PART IV._Juliana Horatia Ewing And Her Books

I shall know by the gleam and glitter

Of the golden chain you wear,

By your heart's calm strength in loving,

Of the fire they have had to bear.

Beat on, true heart, for ever;

Shine bright, strong golden chain;

And bless the cleansing fire,

And the furnace of living pain!

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

Towards the end of October 1879, Julie started for Malta, to join

Major Ewing, but she became so very ill whilst travelling through

France that her youngest sister, and her friend, Mrs. R.H. Jelf (from

whose house in Folkestone she had started on her journey), followed

her to Paris, and brought her back to England as soon as she could be

moved.

Julie now consulted Sir William Jenner about her health, and, seeing

the disastrous effect that travelling had upon her, he totally forbade

her to start again for several months, until she had recovered some

strength and was better able to bear fatigue. This verdict was a

heavy blow to my sister, and the next four years were ones of great

trial and discomfort to her. A constant succession of disappointed

hopes and frustrated plans, which were difficult, even for Madam

Liberality, to bear!

She hoped when her husband came home on leave at Christmas, 1879, that

she should be able to return with him, but she was still unfit to go;

and then she planned to follow later with a sister, who should help

her on the journey, and be rewarded by visiting the island home of the

Knights, but this castle also fell to the ground. Meantime Julie was

suffering great inconvenience from the fact that she had sent all her

possessions to Malta several months before, keeping only some light

luggage which she could take with her. Amongst other things from which

she was thus parted, was the last chapter of "We and the World," which

she had written (as she often did the endings of her tales) when she

was first arranging the plot. This final scene was buried in a box of

books, and could not be found when wanted, so had to be rewritten and

then my sister's ideas seem to have got into a fresh channel, for she

brought her heroes safely back to their Yorkshire home, instead of

dropping the curtain on them after a gallant rescue in a Cornish mine,

as she originally arranged. Julie hoped against hope, as time went on,

that she should become stronger, and able to follow her _Lares_ and

_Penates_, so she would not have them sent back to her, until a final

end was put to her hopes by Major Ewing being sent on from Malta to

Ceylon, and in the climate of the latter place the doctors declared it

would be impossible for her to live. The goods, therefore, were now

sent back to England, and she consoled herself under the bitter trial

of being parted from her husband, and unable to share the enjoyment of

the new and wonderful scenes with which he was surrounded, by

thankfulness for his unusual ability as a vivid and brilliant

letter-writer. She certainly practised both in days of joy and sorrow

the virtue of being _lætus sorte meâ_; which she afterwards so

powerfully taught in her "Story of a Short Life." I never knew her

fail to find happiness wherever she was placed, and good in whomsoever

she came across. Whatever her circumstances might be they always

yielded to her causes for thankfulness, and work to be done with a

ready and hopeful heart. That "lamp of zeal," about which Margery

speaks in "Six to Sixteen," was never extinguished in Julie, even

after youth and strength were no longer hers:--

Like most other conscientious girls, we had rules and regulations

of our own devising; private codes, generally kept in cipher for

our own personal self-discipline, and laws common to us both for

the employment of our time in joint duties--lessons, parish work,

and so forth.

I think we made rather too many rules, and that we re-made them too

often. I make fewer now, and easier ones, and let them much more

alone. I wonder if I really keep them better? But if not, may

GOD, I pray Him, send me back the restless zeal, the

hunger and thirst after righteousness, which He gives us in early

youth! It is so easy to become more thick-skinned in conscience,

more tolerant of evil, more hopeless of good, more careful of one's

own comfort and one's own property, more self-satisfied in leaving

high aims and great deeds to enthusiasts, and then to believe that

one is growing older and wiser. And yet those high examples, those

good works, those great triumphs over evil which single hands

effect sometimes, we are all grateful for, when they are done,

whatever we may have said of the doing. But we speak of saints and

enthusiasts for good, as if some special gifts were made to them in

middle age which are withheld from other men. Is it not rather that

some few souls keep alive the lamp of zeal and high desire which

GOD lights for most of us while life is young?

In spite, however, of my sister's contentment with her lot, and the

kindness and hospitality shown to her at this time by relations and

friends, her position was far from comfortable; and Madam Liberality's

hospitable soul was sorely tried by having no home to which she could

welcome her friends, whilst her fragile body battled against

constantly moving from one house to another when she was often unfit

to do anything except keep quiet and at rest. She was not able to

write much, and during 1880 only contributed two poems to _Aunt Judy's

Magazine_, "Grandmother's Spring," and "Touch Him if You Dare."

To the following volume (1881) she again was only able to give two

other poems, "Blue and Red; or the Discontented Lobster," and "The

Mill Stream"; but these are both much longer than her usual Verses for

Children--and, indeed, are better suited for older readers--though the

former was such a favourite with a three-year-old son of one of our

bishops that he used to repeat it by heart.

In November 1881, _Aunt Judy's Magazine_ passed into the hands of a

fresh publisher, and a new series was begun, with a fresh outside

cover which Mr. Caldecott designed for it. Julie was anxious to help

in starting the new series, and she wrote "Daddy Darwin's Dovecot" for

the opening number. All the scenery of this is drawn from the

neighbourhood of Ecclesfield, where she had lately been spending a

good deal of her time, and so refreshed her memory of its local

colouring. The story ranks equal to "Jackanapes" as a work of literary

art, though it is an idyll of peace instead of war, and perhaps,

therefore, appeals rather less deeply to general sympathies; but I

fully agree with a noted artist friend, who, when writing to regret my

sister's death, said, "'Jackanapes' and 'Daddy Darwin' I have never

been able to read without tears, and hope I never may." Daddy had no

actual existence, though his outward man may have been drawn from

types of a race of "old standards" which is fast dying out. The

incident of the theft and recovery of the pigeons is a true one, and

happened to a flock at the old Hall farm near our home, which also

once possessed a luxuriant garden, wherein Phoebe might have found

all the requisites for her Sunday posy. A "tea" for the workhouse

children used to be Madam Liberality's annual birthday feast; and the

spot where the gaffers sat and watched the "new graft" strolling home

across the fields was so faithfully described by Julie from her

favourite Schroggs Wood, that when Mr. Caldecott reproduced it in his

beautiful illustration, some friends who were well acquainted with the

spot, believed that he had been to Ecclesfield to paint it.

[Illustration: ECCLESFIELD HALL]

Julie's health became somewhat better in 1882, and for the Magazine

this year she wrote as a serial tale "Lætus Sorte Meâ; or, the Story

of a Short Life." This was not republished as a book until four days

before my sister's death, and it has become so well known from

appearing at this critical time that I need say very little about it.

A curious mistake, however, resulted from its being published then,

which was that most of the reviewers spoke of it as being the last

work that she wrote, and commented on the title as a singularly

appropriate one, but those who had read the tale in the Magazine were

aware that it was written three years previously, and that the second

name was put before the first, as it was feared the public would be

perplexed by a Latin title. The only part of the book that my sister

added during her illness was Leonard's fifth letter in Chapter X. This

she dictated, because she could not write. She had intended to give

Saint Martin's history when the story came out in the Magazine, but

was hindered by want of space.[32] Many people admire Leonard's story

as much as that of Jackanapes, but to me it is not quite so highly

finished from an artistic point of view. I think it suffered a little

from being written in detachments from month to month. It is, however,

almost hypercritical to point out defects, and the circumstances of

Leonard's life are so much more within the range of common experiences

than those of Jackanapes, it is probable that the lesson of the Short

Life, during which a V.C. was won by the joyful endurance of

inglorious suffering, may be more helpful to general readers than that

of the other brief career, in which Jackanapes, after "one crowded

hour of glorious life," earned his crown of victory.

[Footnote 32: Letter, Oct. 5, 1882.]

On one of Julie's last days she expressed a fear to her doctor that

she was very impatient under her pain, and he answered, "Indeed you

are not; I think you deserve a Victoria Cross for the way in which you

bear it." This reply touched her very much, for she knew the speaker

had not read Leonard's Story; and we used to hide the proof-sheets of

it, for which she was choosing head-lines to the pages, whenever her

doctors came into the room, fearing that they would disapprove of her

doing any mental work.

In the volume of _Aunt Judy_ for 1883 "A Happy Family" appeared, but

this had been originally written for an American Magazine, in which a

prize was offered for a tale not exceeding nine hundred words in

length. Julie did not gain the prize, and her story was rather spoiled

by having to be too closely condensed.

She also wrote three poems for _Aunt Judy_ in 1883, "The Poet and the

Brook," "Mother's Birthday Review," and "Convalescence." The last one

and the tale of "Sunflowers and a Rushlight" (which came out in

November 1883) bear some traces of the deep sympathy she had learned

for ill health through her own sufferings of the last few years; the

same may, to some extent, be said of "The Story of a Short Life."

"Mother's Birthday Review" does not come under this heading, though I

well remember that part, if not the whole of it, was written whilst

Julie lay in bed; and I was despatched by her on messages in various

directions to ascertain what really became of Hampstead Heath donkeys

during the winter, and the name of the flower that clothes some parts

of the Heath with a sheet of white in summer.

In May 1883, Major Ewing returned home from Ceylon, and was stationed

at Taunton. This change brought back much comfort and happiness into

my sister's life. She once more had a pretty home of her own, and not

only a home but a garden. When the Ewings took their house, and named

it Villa _Ponente_ from its aspect towards the setting sun, the

"garden" was a potato patch, with soil chiefly composed of refuse left

by the house-builders; but my sister soon began to accumulate flowers

in the borders, especially herbaceous ones that were given to her by

friends, or bought by her in the market. Then in 1884 she wrote

"Mary's Meadow," as a serial for _Aunt Judy's Magazine_, and the story

was so popular that it led to the establishment of a "Parkinson

Society for lovers of hardy flowers." Miss Alice Sargant was the

founder and secretary of this, and to her my sister owed much of the

enjoyment of her life at Taunton, for the Society produced many

friends by correspondence, with whom she exchanged plants and books,

and the "potato patch" quickly turned into a well-stocked

flower-garden.

Perhaps the friend who did most of all to beautify it was the Rev, J.

Going, who not only gave my sister many roses, but planted them round

the walls of her house himself, and pruned them afterwards, calling

himself her "head gardener." She did not live long enough to see the

roses sufficiently established to flower thoroughly, but she enjoyed

them by anticipation, and they served to keep her grave bright during

the summer that followed her death.

Next to roses I think the flowers that Julie had most of were primulas

of various kinds, owing to the interest that was aroused in them by

the incident in "Mary's Meadow" of Christopher finding a Hose-in-hose

cowslip growing wild in the said "meadow." My sister was specially

proud of a Hose-in-hose cowslip which was sent to her by a little boy

in Ireland, who had determined one day with his brothers and sisters,

that they would set out and found an "Earthly Paradise" of their own,

and he began by actually finding a Hose-in-hose, which he named it

after "Christopher," and sent a bit of the root to Mrs. Ewing.

The last literary work that she did was again on the subject of

flowers. She began a series of "Letters from a Little Garden" in the

number of _Aunt Judy_ for November 1884, and these were continued

until February 1885. The Letter for March was left unfinished, though

it seemed, when boxes of flowers arrived day by day during Julie's

illness from distant friends, as if they must almost have intuitively

known the purport of the opening injunction in her unpublished

epistle, enjoining liberality in the practice of cutting flowers for

decorative purposes! Her room for three months was kept so

continuously bright by the presence of these creations of GOD

which she loved so well:--

"DEAR LITTLE FRIEND,

"A garden of hardy flowers is pre-eminently a garden for cut

flowers. You must carefully count this among its merits, because if

a constant and undimmed blaze outside were the one virtue of a

flower-garden, upholders of the bedding-out system would now and

then have the advantage of us. For my own part I am prepared to say

that I want my flowers quite as much for the house as the garden,

and so I suspect do most women." The gardener's point of view is

not quite the same.

"Speaking of women, and recalling Mr. Charles Warner's quaint idea

of all his 'Polly' was good for on the scene of his conflicts with

Nature, the 'striped bug' and the weed 'Pusley,'--namely, to sit on

an inverted flower-pot and 'consult' him whilst he was hoeing,--it

is interesting to notice that some generations ago the garden was

very emphatically included within woman's 'proper sphere,' which

was not, in those days, a wide one."

The Letters were the last things that my sister wrote; but some brief

papers which she contributed to _The Child's Pictorial Magazine_ were

not published until after her death. In the May number "Tiny's Tricks

and Toby's Tricks" came out, and in the numbers for June, July, and

August 1885, there were three "Hoots" from "The Owl in the Ivy Bush;

or the Children's Bird of Wisdom." They are in the form of quaint

letters of advice, and my sister adopted the _Spectator's_ method of

writing as an eye-witness in the first person, so far as was possible

in addressing a very youthful class of readers. She had a strong

admiration for many of both Steele and Addison's papers.

* * * * *

The list that I promised to give of Julie's published stories is now

completed; and, if her works are to be valued by their length, it may

justly be said that she has not left a vast amount of matter behind

her, but I think that those who study her writings carefully, will

feel that some of their greatest worth lies in the wonderful

condensation and high finish that they display. No reviewer has made a

more apt comparison than the American one in _Every other Saturday_,

who spoke of "Jackanapes" as "an exquisite bit of finished work--a

Meissonier, in its way."

To other readers the chief value of the books will be in the high

purpose of their teaching, and the consciousness that Julie held her

talent as a direct gift from GOD, and never used it otherwise

than to His glory. She has penned nothing for which she need fear

reproach from her favourite old proverb, "A wicked book is all the

wickeder because it can never repent." It is difficult for those who

admire her writings to help regretting that her life was cut off

before she had accomplished more, but to still such regrets we cannot

do better than realize (as a kind friend remarked) "how much she has

been able to do, rather than what she has left undone." The work which

she did, in spite of her physical fragility, far exceeds what the

majority of us perform with stronger bodies and longer lives. This

reflection has comforted me, though I perhaps know more than others

how many subjects she had intended to write stories upon. Some people

have spoken as if her _forte_ lay in writing about soldiers only, but

her success in this line was really due to her having spent much time

among them. I am sure her imagination and sympathy were so strong,

that whatever class of men she was mixed with, she could not help

throwing herself into their interests, and weaving romances about

them. Whether such romances ever got on to paper was a matter

dependent on outward circumstances and the state of her health.

One of the unwritten stories which I most regret is "Grim the

Collier"; this was to have been a romance of the Black Country of

coal-mines, in which she was born, and the title was chosen from the

description of a flower in a copy of Gerarde's _Herbal_, given to her

by Miss Sargant:--

_Hieracium hortense latifolium, sine Pilosella maior_, Golden

Mouseeare, or Grim the Colliar. The floures grow at the top as it

were in an vmbel, and are of the bignesse of the ordinary

Mouseeare, and of an orenge colour. The seeds are round, and

blackish, and are carried away with the downe by the wind. The

stalks and cups of the flours are all set thicke with a blackish

downe, or hairinesse, as it were the dust of coles; whence the

women who keepe it in gardens for novelties sake, have named it

Grim the Colliar.

I wish, too, that Julie could have written about sailors, as well as

soldiers, in the tale of "Little Mothers' Meetings," which had been

suggested to her mind by visits to Liverpool. The sight of a baby

patient in the Children's Hospital there, who had been paralyzed and

made speechless by fright, but who took so strange a fancy to my

sister's sympathetic face that he held her hand and could scarcely be

induced to release it, had affected her deeply. So did a visit that

she paid one Sunday to the Seamen's Orphanage, where she heard the

voices of hundreds of fatherless children ascending with one accord in

the words, "I will arise and go to my Father," and realized the Love

that watched over them. These scenes were both to have been woven into

the tale, and the "Little Mothers" were boy nurses of baby brothers

and sisters.

Another phase of sailor life on which Julie hoped to write was the

"Guild of Merchant Adventurers of Bristol." She had visited their

quaint Hall, and collected a good deal of historical information and

local colouring for the tale, and its lesson would have been one on

mercantile honour.

I hope I have kept my original promise, that whilst I was making a

list of Julie's writings, I would also supply an outline biography of

her life; but now, if the Children wish to learn something of her at

its End, they shall be told in her own words:--

Madam Liberality grew up into much the same sort of person that she

was when a child. She always had been what is termed old-fashioned,

and the older she grew the better her old-fashionedness became her,

so that at last her friends would say to her, "Ah, if we all wore

as well as you do, my dear! You've hardly changed at all since we

remember you in short petticoats." So far as she did change, the

change was for the better. (It is to be hoped we do improve a

little as we get older.) She was still liberal and economical. She

still planned and hoped indefatigably. She was still tender-hearted

in the sense in which Gray speaks--

"To each his sufferings: all are men

Condemned alike to groan,

The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own."

She still had a good deal of ill-health and ill-luck, and a good

deal of pleasure in spite of both. She was happy in the happiness

of others, and pleased by their praise. But she was less

head-strong and opinionated in her plans, and less fretful when

they failed. It is possible, after one has cut one's wisdom-teeth,

to cure oneself even of a good deal of vanity, and to learn to play

the second fiddle very gracefully; and Madam Liberality did not

resist the lessons of life.

GOD teaches us wisdom in divers ways. Why He suffers some

people to have so many troubles, and so little of what we call

pleasure in this world, we cannot in this world know. The heaviest

blows often fall on the weakest shoulders, and how these endure and

bear up under them is another of the things which GOD

knows better than we.

Julie did absolutely remain "the same" during the three months of heavy

suffering which, in GOD'S mysterious love, preceded her death. Perhaps it

is well for us all to know that she found, as others do, the intervals of

exhausted relief granted between attacks of pain were not times in which

(had it been needed) she could have changed her whole character, and, what

is called, "prepare to die." Our days of health and strength are the ones

in which this preparation must be made, but for those who live, as she did,

with their whole talents dedicated to GOD'S service, death is only the gate

of life--the path from joyful work in this world to greater capacities and

opportunities for it in the other.

I trust that what I have said about Julie's religious life will not

lead children to imagine that she was gloomy, and unable to enjoy her

existence on earth, for this was not the case. No one appreciated and

rejoiced in the pleasures and beauties of the world more thoroughly

than she did: no one could be a wittier and brighter companion than

she always was.

Early in February 1885, she was found to be suffering from a species

of blood-poisoning, and as no cause for this could then be discovered,

it was thought that change of air might do her good, and she was

taken from her home at Taunton, to lodgings at Bath. She had been

three weeks in bed before she started, and was obliged to return to it

two days after she arrived, and there to remain on her back; but this

uncomfortable position did not alter her love for flowers and animals.

The first of these tastes was abundantly gratified, as I mentioned

before, by the quantities of blossoms which were sent her from

friends; as well as by the weekly nosegay which came from her own

Little Garden, and made her realize that the year was advancing from

winter to spring, when crocuses and daffodils were succeeded by

primroses and anemones.

Of living creatures she saw fewer. The only object she could see

through her window was a high wall covered with ivy, in which a lot of

sparrows and starlings were building their nests. As the sunlight fell

on the leaves, and the little birds popped in and out, Julie enjoyed

watching them at work, and declared the wall looked like a fine

Japanese picture. She made us keep bread-crumbs on the window-sill,

together with bits of cotton wool and hair, so that the birds might

come and fetch supplies of food, and materials for their nests.

Her appreciation of fun, too, remained keen as ever, and, strange as

it may seem, one of the very few books which she liked to have read

aloud was Mark Twain's "Adventures of Huckleberry Finn"; the dry

humour of it--the natural way in which everything is told from a boy's

point of view--and the vivid and beautiful descriptions of river

scenery--all charmed her. One of Twain's shorter tales, "Aurelia's

unfortunate Young Man," was also read to her, and made her laugh so

much, when she was nearly as helpless as the "young man" himself, that

we had to desist for fear of doing her harm. Most truly may it be said

that between each paroxysm of pain "her little white face and

undaunted spirit bobbed up ... as ready and hopeful as ever." She was

seldom able, however, to concentrate her attention on solid works, and

for her religious exercises chiefly relied on what was stored in her

memory.

This faculty was always a strong one. She was catechized in church

with the village children when only four years old, and when six,

could repeat many poems from an old collection called "The Diadem,"

such as Mrs. Hemans' "Cross in the Wilderness," and Dale's "Christian

Virgin to her Apostate Lover"; but she reminded me one day during her

illness of how little she understood what she was saying in the days

when she fluently recited such lines to her nursery audience!

She liked to repeat the alternate verses of the Psalms, when the

others were read to her; and to the good things laid up in her mind

she owed much of the consolation that strengthened her in hours of

trial. After one night of great suffering, in which she had been

repeating George Herbert's poem, "The Pulley," she said that the last

verse had helped her to realize what the hidden good might be which

underlaid her pain--

Let him be rich and weary; that, at least,

If goodness lead him not, yet weariness

May toss him to My breast.

During the earlier part of her illness, when every one expected that

she would recover, she found it difficult to submit to the

unaccountable sufferings which her highly-strung temperament felt so

keenly; but after this special night of physical and mental darkness,

it seemed as if light had broken upon her through the clouds, for she

said she had, as it were, looked her pain and weariness in the face,

and seen they were sent for some purpose--and now that she had done

so, we should find that she would be "more patient than before." We

were told to take a sheet of paper, and write out a calendar for a

week with the text above, "In patience possess ye your souls." Then as

each day went by we were to strike it through with a pencil; this we

did, hoping that the passing days were leading her nearer to recovery,

and not knowing that each was in reality "a day's march nearer home."

For the text of another week she had "Be strong and of a good

courage," as the words had been said by a kind friend to cheer her

just before undergoing the trial of an operation. Later still, when

nights of suffering were added to days of pain, she chose--"The day is

Thine, the night also is Thine."

Of what may be termed external spiritual privileges she did not have

many, but she derived much comfort from an unexpected visitor. During

nine years previously she had known the Rev. Edward Thring as a

correspondent, but they had not met face to face, though they had

tried on several occasions to do so. Now, when their chances of

meeting were nearly gone, he came and gave great consolation by his

unravelling of the mystery of suffering, and its sanctifying power; as

also by his interpretation that the life which we are meant to lead

under the dispensation of the Spirit who has been given for our

guidance into Truth, is one which does not take us out of the world,

but keeps us from its evil, enabling us to lead a heavenly existence

on earth, and so to span over the chasm which divides us from heaven.

Perhaps some of us may wonder that Julie should need lessons of

encouragement and comfort who was so apt a teacher herself; but

however ready she may always have been to hope for others, she was

thoroughly humble-minded about herself. On one day near the end, when

she had received some letter of warm praise about her writings, a

friend said in joke, "I wonder your head is not turned by such

things"; and Julie replied: "I don't think praise really hurts me,

because, when I read my own writings over again they often seem to me

such 'bosh'; and then, too, you know I lead such a useless life, and

there is so little I _can_ do, it is a great pleasure to know I may

have done _some_ good."

It pleased her to get a letter from Sir Evelyn Wood, written from the

Soudan, telling how he had cried over _Lætus_; and she was almost more

gratified to get an anonymous expression from "One of the Oldest

Natives of the Town of Aldershot" of his "warm and grateful sense of

the charm of her delightful references to a district much loved of its

children, and the emotion he felt in recognizing his birthplace so

tenderly alluded to." Julie certainly set no value on her own actual

MSS., for she almost invariably used them up when they were returned

from the printers, by writing on the empty sides, and destroying them

after they had thus done double duty. She was quite amused by a

relation who begged for the sheets of "Jackanapes," and so rescued

them from the flames!

On the 11th of May an increase of suffering made it necessary that my

sister should undergo another operation, as the one chance of

prolonging her life. This ordeal she faced with undaunted courage,

thanking God that she was able to take chloroform easily, and only

praying He would end her sufferings speedily, as He thought best,

since she feared her physical ability to bear them patiently was

nearly worn out.

Her prayer was answered, when two days later, free from pain, she

entered into rest. On the 16th of May she was buried in her parish

churchyard of Trull, near Taunton, in a grave literally lined with

moss and flowers;--so many floral wreaths and crosses were sent from

all parts of England, that when the grave was filled up they entirely

covered it, not a speck of soil could be seen; her first sleep in

mother earth was beneath a coverlet of fragrant white blossoms. No

resting-place than this could be more fitting for her. The church is

deeply interesting from its antiquity, and its fine oak-screen and

seats, said to be carved by monks of Glastonbury, whilst the

churchyard is an idyllically peaceful one, containing several

yew-trees; under one of these, which over-shadows Julie's grave, the

remains of the parish stocks are to be seen--a quaint mixture of

objects, that recalls some of her own close blendings of humour and

pathos into one scene. Here, "for a space, the tired body lies with

feet towards the dawn," but I must hope and believe that the active

soul, now it is delivered from the burden of the flesh, has realized

that Gordon's anticipations were right when he wrote: "The future

world must be much more amusing, more enticing, more to be desired,

than this world,--putting aside its absence of sorrow and sin. The

future world has been somehow painted to our minds as a place of

continuous praise, and, though we may not say it, yet we cannot help

feeling that, if thus, it would prove monotonous. It cannot be thus.

It must be a life of activity, for happiness is dependent on activity:

death is cessation of movement; life is all movement."

If Archbishop Trench, too, was right in saying;

The tasks, the joys of earth, the same in heaven will be;

Only the little brook has widen'd to a sea,

have we not cause to trust that Julie still ministers to the good and

happiness of the young and old whom she served so well whilst she was

seen amongst them? Let her, at any rate, be to us one of those who

shine as the stars to lead us unto God:

God's saints are shining lights: who stays

Here long must passe

O'er dark hills, swift streames, and steep ways

As smooth as glasse;

But these all night,

Like Candles, shed

Their beams, and light

Us into bed.

They are, indeed, our pillar-fires,

Seen as we go;

They are that Citie's shining spires

We travel to.

A sword-like gleame

Kept man for sin--

First _out_, this beame

Will guide him _In_.

[Illustration: Memorial.]

"If we still love those we lose, can we altogether lose those we

love?"

"_The Newcomes_," Chap. vii.

(_The last entry in J.H.E.'s Commonplace Book._)

LIST OF MRS. EWING'S WORKS.

+-------------------+------------------------+-------------------+------------+

+-------------------+------------------------+-------------------+------------+

| | | | |

|The Blackbird's |--August, 1861 | " | " |

| | | | |

|Melchior's Dream |--December, 1861 | " | " |

| | | | |

|Friedrich's Ballad | ---- | " | " |

| | | | |

|The Viscount's | ---- | " | " |

| | | | |

| |1865 | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| |1865 |and other Tales" | |

| | | | |

| Ida |_Aunt Judy's |"Mrs. Overtheway's | " |

| Mrs. Moss |--June and July, 1866 | " | " |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|The Burial of the |--September, 1866 { |"Songs for Music, |H. King & Co|

| Linnet | { |by Four Friends" | |

| | { |"Papa Poodle, |S.P.C.K. |

| | { |and other Pets" | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|Three Christmas |--December, 1867 | " | " |

| | | | |

| Kerguelen's|--October, 1868 | " | " |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | Jan. 1870 | and other Tales" | |

| | | | |

|Amelia and the |--February and March, | " | " |

| Dwarfs | 1870 | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|The Nix in |--April, 1870 | " | " |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|The Neck |--June, 1870 | " | " |

| | | | |

|Under the Sun |--July, 1870 | ---- | ---- |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|The Magic Jar |--September, 1870 | " | " |

| | | | |

| | 1870 | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|The Laird and |--April, 1871 | " | " |

| | | | |

| and the Trinity | May, 1871 | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|The Six Little |--August, 1871 | ---- | ---- |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | 1872 | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|The Magician's |--March, 1872 | " | " |

| | | | |

|Knave and Fool |--June, 1872 | " | " |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|Old Father |_Little Folks_ { |"Lob Lie-by-the- | " |

| Christmas | { | Fire, and other | |

| | { | Tales, 1873 | |

| | { | (Illustrated by | |

| | { | R. Caldecott.) | |

| | { | | |

|Lob Lie-by-the- | ---- { | " | " |

| Fire | { | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|The Blue Bells |--May, 1874 |"The Blue Bells | " |

| | | | |

|May Day, Old Style |--May, 1874 |"Miscellanea," | " |

| | | | |

| | 1874 | and other Tales" | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| Sea | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| MS.) | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|Waves of the |--May, 1875 | " | " |

| | | | |

|Jack of Pera |--July, 1875 | " | " |

| | | | |

|Little Woods |--August, 1875 | " | " |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | Men" | |

| | | | |

| Dog | | | |

| | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|An Only Child's |--July, 1876 | " | " |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | and other Tales" | 1885. |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|Ladders to Heaven |--May, 1877 |"Dandelion Clocks,"| " |

| | | &c. | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | 1879 | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | &c. | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|Garden Lore |--March, 1879 | " | " |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| the Discontented | | &c. | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

|Convalescence |--May, 1883 |"Convalescence" | " |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| A Christmas | | &c. | |

| | | | |

| | | | |

| |May, 1885 | Tales," vol. xii.| |

| | | | |

|The Owl in the |--June, 1885 | " | " |

| --Owlhoot I. |--July, 1885 | " | " |

| --Owlhoot II. |--August, 1885 | " | " |

+-------------------+------------------------+-------------------+------------+

TRANSLATIONS.

+----------------------+-----------------------+--------------------------+

|A Child's Wishes |From the German of |_Aunt Judy's Magazine_, |

| | R. Reinick | 1866. |

| | | |

|War and the Dead |From the French of |--October, 1866. |

| | Jean Mace | |

| | | |

|Tales of the Khoja |From the Turkish |--April to December, 1874.|

| | | |

|The Adventures of an |Adapted from the German|--November and |

| of an Elf | | December, 1875. |

| | | |

|The Snarling Princess |Adapted from the German|--December, 1875. |

| | | |

|The Little Parsnip |Adapted from the German|--January, 1876. |

| Man | | |

+----------------------+-----------------------+--------------------------+

LETTERS

TO MISS E. LLOYD

_Ecclesfield._ August 19, 1864.

MY DEAREST ELEANOR

It is with the greatest pleasure that I "sit down" and square my

elbows to answer one question of your letter. The one about the

Liturgical Lessons. Nothing (I find) is more difficult in this short

life than to emulate John's example--and "explain my meaning!" but I

will do my best. Beloved! In the first place I am going to do what I

hope will be more to your benefit than my credit! Send you my rough

notes. If you begin at the first page and read straight ahead to where

allusion is made to the Apocryphal Lessons, you will have my first

Course, and you will see that I was working by degrees straight

through the Morning Prayer. But then (like the Turnip Tom-toddies!) we

found that "the Inspector was coming"--and though the class was pretty

well getting up "Matins"--it knew very little about the

Prayer-book--so then I took a different tack. We left off minutiæ and

Bible references and took to a sort of general sketch of the whole

Prayer-book. For this I did not make fresh notes at the time--but when

the Inspector came and I being too ill to examine them--M. did it--I

wrote out in a hurry the questions and answers that follow the

Apocrypha point for her benefit. My dear old Eleanor--I am such a bad

hand myself--that I feel it perfectly ludicrous to attempt to help

you--but here are a few results of my limited experience which are

probably all wrong--but the best I have to offer!

Don't teach all the school.

Make up a "Liturgical Class" (make a favour of it if possible) of

mixed boys and girls.

Have none that cannot read.

Tell them to bring their Prayer-books with them on the "Liturgy Day."

If any of them say they have none--let nothing induce you to supply

them.

Say "Well, you must look over your neighbour, but you ought to have

one for yourself--I can let you have one for _2d._, so when you go

home, 'ask Papa,' and bring me the _2d._ next time."

Never give the Prayer-book "in advance"--! (I never _pressed_ the

Prayer-books on them, or insisted on their having them. But gradually

they all wanted to have them, and I used to take them with me, and

they brought up their _2d._'s if they wanted any. The class is chiefly

composed of Dissenters, but they never have raised any objection, and

buy Prayer-books for children who never come to Church. The first

prize last time was very deservedly won by the daughter of the

Methodist Minister.)

If you know any that cannot afford them, give them in private.

Deal round the School Bibles to the Class for reference.

One's chief temptation is to attempt too much. The great art is to

make a good _skeleton_ lesson of the leading points, and fill in

afterwards.

_Wait_ a long time for your answers.

Repeat the question as simply as possible, and keep saying--Now

_think_--_think_. One generally gets it in time.

Lead up to your answer: thus--

_Eleanor._ "S. Augustine was a missionary Priest from--now answer all

together?"

_The whole Class._ Rome.

_Eleanor._ "Now who was S. Augustine?--All together."

The result probably will be that one or perhaps two will give the

whole answer--and then you can say--

"That's right. But I want you all to say it. Now all together. Who was

S. Augustine?"

Then you will get it from all.

If you don't mind it, the black board is often of great use. In this

way--

[_Sketch._] X represents the black board.

Suppose you have undertaken for the day's lesson (a _long_ one!) to

begin at the question of whether we know the exact date of the first

introduction of Christianity into England and to go on to S.

Augustine's Consecration. When you first arrive take your chalk and

write--

S. PAUL

and draw a line;

----------------------------

then

ARLES . . . . . 314

NICÆA . . . . . 323

----------------------------

AUGUSTINE

ROME

ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY

597

----------------------------

Make them read everything as you write it, telling them the words till

they are familiar. Then "lead up to" the written words in your

questions and point with the stick, so that they will finish the

answer by reading it _all together_. Thus--"The Council of ---- (stick

to Aries) in the year ---- (stick to 314)."

When you are _teaching_ a thing, make them answer all together. When

you are examining what you have taught before, let those answer who

can.

Of course my _notes_ give no idea of the way one teaches, I mean of

course one has perpetually to use familiar examples, and go back and

back--and _into_ things.

Put the more backward children _behind_ the others, and never let any

of the _front row_ answer till the back row have tried.

If they are very young or backward, perhaps before you attempt

anything like Church History, you might _familiarize_ them with the

Prayer-book services--by making them find the places in their proper

rotation--turn quickly to the Psalms for the Day. Make them find the

Lessons for the Day, for Holy-days--Collect for the week--Baptism

Service. In fact I should advise you to _begin_ so. Say for the first

Lesson you take a CHRISTMAS DAY Service--make them look out

everything in succession. Ask them what a Collect is--where the

Lessons come from--who wrote the Psalms, etc. Make them understand how

the Holy Communion is administered--suppose a Baptism--and make them

explain--the two Sacraments in the words of the Catechism. (Never mind

whether they understand it--one can't explain everything at once!)

Indeed I strongly advise you to go on this tack for some time.

Say that for the first lesson or two (the above is too advanced) you

take _the Psalms_. Ask them what Book they were taken from, etc.--make

them find them for the day, and show them where and how to find the

Proper Psalms. In succeeding lessons, if you like, you can explain

that the Psalms are translations--and why the Bible and Prayer-book

versions are different--show which are the seven Penitential--(the

three Morning and three Evening for Ash Wednesday and the 51st). Point

out the latter as used as a general confession in the Commination

Service--having been written on the occasion of David's fall. Also the

Psalms of Degrees (the most exquisite of all I think!), which were

used to be sung as the Jews came up from all parts of the land to

Jerusalem--"I was glad when they said unto me," etc.

Tell them of any Psalms authentically connected with History--and any

anecdotes or traditions that you can meet with connected with them.

How S. Augustine and his band of missionaries first encountered the

King with his choristers carrying the Cross and chanting Psalms to

those Gregorians that Gregory (birch in hand!) had taught him in Rome,

etc., etc.

I find they like stray anecdotes--and they are _pegs_ to hang things

on. (Trevor says that our Blessed Lord is supposed to have repeated

the _whole_ of the twenty-second Psalm on the Cross.) The "Hymn" sung

before they went out after the Last Supper was a Psalm. (See marginal

Bible notes.) You can do no greater kindness than give them an

appreciation and interest in that inexhaustible store of "Prayer and

Penitence and Praise"--that has put words into the mouth of the whole

Church of God from the days of David to the present time, which is

used by every Church (however else divided) in common--and rejected by

no sect however captious!

Point out what Psalms are used in the course of the services--(like

the _Venite_, etc.)

Don't be alarmed if the Psalms last you for months! you can't do

better--and you must go over and over unless your bairns are Solomons!

Make them understand that they were intended, and are adapted for

singing.

_Get up_ your lessons beforehand--but teach as familiarly and as much

with no book but the Prayer-book and Bible as you can.

Then you might take the Lessons in a similar fashion, and the

Collects, etc.

Excuse all this ramble. I have no doubt I have bored you with a great

deal of chaff--but I hardly know quite what you want to know. As to

the subject--it is a Hobby with me--so excuse rhapsodies!

I don't believe you can confer a greater kindness than to make them

well acquainted with their Prayer-books. I believe you may teach every

scrap of necessary theology from it--the Life of Jesus in the

Collects, and special services from Advent to Trinity--Practical

duties and the _morale_ of the Gospel in the twenty-five Sundays of

Trinity. Apostles--Martyrs--the Communion of Saints--and the Ministry

of Angels in the rest. As to the History of Liturgies--it is simply

the History of the Church. I believe the Prayer-book contains Prayer,

Praise, Confession, Intercession and Ejaculation fitted to every need

and occasion of all conditions of men!--with very rare if any

exceptions. I believe in _ignorance_ of the Prayer-book the poor lose

the greatest fund of instruction and consolation next to the Bible

(and it is our best Commentary on that!) that is to be got at. And

people's ignorance of it is _wonderful_! You hear complaints of the

shifting of the services--the arrangement of the Lessons--and a

precious muddle it must seem to any one who does not know--that Isaiah

is skipped in the reading of the Old Testament--that as the

Evangelical Prophet he may be read at the Advent and Nativity of

Christ--that we dip promiscuously into the Apocrypha on Saints'

Days--because those books are read "for example of life and

instruction of manners"--and not to establish doctrine, etc., etc.

Somebody has compiled a straight ahead Prayer-book, and I fancy it

will be found very useful--about the same time that we get a royal

road to learning--or that services compiled on the most comprehensive

and comprehensible system by men of the highest and devoutest

intellect for every age, class, sex, and succeeding generations of the

Church of a whole country, can be made at the same time to fit the

case of every ignoramus who won't take the trouble to do more than

lick his thumb and turn over a page!!! If people would but understand

that the shortest way to anything is to get at the first principles!!

When one humbles oneself to learn those, the arrangement of the

Liturgy becomes as beautiful and lovable a piece of machinery as that

of Nature or God's Providence almost! and is just as provocative of

ignorant complaint and sarcasm if one doesn't.

Oh! Eleanora! What _will_ you say to this sermon!!--My "lastly"

is--teach your bairns the "why" their great-great-great-(very great!)

Grandfathers put all these glorious Prayers together in their present

order--and "when they are old they will not" ... need any modern

wiseacres to help them to get blindfold from the _Venite_ to the

Proper Psalms.

Adieu, beloved. Post time almost--and another letter to write. I have

had a sort of double quinsy--but am better, thank God.

Your devoted and prosy,

JULIANA HORATIA GATTY.

The Books I have used are _Wheatley on the Common Prayer_, Hook's

_Lives of the Archbishops_, and _Church Dictionary_, and anything I

could get hold of. Get any decent book on the Psalms--compare the two

versions--read the _prefaces_, _rubrics_, etc.--above all. Have you

the Parker Society edition of Edward VI. Prayer-book?

To H.K.F.G.

_Hotel de l'Europe, Anvers._

September 22, 1865.

MY DEAREST D----,

"Here we are again!" at the Hotel Dr. Harvey recommended. The Captain

of our boat said it was cheaper and better than S. Antoine. You must

excuse a not very lively letter, for I am still so ill from the

voyage. I can't get over it somehow at present, but shall be all right

to-morrow. We enjoyed our day in Hull immensely! you will be amused to

hear. At night we went to the Harvest Thanksgiving service at S.

Mary's. Nice service, capital sermon, and crammed congregation. The

decorations were scarlet geraniums, corn, evergreen, and grapes. The

_Alster_ wasn't to time, but they said she would sail at four, so we

slept on board. We "turned over" an awful night. R. and I wandered

over the ship, and finally settled on the saloon benches. Then,

however, the Captain came, and said he couldn't allow us to sleep

there, so we sat up, for I couldn't breathe in the berth, and at last

I think the Captain saw I really couldn't stand it, and told me to lie

down again. At six we went on deck, and it was awfully jolly going up

the Humber. At eight we got into the sea, and I didn't get my "shore

legs" again till we got into the Scheldt this morning. At about three

this morning I went on deck, and R. and I enjoyed it immensely,

splendidly starlight, and we were just off Flushing, and the lights

looked wonderful with the flat shore and a black windmill. Then the

Captain gave me tea and packed me up in the saloon, and I slept till

six, when T. came out and woke me, and we went "aloft." We were going

down the Scheldt, and R. was in fits of delight because every tree you

see is exactly like the trees in boxes of toys. Not a bit like English

trees. The flat green banks and odd little villages (of which you can

only see the _tops_ of the houses) were charming.

To M.S.G.

_Hotel de l'Europe, Antwerp._

Sunday, September 24, 1865.

MY DEAREST M.,

We are getting on capitally, and enjoying it immensely. I hope T. got

home pretty well. I miss him dreadfully, tell him--especially

to-day--for both Churches and pictures bore R. However, I have only

taken him into one Church to-day, that of S. Jacques, where he really

was pleased to see the tomb of Rubens. I have found the whereabouts of

two other celebrated ones, and shall try to slip off without him. He

is utterly happy when he has got a cigar, "tooling" up and down the

streets, turning in at a café, or buying a peach, and doing "schneeze"

with the "Flams." He does a little French now and then with people in

the streets. I got into the Cathedral just in time to see the glorious

Descent from the Cross, and (which I admire less) the Elevation ditto

by Rubens. I must tell you this morning I went to high mass in the

Cathedral. In fact I heard two masses and a _sermon in Flemish_. It

was wonderful. A very intelligent-looking old priest in surplice and

stole, in the huge carved pulpit, preached with the most admirable

dramatic force, in a language that one can _all but_ understand. It is

so like English and German. Every now and then I could catch a word.

If you want to have an idea of the congregation, imagine the _nave_ of

York Minster (the side aisles rather filled up by altars,

etc.)--covered like a swarm of bees, with a congregation with really

rare exceptions of Flemish poor. Flam women, men, and children, and a

great many common soldiers. The women are dressed in white caps, and

all have scarves (just like funeral scarves) of fine ribbed black

silk; and, Flemish prayer-books in hand, they sit listening to the

sermon. Then it comes to an end with some invocation of something, at

which there is a scraping of chairs and everybody goes round to the

Altar. Then organ, fiddles, all sorts of instruments, and a splendid

"company" of singers--the musical Mass began.

* * * * *

It is all wonderful, and I feel laying up a store of happiness in

going over it at home. How I wish some of you were here! I know my

letters are very dull, and I am _so_ sorry. But though I have a famous

appetite, and can walk and "sight-see" like anything, I have not got

back my _nerve_. Somehow I can't describe it, but you must excuse my

stupidity. I hope R. is happy. He says he is, and dreads it coming to

an end!!! I am very glad, for I feel a heavy weight on _him_ and _he_

feels like reposing on a floating soap-bubble! We are as jolly as

possible really, and nothing is left in me, but a rather strained

nervous feeling, which will soon be gone. You would have laughed to

see R. buying snuff to-day, and cigars. He goes in, lays his finger on

the cigars, and says--"Poor wun frank?" To which the woman

replies--"trieze," and he buys six and sneezes violently, on which she

produces snuff, fills his box, and charges a trifle, and he abuses her

roundly in English, with a polite face, to his own great enjoyment. We

mean to make the cash hold out if possible to come home in the

_Alster_. If it runs short, we shall give up Ghent and Bruges--this

place alone is worth coming for.

Your ever loving sister, J.H.G.

To H.K.F.G.

_Hotel de Vieux, Doellen, The Hague._

September 27, 1865.

DEAREST D----,

This morning we had a great treat! We took an open carriage and drove

from the Hague to Scheveningen on the coast. All the way you go

through an avenue of elms, which is lovely. It is called "the Wood,"

and to the left is Sorgoliet, where the Queen mother lives, and which

was planted, the man says, by Jacob Cats. He lived there. Scheveningen

is a bare-looking shore, all sand, and bordered with sandbanks, or

Dunes. It was _fiercely_ hot, scorching, and not an atom of shade to

be had; but in spite of sun, slipping sandbank-seat, sand-fleas, and a

hornet circling round, I did make a sketch, which I hope to finish at

home. Both Regie and I bathed, and it was _delicious_--an utterly calm

sea, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The bathing machines seem to be a

Government affair. They and the towels are marked with a _stork_, and

you take a ticket and get your gown and towels from a man at a

"bureau" on the sands. I must tell you, this morning when we came

down, we found breakfasting in the _salle-à-manger_ our Dutch friend,

the bulb merchant. We had our breakfast put at his table, and had a

jolly chat. It was so pleasant! Like meeting an old friend. He has

gone, I am sorry to say, but I have made great friends with

Stephanie's father; he cannot speak a word of English, so we can only

talk in such French as I can muster; but he is very pleasant, and his

children are so nice! eight--four boys and four girls. The wife is

Dutch, and I do not think can speak French, so I do not talk to her.

After dinner the _maître d'hôtel_ asked us if we would not go to "the

Wood" (on the road to Scheveningen), and hear the military band--so we

went. I can't describe it. It was like nothing but scenes in a

theatre. Pitch dark in all the avenues, except for little lamps like

tiny tumblers fixed on to the trees, and so [_Sketch_] on to the

Pavilion, which was lighted up by chains of similar lamps like an

illumination--[_Sketch_]--and round which--seated round little green

tables--were gathered, I suppose, about two thousand people. Their

politeness to each other--the perfect good-behaviour, the quiet and

silence during the music, and the buzz and movement when it was over,

were wonderful. The music was very good. R. and I had each a tiny cup

of coffee, and a little brandy and water, for it was very cold!! Now I

have come in, and he has gone back, I think. Stephanie was there, and

lots of children. As I lay awake last night I heard the old watchman

go round. He beats two pieces of wood together and calls the hours of

the night. I saw a funeral too, this morning, and the coachman wears a

hat like this--[_Sketch_]. In the streets we have met men in black

with cocked hats. They are "Ansprekers," who go to announce a man's

death to his friends. The jewellery of the common women is marvellous;

Mr. Krelage (our Dutch friend) says they have sometimes £400 of gold

and jewels upon them!!! A common market woman I saw to-day wore a

plate of gold under her cap of this shape--[_Sketch_]. Then a white

[_Sketch_] lace cap. Then a bonnet highly-trimmed with flowers, and a

white feather and green ribbons; and on her temples filagree gold and

pearl, pins, brooches and earrings; round her neck three gold

chains--one of many little ones together clasped by a gorgeous

clasp--the next supporting a highly-elaborate gold cross--a longer one

still supporting a heart and some other device. She had rings also,

and a short common purple stuff dress which she took up when she sat

down for fear of crushing it; no shawl and a black silk apron!!

_Thursday._ We have been to the Museum. Below is the "Royal Cabinet" of

curiosities, and above are the pictures. Some of the former were _very_

interesting. The hat, doublet, etc. in which William the Silent was

murdered--the pistol, two bullets, etc., and a copy of Balthazar

Geraardt's condemnation, and his watch, on which were some beautiful

little paintings. Admiral Ruiter's sabre, armour, chain and medal;

Admiral Tromp's armour; Jacqueline of Bavaria's chair, and locks of her

hair. Also a very curious model--a large baby-house imitating a Dutch

_ménage_, intended by Peter the Great as a present to his wife. A

wonderful toy!! R. was quite at home among the "relics." Besides

historical relics, the cabinet contains the most marvellous collection

of Japanese things. It is a most choice collection. There were some such

funny things--a _fiancé_ and _fiancée_ of Japan in costume were killing!

and made-up monsters like life-sized mummies of the most hideous demons!

Besides indescribably exquisite workmanship of all sorts. The pictures

are not so charming a collection as those at Antwerp, but there are some

grand ones. Tell Mother--Paul Potter's Bull is too indescribable! His

nose, his hair, and a frog at his feet are wonderful! There is a

portrait by Rubens of his second wife that would have charmed T.; she is

_lovely_, and the picture has that _sunshiny_ beauty he will remember in

"S. Anne teaching the B.V.M." I suspect she was the model for his most

lovable faces. There is a large and wonderful Rembrandt--a splendid

collection of Wouvermans--the most charming Ruisdael I ever saw. Some

beautiful Vandykes--a Van de Velde of Scheveningen, Teniers, Weenix,

Snyders, etc. I do so wish M. could see the pictures, she would enjoy

them so, and get more out of them than I can. The collection is _free_

to the public, and the utmost good behaviour prevails. After that R.

went into the town, and I sat down to a hurried sketch on the

"Vyfeiberg," a quiet sort of promenade. But gradually the populace

collected, till I was nearly smothered. My veil blew over my face, and I

suddenly felt it seized from behind, and looking round, found that a

young baker in white had laid hold of it, but only to fasten it out of

my way, as he began volubly to explain in Dutch! I couldn't speak, so

remonstrance was impossible, and I let them alone. Soldiers, boys,

women, etc.! I could hear them recognizing the various places. They were

very polite, kept out of my line of sight, and decided that it was

"Photogeraphee" like the people in Rotterdam! When we parted, I bowed to

them and they to me!!! To-morrow we go back to Rotterdam for one night,

the next day to Antwerp.

_Friday night. Michaelmas Day._ Hotel Pay Bas, Rotterdam.--Back again!

and to-morrow at 8.15 a. m. we go back to dear old Antwerp. For the

solemn fact has made itself apparent, that the money will not hold out

till to-morrow week, as we intended. So we must give up our dear

Captain, and come home in the _Tiger!!_ We shall be with you D.V. on

Saturday week, starting on Wednesday from Antwerp. We have been to the

Poste Restante, and got dear Mother's letter, to my infinite delight.

I am so glad Miss Yonge likes "the Brownies."

Your ever loving, JUDY

TO MRS. GATTY.

_Sevenoaks_. January 12, 1866.

MY DEAR, DEAR MOTHER,

I do humbly beg your pardon for having written such scrappish,

snappish, selfish letters! The tide of comfort has begun to set in

from Ecclesfield to my infinite delight. So far from being vexed at

your being so careful--I earnestly hope you will never be less so. If

you had been, _I_ should have been dead long ago. I have no more doubt

than of my present well-being. And as it is--taking care is so little

in my line--that if _you_ took to _ignoring_ one's delicacy, or

fancying it was fancy--I know I should merely (by instinct) hold out

to the last gasp of existence, and do _what_ I could, _while_ I

could!!...

I am cheered beyond anything with these critiques on "The Brownies." I

must tell you I have read Aunt Mary the beginning of my new story, and

she likes it very much. It will be longer than "The Brownies." ... I

am writing most conscientiously--it will not be a bit longer than it

should be, but naturally of itself will spread into a good deal. In

fact, it is several stories together--a _Russian_ one among them

("Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances").

TO A.E.

_Ecclesfield_. May 28, 1866.

I send you a song,[33] "which is not very long"--and that is about its

only merit. I am utterly disgusted with it myself for producing

nothing better.... However, here it is, and now I must explain it.

I have endeavoured to bear in mind three things--simplicity of idea,

few verses, and a musical swing. I have constructed it so that one

child's voice may sing for the Child, another child's voice for the

Bird, and as many children as you please in the Chorus.

The "Hush! hush! hush!" I thought ought to have a piano effectiveness,

and it is a word children enjoy.

[Footnote 33: "The Promise": "Verses for Children." Vol. ix. Set to

music by Alexander Ewing.--_Aunt Judy's Magazine_, July 1866.]

THE PROMISE.

_Child._

Five blue eggs hatching,

With bright eyes watching,

Little brown mother, you sit on your nest.

_Bird._

Oh! pass me blindly,

Oh! spare me kindly,

Pity my terror, and leave me to rest.

_Chorus of Children._

Hush! hush! hush!

'Tis a poor mother thrush.

When the blue eggs hatch, the brown birds will sing--

This is a promise made in the spring.

_Child._

Five speckled thrushes,

In leafy bushes,

Singing sweet songs to the hot summer sky.

In and out twitting,

Here and there flitting,

Happy in life as the long days go by.

_Chorus._

Hush! hush! hush!

'Tis the song of the thrush:

Hatched are the blue eggs, the brown birds do sing--

Keeping the promise made in the spring.

If you liked, one voice, or half the party, might sing, "When the blue

eggs hatch," and the other, "The brown birds will sing." Some are

doubtful about the last lines, but the word "promise" had a jubilant

musical rhythm in my head. However, you can alter it; if it has not

the same in yours.... I don't set up for a versifier, and you may do

what you please with this.

There is a certain class of child's song which is always taught in the

National system by certificated infant school mistresses. They are

semi-theatrical, very pretty, and serve at once as music, discipline,

and amusement. Such as "The Clock," in which they beat the hours,

swing for the pendulum, etc. There are certain actions in these songs

which express listening.... I am very fond of the National system for

teaching children, and it has struck me that this song is a little of

that type.... I am doubly vexed it is so poor, because your next thing

to "Jerusalem the Golden" ought to be very good. If you can, make your

Processional Hymn very grand, and I will do my very best. I have more

hope of that. Would the metre of Longfellow's "Coplas de Manrique" be

good for music? It would be a fine hymn measure.... Don't hamper

yourself about the metre. I will fit the words to the music.

TO MRS. GATTY.

_S.S. China._ June 10, 1867.

I staggered up yesterday morning to have my first sight of an

iceberg.... The sea was dark-blue, a low line of land (Cape Race) was

visible, and the iceberg stood in the distance dead white, like a lump

of sugar.... I think the first sight of Halifax was one of the

prettiest sights I ever saw. When I first came up there was no

horizon, we were in a sea of mist. Gradually the horizon line

appeared--then a line of low coast--muddy-looking at first--it soon

became marked with lines of dark wood--then the shore dotted with grey

huts--then the sun came out--the breeze got milder--and the air became

strongly redolent of pine-woods. Nearer, the coast became more

defined, though still low, rather bare, and dotted with brushwood, and

grey stones low down, and crowned always with "murmuring pines." As we

came to habitations, which are dotted, and sparkle along the shore,

the effect was what we noticed in Belgium, as if a box of very bright

new toys had been put out to play with, red roofs--even red

houses--cardboard-looking churches--little bright wooden houses--and

stiffish trees mixed everywhere. It looks more like a quaint

watering-place than a city, though there are some fine buildings....

We took a great fancy to the place, which was like a new child's

picture book, and I was rather disappointed to learn it is not to be

our home. But Fredericton, where we are going, has superior advantages

in some respects, and will very likely be quite as pretty.

_Halifax._ June 19, 1867.

* * * * *

Rex and I went down to the fish-market that I might see it. Coming

back we met an old North American Indian woman. Such a picturesque

figure. We talked to her, and Rex gave her something. I do not think

it half so degraded-looking a type as they say. A very broad, queer,

but I think acute and pleasant-looking face. Since I came in I have

made two rather successful sketches of her.[34] She wore an old common

striped shawl, but curiously thrown round her so that it looked like a

chief's blanket, a black cap embroidered with beads, black trousers

stuffed into moccasins, a short black petticoat, and a large

gold-coloured cross on her breast, and a short jacket trimmed with

scarlet, a stick and basket for broken victuals. She said she was

going to catch the train! It sounded like hearing of Plato engaged for

a polka!...

[Footnote 34: See pages 175, 176.]

[Illustration: Indian.]

TO MISS E. LLOYD.

[_Sketch._]

_Cathedral Church of Fredericton, New Brunswick._

August 23, 1867.

MY DEAREST OLD ELEANORA,

I have been a wretch for not having written to you sooner. It seems

strange there should remain any pressure of business or hurry of life

in this place, where workmen look out of the windows of the house (our

house and a fact!); they are repairing nine at a time, and boys swing

their buckets and dawdle to the well for water, as if Time couldn't be

lounged and coaxed off one's hands!! And yet busy I have been, and

every mail has been a scramble. Getting into our house was no joke,

attending sales and shops, buying furniture--ditto, ditto--as to

paying and receiving calls on lovely days with splendid sketching

lights--they have been thorns in the flesh--and, worst of all, regular

colonial experiences of servants--one went off at a day's notice--and

for two or three days we had _nobody_ but Rex's _orderly_, such a

handy, imperturbable soldier, who made beds, cooked the dinner, hung

pictures, and blew the organ with equal urbanity. He didn't know

much--and in the imperfect state of our cuisine had few

appliances--but he affected to be _au fait_ at everything--and what he

had not got, he "annexed" from somewhere else. One of our maids

uniformly set tumblers and wine-glasses with the tea set, and I found

"William" the Never-at-fault cleaning the plate with knife-powder, and

brushing his own clothes with the shoe brush. However, we have got a

very fair maid now, and are comfortable enough. Our house is awfully

jolly, though the workmen are yet about. The drawing-room really is

not bad. It is a good-sized room with a day window--green carpet and

sofa in the recess--window plant shelf--on one long side of the

wall--a writing-table between two book-shelves--and oh! my dear, I

cannot sufficiently say the _pleasure_ as well as _use_ and _comfort_

all my wedding presents have been to me. You can hardly estimate the

comforting effect of these dear bits of civilization out here,

especially at first when we were less comfortable. But the

_refinements_ of comfort, you know, are not to be got here for love or

money as we get them at home. Your dear book and inkstand and weights

(uncommonly useful at this juncture of new postage), etc., look so

well on my writing-table--on which are also the Longleys' Despatch

Box--Frank Smith's blotting book--my Japanese bronzes, Indian box,

Chinese ditto, Japanese candlestick and Chinese shoes, etc. of

Rex's--our standing photos, table book-stand, etc., etc. You can't

imagine how precious any knick-knacks have become. My mother's

coloured photo that Brownie gave me is propped in the centre--and we

have bought a mahogany bracket for my old Joan of Arc!! We have hired

a good harmonium. Altogether the room really looks pretty with a

fawn-coloured paper and the few water colours up--round table, etc.,

etc. Our bedroom has a blue and white paper, is a bright, airy,

two-windowed room, with a _lovely_ eastward view over the river--the

willows--and the pine woods. Our abundant space mocks one's longing to

invite a good many dear old friends to visit one! We have much to be

thankful for--which excellent sentiment brings me to the Cathedral.

It would be a fine, well-appointed Church even in Europe. It stands

lovelily looking over the river, surrounded by maples, etc., etc. (and

to the left a beautiful group of the "feathered elms" of the country).

There is daily Morning Prayer at 7.30, to which we generally go, and

where the Bishop always appears. There is a fair amateur choir, and a

beautiful organ built by a man who died just when he had completed it.

But, my dear, in addition to these privileges, we weekly "sit under"

the most energetic, quaint-looking, and dignified of Bishops--who has

a clear, soft, penetrating voice that rings down the Cathedral in the

Absolution and Benediction, and who preaches such fine, able,

practical, learned, and beautiful sermons--as I really do not think

Oxon, or Vaughan, or any of our great men much excel. This would be

nearly enough, even if one did not know him; but when we dined at

Government House the other night--rather to my surprise, I was sent in

with him, and found him very amusing, and full of funny anecdotes of

the province. Since when we have rapidly become fast friends. He is

very musical, and when he and Rex get nobbling over the piano and

organ--there they stick!! Rex is appointed supplementary organist, and

to-morrow (being their Annual Festival) he is to play. Last night we

had a grand "practice" at the Bishop's, and it felt wonderfully like

home. He has lots of books, and has put them at our disposal--and, to

crown all, has offered to teach us Hebrew if we will teach him German

this winter. His wife is _very_ nice too.... She is a good practical

doctor, kind without measure, and being a great admirer of Mother's

writings, has taken me under her wing--to see that I do nothing

contrary to the genius of the climate! People are wonderfully kind

here. They really keep us in vegetables, and I have a lovely nosegay

on my table at this moment. There is a very pleasant Regiment (22nd)

here, with a lovely band. On my birthday Rex gave me Asa Gray's

_Botany_, a book on botany generally, and on North American plants in

particular. Some of the wild-flowers are lovely. One (Pigeon Berry)

[_sketch_] has a white flower amid largish leaves--thus. It grows

about as large as wild anemone, in similar places and quantities. When

the flower falls the stamens develop into a thick _bunch_ of

_berries_, the size and colour of holly berries, only _brighter_

brilliant scarlet, and patches of pine wood are covered with them.

My dear, you _would_ like this place! My best love to all your people.

Isabel's fan could have no more appropriate field for its exhibition

than summer here! Adieu, beloved. (I say nothing about home news. Z.'s

affair bewilders me. I am awfully anxious for news, but it's useless

talking at this distance.) (See Lamb's Essay on Distant Correspondents

in the Elia!!!!!)

Your ever loving,

J.H. EWING.

TO MRS. GATTY.

_Fredericton._ September 21, 1867.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,

The room being rather warm (with a fire!) and having been very busy

all day sketching, etc., etc., and having just done my Hebrew lesson

in a sleepyish sort of manner--I have turned lazy about working at

Mrs. Overtheway to-night, and am going to get on with my letter

instead. Rex is mouthing Hebrew gutturals at my elbow, so don't be

astonished if I introduce the "_yatz_, _yotz_, _yomah_," etc., that

sound in my ears! I must tell you we have actually despatched a small

parcel to Ecclesfield. We crossed early one day by the ferry, and went

to the Indian settlement, where we bought a small and simple basket of

a squaw which she had just made, and which shows their work, and will

hold a few of your odds and ends. We send M. a little card-case of

Indian work, and R. a cigar-case. These two things are worked by Huron

Indians in stained moose hair. The Melicites who are _here_ work in

basket-work and in coloured beads. I got two strips of their coloured

bead-work, and Sarah and I "ran up" two red velvet bags and trimmed

them with these strips for tobacco bags for A. and S. I thought you

would like to see the different kinds of work. The MicMacs work in

stained porcupine, but I have not sent any of their work. They are

only very little things, but they come from _us!_ We have had so much

to do, I have got on very badly with my botanizing, but I have sent

one or two ferns for you. We were late for flowers. Tell S. the

_Impatiens Fulva_ is a wonderful flower. When you touch (almost when

you _shake_ with approaching) the seed vessels, they burst and curl up

like springs, and fling the seed away. I mean to try to preserve seed.

The _Chelone Glabra_ as pressed by me gives no idea of the beautiful

dead-white flower, something like a foxglove only more compact. I have

told you what the parcel contains that you may not expect greater

things than will appear from our little Christmas Box!...

To-day has been lovely and we have enjoyed it. Rex has been with me

all day, though when I speak of his being with me I speak of his

bodily presence only. In spirit he is with the conjugations Kal,

Highil, etc., etc. He has bought Gesenius' Grammar, and a very fine

one it seems. He lives with Gesenius, and if he doesn't take it to

bed, it is not that he leaves Hebrew in the drawing-room. He undresses

to the tune of the latest exercise, and puts me through the imperfect

and perfect of [Hebrew: khatah] before we get up of mornings! (He has just

discovered that Eden was about the same latitude as Fredericton!)

There is always Morning Prayer and Holy Communion here on Saints'

Days, and to-day being S. Matthew, we went to the 11 service. After

Church we went a little way up the road, and I did a sepia sketch of

"our street," Rex sitting by me and groaning Hebrew. It was gloriously

sunny, and such a lovely sky, and such an exquisitely calm river with

white-sailed boats on it. I have enjoyed it immensely....

_Fredericton._ 19th Sunday after Trinity, 1867.

* * * * *

I wonder if I send it by next mail, whether you would have room for a

very short Christmas sort of prose Idyll suggested to me by a scene I

saw when we were hunting for a sketch the other day. If I can jot it

down, I don't suppose it would be more than two or three pages. If I

send it at all it will come by the Halifax mail. It will be called

"The Two Christmas Trees."...

TO H.K.F.G.

September 29, 1867.

... I have fallen head over ears in love with another dog. Oh! bless

his nose!... His name is Hector. He is a _white_ pure bull-dog. His

face is more broad and round--and delicious and ferociously

good-natured--and affectionately ogreish--than you can imagine. The

moment I saw him I hugged him and kissed his benevolence bump, and he

didn't even _gowly powl_....

TO MRS. GATTY.

[_Fredericton_, 1867?]

... Talking of stories, if I only can get the full facts of his history,

I think I shall send A.J.M. a short paper on a Fredericton Dog. Did I

ever tell you of him? He has the loveliest face I ever saw, I think, _in

any Christian_. He knows us quite well when we go up the High Street

where he lives. When he gets two cents (1_d._) given him, he takes it in

his mouth to the nearest store and buys himself buscuits. I have seen

him do it. If you only give him _one_ cent he is dissatisfied, and tries

to get the second. The Bishop told me he used to come to Church with his

master at one time; he would come and behave very well--TILL the

offertory. Then he rose and _walked after the alms-collectors_, wagging

his tail as the money chinked in, because he wanted his penny for his

biscuits!!! He is a large dog--part St. Bernard, and has magnificent

eyes. But (my _poor_!) they shaved him this summer like a poodle! There

is a bear in the officers' quarters here--he belongs to the regiment. I

have patted him, but he catches at one's clothes. To see him _patting_

at my skirts with his paw was delicious--but I don't like his _head_, he

looks very sly!

January 2, 1868.

... Indeed it is hard not to be able to see each other at any moment

and to be "parted" even for a time. But to us all, who all enjoy

everything to be seen and heard, and heard of in new places and among

other people; the fact that I have to lead a traveller's life gives us

certain great pleasures we could not have had if Rex had been a curate

at Worksop (we'll say), and we couldn't even afford a trip to the

Continent! Also if I have any gift for writing it really _ought_ to

improve under circumstances so much more favourable than the narrowing

influence of a small horizon.... I only wish my gift were a little

nearer _real_ genius!! As it is, I do hope to improve gradually; and

as I _do_ work slowly and conscientiously, I may honestly look forward

with satisfaction to the hope of being able to turn a few honest

pennies to help us out: and it _is_ a satisfaction, and a blessing I

am thankful for. I only wish I could please myself better! However,

small writers are wanted as well as big ones, and there is no reason

why donkey-carts shouldn't drive even if there are coaches on the

road!...

[_Fredericton_.] February 3, 1868.

* * * * * *

I am so infinitely obliged to you for your wisdom _in re_ Reka Dom,

and very thankful for the criticisms, to which I shall attend. I mean

to compress it very much. I will keep the river part, though that is

really the shadow of some of my best writing, I think, in the _Dutch_

tale describing that scene at Topsham. I wrote a good bit last night,

and was much wishing for the returned MS. But the sight of the proof

will help me more than anything. I lose all judgment of my own work in

MS. I feel as if it must be as laborious to read as it has been to

write. Whereas in print it comes freshly on me, and I can criticize it

more fairly. It will not be very long when all is done, I think, and I

am so anxious to make it good, I hope it will be satisfactory. A

little praise really does help one to work, and I don't think makes

one a bit less conscientious.

It has been a very jolly mail this time, though the Lexicon has not

come. The Bishop's is getting worn with use, for Rex does his daily

chapter with unfailing regularity, and is murmuring Hebrew at my elbow

at this moment as usual. Mr. James McCombie, the uncle who lives in

Aberdeen, the lawyer, has sent me such a pretty book of photographs of

Aberdeen! with a kind message about my letter to the poor old Mother,

and asking me to write to them. I had asked for a photo of the old

Cathedral graveyard where Rex's parents and brother and sister are

buried, and there is a lovely one of it, but it is a set of views of

Aberdeen, very good photos, and a very pretty book. All Rex's old

haunts. Isn't it nice?

[_Sketch of Old Machar Cathedral._]

* * * * * *

[_Fredericton._] April 4, 1868.

I hoped to have sent you the whole of Reka Dom this mail. But a most

unexpected fall of snow has made the travelling so insecure that it is

considered a risk to wait till Monday, and I must send off what I can

to-day. It is so nearly done that I am not now afraid to send off the

first part (which will be more than you will want for May), and you

may rely on the rest by next mail; and the remainder of Mrs. O. as

rapidly as possible. It has certainly given me a wonderful amount of

bother this time, and I was disappointed in the feeling that Rex did

not think it quite up to my other things. But to-day in reading it

all, and a lot that he had not seen before, I heard him laughing over

it by himself, and he thinks it now one of my best, so I am in great

spirits, and mean to finish it with a flourish if possible. I have cut

and carved and clipped till I lost all sense of what was fit to

remain, and Rex has insisted on a good deal being replaced.

* * * * * *

_Fredericton._ April 17, 1868.

* * * * * *

The Squaw has been making the blotting-case, and Peter brought it

to-day, and I am very much pleased with it and hope M. will like it. I

would like to have got an envelope case and a canoe, but they are so

difficult to pack, and it would be so aggravating to have them broken,

so we got a few flat things. The blotting-case and moccasins, and a

cigar-case for F., and a tiny pair of snow-shoes. The blotting-case is

a good specimen, as it is made of the lovely birch bark; and they were

all got direct from Indians we know. A squaw with a sad face of

rather a nigh type called to beg the other day. She could hardly

speak English. She said, "Sister, me no ate to-day;" so I gave her

some bread-and-butter, which she gave at once to the boy with her, and

went away.

We have had some splendid Auroras lately. They are not _rosy_ here,

but very beautiful otherwise, and very capricious in shape, long grand

tongues of light shooting up into the sky.

* * * * *

We are beginning now to talk of "Mayflower expeditions." I think I

shall give one to a few select friends. I had thought of a child's

one, but a nice old school-mistress here gives one for children, and I

think one raid of the united juvenile population on the poor lovely

flowers is enough. The Mayflower is a lovely wax-like ground creeper

with an exquisite perfume. It is the first flower, and is to be found

before the snow has left the woods....

May 12, 1868.

... I have a wonderful lot of gardening on my shoulders, for we have

no _gardener_--only get a soldier to work in the kitchen garden--so I

have had to make my plans and arrange my crops for the kitchen garden,

as well as look after my own. We have really two _charming_ bits--a

little, hot, sunny, good soil, vegetable plot--and quite away from

this--by the house, my flower garden. Two round beds and four borders,

with a high fence and two little gates, I have nearly got this tidy.

The last occupant had never used it. It is a _great_ enjoyment to me,

and does me great good, I think, by keeping me out of doors. Rexie has

given me a dear little set of tools--French ones, like children's

toys, but quite enough for me. They form the subject of one of the

little rhymes that Hector and I make together, and that I croon to the

bull-doge to his great satisfaction.

"The little Missus with the little spade

Two little beds in the little garden has made.

The Bull-doge watches (for he can't work)

How she turns up the earth with her little fork.

Then she takes up the little hoe

And into the weeds doth bravely go,

At last with the smallest of little rakes

Quite smooth and tidy the beds she makes."

Another that was made in bed on the occasion of one of his _raids_ on

my invalid breakfast was--

"'Tis the voice of the Bull-doge, I hear him complain,

'You have fed me but lately: I must grub again.'

As a pauper for pudding--so he for his meat--

Gapes his jaws, and there's nothing a Bull-doge can't eat."

We sing these little songs together--and then I let him look in the

glass, when he gowly powls and barks dreadfully at the rival

_doge_....

TO H.K.F.G.

May 18, 1868.

... I am awfully busy with my garden, and people are very kind in

giving me things. To-morrow we go to the Rowans, and I am to ransack

_his_ garden! I do think the exchange of herbaceous perennials is one

of the joys of life. You can hardly think how delicious it feels to

_garden_ after six months of frost and snow. Imagine my feelings when

Mrs. Medley found a bed of seedling bee larkspurs in her garden, and

gave me at least two dozen!!! I have got a whole row of them along a

border, next to which I _think_ I shall have mignonette and scarlet

geraniums alternately. It is rather odd after writing Reka Dom, that I

should fall heir to a garden in which almost the only "fixture" is a

south border of lilies of the valley!...

TO MISS E. LLOYD.

_Fredericton, N.B._ June 2, 1868.

MY DEAREST ELEANOR--

* * * * *

I can hardly tell you what a pleasure it is to me to have a garden.

The place has never felt so like a home before! I went into my little

flower garden (a separate plat from the other--fenced round, and

simply composed of two round beds, and four wooden-edged borders and

one elm tree) [_sketch_] early this morning, and it seemed so jolly

after the long winter. My jonquils are just coming out, and one or two

other things. In the elm tree two bright yellow birds were cheeping. I

mean to plant scarlet-runners to attract the humming birds. It is

something to see fireflies and humming birds in the flesh, one must

admit!

* * * * *

I cannot echo your severe remarks on the Queen, though I am _quite_

willing to second your praise of the Prince Consort. Her Most Gracious

Majesty is--excuse me--a subject I feel rather strongly about. We are

not--as an age--guilty of much weakness in the way of over loyalty to

anything or any person, and I cannot help at times thinking that it must

be a painful enough reflection to a woman like Queen Victoria, who at

any rate is as well read in the history and constitution of England as

most of us, to know what harvests of love and loyalty have been reaped

by Princes who lived for themselves and not for their people, who were

fortunate in the accidents of more power and less conscience, and of

living in times when you couldn't get your sovereign's portrait for a

penny, or suggest to the loyal and well-behaved Commons that if the

King's health was not equal to all that you thought fit, you would

rather he abdicated. When one thinks of all that noble hearts bled and

suffered and held their peace for--to prop up the throne of Stuart--of

all the vices that have been forgiven, the weaknesses that have been

covered, the injustice that has been endured from Kings--when one

thinks--if _she_ thinks!--of all that has been suffered from successive

mistresses and favourites of royalty a thousand times more easily than

she can be forgiven for (grant it!) a weak and selfish grief for a noble

husband--it is enough to make one wonder if nations are not like

dogs--better for beating. If the Queen could cut off a few more heads,

and subscribed to a few less charities, if she were a little less

virtuous, and a little more tyrannical, if she borrowed her subjects'

plate and repudiated her debts, instead of reducing her household

expenses, and regulating court mournings by the interests of trade, I am

very much afraid we should be a more loyal people! If we had a

slender-limbed Stuart who insisted upon travelling with his temporary

favourite when the lives and livelihoods of the best blood of Britain

were being staked for his throne whilst he amused himself, I suppose we

should wear white favours, and believe in the divine right of Kings. It

must be impossible for her to forget that the Prince, whom death has

proved to be worthy of the praise most people now accord him, was far

from popular in his lifetime, and the pet gibe and sport of _Punch_. I

suppose when she is dead or abdicated we shall discover that England has

had few better sovereigns--and one can only hope that the reflection may

not be additionally stimulated by the recurrence of her successor to

some of the more popular--if not beneficial--peculiarities of former

reigns. It is true that then we might kick royalty overboard altogether,

but, judging by the United States, I don't know that we should benefit

even on the points where one might most expect to do so. In truth, I

believe that the virtue of loyalty is extinct and must be--except under

one or two conditions. Either more royal prerogative than we have--or in

the substitution of a loyal affection that shall in each member of the

commonwealth cover and be silent over the weak points which the

publicity of the present day exposes to vulgar criticism--for the spirit

which used to give the blood and possessions which are not exacted of

us. This is why the Queen's books do not trouble _my_ feelings about

her. She is no great writer certainly, and has perhaps made a mistake in

thinking that they would do good. I think they will do good with a

certain class, perhaps they lower her in the eyes of others. I do think

myself that the virtues she (and even her books incidentally) display

are so great, and her weaknesses comparatively so small, that one's

loyalty must be little indeed if one cannot honour her. "Them's my

sentiments." I am ashamed to have bored you with them at such length.

I wonder whether you thought of us yesterday? But I know you did! We

had planned a Johnny Gilpin out for the day, but it proved impossible.

So we spent it thus--A.M. Full Cathedral Service with the Holy

Communion, which was very nice, though, as it was a Feast Day, the

service was later than usual, so it took all our morning. Rex played

the organ. We spent most of the afternoon in tuning the organ, and

then R. went off to mesmerize a man for neuralgia, and I went up town

to try and get something good for dinner!

I am very happy, though at times one _longs_ to see certain faces. But

GOD is very good, and I have all that I can desire almost.

The Spring flowers are very lovely, some of them. I must go out.

Adieu.

_Best_ love to your Mother and all, to Lucy especially.

Your ever affectionate, J.H.E.

TO MRS. GATTY.

_Fredericton._ June 8, 1868.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,

Does the above sketch give you the faintest idea of what it is to

paddle up and down these lovely rivers with their smaller tributaries

and winding creeks, on a still sunny afternoon? It really is the most

fascinating amusement we have tried yet. Mr. Bliss took us out the

other day, it being the first time either of us was in a canoe, and

Rex took one of the paddles, and got on so well that we intend to have

a canoe of our own. Peter Poultice is building it, and I hope soon to

send you a sketch of Rex paddling his own canoe! Of us, I may say, for

I tried a paddle to-day, and mean to have a little one of my own to

give _my_ valuable assistance in helping the canoe along. Next month

when Rex can get away we think of going up the river to "Grand Falls"

(the next thing to Niagara, they say) by steamer, taking our canoe

with us, and then paddling ourselves home with the stream. About

eighty miles. Of course we should do it bit by bit, sleeping at

stopping-places. One art Rex has not yet acquired, and it _looks_

awful! A sort of juggler's trick, that of _carrying_ his canoe.

Imagine taking hold of the side of a canoe that would hold six people,

throwing it up and overturning it neatly on your head, without

injuring either your own skull or the canoe's bottom.... This canoeing

is really a source of great pleasure to us, and will more thaw double

the enjoyment of summer to me. With a canoe Rex can "pull" me to a

hundred places where a short walk from the shore will give me

sketching, botanizing, and all I want! Moreover, the summer heat at

times oppresses my head, and then to get on the water gives a cool

breeze, and _freshens one up_ in a way that made me think of what it

must be to people in India to get to "the hills." I have never wished

for some of you more than on this lovely river, gliding about close to

the water (you sit on the very bottom of the canoe), all the trees

just bursting into green, and the water reflecting everything

exquisitely. Kingfishers and all kinds of birds flitting about and

singing unfamiliar songs; bob-o-links going "twit-twit," little yellow

birds, kingbirds, crows, and the robin-thrushes everywhere. I landed

to-day at one place, and went into a wood to try and get flowers. I

only got one good one, but it was very lovely! Two crows were making

wild cries for the loss of one of their young ones which some boys had

taken, and as I went on I heard the queer chirrup (like a bird's note)

of Adjidaumo the squirrel! and he ran across my path and into a hollow

tree. It is a much smaller squirrel than ours, about the size of a

water rat, and beautifully striped.

The only drawback to the paddling is that the beloved Hector cannot go

with us. He would endanger the safety of the canoe. One has to sit

very still....

June 16, 1868.

MY DEAREST MOTHER,

We sent off the first part of "Kerguelen's Land" yesterday.... Rex is

so much pleased with the story that _I_ am quite in spirits about it,

and hope you may think as favourably. He thinks if you read the end

bit before you get the rest you will never like it, and yet I am very

anxious to take the chance of the first part's having gone, as I want

a proof--so if you do not get the first part, please put this by till

you do, and don't read it.

Would it be possible for Wolf to illustrate it? If he knows the

breeding islands of the Albatross he would make a lovely thing of it.

This is the last _story_. There will only be a _conclusion_ now. I

have got my "information" from Rex, and "Homes without Hands."--The

only point I am in doubt about is whether the parent birds would have

remained on the island so _long_--I mean for _months_. Do you know any

naturalist who would tell you this? When they are not breeding they

seem to have no home, as they follow ships for weeks.

How we miss Dr. Harvey, and his _fidus Achates_--poor old Dr.

Fisher!--I so often want things "looked up"--and we do lack books

here!...

_Fredericton_. November 3, 1868.

... I _must_ tell you what Mrs. Medley said to me this evening as we

came out of church. She said, "It is an odd place to begin in about

it, but I must thank you for the end of Mrs. Overtheway. The pathos of

those old Albatrosses! The Bishop and I cried over them. I suppose

it's the highest compliment we can pay you to say it is equal to

anything of your Mother's, and that you are a worthy daughter of your

Mother." Wasn't that a splendid bit of praise to hear all these miles

away from one's dear old wonderful old Mother?...

To H.K.F.G.

_Fredericton N.B._

Tuesday, December 8, 1868.

... Tell the dear Mother, please, that I got dissatisfied with my

story, and _recast it_ and began again--and got on awfully well, and

was very well satisfied with it. But Rex read what was done and

doesn't care for it a bit--in fact quite the reverse, which has rather

upset my hopes. However, he says he cannot properly judge till it is

finished, so I am going to finish it off, and if he likes it better

then, I shall send it next mail. It is a regular child's story--about

Toys--not at all sentimental--in fact meant to be amusing; but as Rex

read it with a face for a funeral, I don't know how it will be. I

don't somehow think the idea is bad. It is (roughly) this: A pickle of

a boy with a very long-suffering sister (I hope you won't object to

her being called Dot. You know it's a very common pet name, and it

"shooted" so well) gets all her toys and his own and makes an

"earthquake of Lisbon" in which they are all smashed. From which a

friend tells them the story of a dream she is supposed to have had

(but I flattered myself the dream was rather neatly done up) of

getting into fairyland to the Land of Lost Toys--where she meets all

her old toys that she destroyed in her youth. Here she is shown in a

kind of vision Dutch and German people making these toys with much

pains and industry, and is given a lot of material and set to do the

like. Failing this she is condemned to suffer what she inflicted on

the toys, each one passing its verdict upon her. Eventually a doll

(MY Rosa!!!!) that she had treated very well rescues her, and

the story reverts to the sister and brother, who takes to amusing

himself by establishing himself as toy-mender to the establishment,

instead of cultivating his bump of destructiveness. I sketch the idea

because (if the present story fails) if you think the _idea_ good I

would try to recast it again. If I send it as it is, it is pretty sure

to come by the Halifax mail next week.... I do miss poor dear old Dr.

Fisher, so! I very much wanted some statistics about toy-making. You

never read anything about the making of common Dutch toys did you?...

_Fredericton_, December 8, 1868.

* * * * *

Tell Mother I think she ought to get _Henry_ Kingsley to write for

_Aunt Judy's Magazine_. The _children_ and the _dogs_ in his novels

are the best part of them. They are utterly first rate! I am sure he

would make a hit with a child and dog story.

I told you that Bishop Ewing had written me such a charming letter,

and sent me a sermon of his? This mail he sent us a number of the

_Scottish Witness_ with "Jerusalem the Golden" in Gaelic in it....

To MRS. GATTY.

_Fredericton, N.B._

Easter Monday, 1869,

* * * * *

You are very dear and good about our ups and downs, and it makes me

doubly regret that I cannot reward you by conveying a perfectly

truthful _impression_ of our life, etc. here to your mind, I trace in

your very dearness and goodness about it, in your worrying more about

discomfort for me in our moves than about your own hopes of our

meeting at Home, how little able one is to do so by mere letters, I

wish it did not lead you to the unwarrantable conclusion that it is

because you are "weak and old" that you do not appreciate the

uncertainties of our military housekeeping, and can only "admire" the

coolness with which I look forward to breaking up our cosy little

establishment, just when we were fairly settled down. You can hardly

believe how well I understand your feelings for me, _because I have so

fully gone through them for myself_. I never had D.'s "spirit" for a

wandering life, and it is out of the fulness of my experience that I

_know_ and wish unspeakably that I could convey to you, how very much

of one's shrinking dread has all the _unreality_ of fear of an

_unknown_ evil. When I look back to all I looked forward to with fear

and trembling in reference to all the strangenesses of my new life, I

understand your feelings better than you think. I am too much your

daughter not to be strongly tempted to "beat my future brow," much

more so than to be over-hopeful. Rex is given that way too in his own

line; and we often are brought to say together how inexcusable it is

when everything turns out so much better than we expected, and when

"God" not only "chains the dog till night," but often never lets him

loose at all! Still the natural terrors of an untravelled and not

herculean woman about the ups and downs of a wandering, homeless sort

of life like ours are not so comprehensible by him, he having

travelled so much, never felt a qualm of sea-sickness, and less than

the average of home-sickness, from circumstances. It is one among my

many reasons for wishing to come Home soon, that one chat would put

you in possession of more idea of our passing home, the nest we have

built for a season, and the wood it is built in, and the birds (of

many feathers) amongst whom we live, than any _letters_ can do.... You

can imagine the state of (far from blissful) ignorance of military

life, tropical heat, Canadian inns, etc., etc., in which I landed at

Halifax after such a sudden wrench from the old Home, and such a very

far from cheerful voyage, and all the anecdotes of the summer heat,

the winter cold, the spring floods, the houses and the want of houses,

the servants and the want of servants, the impossibility of getting

anything, and the ruinous expense of it when got! which people pour

into the ears of a new-comer just because it is a more sensational and

entertaining (and _quite_ as stereotyped) a subject of conversation as

the weather and the crops. The points may be (isolatedly) true; but

the whole impression one receives is alarmingly false! And I can only

say that my experience is so totally different from my fears, and from

the cook-stories of the "profession," that I don't mean to request Rex

to leave Our Department at present!...

TO MRS. GATTY,

_Fredericton._ Septuagesima, 1869.

... I am sending you two fairy stories for your editorial

consideration. They are not intended to form part of "The Brownies"

book--they are an experiment on my part, and _I do not mean to put my

name to them_.

You know how fond I have always been of fairy tales of the Grimm type.

Modern fairy tales always seem to me such _very_ poor things by

comparison, and I have two or three theories about the reason of this.

In old days when I used to tell stories to the others, I used to have

to produce them in considerable numbers and without much preparation,

and as that argues a _certain_ amount of imagination, I have

determined to try if I can write a few fairy tales of the genuine

"uninstructive" type by following out my theories in reference to the

old traditional ones. Please _don't_ let out who writes them (if you

put them in, and if any one cares to inquire!), for I am very anxious

to hear if they elicit any comments from your correspondents to

confirm me in my views. In one sense you must not expect them to be

original. _My aim is_ to imitate the "old originals," and I mean to

stick close to orthodox traditions in reference to the proceedings of

elves, dwarfs, nixes, pixies, etc., and if I want them to use such

"common properties of the fairy stage"--as unscrupulous foxes, stupid

giants, successful younger sons, and the traditional "fool"--with much

wisdom under his folly (such as Hans in Luck)--who suggests the court

fools with their odd mixture of folly and shrewdness. _One_ of my

theories is that all real fairy tales (of course I do not allude to

stories of a totally different character in which fairy machinery is

used, as your Fairy Godmothers, my "Brownies," etc., etc.), that all

real "fairy tales" should be written as if they were oral traditions

taken down from the lips of a "story teller." This is where modern

ones (and modern editions of Grimm, _vide_ "Grimm's Goblins,"

otherwise a delicious book) fail, and the extent to which I have had

to cut out reflections, abandon epithets, and shorten sentences, since

I began, very much confirms my ideas. I think the Spanish ones in

_Aunt Judy's Magazine_ must have been so obtained, and the contrast

between them and the "Lost Legends" in this respect is marked. There

are plenty of children who can appreciate "The Rose and the Ring,"

"The Water Babies," your books, and the most poetical and suggestive

dreams of Andersen. But (if it can be done) I think there is also a

strong demand for new combinations of the Step-mother, the Fox, the

Luck Child, and the Kings, Princesses, Giants, Witches, etc. of the

old traditions. I say combinations advisedly, for I suppose _not_ half

of Grimm's Household Stories have "original" plots. They are palpable

"_réchauffées_" of each other, and the few original germs might, I

suspect, be counted on one's fingers, even in fairy-lore, and then

traced back to a very different origin. Of course the market is

abundantly stocked with modern versions, but I don't think they are

done the right way. This is, however, for the Editorial ear, and to

gain your unbiased criticism. But, above all, don't tell any friends

that they are mine for the present. Of course if they DID

succeed, I would republish and add my name. But I want to be incognito

for the present--1st, to get free criticism; 2nd, to give them fair

play; 3rd, not to do any damage to my reputation in another "walk" of

story-writing. I do not in the least mean to give up my own style and

take to fairy tale-telling, but I would like to try this

experiment....

Monday, April 19, 1869.

... I have two or three _schemes_ in my head.

"Mrs. Overtheway" (_2nd series_), "Fatima's Flowers," etc.

"The Brownies (and other Tales)."

"Land of Lost Toys," "Three Christmas Trees," "Idyll," etc.

"Boneless," "Second Childhood," etc., etc.

"The Other Side of the World," etc., etc.

"Goods and Chattels" (quite vague as yet).

"A Sack of Fairy Tales" (in abeyance).

"A Book of _weird queer_ Stories" (none written yet).

"Bottles in the Sea," "Witches in Eggshells," "Elephants in

Abyssinia," etc.

And (a dear project) a book of stories, chiefly about Flowers and

Natural History associations (_not scientific, pure fiction_),

"The Floating Gardens of Ancient Mexico," the "Dutch Story,"

"Immortelles," "Mummy Peas," etc., etc. (none even planned yet!)...

To H.K.F.G.

[Undated, _Fredericton_.]

... How well I know what you say about the truth of Mother's sayings

of the soothing effects of Nature! I used to feel it about gardening

also so much. Visions of three yellow, three white, and three purple

crocuses blooming in one pot beguile the mind from less happy

fancies--perhaps too the _largeness_ and _universality_ of Nature

disperse the selfishness of personal cares and worries. Then I think

the smell of _earth_ and _plants_ has a physical anodyne about it

somehow! One cannot explain it....

TO MRS. GATTY.

_Fredericton, N.B._

5th Sunday after Trinity, 1869.