[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 703. SATURDAY, JUNE 16, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
A HOLIDAY IN THE LAKE-COUNTRY.
Let those who have not as yet made up their minds how or where to spend
their summer holiday, turn their steps towards Lakeland. There, beauty
ever changing and ever charming in all her multiform varieties, lies in
wait for them at every turn. Life too among the hills has a free hearty
zest, born of the invigorating mountain breezes, which you search for
in vain elsewhere. The wind, as it sweeps along the hill-side, recalls,
as it fans the weary brow, the quick glad feeling of existence, the
exuberance of gay animal spirits, which were natural and unprized in
careless boyhood, but which are too often extinguished by the cares
assumed with advancing years.
The steep roads, the green hill-slopes, the peaceful mossy boulders,
the picturesque nooks, in which nestle quaint little homesteads, and
the broad calm lake stretching out like a great embossed silver shield
at your feet, with the deep shadows of the hills shading into purple
gloom in its shining ripples--who that has once seen such a picture,
particularly in sunshine, can ever forget it?
In winter evenings, when the curtains are snugly drawn, and the howling
storm shut out, and the firelight tinges all around with its warm ruddy
glow, pleasant visions of the breezy fells, and the great hills with
their changeful lights and shadows, and the leafy copses running down
to the edge of the water, recur to the memory. You are again in the
swiftly gliding boat; you lean over to gather the water-lilies, or to
gaze into the clear pebbly-bottomed abysses of that softly yielding
flood. Again you see mirrored in its crystal depths the straggling
rifts of vapour, or the long rippling beaches of cloud. The sweet
do-nothingness of the hour, its gay insouciance, or its vanished
romance, are with you once more, and charm you as of old. It is with
a feeling of half-sad tenderness that you turn away from the mental
photograph, and leaving it safe in memory's keeping, go back to your
busy commonplace world.
Mr Payn, in his beautiful volume entitled _The Lakes in Sunshine_
(Windermere: J. Garnett), gives us a sparkling description of
Lakeland. He begins with Windermere, because, as he says, 'the scenery
of the northern lakes is unquestionably grander and wilder, and they
should therefore be seen after their southern sisters.' Almost every
one has seen Windermere, the queen of English lakes. Many have seen it
as Mr Payn says it is best seen--by a
Fair couple linked in happy nuptial league
Alone.
To such, a magic charm clings ever afterwards to each tree and shrub,
investing those never-to-be-forgotten days of delicious idling on its
pleasant shores with a glory peculiarly their own.
Among the distinguished people who have done Windermere and climbed
Orrest Head, to gaze from thence upon the panorama of lake and
mountain and wooded hill and sea which stretch around, was Beau
Brummel, who was, however, much too fine a gentleman to get up any
unfashionable enthusiasm upon the subject. 'Charles,' he would drawl
out to his valet, when he was asked which of the lakes was his
favourite--'Charles, which lake was it we liked best?'
Immediately beneath the tourist, as he stands on Orrest Head, is
Elleray, where 'Christopher North' spent so much of his time. He loved
the mountains around, and might be met upon them in all weathers, in
shine or shower; the shower of course, as is the case all throughout
Lakeland, predominating greatly. As a rule the weather is moist and
often wet, although the dalesmen do not like to have it called so,
or to have any exceptions taken to the lack of sunshine. They are
as irritable upon the subject as a certain Parsee grandee was, who
when his venerable ecclesiastical host, finding a dearth of topics of
conversation, fell back upon that standing British theme the weather,
and blandly observed: 'We have not seen the sun, Sir Jamsetjee, for
many a day,' shut him up abruptly with a stern: 'And what is that to
you, sir? The sun is my god.'
In like manner mist and rain, the tutelary genii of Lakeland, are under
the special protection of the aborigines. There are a number of pretty
houses in the vicinity of Windermere, and land for building purposes is
in great demand, and very difficult to be had; for a dalesman, although
seldom caring a straw about the beauty of the scenery, is passionately
attached to the little bit of land he has inherited from his father,
and tenaciously determined, as he will tell you, 'to hand it forat,'
that his son may be no worse off than he was himself. Unfortunately, he
has no ambition to make him better; and the authoress of the _Cottagers
of Glenburnie_, could she revisit the earth, might find work enough
and to spare amid the untidy and half-ruinous homesteads of the Lake
country.
Towards the southern end of the lake is Storrs Hall, where once upon
a time a brilliant company were wont to assemble, Canning, Sir Walter
Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and Christopher North. Intellectual Titans!
All that of yore awoke your admiration is here, but not one of your
number lingers to admire! There still are the wooded coombs and knolls
rich in myriad shifting lights of beauty, the might of the silent
hills, the placid loveliness of the romantic lake; but ye have gone,
and the place that knows you no more preaches to the musing stranger an
eloquent homily upon the transitoriness of life, and even of that fame
which we fondly call immortal.
There is not in all Lakeland a more picturesque town than Ambleside.
Here, as most people know, is the Knoll, the pretty little villa in
which Miss Martineau spent the long tranquil autumn of her life. She
built it for herself, and was commended for the wisdom of her choice by
Wordsworth, who did not break into any poetic raptures over the lovely
scenery; but taking a commonplace view of the case, said shrewdly: 'You
have made a capital investment; it will double its value in ten years.'
He also gave her a piece of advice about her housekeeping, which
had more of calculating frugality in it than a superficial observer
would have expected from the poetic temperament. 'You will have many
visitors,' quoth the prudent bard of Lakeland. 'You must do as we do.
You must say to them: "If you will have some tea with us, you are
welcome; but if you want any meat along with it, you must pay for it as
boarders do."'
Rydal Mount, Wordsworth's home, is in the close vicinity of Ambleside,
a sanctuary which Mr Payn would have closed against all pilgrims except
those who can understand Wordsworth's works as well as quote them--a
too severe ordeal, which would well nigh make a solitude of this
classic spot. 'This intellectual winnowing-machine,' he says, 'would
exclude about ninety out of a hundred of the well-meaning but really
inexcusable folks who now request admittance at that sacred gate.'
Opposite the principal hotel at Grasmere, upon the roadside that leads
to the Wishing Gate, is the white cottage in which Wordsworth spent his
early married life, and where De Quincey lived after him, and filled
the little drawing-room with his library of five thousand books. Here,
invigorated by the mountain breezes, or absorbed in his books and the
beautiful scenery, the far-famed Opium-eater made a sudden descent from
three hundred and twenty grains (eight thousand drops) per diem of his
favourite drug to forty grains, and found himself, Mr Payn says, in the
novel position of a man with opium to give away.
One day when he was lounging among the June roses, a tawny stranger
beturbaned and travel-stained asked an alms of him in the Malay tongue.
Of this half-barbarous vernacular De Quincey was profoundly ignorant,
as indeed he was of all Eastern languages, the only two Asiatic words
he knew being the Arabic word for barley, and the Turkish name for
opium. So he tried the dusky suppliant with Greek, which he replied to
glibly in Malay. The end of the strange colloquy being that De Quincey,
divining from the stranger's aspect that he also was an opium-eater,
bestowed upon him a large cake of the precious drug; enough, he
calculated, to serve him a fortnight. The Malay took it, and without
more ado, swallowed it outright, leaving his benefactor transfixed with
horror, staring dumbly after him as he went upon his way.
For some days afterwards De Quincey was not unnaturally much exercised
in mind, and very curious to learn from all passers-by if a man with a
turban had been found dead on the road between Grasmere and Whitehaven.
He was not; but he might as well have been, as far as De Quincey was
concerned; for no shade returning from the ghostly shores of Avernus
to haunt a living foe ever exacted a more terrible vengeance for
unintentional wrong than did the Grasmere Malay. For months he haunted
with persistent animus the opium dreams of De Quincey, and was not
exorcised until he had run the gantlet of every unimaginable horror,
far transcending any atrocity of which a Malay in the flesh could have
been capable.
As a matter of course, in Lakeland there is, for those who like it,
climbing enough and to spare; but there are not a few sagacious
individuals who have no relish for this exercise, and are ready to
exclaim with Mr Payn: 'Of what use are photographs if they do not
convey so accurate an idea of the locality as to save us the trouble
and exertion of conveying ourselves thither! For what is the effect of
the barbarism of walking uphill until the human frame becomes somewhat
inured to it, just as it becomes inured to taking arsenic or any other
deleterious habit? Why, a trembling of the legs, excessive pain in the
knee-joints, determination of blood to the head, singing in the ears,
inordinate perspiration, and a desperate desire for liquids.' Let all
holiday wanderers, not being members of the Alpine Club, take note of
this. Leaving climbing to those adventurous spirits who love it, there
is no lack of beautiful walks for more humble-minded pedestrians, only
they must beware not of the dog, but of the bull. These formidable
quadrupeds abound or did abound; and to find yourself face to face in a
bowery glade with a huge bellowing brute, pawing the ground, distending
his nostrils, glaring at you with his fierce red eyes, and otherwise
unnecessarily exciting himself, is, to say the least, a situation in
which it would be very difficult even for a Sir Charles Grandison to
preserve an equable dignity of demeanour.
At Coniston you can, if a member of the Alpine Club, or qualifying
for that honour, do the Old Man of Coniston; 'but to recommend the
ascent of such a monster is altogether,' Mr Payn says, 'contrary to his
principles.' He rather recommends the ascent of Black Coomb, a sombre
but majestic hill, from which, said Wordsworth, 'there is the most
extensive sea-view in Britain.'
Perhaps, however, O weary tourist, your head may not be of the
steadiest at giddy heights, and it may be as well to pause in lowly
but safe obscurity at its base, and there solace yourself with a
description of its glories:
Close to the sea, lone sentinel,
Black Coomb his forward station keeps;
He breaks the waves' tumultuous swell,
And ponders o'er the level deeps;
He listens to the bugle-horn
Where Eskdale's lovely valley bends;
Eyes Walney's early fields of corn;
Sea-birds to Holker's woods he sends.
Beneath his feet the sunk ship rests
In Duddon sands, with black masts bare.
Opposite Wallabarrow Crag is the hamlet of Newfield, where lived in
days gone by a worthy clergyman, who was known far and near throughout
the little world of the Dales by the name of Wonderful Walker. In a
worldly sense, less blest than he of whom the poet sings, 'that he was
passing rich with forty pounds a year,' for he had but eighteen, he yet
with the help of this slender income maintained and educated a family
of twelve, and died at the age of ninety worth two thousand pounds!
This of course was not all saved out of the eighteen pounds a year. He
acted as doctor, schoolmaster, and lawyer for his parishioners, and
lent a hand besides at sheep-shearing and hay-harvest; for all which
diverse services he exacted and obtained a modest fee.
Furness Abbey, with its vast piles of splendid ruins, with its lonely
aisles, and roofless dormitories deserted and time-stricken, appeals
to the gazer with a sense of beauty so full and exquisite in its calm
decay, that content with the loveliness that remains, he scarcely
cares to recall the glories that have gone by. Dire have been the
alternations of fate through which this magnificent house of Our Lady
of Furness has passed. In the spacious building which is now used
as the railway hotel, Rogerus Pele, the last abbot, held his state.
Here he was so unwise as to countenance a local rising against Henry
VIII.; and here, when that Defender of the Faith had triumphed over
all his enemies, he received from the ecclesiastical commission a list
of questions, one or two of which bothered him not a little. Had not
he, vowed as he was to the stern Cistercian rule, two wives? Had not
one of his monks one, and another five?--an excess of blessing which
Henry perhaps wisely thought ought to be included in the special rights
of kings only. How did Abbot Rogerus answer these questions? Did St
Bernard aid in his hour of need this degenerate son? It is to be feared
not; for from this splendid house--and sure never was poor Cistercian
more richly housed--the abbot and his monks, obeying the monarch's
stern decree, went forth for ever.
Hawes-water, a lonely secluded lake, with no good inn accommodation
near it, is visited by but few tourists, which is rather a pity, as it
is one of the grandest of the sisterhood of meres, although inferior in
picturesque beauty to Ullswater, of which Mr Payn says, contrasting it
with Windermere, 'that Windermere is very homelike, and makes one wish
to live for ever (or even die) in one of its many pleasant dwellings;
but for grandeur, it is certainly not to be compared to its northern
sister.'
Thus one by one the sweet smiling lakes pass by, the bright summer
days fade away, and the pleasant holiday season comes to an end. The
long shadows lengthen lovingly over Lakeland; the giant hills, like
sleepy Titans, nod a last adieu; the darkling copsewood grows shadowy
and indistinct; the sweet sunny mere in the hollow glimmers in the
distance; the purple haze creeps up the well-known glens, golden with
happy memories; and the lofty mountains we have or have not climbed,
gloom with deeper shadows. What thanks do we not owe to all, lake,
river, forest, and mountain, for many delightful hours and pleasant
memories! Again would we recommend our holiday-making friends to point
their route to Lakeland, commencing say at Windermere.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER XXVIII.--CONGRATULATIONS.
I walked slowly back towards the cottage, taking myself to task for
the foolish doubts and fears which had so oppressed me. How could I
have been so disloyal as to have a moment's doubt? Philip was right: it
was not fair to him! As though the love of a man such as he was, would
depend upon a woman looking more or less blooming!
No doubt I had looked my very worst, standing there in the wood, pale
and fagged and travel-stained, in my shabby old bonnet and mean-looking
cloak; a great contrast to Lilian, in her fresh white pique dress,
and with her delicately beautiful colouring of eyes and hair and
complexion. Of course it was perfectly natural that he should be sorry
to see me looking so worn and faded; all the more sorry because he
loved me. Should not I have felt pained to see him looking in any way
worse than I had expected to see him; and so forth; until I had argued
myself into a state of perfect content again, quite convinced that I
was the happiest of women.
Lilian met me at the gate with outstretched arms. 'Dear, darling,
naughty Mary; if this were a night when scolding were possible! Why did
you not tell us?'
'Dear Lilian, it was wrong, I know. But in truth I was longing to tell
you, only--many things prevented my doing so.'
'But the wonder is how in the world you could contrive to avoid talking
about him! So grand, and noble, and good; I am sure he is good.'
'Yes, dear, he is good;' beginning at last to find it pleasant to talk
about him.
'The idea of your having such a lover hidden up in your thoughts all
the time we were worrying your life out with our troubles! How could
you have so much patience and sympathy with us--with me?'
'Perhaps, Lilian, for the very reason that he _was_ hidden up in my
thoughts.'
'Well, perhaps it was: yes; I can understand that, Mary;' adding with a
little sigh, 'and I think I can guess now why you did not like talking
about your happiness to me, dear kind sister that you are!'
'I am glad that you like Philip, Lilian.'
'Like him! Of course I do; though there is not much credit in liking
one so nice as he is, I suppose. He knows how to pay compliments too.
Do you know he paid me such a nice one, Mary? He said that I reminded
him of you, and that he could trace the influence of your mind upon
mine. I stupidly all the while never guessing the truth! The idea of
your having been engaged for ten years, and once so nearly married,
without your sister knowing anything about it!'
Afterwards there were dear old Mrs Tipper's congratulations to listen
to. But although she was quite as ready as Lilian to say kind things,
and evidently wished to make me understand that she was pleased for my
sake, there was the shadow of a regret in her eyes, and I thought I
knew the reason why.
Pleasant as it all was, it was even pleasanter to be once more alone
with my thoughts. I sat by the open window half through the summer
night, my elbows on the sill and my chin in my hands, trying to get
used to my happiness. 'Tired nature sunk into repose, scarce told of
life;' but a light breath of sound--the faint twitter of a bird--the
whispering of the air amongst the roses clustering round the window--or
the soft rustle of a leaf, seemed to hint that it was dreaming
musically, as befitted a world watched over by the 'silent sentinels
of the night.' It was early dawn before I was sufficiently sobered to
betake myself to bed and attempt to sleep.
When at length sleep came, it was no love-visions which visited me,
only a miserable distortion of what had taken place, as though some
evil spirit were mocking my hopes. I rose pale and unrefreshed. The
blooming process had certainly not commenced yet, I jestingly informed
myself, as I tried to smile at the heavy lack-lustre eyes and white
face which my glass reflected. I could afford no more star-gazing;
requiring all the proverbial beauty-sleep I was able to compass. But I
made the best of myself; and in my pretty fresh morning-dress was, I
flattered myself, somewhat brighter and pleasanter to look upon than I
had been the night before. Lilian came in before I had quite finished,
to 'see after me,' she said, with a tender greeting.
'To begin with: I will not have that beautiful throat so muffled up;
and I will have a bow in your hair and this flower in your dress. Now
don't be obstreperous. Where is the use of being a sister, if I may not
have such little privileges as this, I should like to know!' busily
putting a little touch here and a little touch there to my toilet.
'Yes; that is certainly better--now you look kissable, my dear;' with
a gay little laugh at my consciousness. 'It shews beautifully now!'
'What shews, goosy?'
'The love and happiness, and all the rest of it, child. Only look like
that when he comes in, and I shall be _quite_ satisfied. And remember,
Mary, not that mean old bonnet again--not for the world! Did you order
a new and fashionable one as I bade you, madam?'
I murmured something about a new bonnet being on its way, but could not
speak positively as to its pleasing her.
'If you have ordered another old-fashioned-looking thing, it will have
to be taken back to the place from whence it came; that's all, my dear.
And until it comes, you must wear your garden-hat; it is twenty times
more becoming than that old dowdy thing of a bonnet; and I have been up
since five o'clock, if you please, making it pretty with new ribbon and
a few poppies.'
'Dear Lilian--sister!'
'Tears! Good gracious, Mary, what _are_ you thinking of? Pray, consider
your nose; pray, do not spoil the effect! Yes; that's better; that will
do, my dear;' with a grave little nod of approval, as I broke into a
smile again.
It certainly was rather amusing. To judge by her tone, and without
looking at her, she might have been supposed to be an elder sister
admonishing and encouraging a shy young girl. Ah me! the diffidence I
felt arose from a very different cause, and was of a very different
kind from the diffidence of a young girl. It was nevertheless very
delightful to have her hovering about me thus; her love so palpable in
every word, and look, and tone. It was doubly precious to me just now;
and perhaps she guessed that it was. By the time we were summoned to
breakfast, she had succeeded in chasing away some of my morbid fancies;
and she did not allow me to fall back again, keeping up a constant
patter of merry speeches; at which her aunt and I wore forced to smile.
Whether Lilian was beginning to see deeper into my mind than she had
heretofore done, I know not; but one thing was evident: she could see
the kind of treatment I required, and talked no sentiment. Mrs Tipper
looked a little surprised at her unwonted gaiety, but very agreeably
surprised. Lilian never appeared to greater advantage than in these
playful moods.
'Of course you and I must be considerate when Mr Dallas is here, aunty;
in the way of finding our presence required elsewhere, and making
occasional discreet little disappearances, you know.'
'Nonsense! as though I would allow such a thing!' I replied laughingly.
'And as though such an experienced person as I did not know the right
and proper thing to do!' She could even jest about her experience.
'Then I mean to shew you that the most experienced people may sometimes
err in their notions as to what is right and proper,' I rejoined
lightly.
But when, just as we had finished breakfast, Lilian descried Philip
coming down the lane, she ran off with a gay look over her shoulder at
me. Mrs Tipper was already in the kitchen, in solemn consultation with
Becky over the contents of the larder, intent upon making Philip an
honoured guest. Of course I very quickly had Lilian in with us, and
allowed no more discreet disappearances. Indeed in the first moments of
my happiness it was sufficient to me to feel that Philip was present.
There was even a kind of relief in having Lilian with us; and he
soon found that anything which interested him and me might be freely
discussed in her presence.
It was a glorious morning, and we betook ourselves to the
'drawing-room.' The windows were flung wide; and it was delightful to
look from the cool shaded room to the lovely scene beyond, bathed in
sunshine, the shadows of the light fleecy clouds sailing in the bright
blue sky chasing each other up the hillside; whilst an occasional
sound, the few-and-far-between strokes of the blacksmith's hammer,
or the laugh of a child at play, floated lazily towards us from the
village; even the proverbially busy bee seemed to hum drowsily in the
perfume-laden air.
We agreed that it was a morning expressly intended to be spent in the
half-idle wholly enjoyable way we spent it: renewing acquaintance with
bits from our favourite authors, trying scraps of songs, &c., Lilian
now accompanying him, and now me. Then there were our sketches to be
examined and criticised--have I said Philip was no mean artist?--and
our studies to be talked over, which brought us to Robert Wentworth.
I had already made Philip acquainted with him, so far as it could be
done by letter, and unfortunately, as I now felt it to be, I had given
more than one hint of my hopes and expectations respecting Lilian and
Robert Wentworth. It was therefore natural enough that Philip should
watch her a little curiously when the other's name was mentioned.
'He must be a fine fellow!' heartily said Philip, when Lilian quoted
some remark of Robert Wentworth's.
'He is good,' simply replied Lilian. 'Not very fine, but good.'
'If you interpret what I say so very literally as all that, I shall
have to be very careful in the choice of my words, Miss Maitland,'
laughed Philip.
'I do not want you to be disappointed in him, even at first; and he is
plain, and rather old.'
Plain, and rather old! That was _not_ Robert Wentworth to me; but I
recollected that I was not a girl between seventeen and eighteen, and
made no comment.
Lilian looked flushed and nervous as she slipped her hand into mine,
and went on in a low grave voice to him: 'Could not Mary's sister
be--Lilian?'
He bowed low, with a murmured word or two about his appreciation of
the privilege; and seeing that her face was still shadowed by the
recollection which his use of her mother's name had called up, he
presently contrived to lead to less embarrassing subjects.
After early dinner--Philip had begged that no difference should be
made in the hour on his account--we went into the woods, to pass the
afternoon under the grand old trees; taking with us books, needlework,
sketching materials, and what not, with the persuasion that we did not
mean to be wholly idle. Philip said that it was done for the purpose of
impressing him with due reverence for our talents; but declared that it
was only idle people who could not enjoy being idle. He spread all the
aids and appliances picturesquely about us.
'There; that ought to do, I think. The most conscientious of workers
ought to be satisfied with that--no one would venture to call you idle
now!' he ejaculated, throwing himself on to the turf beside us, his
hands clasped at the back of his head and his gray eyes full of fun and
mischief.
'The idea of your thinking you will have nothing to do but watch us!'
said Lilian. 'We shall want lots of help; shall we not, Mary? water
fetched, and pencils cut, and'----
'No, no; I am sure you are above that sort of thing. Isn't it becoming
the fashion for ladies to be independent?'--persuasively.
'We are old-fashioned, and like to be waited upon.'
He laughed. 'I should like to be useful, of course. But wouldn't
you find me useful to point a moral? Suppose you were to illustrate
the evils of laziness, for instance, and make me the example; eh,
Mary?'--tossing a bit of twig on to my work.
'As though I would encourage you that way!'
'Shew that dimple again, if you please, Miss Haddon!'
'You absurd person!'
'Thank you.'
'I feel an inclination to be discreet coming on,' whispered Lilian.
'Repress it at once,' I replied very decidedly.
Ah, what pleasant nonsense it was! The woods rang out with many a merry
laugh at our quips and cranks and gay _badinage_ that afternoon. Philip
affirmed that our lives had been too sombre and severe, and that he had
only arrived just in time to rescue us from becoming 'superior' women.
The brightening-up process devolved upon him. We could not deny that he
had the power. Lilian altogether got rid of her shyness, and was almost
as frank and outspoken with him as with me. She gaily claimed to be
considered his sister by-and-by; and drew an amusing picture of herself
in the future as a model old maid. 'Not prim and proper, you know--no,
indeed; I intend to be a nice little round woman, to go about loving
and comforting people.'
Philip confessed that he did not greatly affect old maids, but gravely
opined that being round might make a difference.
I defended them as a 'worshipful body,' round or square; though I did
not believe that Lilian would be allowed to be of the guild.
Lilian thought she would use her own judgment about it; but I
recommended her asking Mr Wyatt's advice. At which I was pelted with
bits of grass.
And so passed the hours away until Becky came to summon us to tea. She
gazed so long and so curiously at Philip, who happened to be talking
to Lilian whilst she gave Mrs Tipper's message, that I touched his arm
and explained in a little aside that this was the Becky I had told him
about, and that Becky's good opinion was worth something.
O yes; he had not forgotten; she was my protégée, he replied; going
on to address himself to her, asking her whether she approved of his
coming to take me away by-and-by.
Perhaps it was his jesting manner which she could not understand;
perhaps it was some defect in herself--whatever might be the cause, I
saw that Becky was not so much impressed in his favour as the others
had been. Her quiet decided 'No, sir!' highly amused him.
'Not if Miss Haddon wishes to be taken away, Becky?'
But he could not get her to say any more. When he asked for reasons,
she only shook her head, turning her eyes from him to me.
He tried banter. 'I understood that Miss Haddon was a favourite of
yours, Becky.'
She did not appear to be at all anxious to defend herself to him,
and she knew that it was not necessary to me. She stood aside for
us to pass without a word; though I saw she eyed him steadily the
while. Moreover, I found Becky a little cross-grained, when later I
made occasion to ask what she thought of Mr Dallas. 'He is not so
nice-looking as Mr Wentworth, Miss, to my mind,' was all she would say;
and as I knew that those whom Becky liked were always good-looking,
and those whom she did not affect were plain, I could draw my own
conclusions. I was foolish enough to be a little annoyed, replying
somewhat sharply: 'If you do not like Mr Dallas, you yourself, and not
he, will be to blame for it, Becky.'
'Very well, Miss.'
Something in the expression of her eyes as she turned away made me add:
'Do not you think you ought to be inclined a little favourably towards
the gentleman I am going to marry, Becky?'
'Yes, Miss; I know I ought;' in a low faltering voice. And that was all
I got out of Becky.
RUSSIA AND HER PEOPLE.
A SKETCH.
The outbreak of war in the east of Europe has directed the attention of
the English people to Russia, with a pretty generally expressed desire
to become more acquainted with a country which may be destined in the
future to play a greater part than it has yet done in the history of
the world. This desire is a commendable one, for when two nations shew
a mutual longing to become better known to each other, the risk of
quarrelling is eventually reduced to a minimum, and as in the case of
England and France, a free, hearty, and unchecked intercourse removes
in a wonderfully short time whole ages of prejudice and ill-will.
Russia is, however, a difficult country to become acquainted with, for
the traveller finds himself in an unfamiliar land, peopled by a race
of whose thoughts and feelings he knows as little as he does of their
language; and the information he receives from the persons he questions
is either meagre or untrustworthy.
Her police regulations are vexatious; and on entering an hotel the
traveller is bound, under awkward penalties, to give an exhaustive
account of himself in a book kept for the purpose, and not only to
enter into intimate relations with the authorities, but to have his
mind made up as to his plans, and to purchase a _permis de séjour_ or
_de voyage_ for a certain number of days; and this leave must not be
exceeded without an authoritative extension of it.
The travelling arrangements for those who choose to use rail or
steamer are pleasant, if one does not object to a rather oppressive
atmosphere in the carriages, for during the greater part of the
year the Russian's chief idea is to protect himself against the
inclement climate; and as he keeps the windows and doors of the
public conveyances hermetically closed, involuntary contact with him
becomes anything but agreeable. But if the traveller wishes to gain an
intimate acquaintance with Russia, and to see what is the real life
of the people apart from towns and highways, he must be prepared to
take many a long and tedious journey in a kind of lumbering cradle on
wheels, or peasant's springless cart; for in some vehicle of this kind
he will have to be bumped and jolted the livelong day, plagued with
dust and heat in the summer, and in winter liable to frost-bite and
snow-blindness; while he will probably be unable to get any food beyond
what he carries with him except black bread, pickled cucumbers, and
sometimes eggs. He will also have to sleep at night in fusty rooms,
which are often without beds, and are almost invariably teeming with
insects.
The northern portion of Russia consists chiefly of forest-land and
morass, plentifully supplied with water, and broken up by numerous
patches of cultivation; and the villages are generally composed of gray
huts built on each side of a straight road which at times becomes a
river of mud.
The big white church with its fine pear-shaped cupolas rising out of a
bright green roof; the meadow in the foreground, through which meanders
a sluggish stream; the whitewashed manor-house, with a verandah in
front, standing on a bit of rising ground, and half concealed by a
cluster of old rich-coloured pines: none of these details are beautiful
in themselves, but all combine to form a very pleasant picture when
seen from a distance, especially in the soft evening twilight. Every
little household in these villages is a kind of primitive labour
association, the members of which have all things in common, and submit
to the arbitrary will of the Khosain or head of the family; while the
wife of the Russian peasant is a very unromantic style of female,
with very little sentiment in her otherwise kindly nature; but she
manages to bring up her children on what is the veriest pittance of a
wage, in a manner that would do credit to many better situated English
peasant-women. In the north-eastern provinces of Russia the peasant
has an extremely hard fight to maintain against the hostile forces of
Nature, his field-labour sometimes resulting in no gain at all. He
makes a living in various ways; and for whole days he wanders through
the trackless forests in search of game; or he spends a month away from
his home, fishing in some distant lake; or else devotes the summer to
deep-sea fishing, bringing home, if he is lucky and frugal, enough
money to tide him and his family over the winter.
In the excellent work, '_Russia_, by D. Mackenzie Wallace, M.A., 1877,'
from which we derive many of our facts, the author presents us with
a 'family budget,' which will give a good idea of the expenditure of
a peasant household in the far north. Its income during a tolerably
prosperous year was L.12, 5s., chiefly obtained from the sale of game
and fish. The expenditure was L.7, spent on ryemeal (2240 pounds),
to supply the deficit of the harvest; L.3 on clothes, tackle, and
ammunition; and L.2, 5s. paid in taxes.
As the peasant family of the old type is a kind of primitive
association in which the members have their goods in common, so the
village may be described as a primitive association on a larger scale.
It has an administrator at its head, whose power is limited by the
will of the heads of households themselves, forming a kind of village
parliament, which is directly responsible to the state for the due
and timely payment of all tithes and taxes. Various are the matters
with which this village parliament has to deal, from the election of
office-holders and the periodical collection of the taxes up to the
redistribution of communal land--a subject which is often the occasion
of lively scenes. But when once a decision is given, it is respected as
scrupulously as any of the 'Acts' of our own House of Commons.
Thus we see in Russia the 'commune,' or 'mir' as it is called there, in
full working order; and in a country ruled over by a despotic monarch
it is perhaps the nearest approach to municipal or constitutional
institutions that can with safety be attempted. The mir was instituted
by the present Emperor or Czar, when he carried out that wise and
humane act which will for ever be associated with his name--namely the
emancipation of the serfs; and it has scarcely been long enough in
existence yet to predict what form it may ultimately assume.
The Russian peasantry are, for the most part, grossly superstitious,
and this may be owing in no small degree to the very inferior religious
teaching to which they are accustomed; for we are told that they have
not the faintest conception of anything like an inner religious life,
but are the slaves of mere rites and ceremonies. For example, though
a robber will kill a peasant on the highway, such are his religious
scruples, that he will not eat a piece of cooked meat which he may
find in his victim's cart, because perhaps it is a fast-day; and an
artisan when about to break into the house of an Austrian attaché in
St Petersburg, first entered a church and commended his undertaking
to the protection of the saints, then killed the attaché in question.
It is a species of grim fanaticism which binds the masses in Russia.
The shrines in the public places are crowded with worshippers, who
cover with their kisses the gilded pictures, while showers of small
coins or copper money rattle into the boxes, which the priests hold in
their hands. From these and other circumstances, we are warranted in
saying that the Russo-Greek Church is about the most debased form of
Christianity.
Not very high above the working classes of the towns in the matter of
intellectual culture, come the traders. Many of them are very rich, but
exceedingly ignorant, and do not bear a high character for honesty; but
like every other class in Russia, this one also is being affected by
the great changes which are taking place, and by which the old spirit
of caste is dying out; while a number of nobles are infusing new ideas
into mercantile circles.
Far above the trading classes stand the members of the official
circles, who spend their days at their desks, and while away their
evenings at card-playing, which is carried on to an extent unsurpassed
in any country in Europe. This is doubtless owing to the eternal
dullness which pervades Russian towns, but which one of their poets has
declared to be the essential characteristic of Russian provincial life.
We come now to the _nobles_ of Russia, of whom there is a very
considerable number; but very small value is attached to a mere title,
and there are hundreds of princes and princesses who have not the
right to appear at court, and who would not be admitted into what is
called in St Petersburg _La Société_, or for the matter of that, into
refined society in any country. For instance, not long ago a certain
Prince Krapotkin gained his living as a cabman in the Russian capital.
The only genuine Russian title is Knyaz, which is commonly translated
'Prince.' The bearers of this title are the descendants of Rurik, of
the Lithuanian Ghedimin, of the Tartar chiefs who were officially
recognised by the czars, and of fourteen families who adopted it
by imperial command during the last two centuries. Peter the Great
introduced the foreign titles of Count and Baron, he and his successors
conferring the title of count on sixty-seven families, and of baron on
ten. Of the noble families, very few are rich, and none of them possess
a shadow of political influence.
There are more than a hundred thousand landed proprietors in Russia,
but it must not be inferred from this that they are equal in point of
wealth to our landed gentry at home. Such is very far from being the
case, for many of them are in a state of poverty, the wealthy ones
not exceeding four thousand in number. This latter class includes two
distinct schools of landowners, so to speak; those of the old school
being described as 'contented, good-natured, hospitable, but indolent,
apathetic, and dull;' while those of the later are a roystering
boisterous set, fond of drinking and dissipation, and possessing
a morbid passion for sport of all kinds, however demoralising or
degrading it may be.
All travellers in Russia, from Dr Clarke downwards, have been
astonished, and not a little disgusted with the depravity of official
life. The taking of bribes by persons in authority seems to be
universal, and has been represented as arising in some measure from
the inadequacy of salaries. From whatever cause, this forms a blot on
Russian society, and which we hope may disappear with the progress of
education and intelligence.
In Russia, it is somewhat satisfactory to learn, Mohammedans and
Christians get on very well together, and not only help each other,
but take it in turns to be at the head of their several communes. This
shews that under a tolerably good government the two races may enjoy
a great amount of good-fellowship and freedom, without any reference
whatever to religious differences.
All are loyal subjects of the Czar, to whom all Russians, of whatever
rank or religion, yield an unhesitating and child-like obedience.
But even this great measure of loyalty does not prevent them from
occasionally resisting his authority when great interests are at
stake, as is proved by the existence through many centuries of a
secret society called the 'Raskol,' which all the power of the Russian
emperors has failed to dissolve. So long as the Czar, however,
identifies himself with the enthusiasm of his subjects, and especially
the religious portion of them, his authority within his dominions is
irresistible; but should his policy ever come into collision with
the teachings of the clergy and the feelings of their flocks, the
reverence paid to his sovereignty might be rudely shaken.
The saddest sight in Russia to a traveller is the manner in which civil
prisoners are treated. It is a common spectacle to see three or four
hundred poor wretches on their way to Siberia under a military escort;
for most of them are chained together in couples, while the women and
children who have elected to share their bread-winners' lot have also
to submit to be treated as criminals. Poorly clad, and apparently
half starved, the wonder is that any of the party should ever survive
the dreadful journey. A Russian criminal condemned to exile is sent
away with very little ceremony; but when an officer of the army or
other person of note has been sentenced to banishment for life, he is
dressed in full uniform, and led to a scaffold in some public place.
In the presence of the crowd he is made to kneel while his epaulets
and decorations are torn from his coat and his sword broken over his
head. He is declared legally dead; his estates are confiscated, and his
wife can consider herself a widow if she so chooses. From the scaffold
he starts on his journey for Siberia. His wife and children, sisters
or mother, can follow or accompany him if they choose, but only on
condition that they share his exile.
Mr Arnold in his book entitled _Through Persia by Caravan_, relates
how, when passing through Russia, he saw a party of prisoners
embarked on board a steamer on the river Volga. They were positively
caged amid-ships, so that every part of the interior could be
seen, just as in the lion-houses of the Zoological Gardens, with
this difference--that in the case of the prisoners there was no
overhanging roof to prevent rain or sunshine from pouring in upon their
wretchedness. At the back of the cage there was a _lair_ common to all,
without distinction of sex or age. And when all were secured, including
the guiltless women and children, fights occurred for the places least
exposed to the east wind. This is a system which must surely fade away
beneath that public opinion which is fast becoming too strong for even
autocratic monarchs to despise; for we are told that the emancipation
of the Russian serfs has made a vast legal, social, and material
improvement in the lower orders of the people; and it is to the people
that the world will look for that much-needed reform, which will enable
Russia, perhaps at no distant day, to take an honourable place amongst
civilised nations.
An anecdote is related by Mr Wallace, who, upon one occasion when
travelling on the great plain which stretches from the Sea of Azov to
the Caspian, observed on the map the name _Shotlandskaya Koloniya_
(Scotch colony). Being curious to ascertain why a village was so
called, he made a pilgrimage thither and made inquiry. No one could
tell him; but at last he was advised to ask an old Circassian, who
was supposed to be learned in local antiquities. To this man he put a
question in the Russian tongue, explaining that he was a Scotchman, and
hoped to be able to find a fellow-countryman in the village; whereupon
the old Circassian replied in broad Scotch: 'Why, man, I'm a Scotchman
too!' He explained, however, that he was only a 'Circassian Scotchman,'
being a native of the Caucasus; and as a child, had been purchased and
brought up by the Scotch missionaries, who were then patronised by
Alexander I., but were suppressed in the year 1835 by Nicholas.
Those of our readers who may wish for detailed information as to the
general condition of Russia and her people, may safely be referred to
Mr Wallace's interesting work.
THE DUKE'S PIPER:
A STORY OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER I.
It was an unfortunate business--most unfortunate; for the Duke's piper
and the Duke's game-keeper were the best of friends; they never met
at the Glengolly clachan but they had their 'glass' together; nay,
when friends met, such as they--and it was astonishing how often
accident led the steps of both men to the smoky chimney-cheek of Betty
MacDonald's clachan--the glass had to pass to and fro pretty often
before the men parted. And as Betty knew full well that John Cameron
the piper, and Donald MacTavish the game-keeper, her best customers all
the year round, were critics upon whom no adulterated or diluted fluid
could impose, Betty was careful that to them at least nothing but the
best of whisky and stoup-measures--erring, if they erred at all, on the
roomy side--should be served. The natural result of such companionship
and mutual consumption of frequent gills was that John loved Donald
'like a vera brither;' while Donald frequently assured John, as they
stumbled over the moor together in the gloaming, or more often when
the horned moon was high, that not one of his own eight brothers was
to be mentioned in the same breath with John--as regarded his, the
game-keeper's, emotions towards him.
What then were Betty's feelings, late one unlucky autumn evening on her
return from the byre, where she had gone to milk her solitary cow, to
find the two friends in the midst of a hot argument, loud-mouthed both,
and looking at each other across the table, on which stood the almost
empty measure and glasses, with expressions on their honest gnarled
faces that could hardly by any interpretation be termed mild? And this
before a third guest too, a hairy-visaged gentleman whom Betty reckoned
half-daft, seeing that he had spent the last three weeks 'splashin' a
bit o' auld canvas wi' paint, and ca'ed it Ben Sluaigh,' but to whom it
nevertheless behoved her to be polite, taking into account the liberal
rent he paid for her best room. The gentleman sat in his chair with
a tumbler of whisky-and-water before him, taking little part in the
discussion, but smoking diligently with a broad grin, as Betty noted
indignantly as she went 'ben' with her knitting, sorry to hear the
voices of the disputants waxing louder and louder. Betty had a feminine
dislike of argument; arguments in the clachan were generally the
prelude to blows. Her idea of a 'good crack' admitted only of varying
shades, not differences of opinion, softened by frequent application to
the bottle--a good story being not one whit the less welcome because
oft-told. But here were John and Donald glaring at each other with knit
brows, and John, who could never brook contradiction, bringing his
massive fist down on the table so that the stoup-measure and glasses
swayed.
'Ye're wrang, Tonald, I tell ye again ye're wrang--it _wass_ biled!'
The game-keeper thus addressed, only shook his bald head slowly from
side to side, remarking after a pause, with a smile of superior
knowledge that seemed to fan the flame of his friend's anger: 'Na,
John, na: it iss nefer biled.'