it had been in our diminutive town-house; indeed, I doubt whether any one of you, or any public school boy, would give so little trouble. He read hard, starting with me every morning directly after breakfast; went into no society, except that of a few old friends, and allured me away occasionally on summer afternoons, from law, and the reform of trade, to a game of cricket with the Hampstead club, of which he had become a member, or in theHarrow playing-fields, where he was always more than welcome.

After the long vacation of 1850 he had intended to begin practice in Doctors’ Commons, but was delayed by an accident. He was struck in the eye by a spent shot, in cover shooting, and, though the accident proved not to be a serious one, he was ordered to rest his eyes entirely, and accordingly settled to spend the winter in Italy. The vexation of such a check at the opening of his professional career, was almost compensated, I think, by the delight which this tour gave him. He had never been abroad at this time, except for a few days in France, and his education and natural tastes peculiarly fitted him for enjoying Italy thoroughly, for he was passionately fond of art, as well as a fine classical scholar, having never dropped his Latin and Greek, as most of us are so apt to do the moment we have taken our degrees.

He lingered a little in France, on his way south, chiefly to accustom his ear and tongue to the language, and he writes:—

“Marseilles,December 6th, 1850.“I have not made much progress in French; everyone speaks English except theouvriers. I address a waiter in a splendid sentence, which I expect will strike him with awe, and impress him with my knowledge of the French language, and he takes me down by answering in English; as much as to say, ‘For goodness’ sake speak your ownlanguage, and I shall understand you better.’ In such a state of things, one can only listen to the conversation of Frenchmen with one another, and try to imitate their accent. In spite of beard and mustachios, it isVoilà les Anglaiswherever we go. The only person who passes for a Frenchman is one of our American fellow-travellers, who has grown a most venerable beard; but, as he pronounces French just as if it were English, and calls Dijon ‘Dee John,’ he is afraid to open his mouth for fear of being convicted as an impostor immediately. I think an Englishman’s walk betrays him; I think there is an unconscious swagger about it, which savours strongly of ‘ros-bif,’ and which the French detect in a moment. However, they are most polite and obliging, and I think they would be glad to do you any service.”

“Marseilles,December 6th, 1850.

“I have not made much progress in French; everyone speaks English except theouvriers. I address a waiter in a splendid sentence, which I expect will strike him with awe, and impress him with my knowledge of the French language, and he takes me down by answering in English; as much as to say, ‘For goodness’ sake speak your ownlanguage, and I shall understand you better.’ In such a state of things, one can only listen to the conversation of Frenchmen with one another, and try to imitate their accent. In spite of beard and mustachios, it isVoilà les Anglaiswherever we go. The only person who passes for a Frenchman is one of our American fellow-travellers, who has grown a most venerable beard; but, as he pronounces French just as if it were English, and calls Dijon ‘Dee John,’ he is afraid to open his mouth for fear of being convicted as an impostor immediately. I think an Englishman’s walk betrays him; I think there is an unconscious swagger about it, which savours strongly of ‘ros-bif,’ and which the French detect in a moment. However, they are most polite and obliging, and I think they would be glad to do you any service.”

In Italy, he went from city to city, revelling in picture galleries and studios, as his eyes regained strength; taking lessons in Italian, visiting spots of historical interest, and sympathising with, and appreciating, the Italians, while wondering at their patience under the yoke of their Governments. It was the same winter which Mr. Gladstone spent in Italy, and signalized by his pamphlet on the political prisoners at Naples. Fortunately for my brother, he found Mr. Senior and his family at Naples, and again at Rome, and through their kindness, and that of Lady Malcolm, saw as much of Italian society as he cared for. A few selections from his letters will show you how he spent his time, and the impressions which his Italian travel left on his mind:—

“Naples,January 7, 1851.“There is a party of street-singers, and a Punch, outside under my window, who distract me horribly. They have an eternal tune here, which every ragged boy sings; it is called, I believe, ‘Io ti voglio,’ and is rather pretty, but you may have too much of a good thing. The beggars are most amusing, and certainly work very hard in their vocation. There is an old woman who lies on the ground in a fit all day long; another elderly female stands by her in a despairing attitude, to draw attention to her protracted sufferings, and receive the contributions of the credulously benevolent. But the old lady is nothing to a boy, who lies on the ground and bellows like a bull positively for three or four hours together; I quite admire the energy with which he follows his profession. From the number of crippled and deformed persons one sees, I am inclined to believe that the Neapolitans purposely mutilate themselves in order to succeed better in their favourite calling. They will do anything sooner than work usefully. Punch and the singers have gone, and I am at peace. All that I see of continental countries makes me more glad that I am an Englishman. None of them seem secure. The poor Pope is kept at Rome by the French; and here they say the King is very unpopular, except with the lowest class. This consciousness of insecurity makes them very suspicious and harsh. Two or three days ago an Italian, the legal adviser to our Embassy, was popped into prison on suspicion of correspondence with Mazzini. Fancy Queen Victoria putting an Englishman into Newgate on her own authority for receiving a letter from a Chartist. I suppose they are obliged to be harsh to prevent revolutions; thank Heaven, England is free and loyal.”

“Naples,January 7, 1851.

“There is a party of street-singers, and a Punch, outside under my window, who distract me horribly. They have an eternal tune here, which every ragged boy sings; it is called, I believe, ‘Io ti voglio,’ and is rather pretty, but you may have too much of a good thing. The beggars are most amusing, and certainly work very hard in their vocation. There is an old woman who lies on the ground in a fit all day long; another elderly female stands by her in a despairing attitude, to draw attention to her protracted sufferings, and receive the contributions of the credulously benevolent. But the old lady is nothing to a boy, who lies on the ground and bellows like a bull positively for three or four hours together; I quite admire the energy with which he follows his profession. From the number of crippled and deformed persons one sees, I am inclined to believe that the Neapolitans purposely mutilate themselves in order to succeed better in their favourite calling. They will do anything sooner than work usefully. Punch and the singers have gone, and I am at peace. All that I see of continental countries makes me more glad that I am an Englishman. None of them seem secure. The poor Pope is kept at Rome by the French; and here they say the King is very unpopular, except with the lowest class. This consciousness of insecurity makes them very suspicious and harsh. Two or three days ago an Italian, the legal adviser to our Embassy, was popped into prison on suspicion of correspondence with Mazzini. Fancy Queen Victoria putting an Englishman into Newgate on her own authority for receiving a letter from a Chartist. I suppose they are obliged to be harsh to prevent revolutions; thank Heaven, England is free and loyal.”

“Naples,January 13, 1851.“I have discovered a cousin on board the English war steamer; he is one of the midshipmen, and on Thursday Itook a boat to pay him a visit. I was obliged to obtain permission from the police to go on board. There are a quantity of miserable refugees lying concealed in Naples, watching their opportunity to get on board the English ship, where they are safe under the protection of our flag. Four are on board already, but there are two police-boats constantly on the look-out near our ship, to prevent more from coming. Is it not a miserable state of things?”

“Naples,January 13, 1851.

“I have discovered a cousin on board the English war steamer; he is one of the midshipmen, and on Thursday Itook a boat to pay him a visit. I was obliged to obtain permission from the police to go on board. There are a quantity of miserable refugees lying concealed in Naples, watching their opportunity to get on board the English ship, where they are safe under the protection of our flag. Four are on board already, but there are two police-boats constantly on the look-out near our ship, to prevent more from coming. Is it not a miserable state of things?”

“Rome,January 1851.“My dearest Mother,“.... Tell my father that I have been very extravagant. I have bought a copy in marble of the Psyche in the Museum at Naples; a very clever artist is executing it for me, and it will be finished about the middle of April. Mr. Senior is also having a copy taken. I do not know if my father knows the statue. It is attributed to Praxiteles. Nothing has pleased me so much, except perhaps the Dying Gladiator; and as it is very simple, the cost of the copy is comparatively trifling. It will look very well against the dark oak of your drawing-room at Donnington, and I hope you will approve of my taste.”

“Rome,January 1851.

“My dearest Mother,

“.... Tell my father that I have been very extravagant. I have bought a copy in marble of the Psyche in the Museum at Naples; a very clever artist is executing it for me, and it will be finished about the middle of April. Mr. Senior is also having a copy taken. I do not know if my father knows the statue. It is attributed to Praxiteles. Nothing has pleased me so much, except perhaps the Dying Gladiator; and as it is very simple, the cost of the copy is comparatively trifling. It will look very well against the dark oak of your drawing-room at Donnington, and I hope you will approve of my taste.”

“Rome,January 28, 1851.“We saw two things yesterday which will interest you: the catacombs in which the early Christian martyrs were buried, and in which the Christians met during the persecutions to worship God. They are immense subterranean passages, extending, they say, twenty miles; but you can only see a part, as they are closed, for fear of affording shelter to thieves. The other thing was, a little church about two miles from Rome, on the Appian Road, to which a beautiful legend is attached. It is said that St. Peter, during the persecution in which he suffered martyrdom, lost heart, and fled from Rome by the Appian Road; he had arrived atthe spot where the church now stands, when our Lord appeared to him, going towards Rome. The Apostle exclaimed in astonishment, ‘Lord, whither goest thou?’ The answer was, ‘I go to Rome to be crucified again.’ Whereupon Peter turned back, and re-entered the city, and suffered the death which had been predicted for him. There is no reason why this should not be true, but, true or not, it is a beautiful story, and I was much interested by it. They show a stone with the impression of our Lord’s feet upon it, which is kept as a relic.”“February 10, 1851.—I think that my Italian progresses favourably. My master tells me that Ipronounceit better than any other of his pupils; and as he is very strict, and finds fault with everything else, I suppose I must believe that he speaks the truth.”“February 18, 1851.—You will be glad to hear that I have returned to Rome from my walking tour without having been robbed, or murdered; but, indeed, I must repeat, that the good gentleman your informant must have been dreaming. We received nothing but kindness and civility, and I believe thatyoumight walk along the same mountain paths with equal safety. As for us, we looked much too rough a lot to tempt robbers, being rather like banditti ourselves. One of my companions wore a venerable beard, and I am afraid we both looked picturesque ruffians. Our other companion looked tame, and carried an umbrella. We used to take a cup of coffee and a roll soon after sunrise, then walk to some romantic village about ten miles off, and there breakfast. Our breakfast consisted of an omelette, afrittataas they call it here, which we cooked ourselves. We used to rush into anosteria di cucinain a state of ravenous hunger. ——, my friend with the beard, who is a very good cook, seizes the frying-pan, I beat up the eggs, and S—— is degraded into scullion, tocut up some ham and an onion!! I believe the people think us mad. They could not conceive why we liked to cook our own breakfast, and walk when we might have ridden. After breakfast, it was so hot that we used to select a convenient spot on the hill-side, and lie down for an hour, and then continue our walk till about sunset, when we reached our resting-place for the night. In this way we saw some of the most beautiful country you can imagine. Every little exertion we made in climbing a rock was amply rewarded by something most strange and picturesque. The towns are particularly striking, some of them being built on the very top of mountains nearly 3,000 feet high, and reached with difficulty, by a narrow winding path. I am convinced that a walking tour is the only plan of really seeing Italian scenery. I made some sketches, but am sorry to say that, coming into Rome on Saturday night, my pocket was picked of my sketch-book (a very useless prize to anyone but the owner, and perhaps you), so I lost them all. I am excessively vexed, for I wanted to show you the sort of places where we took our mid-day’s rest. Tivoli was our last stage, and perhaps the most interesting,—there is such a splendid waterfall there. Even if I do not see Turin, I shall be quite satisfied with my recollections of it.”

“Rome,January 28, 1851.

“We saw two things yesterday which will interest you: the catacombs in which the early Christian martyrs were buried, and in which the Christians met during the persecutions to worship God. They are immense subterranean passages, extending, they say, twenty miles; but you can only see a part, as they are closed, for fear of affording shelter to thieves. The other thing was, a little church about two miles from Rome, on the Appian Road, to which a beautiful legend is attached. It is said that St. Peter, during the persecution in which he suffered martyrdom, lost heart, and fled from Rome by the Appian Road; he had arrived atthe spot where the church now stands, when our Lord appeared to him, going towards Rome. The Apostle exclaimed in astonishment, ‘Lord, whither goest thou?’ The answer was, ‘I go to Rome to be crucified again.’ Whereupon Peter turned back, and re-entered the city, and suffered the death which had been predicted for him. There is no reason why this should not be true, but, true or not, it is a beautiful story, and I was much interested by it. They show a stone with the impression of our Lord’s feet upon it, which is kept as a relic.”

“February 10, 1851.—I think that my Italian progresses favourably. My master tells me that Ipronounceit better than any other of his pupils; and as he is very strict, and finds fault with everything else, I suppose I must believe that he speaks the truth.”

“February 18, 1851.—You will be glad to hear that I have returned to Rome from my walking tour without having been robbed, or murdered; but, indeed, I must repeat, that the good gentleman your informant must have been dreaming. We received nothing but kindness and civility, and I believe thatyoumight walk along the same mountain paths with equal safety. As for us, we looked much too rough a lot to tempt robbers, being rather like banditti ourselves. One of my companions wore a venerable beard, and I am afraid we both looked picturesque ruffians. Our other companion looked tame, and carried an umbrella. We used to take a cup of coffee and a roll soon after sunrise, then walk to some romantic village about ten miles off, and there breakfast. Our breakfast consisted of an omelette, afrittataas they call it here, which we cooked ourselves. We used to rush into anosteria di cucinain a state of ravenous hunger. ——, my friend with the beard, who is a very good cook, seizes the frying-pan, I beat up the eggs, and S—— is degraded into scullion, tocut up some ham and an onion!! I believe the people think us mad. They could not conceive why we liked to cook our own breakfast, and walk when we might have ridden. After breakfast, it was so hot that we used to select a convenient spot on the hill-side, and lie down for an hour, and then continue our walk till about sunset, when we reached our resting-place for the night. In this way we saw some of the most beautiful country you can imagine. Every little exertion we made in climbing a rock was amply rewarded by something most strange and picturesque. The towns are particularly striking, some of them being built on the very top of mountains nearly 3,000 feet high, and reached with difficulty, by a narrow winding path. I am convinced that a walking tour is the only plan of really seeing Italian scenery. I made some sketches, but am sorry to say that, coming into Rome on Saturday night, my pocket was picked of my sketch-book (a very useless prize to anyone but the owner, and perhaps you), so I lost them all. I am excessively vexed, for I wanted to show you the sort of places where we took our mid-day’s rest. Tivoli was our last stage, and perhaps the most interesting,—there is such a splendid waterfall there. Even if I do not see Turin, I shall be quite satisfied with my recollections of it.”

After this he hastened home, meeting with no more serious adventure than the one recorded in a letter to the same correspondent, as follows:—

“I travelled from Chambery to Lyons all alone in acoupéewith an Italian lady! Horrid situation! and what made it worse was, that the poor thing was very tired this morning, and fell fast asleep, and whilst in a state of oblivion, dropped her head comfortably on to my arm.After revolving in my mind this alarming state of things, I thought it would be best to feign to be asleep myself; and accordingly, when we jolted over a gutter, and she awoke with a start, she found me with my eyes shut, and snoring. I hope I acted it well, but could hardly help laughing. I shortly afterwards rubbed my eyes and awoke, and she gave me a roll and some chocolate, for which I was very thankful; so I suppose she approved of my conduct.”

He returned entirely restored to health, and so good an Italian scholar, that he was able to write fluently in the language, and to dedicate the little objects of art, which he brought home as presents, in appropriate verse.

One of these was an inkstand in the shape of an owl, now very common, which he presented to Lady Salusbury, a kinswoman of your grandfather, to whose adopted daughter he had lately engaged himself, with this inscription:—

“‘La stolidezza copresi talvolta di sembianteSavio; siccome per dar ricovero all’ inchi ostroSi fodera con piombo la civelta di bronzoImmago dell’ uccello di sapienza.’“Ecco la finta pompa dell’ uccello!Il quale, sotto ’l grave e savio visoAvendo pur di piombo il cervelloFra i tutti poi commuove il forte riso—“Così si trova dal sembiante belloTalvolta lo bel spirito diviso,Si trova con la roba da DottoreDi piombo pur la testa, ed anch’ il cuore.”

“‘La stolidezza copresi talvolta di sembianteSavio; siccome per dar ricovero all’ inchi ostroSi fodera con piombo la civelta di bronzoImmago dell’ uccello di sapienza.’

“‘La stolidezza copresi talvolta di sembiante

Savio; siccome per dar ricovero all’ inchi ostro

Si fodera con piombo la civelta di bronzo

Immago dell’ uccello di sapienza.’

“Ecco la finta pompa dell’ uccello!Il quale, sotto ’l grave e savio visoAvendo pur di piombo il cervelloFra i tutti poi commuove il forte riso—

“Ecco la finta pompa dell’ uccello!

Il quale, sotto ’l grave e savio viso

Avendo pur di piombo il cervello

Fra i tutti poi commuove il forte riso—

“Così si trova dal sembiante belloTalvolta lo bel spirito diviso,Si trova con la roba da DottoreDi piombo pur la testa, ed anch’ il cuore.”

“Così si trova dal sembiante bello

Talvolta lo bel spirito diviso,

Si trova con la roba da Dottore

Di piombo pur la testa, ed anch’ il cuore.”

To the young lady herself he wrote on his return: “I have continued writing a journal, and you will be astonished to hear that your name is not once mentioned in it. It is, however, written in invisible ink across every page. It may be absurd, but I consider my feelings towards you so sacred, that I should not like to parade them even to my nearest relations.”

On his return from his Italian tour my brother at once commenced practice in the Ecclesiastical Courts, and took a small house in Bell Yard, Doctors’ Commons, where he went to reside, and which he describes to his mother as follows:—

“April 1851.—I am in excellent health and spirits. I have a funny little house here: there are three floors and two rooms on each: then there is a ground-floor, the front room of which I use as an office, and the back room as a bath room, for I stick diligently to the cold-water system. A kitchen below completes my establishment. I have a housekeeper, who sits downstairs in the kitchen and sleeps in the top story; she is miraculously clean and tidy, and cooks very well, although I never dine at home. She is also a wonderful gossip.”

Here he practised for a few years regularly, and with very fair success, but his professional career was destined to be short and broken, and need not detain us. It is his home life with which we are concerned, and it was thepressure of what he looked upon as a higher home duty which decided him, after a struggle, to abandon his profession. He was married in the autumn of 1852, and, in the course of a few years, the health of his wife’s mother by adoption made it desirable that they should be always with her, and that she should spend the winter months abroad. When it became clear that this was necessary, he accepted it, and made the best of it; though I find abundant traces in his correspondence of the effort which it required to do so. Thus he writes from Pau, the place fixed upon for their foreign winter residence, “I always found that changing one’s residence and plans gave one a fit of the blues for a time, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.” And again; “The business of life is to be bored in all directions. You must not imagine, however, that I am ill, or out of spirits. I have no right to be either, and won’t be, please God.” But the necessary want of regular employment, the sinking into what is called “an idle man,” and abandoning all active part in “the struggle for existence,” was no small trial to one who held that the “full employment of all powers, physical, mental, and spiritual, is the true secret of happiness, so that no time may be left for morbid self-analysis.” You are all perhaps too young to understand this, and probably, when you think about such matters at all, imagine that the happiest life must be one in which you would only have to amuse yourselves. It may, I hope, shake any such belief to find that theperiod in my brother’s life in which he was thus thrown on his own resources, and had the most complete liberty to follow his own fancies, was just that in which you may find traces ofennui, and a tendency to be dissatisfied with the daily task of getting through time.

He took the best course of getting rid of the blues, however, by throwing himself heartily into such occupations as were to be had at Pau. The chief of these was a Pen and Pencil Club, to which most of the English and American residents belonged, and of which he became the secretary. Besides the ordinary meetings, for which he wrote a number ofvers de société, on the current topics and doings of the place, the Club indulged in private theatricals. On these occasions he was stage manager, and frequently author; most of the charades and short pieces, which you have seen, and acted in, at Offley, were originally written by him for the Pen and Pencil Club at Pau. “It was a mild literary society,” an old friend writes to me, “which he carried almost entirely on his own shoulders, and made a success.” Then he set to work for the first time to cultivate in earnest his talent for music, and took to playing the violoncello, communicating intelligence of his own progress, and of musical doings at Pau generally, to his sister, whom he looked upon as his guide and instructress. These were not always devoid of incident, as for instance the following:—

“Pau, Villa Salusbury.“We have an opera here this season. Theprima donnaand the tenor are good; the rest so-so. The orchestra and chorus bad; the basso execrable: when he doesn’t bellow like a bull, he neighs like a horse; however, he does his best. I don’t know how you feel, but to me a mediocre opera is an unmitigated bore. I would rather by half hear a good French play. There was a scene at the opera the other night. The conductor of the orchestra is theamantof the contralto. Just before the opera began, the conductor in a jealous fit tried to strangle the contralto: whereupon the basso profundo knocked the conductor down: whereupon the conductor ran off towards the river to drown himself: whereupon he was knocked down again to save his life: whereupon he threatened to cut everybody’s throat: whereupon he was locked up in prison, and there remains. So there is no conductor, and the contralto can’t sing from the throttling.”

“Pau, Villa Salusbury.

“We have an opera here this season. Theprima donnaand the tenor are good; the rest so-so. The orchestra and chorus bad; the basso execrable: when he doesn’t bellow like a bull, he neighs like a horse; however, he does his best. I don’t know how you feel, but to me a mediocre opera is an unmitigated bore. I would rather by half hear a good French play. There was a scene at the opera the other night. The conductor of the orchestra is theamantof the contralto. Just before the opera began, the conductor in a jealous fit tried to strangle the contralto: whereupon the basso profundo knocked the conductor down: whereupon the conductor ran off towards the river to drown himself: whereupon he was knocked down again to save his life: whereupon he threatened to cut everybody’s throat: whereupon he was locked up in prison, and there remains. So there is no conductor, and the contralto can’t sing from the throttling.”

The violoncello soon grew to be a resource, and I believe he played really well, though he used to groan to me as to the impossibility of adapting adult fingers to the work, and to mourn over the barbarism of our school days, when no one ever thought of music as a possible study for boys. Soon, however, other objects of deeper interest began to gather round him. His eldest boy was born in 1853, his second in 1855, during their summer in England.

“The young one,” he writes to his sister, “is like his mamma, they say, and is going to be dark, which will be a good contrast to Herbert, who is a regular Saxon. I want his (Herbert’s) yellow hair to grow long that it may bedone into a pigtail; I think it would look quaint and create a sensation among the Cockneys, but I’m afraid I shan’t get my own way. To return to the new arrival, you will be happy to hear that he inherits your talent for music; he is always meandering with his hands as if he was playing the violoncello; it is a positive fact, I assure you, and makes me laugh to bursting point. A—— must have been more struck with my performances than I had credited. I feel quite flattered to possess an infant phenomenon who played (or would have played) the violoncello, if we had let him, from his birth. In the meantime that instrument has been somewhat neglected by me. A——, the baby, and the partridges (what a conjunction), divide my allegiance. However, my music mania is as strong as ever, in spite of the rather excruciating tones which all beginners draw from the instrument: they tell me that the sounds resemble the bellowings of a bereaved cow; luckily the house is a large one.”

He took to farming also, as another outlet for superfluous energy, but without much greater success than generally falls to the lot of amateurs. Indeed, his long winter absences from England kept him from gaining anything more than a superficial knowledge of agriculture, such as is disclosed in the following note to his mother, in answer to inquiries as to crops and prospects:—

“Farming is better certainly this year than the last, but we farmers always grumble, as you know, and I don’t like to say anything until the new wheat is threshed. You ought to sow your tares and rye immediately, and they will do very well after potatoes; they ought to be well manured. If you mean by ‘rye’ Italian rye-grass, I don’texactly know when it is best to sow it; in the spring I believe, but I have never had any yet, and you must ask about it. One thing I know, that it ought to have liquid manure, to be put on directly after cutting; this will give you a fresh crop in a little more than a month.”

When the Volunteer movement began, he threw himself into it at once; for no man was more impatient of, or humiliated by, the periodical panics which used to seize the country. He helped to raise a corps in his own neighbourhood, of which he became captain, and went to one of the first classes for Volunteers at the School of Musketry, to make himself competent to teach his men. As to the result he writes:—

“Undercliff,1860.“Our schooling at Hythe terminated on Friday last, on which day 100 lunatics were let loose upon society. I say lunatics, because all of us just now have but one idea, and talk, think, and dream of nothing but the rifle (call it Miss Enfield) morning, noon, and night. Colonel Welsford, the chief instructor, is a charming man and a delightful lecturer, and withal a greater lunatic than any of us—just the right man in the right place. I shot fairly, but did not distinguish myself as Harry did.”

“Undercliff,1860.

“Our schooling at Hythe terminated on Friday last, on which day 100 lunatics were let loose upon society. I say lunatics, because all of us just now have but one idea, and talk, think, and dream of nothing but the rifle (call it Miss Enfield) morning, noon, and night. Colonel Welsford, the chief instructor, is a charming man and a delightful lecturer, and withal a greater lunatic than any of us—just the right man in the right place. I shot fairly, but did not distinguish myself as Harry did.”

I spoke of his “vers de société” just now, and in this connection will here give you a specimen of them. The expenses of the corps of course considerably exceeded the Government grant, and the deficiency had to be met somehow. My brother started a theatrical performance in the Town Hall, Hitchin, as a method at once of making bothends meet, and of interesting the townspeople in the corps. The last piece of the entertainment was one of his own. The characters were played chiefly by members of his own family. He himself acted the part of a pompous magistrate, and at the close spoke the following

EPILOGUE.“Silence in Court! what’s this unseemly rumpus?Attention to the parting words of Bumpus.Tired of disguise, of borrowed rank and station,Thus in a trice I work my transformation.His wig and nose removed, the beak appearsA simple officer of Volunteers,Who to himself restored, and sick of mumming,Begs leave to thank you each and all for coming,Spite of cross roads, dark lanes, tenacious clay,And benches not too soft, to hear our play.Next, to those friends my warmest thanks are dueWho give their aid to-night, but chief to youWho for my sake, and only for to-day,O’ercome your natural shyness of display.Now comes the hardest portion of my task,A most momentous question ’tis to ask.I pause for your reply with bated breath—I humbly hope you’ve not been bored to death?Thanks for the signal which success assures;Welcome to all, but most to amateurs.Thanks, gentle friends, your welcome cheers proclaimWe have not altogether missed our aim.Not ours your hearts to thrill, your tears to move,With Hamlet’s madness, Desdemona’s love.We dare not bid in high heroic strainWolsey or Richelieu rise and breathe again.We walk in humbler paths, and cannot hope(To quote the spirit-stirring verse of Pope)‘To wake the soul with tender strokes of Art,To raise the genius and to mend the heart;To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,Live o’er each scene and be what they behold.’No—with deep reverence for these nobler views,We seek not to instruct you, but amuse;To make you wiser, better, we don’t claim—To make you laugh, our only end and aim.And as the test of everything, men say,Is just this simple question—does it pay?Well, then (I speak for self and comrades present),This acting pays us well; we find it pleasant.If at the same time it amuses you,We reap a double gain vouchsafed to few,To please ourselves and please our neighbours too.Besides, to-night in more material sense,It pays us well in shillings, pounds, and pence.Your dollars flush our regimental till,But in more sterling coin we’re richer still:Yes, doubly, trebly, rich in your goodwill.And so farewell! but stop, before we part,We’ll sing one song and sing it from the heart.Just one song more: you guess the song I mean:Our brave time-honoured hymn, ‘God save the Queen.’”

EPILOGUE.

“Silence in Court! what’s this unseemly rumpus?

Attention to the parting words of Bumpus.

Tired of disguise, of borrowed rank and station,

Thus in a trice I work my transformation.

His wig and nose removed, the beak appears

A simple officer of Volunteers,

Who to himself restored, and sick of mumming,

Begs leave to thank you each and all for coming,

Spite of cross roads, dark lanes, tenacious clay,

And benches not too soft, to hear our play.

Next, to those friends my warmest thanks are due

Who give their aid to-night, but chief to you

Who for my sake, and only for to-day,

O’ercome your natural shyness of display.

Now comes the hardest portion of my task,

A most momentous question ’tis to ask.

I pause for your reply with bated breath—

I humbly hope you’ve not been bored to death?

Thanks for the signal which success assures;

Welcome to all, but most to amateurs.

Thanks, gentle friends, your welcome cheers proclaim

We have not altogether missed our aim.

Not ours your hearts to thrill, your tears to move,

With Hamlet’s madness, Desdemona’s love.

We dare not bid in high heroic strain

Wolsey or Richelieu rise and breathe again.

We walk in humbler paths, and cannot hope

(To quote the spirit-stirring verse of Pope)

‘To wake the soul with tender strokes of Art,

To raise the genius and to mend the heart;

To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,

Live o’er each scene and be what they behold.’

No—with deep reverence for these nobler views,

We seek not to instruct you, but amuse;

To make you wiser, better, we don’t claim—

To make you laugh, our only end and aim.

And as the test of everything, men say,

Is just this simple question—does it pay?

Well, then (I speak for self and comrades present),

This acting pays us well; we find it pleasant.

If at the same time it amuses you,

We reap a double gain vouchsafed to few,

To please ourselves and please our neighbours too.

Besides, to-night in more material sense,

It pays us well in shillings, pounds, and pence.

Your dollars flush our regimental till,

But in more sterling coin we’re richer still:

Yes, doubly, trebly, rich in your goodwill.

And so farewell! but stop, before we part,

We’ll sing one song and sing it from the heart.

Just one song more: you guess the song I mean:

Our brave time-honoured hymn, ‘God save the Queen.’”

He continued also to act as mentor to his younger brothers, two of whom went in due course to Cambridge, and, to his great delight, pulled in their college racing boat (Trinity Hall), which was then at the head of the river. He often visited them at Cambridge, and, wheneverhe could manage it, would spend some part of the vacation with them, joining them in all their amusements, and helping them in their studies. You may judge of the sort of terms they were on, by this extract from a letter to his mother in August 1856:—

“We shall be very happy to join you in Scotland. I want to know whethergoodfishing tackle is procurable at Stirling, or in the neighbourhood of Callender. At Edinbro’ and Glasgow I know it can be obtained, and much cheaper than in London. Perhaps Harry can inform me, if he is not too much occupied in discovering the value of χ, which I believe is the great object of mathematics (I speak it not profanely). Tell Harry and Arthur I expect to find them both without breeches.‘Those swelling calves were never meantTo shun the public eye,’as Dr. Watts remarks, or would have remarked if he had written on the subject.”

‘Those swelling calves were never meantTo shun the public eye,’

‘Those swelling calves were never meant

To shun the public eye,’

as Dr. Watts remarks, or would have remarked if he had written on the subject.”

Such occupations as these, with magistrate’s work, and field sports taken in moderation, served to fill up his time, and would have satisfied most men situated as he was. But he could never in all these years get the notion quite out of his head (though it wore off later) that he was not doing his fair share of work in the world, and was a useless kind of personage, for whom no one was much the better but his wife and children, and whomnobody but they would miss. This feeling showed itself in his immense respect for those who were working in regular professions, and in the most conscientious scrupulousness about taking up their time. Often he has come to my chambers, and, after hurrying through some piece of family business, has insisted on going away directly, though I might not have seen him for a month, and was eager to talk on fifty subjects. The sight of open papers was enough for him; and he had not practised long enough to get the familiarity which breeds contempt, and to know how gladly the busiest lawyer puts aside an Abstract, or Interrogatories in Chancery, for the chance of a pleasant half-hour’s gossip.

I think, however, that I can show you clearly enough, in a very few words, what his real work in the world was during these years, and how perfectly unconscious he was that he was doing it faithfully. In 1857, your grandfather had a dangerous attack of illness, from which he never recovered. George was with him and nursed him during the crisis. As soon as he was well enough to use a pen, he wrote as follows to Lady Salusbury:—

“Amongst other things it occurs to me how much I have had to thank God for through life, and how my family have always drawn together in the way I wished them. And here I should be doing injustice to George, if I did not in my own mind trace much of this happy result to his quiet and imperceptible influence as an elder brother, in many ways of which my wife and I were not exactlycognizant at the time. Perhaps I am thinking more about him just now as he was in his natural place as my right-hand man when I was taken unwell; and when I say truly, that neither his mother or I ever had even an unkind word or disrespectful look from him since he was born, and that his constant study through life, as far as we are concerned, has been to spare us rather than give us trouble, and throw his own personal interests over much more than we chose to allow him, it is especially for the purpose of giving dear A—— (her adopted daughter) a precedent to quote with her own lips in the training of her own boys which I know will be particularly acceptable to herself. It is the last theme on which he would like to expatiate, but that such was my deliberate and true opinion, will be, I doubt not, one of these days, a source of satisfaction to them both, and to the children.”

Your grandfather died shortly afterwards, and a year later George wrote to his mother:—

“I feel that we have great cause for gratitude and rejoicingas a family; I mean for the way in which we hang together, and the utter absence of any subject of discord or disagreement between any of our members. I think we may well be happy, even while thinking of what happened this time last year, as I have done very frequently of late.”

He would have been impatient, almost angry, if anyone had told him that the “hanging together,” at which he rejoiced, was mainly his own doing.

In the village, too, he was beginning to find occupation of the most useful kind. Thus he opened a village reading-roomfor the labourers, which was furnished with books and papers, and lighted and warmed, every evening from seven to nine. “Hitherto it is a great success,” he writes in 1868: “we have fifty members who subscribe 2d.a week, and we give them a cup of coffee and a biscuit for 1d.Some of them drink five or six cups a night. Whether coffee will continue to beat beer I don’t know, but at present it keeps them from the public-house, and saves their wages for their wives. Some of them are very fond of reading, and the rest play draughts and dominoes.” Then there were frequent “laundry entertainments,”—penny readings, or theatrical performances in the big laundry,—of which his sister writes: “The boys and Mr. Phillips and I used to make the music, but the great hits of the evening were always George’s. He used to recite ‘The One-horse Chay,’ or some Ingoldsby Legend, or ‘The Old Woman of Berkeley,’ or sing a comic song, and the people liked his performances better than anything. Like all very reserved people, he acted wonderfully well, and always knew how every part should be done, so he used to coach us all when a play was being got up. But he would never criticise unless asked: he always thought that people knew as well as he did how to do their parts, but they did not. He was always so droll on these occasions. When a performance was proposed by the boys, he used to say it was too much trouble, and that he wanted to be left quiet. But they always got their way, and when itwas inevitable he would learn his entire part while we others were mastering a page. I was always whip, because I could not stand doing anything by halves, and used to drive everyone mercilessly till the scenes began to go smoothly. He would sometimes rehearse his part almost under his breath, gabbling it off with the book in his hand, and then I would remonstrate, and he would go through it splendidly, as well as on the day of performance.”

But the reform which he had most at heart he never lived to carry out. The industry of straw-plaiting, which prevails in the neighbourhood, while it enables the women and girls to earn high wages, makes them bad housewives, all their cooking and cleaning being neglected, while they run in and out of neighbours’ houses, gossiping and plaiting. In the hope of curing this evil he looked forward to fitting up a large barn in the village as a sort of general meeting-place. Here, when he had made the roof air-tight, and laid down a good floor, there was to be a stove for cooking and baking, and appliances for instruction in other household work. Under his wife and sister there were to be “cooking classes, sewing classes, and singing classes; and, in the evenings, entertainments for the poor people, a piano and night classes, sometimes theatricals, and often concerts, and when the boys wanted to dance they were to have their dances there. He used to think that constant meetings in the barn wouldhumanize us all, and be a very pleasant thing for making rich and poor meet on equal terms.” It is perhaps vain to dwell upon such things, but I cannot help hoping that some day those of you who have the opportunity of realizing such plans may remember to what purposes the big barn was once destined. Of one other part of his village work, his Sunday evening classes for the big boys, I shall have to speak presently.

But you must not suppose from anything in this chapter that he ever lost his interest in politics, or public affairs. He was always a keen politician, retaining, however, all his early beliefs. “You have all got far beyond me,” he writes to his sister; “and my dear mother turning Radical in her old age is delightful.” Perhaps the most ardent politician amongst us all is the best witness to call on this subject. “I don’t think anything was more remarkable about George than his politics. He, who was so good an old Tory in many ways, showed that he believed in a universal principle and duty underlying all the political opinions about the best means of carrying out reforms. I think it is very rare, when people are discussing politics, to find this constant recognition of something beyond party nostrums. But (as in his father) I have always detected it in George; and, when I have got very hot whilst propounding Radicalism against all the rest here, have always found sympathy from him at the bottom; and I have always felt at last how much more truly liberalhe was at heart than we Radicals, because we are always wanting to force on our opinions our own way, whilst in him I always recognized a divine sort of justice and patience, which used to make me feel very conceited, and wanting in faith. He was born with aristocratic instincts, being by nature intensely sensitive and refined, with a loathing of anything blatant and in bad taste, and with an intense love of justice; and the unwise, violent, foolish way in which many men like —— expound their doctrines disgusted him beyond measure, though he would always recognize the real truth that lay at the bottom of Radicalism.”

But he shall speak for himself on one great event, which you are all old enough to remember, the late war between France and Germany. Almost the first incident of the war—the despatch of the then Emperor, speaking of the Prince Imperial’s “baptism of fire”—roused his indignation so strongly that it found vent in the following lines:—

By! baby Bunting,Daddy’s gone a hunting,Bath of human blood to win,To float his baby Bunting in.By, baby Bunting.What means this hunting?Listen! baby Bunting—Wounds—that you may sleep at ease,Death—that you may reign in peace.Sweet baby Bunting.Yes, baby Bunting!Jolly fun is hunting!Jacques in front shall bleed and toil,You in safety gorge the spoil.Sweet baby Bunting.Mount! baby Bunting,Ride to Daddy’s hunting!On its quiet cocky-horse,Two miles in the rear, of course.Precious baby Bunting.Ah, baby Bunting!Oftentimes a hunting,Eager riders get a spill—Let us hope your Daddy will.Poor little Bunting.Perpend, my small friend,After all this hunting,When the train at last moves onDaddy’s gingerbread “salon”May get a shunting.Poor baby Bunting!Curse on such a hunting!Woe to him who bloods a childFor ambitious visions wild,Poor baby Bunting!

By! baby Bunting,Daddy’s gone a hunting,Bath of human blood to win,To float his baby Bunting in.By, baby Bunting.

By! baby Bunting,

Daddy’s gone a hunting,

Bath of human blood to win,

To float his baby Bunting in.

By, baby Bunting.

What means this hunting?Listen! baby Bunting—Wounds—that you may sleep at ease,Death—that you may reign in peace.Sweet baby Bunting.

What means this hunting?

Listen! baby Bunting—

Wounds—that you may sleep at ease,

Death—that you may reign in peace.

Sweet baby Bunting.

Yes, baby Bunting!Jolly fun is hunting!Jacques in front shall bleed and toil,You in safety gorge the spoil.Sweet baby Bunting.

Yes, baby Bunting!

Jolly fun is hunting!

Jacques in front shall bleed and toil,

You in safety gorge the spoil.

Sweet baby Bunting.

Mount! baby Bunting,Ride to Daddy’s hunting!On its quiet cocky-horse,Two miles in the rear, of course.Precious baby Bunting.

Mount! baby Bunting,

Ride to Daddy’s hunting!

On its quiet cocky-horse,

Two miles in the rear, of course.

Precious baby Bunting.

Ah, baby Bunting!Oftentimes a hunting,Eager riders get a spill—Let us hope your Daddy will.Poor little Bunting.

Ah, baby Bunting!

Oftentimes a hunting,

Eager riders get a spill—

Let us hope your Daddy will.

Poor little Bunting.

Perpend, my small friend,After all this hunting,When the train at last moves onDaddy’s gingerbread “salon”May get a shunting.

Perpend, my small friend,

After all this hunting,

When the train at last moves on

Daddy’s gingerbread “salon”

May get a shunting.

Poor baby Bunting!Curse on such a hunting!Woe to him who bloods a childFor ambitious visions wild,Poor baby Bunting!

Poor baby Bunting!

Curse on such a hunting!

Woe to him who bloods a child

For ambitious visions wild,

Poor baby Bunting!

“October 6th, 1870.—I am, I think, rapidly changing sides about this horrid war. You know I was a tremendous Prussian at the outset, but (although the French deserve all they get) I really can’t stand the bombardment of Paris; besides, Bismarck is repulsive.”

“Offley,1871.“I think that the high and mighty tone assumed by Herr Gustave Solling (German superhuman excellence, Handel, Beethoven, Minnesingers, &c.) the worst possible vehicle for the defence of the German terms of peace. When a man talks ‘buncombe,’ it shows that he has an uneasy feeling that his case is a weak one. The cynical line is the right one for the Germans; why not say, in the words of Wordsworth,—‘And why? Because the good old ruleSufficeth them; the simple plan,That they should take who have the power,And they should keep who can.’But pray don’t say this to our cousin, and thank her for her translation. You know what I think about the matter; I would have gone to war with the French to stop the war; and I would have gone to war with the Germans to stop the peace. There’s an Irish view of it, from a sincere war-hater.”

“Offley,1871.

“I think that the high and mighty tone assumed by Herr Gustave Solling (German superhuman excellence, Handel, Beethoven, Minnesingers, &c.) the worst possible vehicle for the defence of the German terms of peace. When a man talks ‘buncombe,’ it shows that he has an uneasy feeling that his case is a weak one. The cynical line is the right one for the Germans; why not say, in the words of Wordsworth,—

‘And why? Because the good old ruleSufficeth them; the simple plan,That they should take who have the power,And they should keep who can.’

‘And why? Because the good old rule

Sufficeth them; the simple plan,

That they should take who have the power,

And they should keep who can.’

But pray don’t say this to our cousin, and thank her for her translation. You know what I think about the matter; I would have gone to war with the French to stop the war; and I would have gone to war with the Germans to stop the peace. There’s an Irish view of it, from a sincere war-hater.”

The person who knew him best once wrote of your grandfather’s politics: “Men of all parties speak of him as belonging to their clique. This proves to me, if I had required the proof to strengthen the conviction, that there is a point on the plain of politics at which the moderate Tory, the sensible Whig, and the right-minded Radical, in other words all true patriots, meet; like the vanishing point in a picture to which all true and correct lines tend. And thus it is with him: he has reached that point, and there he foregathers with all of all parties, who, throwing asideparty prejudice, act and think for the good of their fellow-creatures.”

The description, I cannot but think, applied equally well to my brother, though he continued nominally a Tory to the end, and, as you will all recollect, lived as quiet, methodical a country life as if he had no interests in the world beyond crops, field sports, and petty sessions. But that it must have required a considerable effort on his part to do this comes out in much of his most intimate correspondence. For instance, only a month or two before his death he writes to his sister:—“Thanks, many, for your letter, and Mrs. S——’s. Hers is delightful, and I so fully understand her feeling. I always feel uncomfortable in point-device places, where the footman is always brushing your hat, and will insist upon putting out your clothes, and turning your socks ready to put on, and, if you say half a word, will even put them on for you. How I hate being ‘valeted!’ I should like to black my own boots, like Mr. ——, but then he is (or was) a master of foxhounds, and, being of course on that account a king of men, can do as he pleases, in spite of Mrs. Grundy. I am also a gypsey (is that rightly spelt? That word, and some others, are stumbling-blocks to me; I am afraid all my spelling is an affair of memory), a Bohemian at heart. I sometimes feel an almost irresistible desire to doff my breeches and paint myself blue. I should also like (I would limit myself to one month per annum) to go with acarpet-bag to the nearest station, and to rough it in all sorts of outlandish places—but then A—— can’t rough it, and there are the brats, and lots of other impediments. The very act of wandering anywhere delights me. I think we spoil half the enjoyment of life by being too particular; how terrible dinner-parties are becoming! But enough of my sermon. In spite of my secret longings I shall continue to do as my neighbours, and it would be wicked in my case to be discontented. They threatened to nominate me Chairman of the Board of Guardians here, but finding that the Vice-chairman was standing (and thinking him better qualified), I declined any contest, and was not put up. I am sorry for it, for the office, although troublesome, is capable of being made useful, and I think I should have liked it in time;” and then comes a sentence which may serve to explain to some of you your feelings towards him—“I cannot forgive —— for putting ——” (one of his nephews) “on a bolting horse. If you do mount a boy, you ought to give him the cleverest and quietest horse in your stable, and no sportsman would do otherwise.”

There is one more trait in his character which I must not omit here, as I wish to give you as perfect a knowledge of him as I have myself. I have already told you how very scrupulous he was with regard to money matters. He had, indeed, a horror of debt which made him morbidly sensitive on the subject; and he recognized the fact, andtreated himself for it as he would have done for a fit of bile, or any other physical disorder. On more than one occasion, when some unlooked for expenditure seemed likely to bring on a more than usually severe attack, he cured himself by some piece of unwonted extravagance, such as buying a diamond ornament for his wife, or making a handsome present to some poor relation. The remedy answered perfectly in his case; but I am bound to add that it is one which I cannot recommend as a specific without the warning, that, before using it, you-must satisfy yourselves, as he always did, that there were no reasonable grounds for uneasiness.

But if he sometimes worried himself about money, he kept his anxiety to himself, and was constantly doing the most liberal acts in the most thoughtful manner. Of the many instances I could give of this, I select one, which an old friend has communicated to me with permission to mention it. I give it in his own words:—“There is one little incident connected with his personal relations to me which I shall always remember with feelings of gratitude and pleasure. When the Suez Canal was opened I had an offer of a free passage out and home in a P. and O. steamer, and I was rather exercised in my mind by not feeling it prudent to accept, as I knew that living in Egypt for a fortnight at that time would be very expensive, and I knew that I could not afford it. I happened to be writing to him about thattime, and mentioned this in my letter. By return of post he sent me a cheque for £50, begging me to accept it as a loan, to be paid when I had as much to spare, or never if I preferred it. I did not take advantage of his generous kindness, and I declare I almost regret now that I did not, as I believe I should have given him sincere pleasure in so doing.”

The doubts as to his own usefulness in the world, noticed in the last chapter, wore off naturally as he fell into the routine of country life; but it was the growth of the younger generation—of you for whom this sketch is written—which found him in work and interest during the last years of his life. I could never have envied him anything; but if there was one talent of his more than another which I have longed to share, it was his power of winning, not only the love, but the frank confidence, of his own, and all other boys. I think the secret was, that he was far more in sympathy with them; could realize more vividly their pleasures, and troubles, than almost any man of his age. And then, he had never given up athletic games altogether, and was still a far better cricketer and football player than most boys, and ready to join them in their sports whenever they seemed to wish it.

Few things gave him more pleasure than taking up again the thread of intimate relations with his old school,which he did when his eldest nephew entered there. He accompanied him, to give him confidence and a good start, and characteristically recounts that “we had a famous football match, and I got my legs kicked to my heart’s content, thereby vividly recalling old times.” He remarks also, at the same time, “Rugby is charming; only there is rather too much what I call ‘drill,’ in the play as in the work—not spontaneous enough.” Not long after, in 1866, his own eldest boy followed. He thus details that event to his mother:—

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