THE
CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

MAY, 1860.

CONTENTS.

LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.

LEIPZIG, B. TAUCHNITE. NEW YORK: WILLMER AND ROGERS.
MELBOURNE: G. ROBERTSON.

THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

CONTENTS of No. 1.
January, 1860.

• Framley Parsonage. Chaps. 1, 2 and 3.
• The Chinese and the “Outer Barbarians.”
• Lovel the Widower. Chapter 1. (With an Illustration.)
• Studies in Animal Life. Chapter 1.
• Father Prout’s Inaugurative Ode to the Author of “Vanity Fair.”
• Our Volunteers.
• A Man of Letters of the last Generation.
• The Search for Sir John Franklin (from the Private Journal of an Officer of the Fox). (With an Illustration and Map.)
• The First Morning of 1860.
• Roundabout Papers.—No. 1. On a Lazy Idle Boy.

CONTENTS of No. 2.
February, 1860.

• Nil Nisi Bonum.
• Invasion Panics.
• To Goldenhair (from Horace). By Thomas Hood.
• Framley Parsonage. Chaps. 4, 5 and 6.
• Tithonus. By Alfred Tennyson.
• William Hogarth: Painter, Engraver, and Philosopher. Essays on the Man, the Work, and the Time.—I. Little Boy Hogarth.
• Unspoken Dialogue. By R. Monckton Milnes. (With an Illustration.)
• Studies in Animal Life. Chapter 2.
• Curious if True. (Extract from a Letter from Richard Whittingham, Esq.)
• Life among the Lighthouses.
• Lovel the Widower. Chapter 2. (With an Illustration.)
• An Essay without End.

CONTENTS of No. 3.
March, 1860.

• A Few Words on Junius and Macaulay.
• William Hogarth: Painter, Engraver, and Philosopher. Essays on the Man, the Work, and the Time.—II. Mr. Gamble’s Apprentice. (With an Illustration.)
• Mabel.
• Studies in Animal Life. Chapter 3.
• Framley Parsonage. Chapters 7, 8 and 9.
• Sir Joshua and Holbein.
• A Changeling.
• Lovel the Widower. Chapter 3. (With an Illustration.)
• The National Gallery Difficulty Solved.
• A Winter Wedding-party in the Wilds.
• Student Life in Scotland.
• Roundabout Papers.—No. 2. On Two Children in Black.

CONTENTS of No. 4.
April, 1860.

• Lovel the Widower. Chapter 4. (With an Illustration.)
• Colour Blindness.
• Spring. By Thomas Hood.
• Inside Canton.
• William Hogarth: Painter, Engraver, and Philosopher. Essays on the Man, the Work, and the Time.—III. A Long Ladder, and Hard to Climb.
• Studies in Animal Life. Chapter 4.
• Strangers Yet! By R. Monckton Milnes.
• Framley Parsonage. Chapters 10, 11, and 12. (With an Illustration.)
• Ideal Houses.
• Dante.
• The Last Sketch—Emma (a fragment of a Story by the late Charlotte Brontë.)
• Under Chloroform.
• The How and Why of Long Shots and Straight Shots.

NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS.

⁂ Communications for the Editor should be addressed to the care of Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co., 65, Cornhill, and not to the Editor’s private residence. The Editor cannot be responsible for the return of rejected contributions.

THE
CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

MAY, 1860.

Framley Parsonage.

CHAPTER XIII.
Delicate Hints.

Lady Lufton had been greatly rejoiced at that good deed which her son did in giving up his Leicestershire hunting, and coming to reside for the winter at Framley. It was proper, and becoming, and comfortable in the extreme. An English nobleman ought to hunt in the county where he himself owns the fields over which he rides; he ought to receive the respect and honour due to him from his own tenants; he ought to sleep under a roof of his own, and he ought also—so Lady Lufton thought—to fall in love with a young embryo bride of his own mother’s choosing.

And then it was so pleasant to have him there in the house. Lady Lufton was not a woman who allowed her life to be what people in common parlance call dull. She had too many duties, and thought too much of them, to allow of her suffering from tedium and ennui. But nevertheless the house was more joyous to her when he was there. There was a reason for some little gaiety, which would never have been attracted thither by herself, but which, nevertheless, she did enjoy when it was brought about by his presence. She was younger and brighter when he was there, thinking more of the future and less of the past. She could look at him, and that alone was happiness to her. And then he was pleasant-mannered with her; joking with her on her little old-world prejudices in a tone that was musical to her ear as coming from him; smiling on her, reminding her of those smiles which she had loved so dearly when as yet he was all her own, lying there in his little bed beside her chair. He was kind and gracious to her, behaving like a good son, at any rate while he was there in her presence. When we add, to this, her fears that he might not be so perfect in his conduct when absent, we may well imagine that Lady Lufton was pleased to have him there at Framley Court.

She had hardly said a word to him as to that five thousand pounds. Many a night, as she lay thinking on her pillow, she said to herself that no money had ever been better expended, since it had brought him back to his own house. He had thanked her for it in his own open way, declaring that he would pay it back to her during the coming year, and comforting her heart by his rejoicing that the property had not been sold.

“I don’t like the idea of parting with an acre of it,” he had said.

“Of course not, Ludovic. Never let the estate decrease in your hands. It is only by such resolutions as that that English noblemen and English gentlemen can preserve their country. I cannot bear to see property changing hands.”

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing to have land in the market sometimes, so that the millionnaires may know what to do with their money.”

“God forbid that yours should be there!” And the widow made a little mental prayer that her son’s acres might be protected from the millionnaires and other Philistines.

“Why, yes: I don’t exactly want to see a Jew tailor investing his earnings at Lufton,” said the lord.

“Heaven forbid!” said the widow.

All this, as I have said, was very nice. It was manifest to her ladyship, from his lordship’s way of talking, that no vital injury had as yet been done: he had no cares on his mind, and spoke freely about the property: but nevertheless there were clouds even now, at this period of bliss, which somewhat obscured the brilliancy of Lady Lufton’s sky. Why was Ludovic so slow in that affair of Griselda Grantly? why so often in these latter winter days did he saunter over to the Parsonage? And then that terrible visit to Gatherum Castle!

What actually did happen at Gatherum Castle, she never knew. We, however, are more intrusive, less delicate in our inquiries, and we can say. He had a very bad day’s sport with the West Barsetshire. The county is altogether short of foxes, and some one who understands the matter must take that point up before they can do any good. And after that he had had rather a dull dinner with the duke. Sowerby had been there, and in the evening he and Sowerby had played billiards. Sowerby had won a pound or two, and that had been the extent of the damage done.

But those saunterings over to the Parsonage might be more dangerous. Not that it ever occurred to Lady Lufton as possible that her son should fall in love with Lucy Robarts. Lucy’s personal attractions were not of a nature to give ground for such a fear as that. But he might turn the girl’s head with his chatter; she might be fool enough to fancy any folly; and, moreover, people would talk. Why should he go to the Parsonage now more frequently than he had ever done before Lucy came there?

And then her ladyship, in reference to the same trouble, hardly knew how to manage her invitations to the Parsonage. These hitherto had been very frequent, and she had been in the habit of thinking that they could hardly be too much so; but now she was almost afraid to continue the custom. She could not ask the parson and his wife without Lucy; and when Lucy was there, her son would pass the greater part of the evening in talking to her, or playing chess with her. Now this did disturb Lady Lufton not a little.

And then Lucy took it all so quietly. On her first arrival at Framley she had been so shy, so silent, and so much awe-struck by the grandeur of Framley Court, that Lady Lufton had sympathized with her and encouraged her. She had endeavoured to moderate the blaze of her own splendour, in order that Lucy’s unaccustomed eyes might not be dazzled. But all this was changed now. Lucy could listen to the young lord’s voice by the hour together—without being dazzled in the least.

Under these circumstances two things occurred to her. She would speak either to her son or to Fanny Robarts, and by a little diplomacy have this evil remedied. And then she had to determine on which step she would take.

“Nothing could be more reasonable than Ludovic.” So at least she said to herself over and over again. But then Ludovic understood nothing about such matters; and he had, moreover, a habit, inherited from his father, of taking the bit between his teeth whenever he suspected interference. Drive him gently without pulling his mouth about, and you might take him anywhere, almost at any pace; but a smart touch, let it be ever so slight, would bring him on his haunches, and then it might be a question whether you could get him another mile that day. So that on the whole Lady Lufton thought that the other plan would be the best. I have no doubt that Lady Lufton was right.

She got Fanny up into her own den one afternoon, and seated her discreetly in an easy arm-chair, making her guest take off her bonnet, and showing by various signs that the visit was regarded as one of great moment.

“Fanny,” she said, “I want to speak to you about something that is important and necessary to mention, and yet it is a very delicate affair to speak of.” Fanny opened her eyes, and said that she hoped that nothing was wrong.

“No, my dear, I think nothing is wrong: I hope so, and I think I may say I’m sure of it; but then it’s always well to be on one’s guard.”

“Yes, it is,” said Fanny, who knew that something unpleasant was coming—something as to which she might probably be called upon to differ from her ladyship. Mrs. Robarts’ own fears, however, were running entirely in the direction of her husband;—and, indeed, Lady Lufton had a word or two to say on that subject also, only not exactly now. A hunting parson was not at all to her taste; but that matter might be allowed to remain in abeyance for a few days.

“Now, Fanny, you know that we have all liked your sister-in-law, Lucy, very much.” And then Mrs. Robarts’ mind was immediately opened, and she knew the rest as well as though it had all been spoken. “I need hardly tell you that, for I am sure we have shown it.”

“You have, indeed, as you always do.”

“And you must not think that I am going to complain,” continued Lady Lufton.

“I hope there is nothing to complain of,” said Fanny, speaking by no means in a defiant tone, but humbly as it were, and deprecating her ladyship’s wrath. Fanny had gained one signal victory over Lady Lufton, and on that account, with a prudence equal to her generosity, felt that she could afford to be submissive. It might, perhaps, not be long before she would be equally anxious to conquer again.

“Well, no; I don’t think there is,” said Lady Lufton. “Nothing to complain of; but a little chat between you and me may, perhaps, set matters right, which, otherwise, might become troublesome.”

“Is it about Lucy?”

“Yes, my dear—about Lucy. She is a very nice, good girl, and a credit to her father——”

“And a great comfort to us,” said Fanny.

“I am sure she is: she must be a very pleasant companion to you, and so useful about the children; but——” And then Lady Lufton paused for a moment; for she, eloquent and discreet as she always was, felt herself rather at a loss for words to express her exact meaning.

“I don’t know what I should do without her,” said Fanny, speaking with the object of assisting her ladyship in her embarrassment.

“But the truth is this: she and Lord Lufton are getting into the way of being too much together—of talking to each other too exclusively. I am sure you must have noticed it, Fanny. It is not that I suspect any evil. I don’t think that I am suspicious by nature.”

“Oh! no,” said Fanny.

“But they will each of them get wrong ideas about the other, and about themselves. Lucy will, perhaps, think that Ludovic means more than he does, and Ludovic will——” But it was not quite so easy to say what Ludovic might do or think; but Lady Lufton went on:

“I am sure that you understand me, Fanny, with your excellent sense and tact. Lucy is clever, and amusing, and all that; and Ludovic, like all young men, is perhaps ignorant that his attentions may be taken to mean more than he intends——”

“You don’t think that Lucy is in love with him?”

“Oh dear, no—nothing of the kind. If I thought it had come to that, I should recommend that she should be sent away altogether. I am sure she is not so foolish as that.”

“I don’t think there is anything in it at all, Lady Lufton.”

“I don’t think there is, my dear, and therefore I would not for worlds make any suggestion about it to Lord Lufton. I would not let him suppose that I suspected Lucy of being so imprudent. But still, it may be well that you should just say a word to her. A little management now and then, in such matters, is so useful.”

“But what shall I say to her?”

“Just explain to her that any young lady who talks so much to the same young gentleman will certainly be observed—that people will accuse her of setting her cap at Lord Lufton. Not that I suspect her—I give her credit for too much proper feeling: I know her education has been good, and her principles are upright. But people will talk of her. You must understand that, Fanny, as well as I do.”

Fanny could not help meditating whether proper feeling, education, and upright principles did forbid Lucy Robarts to fall in love with Lord Lufton; but her doubts on this subject, if she held any, were not communicated to her ladyship. It had never entered into her mind that a match was possible between Lord Lufton and Lucy Robarts, nor had she the slightest wish to encourage it now that the idea was suggested to her. On such a matter she could sympathize with Lady Lufton, though she did not completely agree with her as to the expediency of any interference. Nevertheless, she at once offered to speak to Lucy.

“I don’t think that Lucy has any idea in her head upon the subject,” said Mrs. Robarts.

“I dare say not—I don’t suppose she has. But young ladies sometimes allow themselves to fall in love, and then to think themselves very ill-used, just because they have had no idea in their head.”

“I will put her on her guard if you wish it, Lady Lufton.”

“Exactly, my dear; that is just it. Put her on her guard—that is all that is necessary. She is a dear, good, clever girl, and it would be very sad if anything were to interrupt our comfortable way of getting on with her.”

Mrs. Robarts knew to a nicety the exact meaning of this threat. If Lucy would persist in securing to herself so much of Lord Lufton’s time and attention, her visits to Framley Court must become less frequent. Lady Lufton would do much, very much, indeed, for her friends at the Parsonage; but not even for them could she permit her son’s prospects in life to be endangered.

There was nothing more said between them, and Mrs. Robarts got up to take her leave, having promised to speak to Lucy.

“You manage everything so perfectly,” said Lady Lufton, as she pressed Mrs. Robarts’ hand, “that I am quite at ease now that I find you will agree with me.” Mrs. Robarts did not exactly agree with her ladyship, but she hardly thought it worth her while to say so.

Mrs. Robarts immediately started off on her walk to her own home, and when she had got out of the grounds into the road, where it makes a turn towards the Parsonage, nearly opposite to Podgens’ shop, she saw Lord Lufton on horseback, and Lucy standing beside him. It was already nearly five o’clock, and it was getting dusk, but as she approached, or rather as she came suddenly within sight of them, she could see that they were in close conversation. Lord Lufton’s face was towards her, and his horse was standing still; he was leaning over towards his companion, and the whip, which he held in his right hand, hung almost over her arm and down her back, as though his hand had touched and perhaps rested on her shoulder. She was standing by his side, looking up into his face, with one gloved hand resting on the horse’s neck. Mrs. Robarts, as she saw them, could not but own that there might be cause for Lady Lufton’s fears.

But then Lucy’s manner, as Mrs. Roberts approached, was calculated to dissipate any such fears, and to prove that there was no ground for them. She did not move from her position, or allow her hand to drop, or show that she was in any way either confused or conscious. She stood her ground, and when her sister-in-law came up, was smiling and at her ease.

“Lord Lufton wants me to learn to ride,” said she.

“To learn to ride!” said Fanny, not knowing what answer to make to such a proposition.

“Yes,” said he. “This horse would carry her beautifully: he is as quiet as a lamb, and I made Gregory go out with him yesterday with a sheet hanging over him like a lady’s habit, and the man got up into a lady’s saddle.”

“I think Gregory would make a better hand of it than Lucy.”

“The horse cantered with him as though he had carried a lady all his life, and his mouth is like velvet—indeed, that is his fault, he is too soft-mouthed.”

“I suppose that’s the same sort of thing as a man being soft-hearted,” said Lucy.

“Exactly: you ought to ride them both with a very light hand. They are difficult cattle to manage, but very pleasant when you know how to do it.”

“But you see I don’t know how to do it,” said Lucy.

“As regards the horse, you will learn in two days, and I do hope you will try. Don’t you think it will be an excellent thing for her, Mrs. Robarts?”

“Lucy has got no habit,” said Mrs. Robarts, making use of the excuse common on all such occasions.

“There is one of Justinia’s in the house, I know. She always leaves one here, in order that she may be able to ride when she comes.”

“She would not think of taking such a liberty with Lady Meredith’s things,” said Fanny, almost frightened at the proposal.

“Of course it is out of the question, Fanny,” said Lucy, now speaking rather seriously. “In the first place, I would not take Lord Lufton’s horse; in the second place, I would not take Lady Meredith’s habit; in the third place, I should be a great deal too much frightened; and, lastly, it is quite out of the question for a great many other very good reasons.”

“Nonsense,” said Lord Lufton.

“A great deal of nonsense,” said Lucy, laughing, “but all of it of Lord Lufton’s talking. But we are getting cold—are we not, Fanny?—so we will wish you good-night.” And then the two ladies shook hands with him, and walked on towards the Parsonage.

That which astonished Mrs. Robarts the most in all this was the perfectly collected manner in which Lucy spoke and conducted herself. This connected, as she could not but connect it, with the air of chagrin with which Lord Lufton received Lucy’s decision, made it manifest to Mrs. Robarts that Lord Lufton was annoyed because Lucy would not consent to learn to ride; whereas she, Lucy herself, had given her refusal in a firm and decided tone, as though resolved that nothing more should be said about it.

They walked on in silence for a minute or two, till they reached the Parsonage gate, and then Lucy said, laughing, “Can’t you fancy me sitting on that great big horse? I wonder what Lady Lufton would say if she saw me there, and his lordship giving me my first lesson?”

“I don’t think she would like it,” said Fanny.

“I’m sure she would not. But I will not try her temper in that respect. Sometimes I fancy that she does not even like seeing Lord Lufton talking to me.”

“She does not like it, Lucy, when she sees him flirting with you.”

This Mrs. Robarts said rather gravely, whereas Lucy had been speaking in a half-bantering tone. As soon as even the word flirting was out of Fanny’s mouth, she was conscious that she had been guilty of an injustice in using it. She had wished to say something which would convey to her sister-in-law an idea of what Lady Lufton would dislike; but in doing so, she had unintentionally brought against her an accusation.

“Flirting, Fanny!” said Lucy, standing still in the path, and looking up into her companion’s face with all her eyes. “Do you mean to say that I have been flirting with Lord Lufton?”

“I did not say that.”

“Or that I have allowed him to flirt with me?”

“I did not mean to shock you, Lucy.”

“What did you mean, Fanny?”

“Why, just this: that Lady Lufton would not be pleased if he paid you marked attentions, and if you received them;—just like that affair of the riding; it was better to decline it.”

“Of course, I declined it; of course I never dreamt of accepting such an offer. Go riding about the country on his horses! What have I done, Fanny, that you should suppose such a thing?”

“You have done nothing, dearest.”

“Then why did you speak as you did just now?”

“Because I wished to put you on your guard. You know, Lucy, that I do not intend to find fault with you; but you may be sure, as a rule, that intimate friendships between young gentlemen and young ladies are dangerous things.”

They then walked up to the hall-door in silence. When they had reached it, Lucy stood in the doorway instead of entering it, and said, “Fanny, let us take another turn together, if you are not tired.”

“No, I’m not tired.”

“It will be better that I should understand you at once,”—and then they again moved away from the house. “Tell me truly now, do you think that Lord Lufton and I have been flirting?”

“I do think that he is a little inclined to flirt with you.”

“And Lady Lufton has been asking you to lecture me about it?”

Poor Mrs. Robarts hardly knew what to say. She thought well of all the persons concerned, and was very anxious to behave well by all of them;—was particularly anxious to create no ill feeling, and wished that everybody should be comfortable, and on good terms with everybody else. But yet the truth was forced out of her when this question was asked so suddenly.

“Not to lecture you, Lucy,” she said at last.

“Well, to preach to me, or to talk to me, or to give me a lesson; to say something that shall drive me to put my back up against Lord Lufton?”

“To caution you, dearest. Had you heard what she said, you would hardly have felt angry with Lady Lufton.”

“Well, to caution me. It is such a pleasant thing for a girl to be cautioned against falling in love with a gentleman, especially when the gentleman is very rich, and a lord, and all that sort of thing!”

“Nobody for a moment attributes anything wrong to you, Lucy.”

“Anything wrong—no. I don’t know whether it would be anything wrong, even if I were to fall in love with him. I wonder whether they cautioned Griselda Grantly when she was here? I suppose when young lords go about, all the girls are cautioned as a matter of course. Why do they not label him ‘dangerous?’” And then again they were silent for a moment, as Mrs. Robarts did not feel that she had anything further to say on the matter.

“‘Poison’ should be the word with any one so fatal as Lord Lufton; and he ought to be made up of some particular colour, for fear he should be swallowed in mistake.”

“You will be safe, you see,” said Fanny, laughing, “as you have been specially cautioned as to this individual bottle.”

“Ah! but what’s the use of that after I have had so many doses? It is no good telling me about it now, when the mischief is done,—after I have been taking it for I don’t know how long. Dear! dear! dear! and I regarded it as a mere commonplace powder, good for the complexion. I wonder whether it’s too late, or whether there’s any antidote?”

Mrs. Robarts did not always quite understand her sister-in-law, and now she was a little at a loss. “I don’t think there’s much harm done yet on either side,” she said, cheerily.

“Ah! you don’t know, Fanny. But I do think that if I die—as I shall—I feel I shall;—and if so, I do think it ought to go very hard with Lady Lufton. Why didn’t she label him ‘dangerous’ in time?” and then they went into the house and up to their own rooms.

It was difficult for any one to understand Lucy’s state of mind at present, and it can hardly be said that she understood it herself. She felt that she had received a severe blow in having been thus made the subject of remark with reference to Lord Lufton. She knew that her pleasant evenings at Lufton Court were now over, and that she could not again talk to him in an unrestrained tone and without embarrassment. She had felt the air of the whole place to be very cold before her intimacy with him, and now it must be cold again. Two homes had been open to her, Framley Court and the Parsonage; and now, as far as comfort was concerned, she must confine herself to the latter. She could not again be comfortable in Lady Lufton’s drawing-room.

But then she could not help asking herself whether Lady Lufton was not right. She had had courage enough, and presence of mind, to joke about the matter when her sister-in-law spoke to her, and yet she was quite aware that it was no joking matter. Lord Lufton had not absolutely made love to her, but he had latterly spoken to her in a manner which she knew was not compatible with that ordinary comfortable masculine friendship with the idea of which she had once satisfied herself. Was not Fanny right when she said that intimate friendships of that nature were dangerous things?

Yes, Lucy, very dangerous. Lucy, before she went to bed that night, had owned to herself that they were so; and lying there with sleepless eyes and a moist pillow, she was driven to confess that the label would in truth be now too late, that the caution had come to her after the poison had been swallowed. Was there any antidote? That was all that was left for her to consider. But, nevertheless, on the following morning she could appear quite at her ease. And when Mark had left the house after breakfast, she could still joke with Fanny as to Lady Lufton’s poison cupboard.

CHAPTER XIV.
Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock.

And then there was that other trouble in Lady Lufton’s mind, the sins, namely, of her selected parson. She had selected him, and she was by no means inclined to give him up, even though his sins against parsondom were grievous. Indeed she was a woman not prone to give up anything, and of all things not prone to give up a protégé. The very fact that she herself had selected him was the strongest argument in his favour.

But his sins against parsondom were becoming very grievous in her eyes, and she was at a loss to know what steps to take. She hardly, dared to take him to task, him himself. Were she to do so, and should he then tell her to mind her own business—as he probably might do, though not in those words—there would be a schism in the parish; and almost anything would be better than that. The whole work of her life would be upset, all the outlets of her energy would be impeded if not absolutely closed, if a state of things were to come to pass in which she and the parson of her parish should not be on good terms.

But what was to be done? Early in the winter he had gone to Chaldicotes and to Gatherum Castle, consorting with gamblers, whigs, atheists, men of loose pleasure, and Proudieites. That she had condoned; and now he was turning out a hunting parson on her hands. It was all very well for Fanny to say that he merely looked at the hounds as he rode about his parish. Fanny might be deceived. Being his wife, it might be her duty not to see her husband’s iniquities. But Lady Lufton could not be deceived. She knew very well in what part of the county Cobbold’s Ashes lay. It was not in Framley parish, nor in the next parish to it. It was half-way across to Chaldicotes—in the western division; and she had heard of that run in which two horses had been killed, and in which parson Robarts had won such immortal glory among West Barsetshire sportsmen. It was not easy to keep Lady Lufton in the dark as to matters occurring in her own county.

All these things she knew, but as yet had not noticed, grieving over them in her own heart the more on that account. Spoken grief relieves itself; and when one can give counsel, one always hopes at least that that counsel will be effective. To her son she had said, more than once, that it was a pity that Mr. Robarts should follow the hounds.—“The world has agreed that it is unbecoming in a clergyman,” she would urge, in her deprecatory tone. But her son would by no means give her any comfort. “He doesn’t hunt, you know—not as I do,” he would say. “And if he did, I really don’t see the harm of it. A man must have some amusement, even if he be an archbishop.” “He has amusement at home,” Lady Lufton would answer. “What does his wife do—and his sister?” This allusion to Lucy, however, was very soon dropped.

Lord Lufton would in no wise help her. He would not even passively discourage the vicar, or refrain from offering to give him a seat in going to the meets. Mark and Lord Lufton had been boys together, and his lordship knew that Mark in his heart would enjoy a brush across the country quite as well as he himself; and then what was the harm of it?

Lady Lufton’s best aid had been in Mark’s own conscience. He had taken himself to task more than once, and had promised himself that he would not become a sporting parson. Indeed, where would be his hopes of ulterior promotion, if he allowed himself to degenerate so far as that? It had been his intention, in reviewing what he considered to be the necessary proprieties of clerical life, in laying out his own future mode of living, to assume no peculiar sacerdotal strictness; he would not be known as a denouncer of dancing or of card-tables, of theatres or of novel-reading; he would take the world around him as he found it, endeavouring by precept and practice to lend a hand to the gradual amelioration which Christianity is producing; but he would attempt no sudden or majestic reforms. Cake and ale would still be popular, and ginger be hot in the mouth, let him preach ever so—let him be never so solemn a hermit; but a bright face, a true trusting heart, a strong arm, and an humble mind, might do much in teaching those around him that men may be gay and yet not profligate, that women may be devout and yet not dead to the world.

Such had been his ideas as to his own future life; and though many will think that as a clergyman he should have gone about his work with more serious devotion of thought, nevertheless there was some wisdom in them;—some folly also, undoubtedly, as appeared by the troubles into which they led him.

“I will not affect to think that to be bad,” said he to himself, “which in my heart of hearts does not seem to be bad.” And thus he resolved that he might live without contamination among hunting squires. And then, being a man only too prone by nature to do as others did around him, he found by degrees that that could hardly be wrong for him which he admitted to be right for others.

But still his conscience upbraided him, and he declared to himself more than once that after this year he would hunt no more. And then his own Fanny would look at him on his return home on those days in a manner that cut him to the heart. She would say nothing to him. She never inquired in a sneering tone, and with angry eyes, whether he had enjoyed his day’s sport; but when he spoke of it, she could not answer him with enthusiasm; and in other matters which concerned him she was always enthusiastic.

After a while, too, he made matters worse, for about the end of March he did another very foolish thing. He almost consented to buy an expensive horse from Sowerby—an animal which he by no means wanted, and which, if once possessed, would certainly lead him into further trouble. A gentleman, when he has a good horse in his stable, does not like to leave him there eating his head off. If he be a gig-horse, the owner of him will be keen to drive a gig; if a hunter, the happy possessor will wish to be with a pack of hounds.

“Mark,” said Sowerby to him one day, when they were out together, “this brute of mine is so fresh, I can hardly ride him; you are young and strong; change with me for an hour or so.” And then they did change, and the horse on which Robarts found himself mounted went away with him beautifully.

“He’s a splendid animal,” said Mark, when they again met.

“Yes, for a man of your weight. He’s thrown away upon me;—too much of a horse for my purposes. I don’t get along now quite as well as I used to do. He is a nice sort of hunter; just rising six, you know.”

How it came to pass that the price of the splendid animal was mentioned between them, I need not describe with exactness. But it did come to pass that Mr. Sowerby told the parson that the horse should be his for 130l.

“And I really wish you’d take him,” said Sowerby. “It would be the means of partially relieving my mind of a great weight.”

Mark looked up into his friend’s face with an air of surprise, for he did not at the moment understand how this should be the case.

“I am afraid, you know, that you will have to put your hand into your pocket sooner or later about that accursed bill—” Mark shrank as the profane word struck his ears—“and I should be glad to think that you had got something in hand in the way of value.”

“Do you mean that I shall have to pay the whole sum of 500l.?”

“Oh! dear, no; nothing of the kind. But something I dare say you will have to pay: if you like to take Dandy for a hundred and thirty, you can be prepared for that amount when Tozer comes to you. The horse is dog cheap, and you will have a long day for your money.”

Mark at first declared, in a quiet, determined tone, that he did not want the horse; but it afterwards appeared to him that if it were so fated that he must pay a portion of Mr. Sowerby’s debts, he might as well repay himself to any extent within his power. It would be as well perhaps that he should take the horse and sell him. It did not occur to him that by so doing he would put it in Mr. Sowerby’s power to say that some valuable consideration had passed between them with reference to this bill, and that he would be aiding that gentleman in preparing an inextricable confusion of money-matters between them. Mr. Sowerby well knew the value of this. It would enable him to make a plausible story, as he had done in that other case of Lord Lufton.

“Are you going to have Dandy?” Sowerby said to him again.

“I can’t say that I will just at present,” said the parson. “What should I want of him now the season’s over?”

“Exactly, my dear fellow; and what do I want of him now the season’s over? If it were the beginning of October instead of the end of March, Dandy would be up at two hundred and thirty instead of one: in six months’ time that horse will be worth anything you like to ask for him. Look at his bone.”

The vicar did look at his bones, examining the brute in a very knowing and unclerical manner. He lifted the animal’s four feet, one after another, handling the frogs, and measuring with his eye the proportion of the parts; he passed his hand up and down the legs, spanning the bones of the lower joint; he peered into his eyes, took into consideration the width of his chest, the dip of his back, the form of his ribs, the curve of his haunches, and his capabilities for breathing when pressed by work. And then he stood away a little, eyeing him from the side, and taking in a general idea of the form and make of the whole. “He seems to stand over a little,” I think, said the parson.

“It’s the lie of the ground. Move him about, Bob. There now, let him stand there.”

“He’s not perfect,” said Mark. “I don’t quite like his heels; but no doubt he’s a nicish cut of a horse.”

“I rather think he is. If he were perfect, as you say, he would not be going into your stables for a hundred and thirty. Do you ever remember to have seen a perfect horse?”

“Your mare Mrs. Gamp was as nearly perfect as possible.”

“Even Mrs. Gamp had her faults. In the first place she was a bad feeder. But one certainly doesn’t often come across anything much better than Mrs. Gamp.” And thus the matter was talked over between them with much stable conversation, all of which tended to make Sowerby more and more oblivious of his friend’s sacred profession, and perhaps to make the vicar himself too frequently oblivious of it also. But no: he was not oblivious of it. He was even mindful of it; but mindful of it in such a manner that his thoughts on the subject were nowadays always painful.

There is a parish called Hogglestock lying away quite in the northern extremity of the eastern division of the county—lying also on the borders of the western division. I almost fear that it will become necessary, before this history be completed, to provide a map of Barsetshire for the due explanation of all these localities. Framley is also in the northern portion of the county, but just to the south of the grand trunk line of railway from which the branch to Barchester strikes off at a point some thirty miles nearer to London. The station for Framley Court is Silverbridge, which is, however, in the western division of the county. Hogglestock is to the north of the railway, the line of which, however, runs through a portion of the parish, and it adjoins Framley, though the churches are as much as seven miles apart. Barsetshire taken altogether is a pleasant green tree-becrowded county, with large bosky hedges, pretty damp deep lanes, and roads with broad grass margins running along them. Such is the general nature of the county; but just up in its northern extremity this nature alters. There it is bleak and ugly, with low artificial hedges and without wood; not uncultivated, as it is all portioned out into new-looking large fields, bearing turnips and wheat and mangel, all in due course of agricultural rotation; but it has none of the special beauties of English cultivation. There is not a gentleman’s house in the parish of Hogglestock besides that of the clergyman; and this, though it is certainly the house of a gentleman, can hardly be said to be fit to be so. It is ugly, and straight, and small. There is a garden attached to the house, half in front of it and half behind; but this garden, like the rest of the parish, is by no means ornamental, though sufficiently useful. It produces cabbages, but no trees: potatoes of, I believe, an excellent description, but hardly any flowers, and nothing worthy of the name of a shrub. Indeed the whole parish of Hogglestock should have been in the adjoining county, which is by no means so attractive as Barsetshire;—a fact well known to those few of my readers who are well acquainted with their own country.

Mr. Crawley, whose name has been mentioned in these pages, was the incumbent of Hogglestock. On what principle the remuneration of our parish clergymen was settled when the original settlement was made, no deepest, keenest lover of middle-aged ecclesiastical black-letter learning can, I take it, now say. That the priests were to be paid from tithes of the parish produce, out of which tithes certain other good things were to be bought and paid for, such as church repairs and education, of so much the most of us have an inkling. That a rector, being a big sort of parson, owned the tithes of his parish in full,—or at any rate that part of them intended for the clergyman,—and that a vicar was somebody’s deputy, and therefore entitled only to little tithes, as being a little body: of so much we that are simple in such matters have a general idea. But one cannot conceive that even in this way any approximation could have been made, even in those old mediæval days, towards a fair proportioning of the pay to the work. At any rate, it is clear enough that there is no such approximation now.

And what a screech would there not be among the clergy of the Church, even in these reforming days, if any over-bold reformer were to suggest that such an approximation should be attempted? Let those who know clergymen, and like them, and have lived with them, only fancy it! Clergymen to be paid, not according to the temporalities of any living which they may have acquired either by merit or favour, but in accordance with the work to be done! O Doddington! and O Stanhope, think of this, if an idea so sacrilegious can find entrance into your warm ecclesiastical bosoms! Ecclesiastical work to be bought and paid for according to its quantity and quality!

But, nevertheless, one may prophesy that we Englishmen must come to this, disagreeable as the idea undoubtedly is. Most pleasant-minded churchmen feel, I think, on this subject pretty much in the same way. Our present arrangement of parochial incomes is beloved as being time-honoured, gentlemanlike, English, and picturesque. We would fain adhere to it closely as long as we can, but we know that we do so by the force of our prejudices, and not by that of our judgment. A time-honoured, gentlemanlike, English, picturesque arrangement is so far very delightful. But are there not other attributes very desirable—nay, absolutely necessary—in respect to which this time-honoured, picturesque arrangement is so very deficient?

How pleasant it was, too, that one bishop should be getting fifteen thousand a year and another with an equal cure of parsons only four! That a certain prelate could get twenty thousand one year and his successor in the same diocese only five the next! There was something in it pleasant, and picturesque; it was an arrangement endowed with feudal charms, and the change which they have made was distasteful to many of us. A bishop with a regular salary, and no appanage of land and land-bailiffs, is only half a bishop. Let any man prove to me the contrary ever so thoroughly—let me prove it to my own self ever so often, my heart in this matter is not thereby a whit altered. One liked to know that there was a dean or two who got his three thousand a year, and that old Dr. Purple held four stalls, one of which was golden, and the other three silver-gilt! Such knowledge was always pleasant to me! A golden stall! How sweet is the sound thereof to church-loving ears!

But bishops have been shorn of their beauty, and deans are in their decadence. A utilitarian age requires the fatness of the ecclesiastical land, in order that it may be divided out into small portions of provender, on which necessary working clergymen may live,—into portions so infinitesimally small that working clergymen can hardly live. And the full-blown rectors and vicars, with full-blown tithes—with tithes when too full-blown for strict utilitarian principles—will necessarily follow. Stanhope and Doddington must bow their heads, with such compensation for temporal rights as may be extracted,—but probably without such compensation as may be desired. In other trades, professions, and lines of life, men are paid according to their work. Let it be so in the Church. Such will sooner or later be the edict of a utilitarian, reforming, matter-of-fact House of Parliament.

I have a scheme of my own on the subject, which I will not introduce here, seeing that neither men nor women would read it. And with reference to this matter, I will only here further explain that all these words have been brought about by the fact, necessary to be here stated, that Mr. Crawley only received one hundred and thirty pounds a year for performing the whole parochial duty of the parish of Hogglestock. And Hogglestock is a large parish. It includes two populous villages, abounding in brickmakers, a race of men very troublesome to a zealous parson who won’t let men go rollicking to the devil without interference. Hogglestock has full work for two men; and yet all the funds therein applicable to parson’s work is this miserable stipend of one hundred and thirty pounds a year. It is a stipend neither picturesque, nor time-honoured, nor feudal, for Hogglestock takes rank only as a perpetual curacy.

Mr. Crawley has been mentioned before as a clergyman of whom Mr. Robarts said, that he almost thought it wrong to take a walk out of his own parish. In so saying Mark Robarts of course burlesqued his brother parson; but there can be no doubt that Mr. Crawley was a strict man,—a strict, stern, unpleasant man, and one who feared God and his own conscience. We must say a word or two of Mr. Crawley and his concerns.

He was now some forty years of age, but of these he had not been in possession even of his present benefice for more than four or five. The first ten years of his life as a clergyman had been passed in performing the duties and struggling through the life of a curate in a bleak, ugly, cold parish on the northern coast of Cornwall. It had been a weary life and a fearful struggle, made up of duties ill requited and not always satisfactorily performed, of love and poverty, of increasing cares, of sickness, debt, and death. For Mr. Crawley had married almost as soon as he was ordained, and children had been born to him in that chill, comfortless Cornish cottage. He had married a lady well educated and softly nurtured, but not dowered with worldly wealth. They two had gone forth determined to fight bravely together; to disregard the world and the world’s ways, looking only to God and to each other for their comfort. They would give up ideas of gentle living, of soft raiment, and delicate feeding. Others,—those that work with their hands, even the bettermost of such workers—could live in decency and health upon even such provision as he could earn as a clergyman. In such manner would they live, so poorly and so decently, working out their work, not with their hands but with their hearts.

And so they had established themselves, beginning the world with one bare-footed little girl of fourteen to aid them in their small household matters; and for a while they had both kept heart, loving each other dearly, and prospering somewhat in their work. But a man who has once walked the world as a gentleman knows not what it is to change his position, and place himself lower down in the social rank. Much less can he know what it is so to put down the woman whom he loves. There are a thousand things, mean and trifling in themselves, which a man despises when he thinks of them in his philosophy, but to dispense with which puts his philosophy to so stern a proof. Let any plainest man who reads this think of his usual mode of getting himself into his matutinal garments, and confess how much such a struggle would cost him.

And then children had come. The wife of the labouring man does rear her children, and often rears them in health, without even so many appliances of comfort as found their way into Mrs. Crawley’s cottage; but the task to her was almost more than she could accomplish. Not that she ever fainted or gave way: she was made of the sterner metal of the two, and could last on while he was prostrate.

And sometimes he was prostrate—prostrate in soul and spirit. Then would he complain with bitter voice, crying out that the world was too hard for him, that his back was broken with his burden, that his God had deserted him. For days and days, in such moods, he would stay within his cottage, never darkening the door or seeing other face than those of his own inmates. Those days were terrible both to him and her. He would sit there unwashed, with his unshorn face resting on his hand, with an old dressing-gown hanging loose about him, hardly tasting food, seldom speaking, striving to pray, but striving so frequently in vain. And then he would rise from his chair, and, with a burst of frenzy, call upon his Creator to remove him from this misery.

In these moments she never deserted him. At one period they had had four children, and though the whole weight of this young brood rested on her arms, on her muscles, on her strength of mind and body, she never ceased in her efforts to comfort him. Then at length, falling utterly upon the ground, he would pour forth piteous prayers for mercy, and, after a night of sleep, would once more go forth to his work.

But she never yielded to despair: the struggle was never beyond her powers of endurance. She had possessed her share of woman’s loveliness, but that was now all gone. Her colour quickly faded, and the fresh, soft tints soon deserted her face and forehead. She became thin, and rough, and almost haggard: thin, till her cheek-bones were nearly pressing through her skin, till her elbows were sharp, and her finger-bones as those of a skeleton. Her eye did not lose its lustre, but it became unnaturally bright, prominent, and too large for her wan face. The soft brown locks which she had once loved to brush back, scorning, as she would boast to herself, to care that they should be seen, were now sparse enough and all untidy and unclean. It was matter of little thought now whether they were seen or no. Whether he could be made fit to go into his pulpit—whether they might be fed—those four innocents—and their backs kept from the cold wind—that was now the matter of her thought.

And then two of them died, and she went forth herself to see them laid under the frost-bound sod, lest he should faint in his work over their graves. For he would ask aid from no man—such at least was his boast through all.

Two of them died, but their illness had been long; and then debts came upon them. Debt, indeed, had been creeping on them with slow but sure feet during the last five years. Who can see his children hungry, and not take bread if it be offered? Who can see his wife lying in sharpest want, and not seek a remedy if there be a remedy within reach? So debt had come upon them, and rude men pressed for small sums of money—for sums small to the world, but impossibly large to them. And he would hide himself within there, in that cranny of an inner chamber—hide himself with deep shame from the world, with shame, and a sinking heart, and a broken spirit.

But had such a man no friend? it will be said. Such men, I take it, do not make many friends. But this man was not utterly friendless. Almost every year one visit was paid to him in his Cornish curacy by a brother clergyman, an old college friend, who, as far as might in him lie, did give aid to the curate and his wife. This gentleman would take up his abode for a week at a farmer’s in the neighbourhood, and though he found Mr. Crawley in despair, he would leave him with some drops of comfort in his soul. Nor were the benefits in this respect all on one side. Mr. Crawley, though at some periods weak enough for himself, could be strong for others; and, more than once, was strong to the great advantage of this man whom he loved. And then, too, pecuniary assistance was forthcoming—in those earlier years not in great amount, for this friend was not then among the rich ones of the earth—but in amount sufficient for that moderate hearth, if only its acceptance could have been managed. But in that matter there were difficulties without end. Of absolute money tenders Mr. Crawley would accept none. But a bill here and there was paid, the wife assisting; and shoes came for Kate—till Kate was placed beyond the need of shoes; and cloth for Harry and Frank found its way surreptitiously in beneath the cover of that wife’s solitary trunk—cloth with which those lean fingers worked garments for the two boys, to be worn—such was God’s will—only by the one.

Such were Mr. and Mrs. Crawley in their Cornish curacy, and during their severest struggles. To one who thinks that a fair day’s work is worth a fair day’s wages, it seems hard enough that a man should work so hard and receive so little. There will be those who think that the fault was all his own in marrying so young. But still there remains that question, Is not a fair day’s work worth a fair day’s wages? This man did work hard—at a task perhaps the hardest of any that a man may do; and for ten years he earned some seventy pounds a year. Will any one say that he received fair wages for his fair work, let him be married or single? And yet there are so many who would fain pay their clergy, if they only knew how to apply their money! But that is a long subject, as Mr. Robarts had told Miss Dunstable.

Such was Mr. Crawley in his Cornish curacy.

CHAPTER XV.
Lady Lufton’s Ambassador.

And then, in the days which followed, that friend of Mr. Crawley’s, whose name, by-the-by, is yet to be mentioned, received quick and great promotion. Mr. Arabin by name he was then;—Dr. Arabin afterwards, when that quick and great promotion reached its climax. He had been simply a Fellow of Lazarus in those former years. Then he became Vicar of St. Ewold’s, in East Barsetshire, and had not yet got himself settled there when he married the Widow Bold, a widow with belongings in land and funded money, and with but one small baby as an encumbrance. Nor had he even yet married her,—had only engaged himself so to do, when they made him Dean of Barchester—all which may be read in the diocesan and county chronicles.

And now that he was wealthy, the new dean did contrive to pay the debts of his poor friend, some lawyer of Camelford assisting him. It was but a paltry schedule after all, amounting in the total to something not much above a hundred pounds. And then, in the course of eighteen months, this poor piece of preferment fell in the dean’s way, this incumbency of Hogglestock with its stipend reaching one hundred and thirty pounds a year. Even that was worth double the Cornish curacy, and there was, moreover, a house attached to it. Poor Mrs. Crawley, when she heard of it, thought that their struggles of poverty were now well nigh over. What might not be done with a hundred and thirty pounds by people who had lived for ten years on seventy?

And so they moved away out of that cold, bleak country, carrying with them their humble household gods, and settled themselves in another country, cold and bleak also, but less terribly so than the former. They settled themselves, and again began their struggles against man’s hardness and the devil’s zeal. I have said that Mr. Crawley was a stern, unpleasant man; and it certainly was so. The man must be made of very sterling stuff, whom continued and undeserved misfortune does not make unpleasant. This man had so far succumbed to grief, that it had left upon him its marks, palpable and not to be effaced. He cared little for society, judging men to be doing evil who did care for it. He knew as a fact, and believed with all his heart, that these sorrows had come to him from the hand of God, and that they would work for his weal in the long run; but not the less did they make him morose, silent, and dogged. He had always at his heart a feeling that he and his had been ill-used, and too often solaced himself, at the devil’s bidding, with the conviction that eternity would make equal that which life in this world had made so unequal;—the last bait that with which the devil angles after those who are struggling to elude his rod and line.

The Framley property did not run into the parish of Hogglestock; but, nevertheless, Lady Lufton did what she could in the way of kindness to these new comers. Providence had not supplied Hogglestock with a Lady Lufton, or with any substitute in the shape of lord or lady, squire or squiress. The Hogglestock farmers, male and female, were a rude, rough set, not bordering in their social rank on the farmer gentle; and Lady Lufton, knowing this, and hearing something of these Crawleys from Mrs. Arabin, the dean’s wife, trimmed her lamps, so that they should shed a wider light, and pour forth some of their influence on that forlorn household.

And as regards Mrs. Crawley, Lady Lufton by no means found that her work and good-will were thrown away. Mrs. Crawley accepted her kindness with thankfulness, and returned to some of the softnesses of life under her hand. As for dining at Framley Court, that was out of the question. Mr. Crawley, she knew, would not hear of it, even if other things were fitting and appliances were at command. Indeed Mrs. Crawley at once said that she felt herself unfit to go through such a ceremony with anything like comfort. The dean, she said, would talk of their going to stay at the deanery; but she thought it quite impossible that either of them should endure even that. But, all the same, Lady Lufton was a comfort to her; and the poor woman felt that it was well to have a lady near her in case of need.

The task was much harder with Mr. Crawley, but even with him it was not altogether unsuccessful. Lady Lufton talked to him of his parish and of her own; made Mark Robarts go to him, and by degrees did something towards civilizing him. Between him and Robarts too there grew up an intimacy rather than a friendship. Robarts would submit to his opinion on matters of ecclesiastical and even theological law, would listen to him with patience, would agree with him where he could, and differ from him mildly when he could not. For Robarts was a man who made himself pleasant to all men. And thus, under Lady Lufton’s wing, there grew up a connection between Framley and Hogglestock, in which Mrs. Robarts also assisted.

And now that Lady Lufton was looking about her, to see how she might best bring proper clerical influence to bear upon her own recreant fox-hunting parson, it occurred to her that she might use Mr. Crawley in the matter. Mr. Crawley would certainly be on her side as far as opinion went, and would have no fear as to expressing his opinion to his brother clergyman. So she sent for Mr. Crawley.

In appearance he was the very opposite to Mark Robarts. He was a lean, slim, meagre man, with shoulders slightly curved, and pale, lank, long locks of ragged hair; his forehead was high, but his face was narrow; his small grey eyes were deeply sunken in his head, his nose was well-formed, his lips thin and his mouth expressive. Nobody could look at him without seeing that there was a purpose and a meaning in his countenance. He always wore, in summer and winter, a long dusky gray coat, which buttoned close up to his neck and descended almost to his heels. He was full six feet high, but being so slight in build, he looked as though he were taller.

He came at once at Lady Lufton’s bidding, putting himself into the gig beside the servant, to whom he spoke no single word during the journey. And the man, looking into his face, was struck with taciturnity. Now Mark Robarts would have talked with him the whole way from Hogglestock to Framley Court; discoursing partly as to horses and land, but partly also as to higher things.

And then Lady Lufton opened her mind and told her griefs to Mr. Crawley, urging, however, through the whole length of her narrative, that Mr. Robarts was an excellent parish clergyman,—“just such a clergyman in his church, as I would wish him to be,” she explained, with the view of saving herself from an expression of any of Mr. Crawley’s special ideas as to church teaching, and of confining him to the one subject-matter in hand; “but he got this living so young, Mr. Crawley, that he is hardly quite as steady as I could wish him to be. It has been as much my fault as his own in placing him in such a position so early in life.”

“I think it has,” said Mr. Crawley, who might perhaps be a little sore on such a subject.

“Quite so, quite so,” continued her ladyship, swallowing down with a gulp a certain sense of anger. “But that is done now, and is past cure. That Mr. Robarts will become a credit to his profession, I do not doubt, for his heart is in the right place and his sentiments are good; but I fear that at present he is succumbing to temptation.”

“I am told that he hunts two or three times a week. Everybody round us is talking about it.”

“No, Mr. Crawley; not two or three times a week; very seldom above once, I think. And then I do believe he does it more with the view of being with Lord Lufton than anything else.”

“I cannot see that that would make the matter better,” said Mr. Crawley.

“It would show that he was not strongly imbued with a taste which I cannot but regard as vicious in a clergyman.”

“It must be vicious in all men,” said Mr. Crawley. “It is in itself cruel, and leads to idleness and profligacy.”

Again Lady Lufton made a gulp. She had called Mr. Crawley thither to her aid, and felt that it would be inexpedient to quarrel with him. But she did not like to be told that her son’s amusement was idle and profligate. She had always regarded hunting as a proper pursuit for a country gentleman. It was, indeed, in her eyes one of the peculiar institutions of country life in England, and it may be almost said that she looked upon the Barsetshire hunt as something sacred. She could not endure to hear that a fox was trapped, and allowed her turkeys to be purloined without a groan. Such being the case, she did not like being told that it was vicious, and had by no means wished to consult Mr. Crawley on that matter. But nevertheless she swallowed down her wrath.

“It is at any rate unbecoming in a clergyman,” she said; “and as I know that Mr. Robarts places a high value on your opinion, perhaps you will not object to advise him to discontinue it. He might possibly feel aggrieved were I to interfere personally on such a question.”

“I have no doubt he would,” said Mr. Crawley. “It is not within a woman’s province to give counsel to a clergyman on such a subject, unless she be very near and very dear to him—his wife, or mother, or sister.”

“As living in the same parish, you know, and being, perhaps——” the leading person in it, and the one who naturally rules the others. Those would have been the fitting words for the expression of her ladyship’s ideas; but she remembered herself, and did not use them. She had made up her mind that, great as her influence ought to be, she was not the proper person to speak to Mr. Robarts as to his pernicious, unclerical habits, and she would not now depart from her resolve by attempting to prove that she was the proper person.

“Yes,” said Mr. Crawley, “just so. All that would entitle him to offer you his counsel if he thought that your mode of life was such as to require it, but could by no means justify you in addressing yourself to him.”

This was very hard upon Lady Lufton. She was endeavouring with all her woman’s strength to do her best, and endeavouring so to do it that the feelings of the sinner might be spared; and yet the ghostly comforter whom she had evoked to her aid, treated her as though she were arrogant and overbearing. She acknowledged the weakness of her own position with reference to her parish clergyman by calling in the aid of Mr. Crawley; and under such circumstances, he might, at any rate, have abstained from throwing that weakness in her teeth.

“Well, sir; I hope my mode of life may not require it; but that is not exactly to the point: what I wish to know is, whether you will speak to Mr. Robarts?”

“Certainly I will,” said he.

“Then I shall be much obliged to you. But, Mr. Crawley, pray—pray, remember this: I would not on any account wish that you should be harsh with him. He is an excellent young man, and——”

“Lady Lufton, if I do this, I can only do it in my own way, as best I may, using such words as God may give me at the time. I hope that I am harsh to no man; but it is worse than useless, in all cases, to speak anything but the truth.”

“Of course—of course.”

“If the ears be too delicate to bear the truth, the mind will be too perverse to profit by it.” And then Mr. Crawley got up to take his leave.

But Lady Lufton insisted that he should go with her to luncheon. He hummed and ha’d and would fain have refused, but on this subject she was peremptory. It might be that she was unfit to advise a clergyman as to his duties, but in a matter of hospitality she did know what she was about. Mr. Crawley should not leave the house without refreshment. As to this, she carried her point; and Mr. Crawley—when the matter before him was cold roast-beef and hot potatoes, instead of the relative position of a parish priest and his parishioner—became humble, submissive, and almost timid. Lady Lufton recommended Madeira instead of Sherry, and Mr. Crawley obeyed at once, and was, indeed, perfectly unconscious of the difference. Then there was a basket of seakale in the gig for Mrs. Crawley; that he would have left behind had he dared, but he did not dare. Not a word was said to him as to the marmalade for the children which was hidden under the seakale, Lady Lufton feeling well aware that that would find its way to its proper destination without any necessity for his co-operation. And then Mr. Crawley returned home in the Framley Court gig.

Three or four days after this he walked over to Framley Parsonage. This he did on a Saturday, having learned that the hounds never hunted on that day; and he started early, so that he might be sure to catch Mr. Robarts before he went out on his parish business. He was quite early enough to attain this object, for when he reached the Parsonage door at about half-past nine, the vicar, with his wife and sister, were just sitting down to breakfast.

“Oh, Crawley,” said Robarts, before the other had well spoken, “you are a capital fellow;” and then he got him into a chair, and Mrs. Robarts had poured him out tea, and Lucy had surrendered to him a knife and plate, before he knew under what guise to excuse his coming among them.

“I hope you will excuse this intrusion,” at last he muttered; “but I have a few words of business to which I will request your attention presently.”

“Certainly,” said Robarts, conveying a broiled kidney on to the plate before Mr. Crawley; “but there is no preparation for business like a good breakfast. Lucy, hand Mr. Crawley the buttered toast. Eggs, Fanny; where are the eggs?” And then John, in livery, brought in the fresh eggs. “Now we shall do. I always eat my eggs while they’re hot, Crawley, and I advise you to do the same.”

To all this Mr. Crawley said very little, and he was not at all at home under the circumstances. Perhaps a thought did pass across his brain, as to the difference between the meal which he had left on his own table, and that which he now saw before him; and as to any cause which might exist for such difference. But, if so, it was a very fleeting thought, for he had far other matter now fully occupying his mind. And then the breakfast was over, and in a few minutes the two clergymen found themselves together in the Parsonage study.

“Mr. Robarts,” began the senior, when he had seated himself uncomfortably on one of the ordinary chairs at the further side of the well-stored library table, while Mark was sitting at his ease in his own arm-chair by the fire, “I have called upon you on an unpleasant business.”

Mark’s mind immediately flew off to Mr. Sowerby’s bill, but he could not think it possible that Mr. Crawley could have had anything to do with that.

“But as a brother clergyman, and as one who esteems you much and wishes you well, I have thought myself bound to take this matter in hand.”

“What matter is it, Crawley?”

“Mr. Robarts, men say that your present mode of life is one that is not befitting a soldier in Christ’s army.”

“Men say so! what men?”

“The men around you, of your own neighbourhood; those who watch your life, and know all your doings; those who look to see you walking as a lamp to guide their feet, but find you consorting with horse jockeys and hunters, galloping after hounds, and taking your place among the vainest of worldly pleasure-seekers. Those who have a right to expect an example of good living, and who think that they do not see it.”

Mr. Crawley had gone at once to the root of the matter, and in doing so, had certainly made his own task so much the easier. There is nothing like going to the root of the matter at once when one has on hand an unpleasant piece of business.

“And have such men deputed you to come here?”

“No one has or could depute me. I have come to speak my own mind, not that of any other. But I refer to what those around you think and say, because it is to them that your duties are due. You owe it to those around you to live a godly, cleanly life;—as you owe it also, in a much higher way, to your Father who is in heaven. I now make bold to ask you whether you are doing your best to lead such a life as that?” And then he remained silent, waiting for an answer.

He was a singular man; so humble and meek, so unutterably inefficient and awkward in the ordinary intercourse of life, but so bold and enterprising, almost eloquent on the one subject which was the work of his mind! As he sat there, he looked into his companion’s face from out his sunken grey eyes with a gaze which made his victim quail. And then repeated his words: “I now make bold to ask you, Mr. Robarts, whether you are doing your best to lead such a life as may become a parish clergyman among his parishioners?” And again he paused for an answer.

“There are but few of us,” said Mark in a low tone, “who could safely answer that question in the affirmative.”

“But are there many, think you, among us who would find the question so unanswerable as yourself? And even, were there many, would you, young, enterprising, and talented as you are, be content to be numbered among them? Are you satisfied to be a castaway after you have taken upon yourself Christ’s armour? If you will say so, I am mistaken in you, and will go my way.” There was again a pause, and then he went on. “Speak to me, my brother, and open your heart if it be possible.” And rising from his chair, he walked across the room, and laid his hand tenderly on Mark’s shoulder.

Mark had been sitting lounging in his chair, and had at first, for a moment only, thought to brazen it out. But all idea of brazening had now left him. He had raised himself from his comfortable ease, and was leaning forward with his elbow on the table; but now, when he heard these words, he allowed his head to sink upon his arms, and he buried his face between his hands.

“It is a terrible falling off,” continued Crawley: “terrible in the fall, but doubly terrible through that difficulty of returning. But it cannot be that it should content you to place yourself as one among those thoughtless sinners, for the crushing of whose sin you have been placed here among them. You become a hunting parson, and ride with a happy mind among blasphemers and mocking devils—you, whose aspirations were so high, who have spoken so often and so well of the duties of a minister of Christ; you, who can argue in your pride as to the petty details of your church, as though the broad teachings of its great and simple lessons were not enough for your energies! It cannot be that I have had a hypocrite beside me in all those eager controversies!”

“Not a hypocrite—not a hypocrite,” said Mark, in a tone which was almost reduced to sobbing.

“But a castaway! Is it so that I must call you? No, Mr. Robarts, not a castaway; neither a hypocrite, nor a castaway; but one who in walking has stumbled in the dark and bruised his feet among the stones. Henceforth let him take a lantern in his hand, and look warily to his path, and walk cautiously among the thorns and rocks,—cautiously, but yet boldly, with manly courage, but Christian meekness, as all men should walk on their pilgrimage through this vale of tears.” And then without giving his companion time to stop him be hurried out of the room, and from the house, and without again seeing any others of the family, stalked back on his road to Hogglestock, thus tramping fourteen miles through the deep mud in performance of the mission on which he had been sent.

It was some hours before Mr. Robarts left his room. As soon as he found that Crawley was really gone, and that he should see him no more, he turned the lock of his door, and sat himself down to think over his present life. At about eleven his wife knocked, not knowing whether that other strange clergyman were there or no, for none had seen his departure. But Mark, answering cheerily, desired that he might be left to his studies.

Let us hope that his thoughts and mental resolves were then of service to him.

Campaigning in China.

At a time when military operations in China are about to be undertaken upon a more extended scale than have hitherto been attempted in the Celestial Empire, some account of the longest march into the interior of the country ever yet performed by British troops may not be uninteresting. To judge from the recent accounts which we have received from India, the prospect of Chinese campaigning, so far from exciting that enthusiasm which the novelty and interest of the undertaking might have been expected to awaken, has produced the very opposite effect. The military departmental mind is filled with doubts and vague misgivings. The Quartermaster-General’s staff shake their heads with a mysterious despondency, already oppressed with the weight of prospective cares, the nature of which can only be appreciated by those who have shared in the duties and responsibilities of their office. The Commissariat is no less overwhelmed with a sense of its probable inefficiency, modestly diffident of its capacity to perform its functions in the unknown regions of the far East; while the parallel which has been drawn by those who have visited both countries, between the plains of Chih-li and the steppes of the Crimea, are by no means reassuring to the Land Transport Corps, who are reminded by the comparison of experience not altogether encouraging. So we have croaking articles in the Indian journals, and gloomy forebodings on the part of officers experienced in Indian warfare, who have never been in China, but who “know the East,” and are, therefore, qualified to speak with confidence and authority upon all affairs, military or diplomatic, which may be undertaken anywhere between Cairo and the Sandwich Islands.

It is as well that we should remember, at this early period of our operations, that whatever may be their result, there will be a large class of persons who “always told us so,” and who some years hence, on the occasion of the next Chinese war, will also inform us triumphantly that they “always said that sooner or later there would be another row.” These gentlemen now talk learnedly about blocking up the Grand Canal, which no longer exists; and occupying Nankin, which is no longer Imperial; and operating up the Yang-tse-kiang, though we are left in doubt as to the nature of the operations they propose. They foresee the most formidable obstacles to a march of thirty miles across the plains of Chih-li, but it remains to be seen whether this foresight will be made available to provide against these difficulties, or whether the greatest impediment may not arise from the entire misapplication of the very quality assumed. Some remarkable cases of this description of forethought occurred during the Crimean war, to which it is not necessary now to allude, more especially as more recent instances exist in connection with the Chinese operations contemplated in 1857. We would suggest that those ponderous iron grates, for example, which now ornament the dockyard at Hong Kong, where they are stacked in tiers, and which had considerately been supplied to the army in the event of a campaign, be left where they are, as it will probably be found that a Whitworth’s gun weighing 200 pounds will be more useful and less troublesome on the march than a grate of twice that weight: temporary fireplaces may be constructed with three bricks, and the plains of Chih-li abound in kilns. Doubtless, if the army is detained in the north until a late period of the year, fires will be an immense comfort; but if those sepoys who are destined to encounter the severity of the winter are not provided with flannel waistcoats, the tiers of iron grates will fail to supply them with a sufficient amount of caloric.

It is not improbable, that if the army reaches Tien-tsin, and its occupation of that city is protracted over any space of time, telegraphic communication with the coast may be deemed a desirable object. Should any such project be entertained, we trust it will not be considered impertinent if we express a hope that batteries be sent out as well as wire. Upon the last occasion, when a similar attempt was made in China, it was not until after the wire was laid down from the landing-place to head-quarters that the discovery was made that the most essential item had been forgotten, and that a wire, however well laid, if it had nothing but a general at one end and an admiral at the other, could not possibly convey a message.

Meantime, the observations made during a march of five days with a thousand men, in the province of Quang-tung, just a year ago, may be of interest to those who do not “know the East.” And here we would remind the reader, who may make any use of this information he pleases, that there are men in China who have an intimate knowledge of the country, who have already had a military experience of some years there, and whose hints will probably be more useful before the operations commence, than after our ignorance has led us into serious difficulty.

The expedition about to be described was undertaken in the early spring of last year. Its destination was Fayune, a town situated between thirty and forty miles north of Canton, or about the same distance as Tien-tsin is from the mouth of the Peiho. Its object was to strike terror into the Braves of the ninety-six villages—a confederation which had, during the preceding year, combined to furnish a force of local militia, or rather blackguards, for the purpose of harassing our garrison at Canton. During the summer their attacks had been constant and most annoying. The climate at that time of year rendered any attempt at retaliation on the part of our troops most dangerous; and it was, therefore, deemed more advisable to submit to a nightly discharge of rockets and gingals, than to expose the men to the risk of sunstrokes.

We were the more anxious to inflict a summary chastisement upon these so-called “Braves,” so soon as the season should admit of it, as diplomatic pressure had been exerted in vain at Tien-tsin to effect the same object; the Court of Pekin repudiating any complicity in the hostilities in the south, though documents subsequently came into the possession of the authorities, clearly proving, not only the cognizance of the government, but the fact that the military organization of the south was being actually carried on under Imperial auspices, and the leaders of it honoured with buttons and promotion. These leaders were formed into committees and sub-committees, and styled “managers of barbarian affairs.” In consequence, however, of the representations of the British authorities, their functions in this capacity were no longer recognized, and they had latterly for some time past appeared in proclamations as “Commissioners for the enlistment of militia.” The most notorious of these committees was that known as the “Gang-leang,” which was divided into four sub-committees.

The most active members were three mandarins in mourning, by name Lung, Soo, and Lo. These men were of considerable standing in the government service, but the fact of their being in mourning deprived them of the power of accepting any official position for a term of years. It did not, however, debar them from serving their country in a promiscuous manner, and they chose their present occupation of organizing Braves against barbarians, as the one most acceptable to the government, and most likely to lead to honour and distinction. In the prosecution of their functions, they levied heavy taxes upon the unfortunate country people, who thus found themselves between two fires;—in danger, on the one hand, of being mistaken for Braves by our troops, and on the other, obliged to contribute to a body of ruffians, who, when not engaged in attacking us, amused themselves in plundering the unhappy peasantry. These Committees formed, in fact, the rallying points for the miscreants of all the surrounding districts; rebels who found rebellion did not pay, robbers who had made their own neighbourhood too hot to hold them, scamps who loved plunder better than toil,—all flocked to the standards of Lung, Soo and Lo, who received them with open arms, and gave them a carte blanche to bully the country people, and squeeze their own living out of unprotected rustics.

One of the most important of the sub-committees of the Gang-leang was at a village called Shek-tsing, distant about eight miles from Canton. Here a notorious Brave leader, by name Leang-paou-heun, held his court, and from here he issued one fine morning and attacked a party of our troops exercising in the neighbourhood of Canton. It was resolved to commence the operations of the winter by honouring Leang with a morning call, of a character to which he was not accustomed. In pursuance of this design, the necessary preparations were made, and rumours thereof reaching the ears of the Fayune Commissioners, they issued a proclamation calling upon the people to arm, which was found among their papers after the capture of Shek-tsing, an extract from which, as a curious specimen of Chinese military tactics, is worthy of insertion. The various villages are directed “to provide themselves with a number of gongs and horns, and thus simulate the presence of an imposing force. At daylight on the 8th, ranges of cooking places will be constructed in the Shek-tsing hills, in which food may be prepared for the people who collect there, and permission to do so is given to all classes, whether old or young, strong or infirm. All the expenses will be defrayed by this committee; and it has been already resolved that every person coming to the assembly shall receive a daily ration of four candareens (about six cents), but this money will have in the first instance to be advanced by the committee of each village. Every person who comes armed and prepared to fight will, in addition, receive one mace of silver (about fourteen cents) as his daily pay: each committee is also requested to provide cooking utensils.”

A well-contrived attack upon the Brave position at Shek-tsing resulted in the utter discomfiture of the nondescript army, collected in obedience to the foregoing mandate, the casualties on our side amounting only to four wounded. The house of the notorious Leang-paou-heun was gutted and burned, to the great satisfaction of the country people, whom he had been squeezing for some months past, at the rate of twelve catties of grain per mow, which was, in fact, a tax of from twelve to twenty per cent. No wonder they exclaimed, as they clustered joyfully round the smouldering embers, and waited till they should cool sufficiently for purposes of closer investigation: “Oh! Amidha Buddha! blessed be Heaven for having willed its destruction, and the barbarians for having effected it.” Pihquei afterwards accused Leang of having appropriated the pay of one thousand Braves who had never been enrolled.

The affair of Shek-tsing was productive of so salutary an effect upon both the peasantry and the Braves, that it was deemed desirable to confirm the impression by military promenades in the neighbourhood of Canton, whereby we should give indisputable evidence of our power—hitherto always denied by the Chinese—to operate by land as well as by water.

The three chief Commissioners were still holding court in fancied security in the mountain village of Fayune; and although their efforts to re-enlist Braves were by no means so successful as formerly, still it was thought expedient to run these gentry to earth, if possible, and thus extinguish the vital principle of an organization which had been a source of considerable annoyance to us during our occupancy of Canton.

The force destined for this operation consisted of only a thousand men, of whom one hundred and fifty were French blue-jackets. We marched out of the north-west gate of Canton upon a sharp, clear February morning. The chances of a skirmish, though somewhat remote, were sufficient to produce an exhilarating effect upon the men, who stepped briskly out as they filed in a thin irregular line along the narrow ridges which divided the now dry rice-fields. In three hours we reached the village of Shek-tsing, with its clear winding river, spanned by a charmingly picturesque bridge of seven quaint arches, its groves of bamboo, its fir-clothed knolls, shattered yamun and field of conflict. Here the country people approached reverentially, and we once more wandered amid the ruins caused by our own artillery, and gazed from the hill in rear over the peaceful landscape, across which the progress of the troops was indicated by a winding black thread. About five miles beyond Shek-tsing we reached Kong-soong, a village situated upon a river, which it was necessary to ferry. As this was an operation which involved some delay, considering the limited number of ferry-boats, and the large quantity of camp-followers, it was decided to camp here for the night, and those among us who were mounted, and did not mind a wetting, scrambled across to the opposite shore, where a fair was going on, and the dirty little streets of the village were crowded with unctuous Chinamen. We rode among this noisy, chattering rabble without provoking the slightest expression of animosity. Curiosity and avarice were the predominating sentiments here, as they always will be wherever a European army presents itself in China. The first impulse of a peasant under these circumstances is to stare at you, the next to sell something to you. Even when alone and unarmed, it does not enter into his head to insult you, unless incited thereto by the authorities. The population at large consider an invading army hostile to the troops of their government, but by no means hostile to themselves: hence they stand and look on as impartial spectators upon the occasion of a conflict, and even before it is over come actually under fire to see if anything in the way of trade may be managed. Under these circumstances an invading force need never be under apprehension on the score of commissariat.

For months past the efforts of the Commissioners had been directed towards prejudicing the mind of the country people against us; the most absurd stories of our cruel and barbarous nature had become current among them; the government at Pekin had lent itself to the fabrication of these, and had even issued a secret edict on the subject, the nature of which will be gathered from the following extract:—

“As to the Province of Kwang-tung, which has hitherto been famed for its loyalty and patriotism, and on a former occasion received from his late Majesty the monumental inscription—‘A Sovereign’s reward for a people’s devotion,’ and a special edict expressing his marked approval of their conduct, and the gratification it afforded him,—we look to those high ministers, Lo and others (the Fayune Commissioners), to give effect to our wishes. On them the duty rests of making in secret all the necessary arrangements, of marshalling the rural population without attracting observation, and of everywhere establishing train-bands; and by seeming among them combination, as well as by rousing them to exertion, and keeping their communications everywhere complete, they may present to the outer barbarians such a display of the power of China, as shall cause them to retire from the position they have assumed.

“In order to secure secrecy in their proceedings, and to prevent any notice of the scheme escaping, the authorities must no longer appear to act a hostile part (towards the foreigners), but must only direct the people to oppose them. Nor need any communication whatever be held with the local functionaries, nor even with the governor-general and the governor of the province. Thus, if victory attend us, we may be assured that we are fulfilling the demands of heaven; but if defeat, we shall still avoid being involved in war. And it is not impossible that we may see, as the result of this scheme, peace gradually taking the place of those foreign troubles, and assaults upon our nation, which we have experienced during some years past. We may see a stop put to barbarian encroachments, and glory again descending upon the civilization of China.

“Let the efforts of you, my Ministers (the Fayune Commissioners), be directed to this end, and do not disappoint the hopes of your sovereign. When you shall have received this secret edict, hasten to draw up a minute statement of the measures which you think necessary for the execution of these objects, and forward to us by flying courier. Let there be no delay; and let this important edict, which is for the information of the Commissioners, be forwarded to them by an express of 600 li per day.”

Considering that this singular manifesto of the Imperial policy, which came into our hands in the course of our operations, reached Fayune in November, or about three months prior to our arrival there, and that during this interval no effort had been spared to incite the population against us, we had no reason to anticipate an actually friendly demeanour on the part of the people. So far, however, from the machinations of the Commissioners against us having operated to our prejudice, we found the rural population on all occasions overwhelmingly polite; and their disposition in this respect is worthy of note, as corresponding precisely to that manifested by the villagers on the banks of the Peiho; on the occasion of the ascent of the allied forces up that river after the first attack upon the forts at Taku, and entitles us to expect a similar reception again, in the event of a march across the plains of Chih-li upon Tien-tsin becoming necessary.

Our day’s march had led us through a country pleasantly diversified, although at this time of year it was dry, and the crops few and far between. Numerous undulations, and conical mounds of tumulus form, richly wooded, relieved the landscape of all monotony, and often furnished agreeable scenic effects. Clear broad streams, navigated by flat-bottomed boats, flowed between fertile banks and past flourishing villages, seaward; and picturesquely situated upon one of these was a quaint old joss-house, which was converted into General Straubenzee’s head-quarters for the night. As viewed from the edge of the river bank, the scene was eminently picturesque. Ferry-boats, crowded with men, were plying actively from shore to shore; horsemen were fording, coolies shouting, and villagers were rushing in excited groups to wonder at the strange proceedings of the barbarian horde. Meantime a canvas village is rapidly springing up all round the joss-house; arms are piled, sentries posted, camp-fires blaze, kettles bubble, corks pop, and the contents of hampers are strewn upon the ground; a Babel of tongues rises above the clatter of dinner preparations, as Hindustani and French, Chinese and English, mingle in discordant tumult. Here a group of our Gallican allies are clustered eagerly over a salad; in close proximity a party of sepoys are scouring brass cooking vessels, carefully guarding them from the defiling touch of the infidel. There some of the Coolie Corps, composed of sleek Chinamen, who have grown juicy on British pay, are returning laden with the offal of some domestic animal, or other culinary delicacy, from the village. John Bull is making a very coarse brew of coffee, and doing his best to spoil the materials with which he has been furnished for his evening meal. Then the band strikes up, and the wondering villagers, who have been sufficiently confused by strange sights, now listen to strange sounds, and only disperse reluctantly at last as evening closes in; and the men get tired of singing choruses, and crowd into the tents; and the full moon rises above the flaming waters of the river, as they rush over a pebbly bed, and throws dark shadows into the bamboo grove, upon the edge of which the flash of a sentry’s bayonet is here and there visible.

Day had not dawned before our camp was astir on the following morning, and, quitting the relics of our festivities of the previous evening, we were once more filing along the dividing ridges of paddy-fields. The narrowness of the paths and bridges caused considerable embarrassment to our artillery, although the force was only accompanied by light 3-pounder field-pieces. A log bridge is an obstacle even to this portable arm, and it is satisfactory to know that, in the country about to be traversed in the north, no difficulties of this description present themselves: the roads are broad enough for wheeled vehicles, unknown in the south, and Indian corn, and other cereals requiring dry cultivation, do not render the whole country a swamp at certain seasons of the year; but if we have every reason to congratulate ourselves upon the character of the country being totally different in Chih-li from that of Quang-tung, we may esteem ourselves no less fortunate that our experience of the disposition of the inhabitants is equally favourable in both. It will be remembered that on the occasion of the advance of the gunboats up the Peiho in 1858, after the capture of the forts at Taku, the country people on the banks welcomed us as the precursors of a new dynasty, seeking to ingratiate themselves into favour by offering us provisions, and even, according to the statement of Sir Michael Seymour, assisting us in extricating our gunboats from difficulties, in the course of their passage up that little-known stream. So, throughout our march to Fayune, we met with nothing but civility from the peasantry, although our progress was to all intents and purposes that of an invading army, hostile to their government, and avowedly undertaken for the purpose of encountering and defeating the troops raised by the Imperial government to resist us. At every village the elders came forth and stood by the roadside, presiding over tables, upon which cups of tea for the refreshment of the troops were ranged in tempting array, and presented us with slips of pink paper, the tokens of amity and good-will. In return for these, we distributed proclamations of a reassuring character, and had every reason to believe that our presence, so for from inspiring mistrust or alarm, was productive of the most wholesome effect, as tending to disabuse the minds of the people of the prejudices which had been excited against us.

A practical evidence of the confidence established was furnished by the readiness with which we obtained coolies from the villages through which we passed, to assist in the conveyance of baggage; so that, in addition to the Land Transport Corps, composed entirely of Chinamen, some hundreds of the peasantry might have been seen jogging merrily in long single file under the burdens imposed upon their shoulders by the enemy, who had become converted into friends by the transfer of a few dollars.

Although we should be far from recommending the authorities to rely absolutely upon the co-operation of the country people in the north of China, the possibility of their being rendered available should not be lost sight of, whilst it is impossible to over-estimate the value of a corps which was raised at the commencement of the operations in the south, and which proved of the utmost service throughout the hostilities at Canton. The men composing this corps are recruited from Canton and its neighbourhood: hardy, patient, and enduring, their patriotic scruples, if they ever existed, vanish before the pay and comfort with which they are now provided. The English officers in charge have always spoken in the highest terms of the obedience and efficiency of these men, and it is most desirable that their numbers should be augmented in the event of a campaign being undertaken in the north. Hitherto they have always behaved admirably under the fire of their own countrymen, and delight in contrasting their favoured condition with that of their less fortunate relatives or friends who have not shaken off their allegiance. For dragging guns, carrying sick or wounded, and doing all the heavy work of an army on the march, they answer all the purposes of beasts of burden, and, with a little previous drilling and discipline, are much more useful. Their uniform consists of a conical straw hat and cross-belt, with the name and number of the corps marked upon it.

The day’s march led us through a more arid and Indian-looking country than that of yesterday. At this time of year, almost the only grain cultivated is wheat. After two crops of rice have been taken off the ground, they are followed by an edition of wheat, so sparse and sickly as to give a somewhat sterile aspect to the country. Towards midday we halted at a pretty little village, in a fir wood, for luncheon. Here the whole population turned out, as usual, to inspect us: women, on small feet, hobbled impetuously across the rough fields, to the peril of the infants swung at their backs or carried in their arms; but female curiosity is as strong in Quang-tung as elsewhere, and doubtless was succeeded by those sentiments of admiration which a red coat always excites in the feminine breast. The chief magistrate of Fayune met us here, and endeavoured to propitiate us with sweetmeats. The Fayune Commissioners, he said, had vanished, and were nowhere to be heard of. His own heart was filled with pleasure at the prospect of a visit from so charming a company in his secluded house. Any arrangements necessary for the comfort of the troops should be promptly attended to. In fact, if this old gentleman had been the Pope, and we had been an army of Austrians, he could not have appeared more delighted to receive us.

Gaiety and merrymaking being the order of the day, the band was ordered to play, and while the elders were crowding around it, we effected a diversion in their favour by giving scrambles for cash to the juvenile portion of the community. Altogether, we had every reason to believe that, after spending two hours in this little village with a long and unpronounceable name, we left it universally beloved and regretted.

We halted for the night at a village called Ping-shan, situated upon a dry paddy-field expanse, out of which isolated wooded hills rose like islands. Here we found a magnificent ancestral hall, highly decorated, dedicated to the memory of sundry eminent men who had sprung from the surrounding villages, and whose fame and virtues were recorded upon elaborate tablets. These buildings are common throughout China, being used by the descendants of the persons in whose honour they have been erected, as a sort of club. As they are generally of great extent, containing numerous suites of apartments, and affording shelter for a large party of men and beasts, they are most convenient for officers’ quarters; and it was with no little satisfaction that we took possession of the rooms usually occupied by the Fayune Commissioners, and established ourselves luxuriously for the night. It is worthy of note that in respect of accommodation of this description, the numerous temples, yamuns, and ancestral and Confucian halls, &c., with which all districts of the empire abound, offer great advantages to an invading army.

On the following day we reached Fayune. Our first view of the town, from the summit of a hill, to which we clambered for the purpose of a general survey, was charming. Nestling snugly at the base of a range of hills from 1,500 feet to 2,000 feet in height, the little walled village looked like the stronghold of some mountain robber who had established himself on the edge of the rich country stretching away to the south. Groves of magnificent trees dotted the landscape, and seemed to bestow their especial patronage upon the town itself, a part of which was buried in rich foliage. To its left was a remarkable conical hill, surmounted by a pagoda. After feasting our eyes upon the scene at our feet, we descended into the valley, and forming in more regular order, filed between the rows of people who had come out to meet us, and passed through the massive gateway into the town, the band leading the way, and the Chinese guard turning out to salute us. So, then, we found ourselves in the lions’ den without having encountered the slightest opposition, or, apparently, excited any alarm. Although but a few weeks had elapsed since the most violent manifestoes had been issued against us from this very spot, and it had been for months the focus from whence had radiated the hostility of both the Imperial authorities and gentry, yet we found ourselves the objects of universal attention and civility, and explored at pleasure the town and neighbourhood, alone and unarmed. The town itself was mean and insignificant, but was surrounded by a wall in perfect order; the embrasures, however, had been denuded of their guns prior to our arrival. The wall was not above a mile in circumference, so that the place presented almost the appearance of a fort. It had a wild, cut-throat look—as different from an ordinary Chinese town as a pirate schooner from an old East Indiaman. We appropriated the yamun, which had been for some months past occupied by the Commissioners, who had considerately evacuated the premises in our favour. The most profound ignorance was assumed as to the present hiding-place of these gentry, so we were obliged to content ourselves with using their bedrooms and exploring their establishment. Most of the troops were comfortably lodged in the temples and public buildings of the town, others were camped on a hill in rear.

The proximity of the mountain range tempted some of us to explore its unknown beauties. Nor were we disappointed with the result of our exertions. After a hard scramble without guides, we reached the summit, Kow-pak-chang, or the thousand-chang-hill, and gazed from it over beautiful broken country, stretching northward, with secluded valleys, highly cultivated, winding between rugged mountain ranges, where villages in a setting of rich verdure hugged the banks of brawling streams, spanned by quaint high-arched bridges, and square feudal towers rose above the tree-clumps. It was singular to think that two Europeans should find themselves in a position of perfect safety, five or six miles away from assistance, looking down upon scenes, in all probability, never before witnessed by the eye of a foreigner, in the midst of a population with whom we were supposed to be in an attitude of open hostility. The top of a hill two thousand feet high, in the month of February, is a very cold place, even in the south of China, and we were glad to turn our backs upon its bleak summit, and taking one last look at the lovely scene beyond us, to hurry down into the sunny plain. We observed on our way numerous granite quarries, indicating the formation of the range.

Our exertions enabled us to do ample justice to an elaborate Chinese repast, which the chief magistrate, in the plenitude of his civility, sent over to us on our return. Before leaving Fayune, the general and a number of officers were entertained at dinner by this high functionary, and the head of the gentry of the district. The latter personage had been very active in the enlistment of Braves against us, and like the rest of his class, had hoped by the manifestation of zeal in his hostility to barbarians, to curry favour with the government: he now professed the utmost friendship for us, and expressed sincere regret for what had occurred, in opposition, as he declared, to his urgent remonstrances. After the usual interchange of pretty speeches, and consumption of greasy viands, we took leave of our smooth-tongued hosts, and once more striking camp, marched out of Fayune, having thoroughly accomplished the object of our visits. The troops re-entered Canton on the evening of the following day, having marched between sixty and seventy miles in five days, without encountering any of those difficulties which are predicted in the coming operations, and having achieved the very satisfactory result of instilling confidence into the country people, and inspiring the Braves with a due respect for our arms. Since then the neighbourhood of Canton has been tranquil, and foreigners have been enabled to extend their explorations to greater distances than formerly, with perfect security.

The same effect will be produced in the north of China if the same means are resorted to. It was not until the local militia at Canton received a lesson which taught them our power of inflicting chastisement, that they subsided into respectful quiescence. So, in 1858, the Court of Pekin changed its tone of arrogance for one of subserviency the moment we arrived at Tien-tsin: a feat supposed impracticable by the Chinese government.

The effect of our unexpected appearance there may be best appreciated by the following paragraph, extracted from the secret edict already quoted. The Emperor, apologizing for the concessions made to us upon that occasion, asks, “Why is it then that we have succumbed to circumstances, and permitted the acceptance of terms of peace from the said barbarians? It was indeed for no other reason than that war had reached the portals of our Imperial domains; the enemy was at the gates of our capital, and in the train of war follow alarm and disorder; the people are scattered and rendered homeless. How could we endure that our people should suffer? Our rest was disturbed, and we could not eat in peace. No other course, therefore, was open to us but to concede what they requested, in order to put an end to the present distress.”

The distress here alluded to was in reality not felt by the people, not one of whom was turned out of his home by our presence at Tien-tsin, but by the Emperor himself. The impression at Pekin at present is, that the river having been staked, our reappearance at Tien-tsin is impossible. Hence the stubborn attitude of the Chinese government, encouraged by their confidence in the Tartar general, Sang-ko-lin-sin, who commanded at the last Peiho affair, and who has declared his intention, on all fixture occasions, of dealing with us in the same summary manner. His defeat, and the march of our troops to Tien-tsin, will produce the same result as our march to Fayune, or as our former operations on Tien-tsin. The difficulty of our diplomatists in China consists not so much in the process of extracting a treaty from the Chinese government, as in obliging them to keep it in the spirit in which it is made. This can only be done by exerting a continuous pressure upon the Cabinet at Pekin. The moment the pressure is removed, the government interprets obnoxious stipulations in its own manner; its functionaries at distant ports take their cue from the disposition at head-quarters, and complications arise with local officials, out of which ultimately spring new wars.

By dealing directly with the highest functionaries at the capital, these may invariably be prevented; but the isolation of a foreign minister at Pekin might possibly expose him to inconveniences, and even insults, which, in the absence of any force, it would be impossible to resent. Under these circumstances the most desirable compromise which could be made, would be in the selection of Tien-tsin, as a summer abode for the British plenipotentiary, with the right reserved to him of visiting the capital at pleasure. Here, at a distance of only fifty miles from Pekin, communication with the high functionaries there could be rapidly and easily maintained, while the occasional visits of members of the foreign missions would tend to familiarize the people, as well as the authorities, with the contact of Europeans, and go far to remove those prejudices which must ever, otherwise, subsist against us, and develop themselves through the means of local authorities at distant ports. Concurrently with the establishment of a mission at Tien-tsin, that city might be opened as a port to trade, and the reassuring influence of commerce be thus brought to second the efforts of a skilful and judicious diplomacy. During the winter months, when the Peiho would be frozen, and the port closed, the Minister would remove his establishment to Shanghai, not a little pleased to return to a higher state of civilization; while the terrible heats of summer, at this latter place, would be agreeably exchanged for the dry, healthy climate of Tien-tsin. Two or three gunboats, necessary, under any circumstances, for the protection of our commerce in the gulf and river, would also serve as an adequate and efficient support to our diplomacy. We might thus hope to achieve all the advantages to be derived from a residence at Pekin, without any of its inconveniences; and while leaving the prestige of the Imperial government comparatively uninjured, pave the way for the assimilation of our diplomatic relations with China to those of other countries.

Whether this be the course ultimately adopted or not, one thing is certain,—that Tien-tsin is the key of the position. All military and diplomatic action must, for the present, be alike centred upon it; and if a campaign in this quarter becomes necessary, we have little doubt that it will terminate within two months, in a treaty embracing larger concessions, based upon broader principles, and ensuring a more durable peace than that signed by Sir Henry Pottinger in 1842, after a bloody and expensive war, which extended along the whole southern seaboard of China, and was protracted over a period of two years.

Little Scholars.

Yesterday morning, as I was walking up a street in Pimlico, I came upon a crowd of little persons issuing from a narrow alley. Ever so many little people there were streaming through a wicket; running children, shouting children, loitering children, chattering children, and children spinning tops by the way, so that the whole street was awakened by the pleasant childish clatter. As I stand for an instant to see the procession go by, one little girl pops me an impromptu curtsey, at which another from a distant quarter, not behindhand in politeness, pops me another; and presently quite an irregular little volley of curtseyings goes off in every direction. Then I blandly inquire if school is over? and if there is anybody left in the house? A little brown-eyes nods her head, and says, “There’s a great many people left in the house.” And so there are, sure enough, as I find when I get in.

Down a narrow yard, with the workshops on one side and the schools on the other, in at a little door which leads into a big room where there are rafters, maps hanging on the walls, and remarks in immense letters, such as, “Coffee is good for my Breakfast,” and pictures of useful things, with the well-thumbed story underneath; a stove in the middle of the room; a paper hanging up on the door with the names of the teachers; and everywhere wooden benches and tables, made low and small for little legs and arms.

Well, the schoolroom is quite empty and silent now, and the little turmoil has poured eagerly out at the door. It is twelve o’clock, the sun is shining in the court, and something better than schooling is going on in the kitchen yonder. Who cares now where coffee comes from? or which are the chief cities in Europe? or in what year Stephen came to the throne? For is not twelve o’clock dinner-time with all sensible people? and what periods of history, what future aspirations, what distant events are as important to us—grown-up folks, and children, too—as this pleasant daily recurring one?

The kind, motherly schoolmistress who brought me in, tells me, that for a shilling, half-a-dozen little boys and girls can be treated to a wholesome meal. I wonder if it smells as good to them as it does to me, when I pull my shilling out of my pocket. The food costs more than twopence, but there is a fund to which people subscribe, and, with its help, the kitchen cooks all through the winter months.

All the children seem very fond of the good Mrs. K——. As we leave the schoolroom, one little thing comes up crying, and clinging to her, “A boy has been and ’it me!” But when the mistress says, “Well, never mind, you shall have your dinner,” the child is instantly consoled; “and you, and you, and you,” she continues; but this selection is too heartrending; and with the help of another lucky shilling, nobody present is left out. I remember particularly a lank child, with great black eyes and fuzzy hair, and a pinched grey face, who stood leaning against a wall in the sun: once, in the Pontine Marshes, years ago, I remember seeing such another figure. “That poor thing is seventeen,” says Mrs. K——. “She sometimes loiters here all day long; she has no mother: and she often comes and tells me her father is so drunk she dare not go home. I always give her a dinner when I can. This is the kitchen.”

The kitchen is a delightful little clean-scrubbed place, with rice pudding baking in the oven, and a young mistress, and a big girl, busy bringing in great caldrons full of the mutton broth I have been scenting all this time. It is a fresh, honest, hungry smell, quite different from that unwholesome compound of fry and sauce, and hot, pungent spice, and stew and mess, which comes steaming up, some seven hours later, into our dining-rooms, from the reeking kitchens below. Here a poor woman is waiting, with a jug, and a round-eyed baby. The mistress tells me the people in the neighbourhood are too glad to buy what is left of the children’s dinner. “Look what good stuff it is,” says Mrs. K——, and she shows me a bowl full of the jelly, to which it turns when cold. As the two girls come stepping through the sunny doorway, with the smoking jar between them, I think Mr. Millais might make a pretty picture of the little scene; but my attention is suddenly distracted by the round-eyed baby, who is peering down into the great soup-jug with such wide wide open eyes, and little hands outstretched—such an eager, happy face, that it almost made one laugh, and cry too, to see. The baby must be a favourite, for he is served, and goes off in his mother’s arms, keeping vigilant watch over the jug, while four or five other jugs and women are waiting still in the next room. Then into rows of little yellow basins our mistress pours the broth, and we now go in to see the company in the dining-hall, waiting for its banquet. Ah me! but it is a pleasanter sight to see than any company in all the land. Somehow, as the children say grace, I feel as if there was indeed a blessing on the food: a blessing which brings colour into these wan cheeks, and strength and warmth into these wasted little limbs. Meanwhile, the expectant company is growing rather impatient, and is battering the benches with its spoons, and tapping neighbouring heads as well. There goes a little guest, scrambling from his place across the room and back again. So many are here to-day, that they have not all got seats. I see the wan girl still standing against the wall, and there is her brother—a sociable little fellow, all dressed in corduroys—who is making funny faces at me across the room, at which some other little boys burst out laughing. But the infants on the dolls’-benches, at the other end, are the best fun. There they are—three, four, five years old—whispering and chattering, and tumbling over one another. Sometimes one infant falls suddenly forward, with its nose upon the table, and stops there quite contentedly; sometimes another disappears entirely under the legs, and is tugged up by its neighbours. A certain number of the infants have their dinner every day, the mistress tells me. Mrs. —— has said so, and hers is the kind hand which has provided for all these young ones; while a same kind heart has schemed how to shelter, to feed, to clothe, to teach, the greatest number of these hungry, and cold, and neglected little children.

As I am replying to the advances of my young friend in the corduroys, I suddenly hear a cry “Ooo! ooo! ooo!—noo spoons—noo spoons—ooo! ooo! ooo!” and all the little hands stretch out eagerly as one of the big girls goes by with a paper of shining metal spoons. By this time the basins of soup are travelling round, with hunches of home-made bread. “The infants are to have pudding first,” says the mistress, coming forward; and, in a few minutes more, all the little birds are busy pecking at their bread and pudding, of which they take up very small mouthfuls, in very big spoons, and let a good deal slobber down over their pinafores.

One little curly-haired boy, with a very grave face, was eating pudding very slowly and solemnly—so I said to him:

“Do you like pudding best?”

Little Boy. “Isss.”

“And can you read?”

Little Boy. “Isss.”

“And write?”

Little Boy. “Isss.”

“And have you got a sister?”

Little Boy. “Isss.”

“And does she wash your face so nicely?”

Little Boy, extra solemn. “No, see is wite a little girl; see is on’y four year old.”

“And how old are you?”

Little Boy, with great dignity. “I am fi’ year old.”

Then he told me Mrs. Willis “wassed” his face, and he brought his sister to school.

“Where is your sister?” says the mistress, going by.

But four-years was not forthcoming.

“I s’pose see has walt home,” says the child, and goes on with his pudding.

This little pair are orphans out of the workhouse, Mrs. K—— told me. But somebody pays Mrs. Willis for their keep.

There was another funny little thing, very small, sitting between two bigger boys, to whom I said—

“Are you a little boy or a little girl?”