It did not seem a minute since we had fallen asleep, when we were

awakened by some one entering our room, and by a voice which said,

'I hef come tu pack yew.' It was the bath-man, William, to whose

charge we had been given, and whom we soon came to like exceedingly;

a most good-tempered, active, and attentive little German. We were

very sleepy, and inquired as to the hour; it was five a.m. There

was no help for it, so we scrambled out of bed and sat on a chair,

wrapped in the bed-clothes, watching William with sleepy eyes. He

spread upon our little bed a very thick and coarse double blanket;

he then produced from a tub what looked like a thick twisted cable,

which he proceeded to unroll. It was a sheet of coarse linen, wrung

out of the coldest water. And so here was the terrible wet sheet

of which we had heard so much. We shuddered with terror. William

saw our trepidation, and said, benevolently, 'Yew vill soon like

him mosh.' He spread out the wet sheet upon the thick blanket,

and told us to strip and lie down upon it. Oh! it was cold as ice!

William speedily wrapped it around us. Awfully comfortless was the

first sensation. We tried to touch the cold damp thing at as few

points as possible. It would not do. William relentlessly drew

the blanket tight round us; every inch of our superficies felt the

chill of the sheet. Then he placed above us a feather bed, cut out

to fit about the head, and stretched no end of blankets over all.

'How long are we to be here?' was our inquiry. 'Fifty minutes,'

said William, and disappeared. So there we were, packed in the wet

sheet, stretched on our back, our hands pinioned by our sides, as

incapable of moving as an Egyptian mummy in its swathes. 'What on

earth shall we do,' we remember thinking, 'if a fire breaks out?'

Had a robber entered and walked off with our watch and money, we

must have lain and looked at him, for we could not move a finger.

By the time we had thought all this, the chilly, comfortless feeling

was gone; in ten minutes or less, a sensation of delicious languor

stole over us: in a little longer we were fast asleep. We have

had many a pack since, and we may say that the feeling is most

agreeable when one keeps awake; body and mind are soothed into an

indescribable tranquillity; the sensation is one of calm, solid

enjoyment. In fifty minutes William returned. He removed the blankets

and bed which covered us, but left us enveloped in the sheet and

coarse blanket. By this time the patient is generally in a profuse

perspiration. William turned us round, and made us slip out of bed

upon our feet; then slightly loosing the lower part of our cerements

so that we could walk with difficulty, he took us by the shoulders

and guided our unsteady steps out of our chamber, along a little

passage, into an apartment containing a plunge bath. The bath was

about twelve feet square; its floor and sides covered with white

encaustic tiles; the water, clear as crystal against that light

background, was five feet deep. In a trice we were denuded of our

remaining apparel, and desired to plunge into the bath, head first.

The whole thing was done in less time than it has taken to describe

it: no caloric had escaped: we were steaming like a coach horse

that has done its ten miles within the hour on a summer-day; and

it certainly struck us that the Water Cure had some rather violent

measures in its repertory. We went a step or two down the ladder,

and then plunged in overhead. 'One plunge more and out,' exclaimed

the faithful William; and we obeyed. We were so thoroughly heated

beforehand, that we never felt the bath to be cold. On coming

out, a coarse linen sheet was thrown over us, large enough to have

covered half-a-dozen men, and the bath-man rubbed us, ourselves

aiding in the operation, till we were all in a glow of warmth. We

then dressed as fast as possible, postponing for the present the

operation of shaving, drank two tumblers of cold water, and took a

rapid walk round the wilderness (an expanse of shrubbery near the

house is so called), in the crisp, fresh morning air. The sunshine

was of the brightest; the dew was on the grass; everybody was early

there; fresh-looking patients were walking in all directions at

the rate of five miles an hour; the gardeners were astir; we heard

the cheerful sound of the mower whetting his scythe; the air was

filled with the freshness of the newly-cut grass, and with the

fragrance of lilac and hawthorn blossom; and all this by half-past

six a.m.! How we pitied the dullards that were lagging a-bed on

that bright summer morning! One turn round the wilderness occupies

ten minutes: we then drank two more tumblers of water, and took a

second turn of ten minutes. Two tumblers more, and another turn;

and then, in a glow of health and good humour, into our chamber

to dress for the day. The main supply of water is drunk before

breakfast; we took six tumblers daily at that time, and did not take

more than two or three additional in the remainder of the day. By

eight o'clock breakfast was on the table in the large hall, where

it remained till half-past nine. Bread, milk, water, and stewed

pippins (cold), formed the morning meal. And didn't we polish it

off! The accession of appetite is immediate.

Such is the process entitled the Pack and Plunge. It was the

beginning of the day's proceedings during the two months we spent

at Sudbrook. We believe it forms the morning treatment of almost

every patient; a shallow bath after packing being substituted for the

plunge in the case of the more nervous. With whatever apprehension

people may have looked forward to being packed before having

experienced the process, they generally take to it kindly after

a single trial. The pack is perhaps the most popular part of the

entire cold water treatment.

Mr. Lane says of it:--

What occurred during a full hour after this operation (being packed)

I am not in a condition to depose, beyond the fact that the sound,

sweet, soothing sleep which I enjoyed, was a matter of surprise

and delight. I was detected by Mr. Bardon, who came to awake me,

smiling, like a great fool, at nothing; if not at the fancies which

had played about my slumbers. Of the heat in which I found myself,

I must remark, that it is as distinct from perspiration, as from

the parched and throbbing glow of fever. The pores are open, and

the warmth of the body is soon communicated to the sheet; until--as

in this my first experience of the luxury--a breathing, steaming

heat is engendered, which fills the whole of the wrappers, and is

plentifully shown in the smoking state which they exhibit as they

are removed. I shall never forget the luxurious ease in which

I awoke on this morning, and looked forward with pleasure to the

daily repetition of what had been quoted to me by the uninitiated

with disgust and shuddering.

Sir E. B. Lytton says of the pack:--

Of all the curatives adopted by hydropathists, it is unquestionably

the safest--the one that can be applied without danger to the

greatest variety of cases; and which, I do not hesitate to aver,

can rarely, if ever, be misapplied in any case where the pulse is

hard and high, and the skin dry and burning. Its theory is that

of warmth and moisture, those friendliest agents to inflammatory

disorders.

I have been told, or have read (says Mr. Lane), put a man into the

wet sheet who had contemplated suicide, and it would turn him from

his purpose. At least I will say, let me get hold of a man who has

a pet enmity, who cherishes a vindictive feeling, and let me introduce

him to the soothing process. I believe that his bad passion would

not linger in its old quarters three days, and that after a week

his leading desire would be to hold out the hand to his late enemy.

Of the sensation in the pack, Sir E. B. Lytton tells us:--

The momentary chill is promptly succeeded by a gradual and vivifying

warmth, perfectly free from the irritation of dry heat; a delicious

sense of ease is usually followed by a sleep more agreeable than

anodynes ever produced. It seems a positive cruelty to be relieved

from this magic girdle, in which pain is lulled, and fever cooled,

and watchfulness lapped in slumber.

The hydropathic breakfast at Sudbrook being over, at nine o'clock

we had a foot-bath. This is a very simple matter. The feet are

placed in a tub of cold water, and rubbed for four or five minutes

by the bath-man. The philosophy of this bath is thus explained:--

The soles of the feet and the palms of the hands are extremely

sensitive, having abundance of nerves, as we find if we tickle

them. If the feet are put often into hot water, they will become

habitually cold, and make one more or less delicate and nervous.

On the other hand, by rubbing the feet often in cold water, they

will become permanently warm. A cold foot-bath will stop a violent

fit of hysterics. Cold feet show defective circulation.

At half-past ten in the forenoon we were subjected to by far the

most trying agent in the water system--the often-mentioned douche.

No patient is allowed to have the douche till he has been acclimated

by at least a fortnight's treatment. Our readers will understand

that from this hour onward we are describing not our first Sudbrook

day, but a representative day, such as our days were when we had got

into the full play of the system. The douche consists of a stream

of water, as thick as one's arm, falling from a height of twenty-four

feet. A pipe, narrowing to the end, conducts the stream for the first

six feet of its fall, and gives it a somewhat slanting direction.

The water falls, we need hardly say, with a tremendous rush, and

is beaten to foam on the open wooden floor. There were two douches

at Sudbrook: one, of a somewhat milder nature, being intended for

the lady patients. Every one is a little nervous at first taking

this bath. One cannot be too warm before having it: we always took

a rapid walk of half an hour, and came up to the ordeal glowing

like a furnace. The faithful William was waiting our arrival, and

ushered us into a little dressing-room, where we disrobed. William

then pulled a cord, which let loose the formidable torrent, and

we hastened to place ourselves under it. The course is to back

gradually till it falls upon the shoulders, then to sway about till

every part of the back and limbs has been played upon: but great

care must be taken not to let the stream fall upon the head, where

its force would probably be dangerous. The patient takes this bath

at first for one-minute; the time is lengthened daily till it

reaches four minutes, and there it stops. The sensation is that

of a violent continuous force assailing one; we are persuaded that

were a man blindfolded, and so deaf as not to hear the splash of the

falling stream, he could not for his life tell what was the cause

of the terrible shock he was enduring. It is not in the least like

the result of water: indeed it is unlike any sensation we ever

experienced elsewhere. At the end of our four minutes the current

ceases; we enter the dressing-room, and are rubbed as after the

plunge-bath. The reaction is instantaneous: the blood is at once

called to the surface. 'Red as a rose were we:' we were more than

warm; we were absolutely hot.

Mr. Lane records some proofs of the force with which the douche

falls:--

In a corner of one dressing-room is a broken chair. What does it

mean? A stout lady, being alarmed at the fall from the cistern,

to reduce the height, carefully placed what was a chair, and stood

upon it. Down came the column of water--smash went the chair to

bits--and down fell the poor lady prostrate. She did not douche

again for a fortnight.

Last winter a man was being douched, when an icicle that had been

formed in the night was dislodged by the first rush of water, and

fell on his back. Bardon, seeing the bleeding, stopped the douche,

but the douchee had not felt the blow as anything unusual. He had

been douched daily, and calculated on such a force as he experienced.

Although most patients come to like the douche, it is always to be

taken with caution. That it is dangerous in certain conditions of

the body, there is no doubt. Sir E. B. Lytton speaks strongly on

this point:--

Never let the eulogies which many will pass upon the douche tempt

you to take it on the sly, unknown to your adviser. The douche is

dangerous when the body is unprepared--when the heart is affected--when

apoplexy may be feared.

After having douched, which process was over by eleven, we had till

one o'clock without further treatment. We soon came to feel that

indisposition to active employment which is characteristic of the

system; and these two hours were given to sauntering, generally alone,

in the green avenues and country lanes about Ham and Twickenham;

but as we have already said something of the charming and thoroughly

English scenes which surround Sudbrook, we shall add nothing further

upon that subject now--though the blossoming horse chestnuts and

the sombre cedars of Richmond Park, the bright stretches of the

Thames, and the quaint gateways and terraces of Ham House, the

startled deer and the gorse-covered common, all picture themselves

before our mind at the mention of those walks, and tempt us sorely.

At one o'clock we returned to our chamber, and had a head-bath. We

lay upon the ground for six minutes, if we remember rightly, with

the back of our head in a shallow vessel of water.

Half-past one was the dinner hour. All the patients were punctually

present; those who had been longest in the house occupying the

seats next those of Dr. and Mrs. Ellis, who presided at either end

of the table. The dinners were plain, but abundant; and the guests

brought with them noble appetites, so that it was agreed on all

hands that there never was such beef or mutton as that of Sudbrook.

Soup was seldom permitted: plain joints were the order of the day,

and the abundant use of fresh vegetables was encouraged. Plain

puddings, such as lice and sago, followed; there was plenty of water

to drink. A number of men-servants waited, among whom we recognized

our friend William, disguised in a white stock. The entertainment

did not last long. In half an hour the ladies withdrew to their

drawing-room, and the gentlemen dispersed themselves about the

place once more.

Of the Malvern dinners, Mr. Lane writes as follows:--

At the head of the table, where the doctor presides, was the leg of

mutton, which, I believe, is even' day's head dish. I forget what

Mr. Wilson dispensed, but it was something savoury of fish. I

saw veal cutlets with bacon, and a companion dish; maccaroni with

gravy, potatoes plain boiled, or mashed and browned, spinach, and

other green vegetables. Then followed rich pudding, tapioca, and

some other farinaceous ditto, rhubarb tarts, &c. So much for what

I have heard of the miserable diet of water patients.

Dinner being dispatched, there came the same listless sauntering

about till four o'clock, when the pack and plunge of the morning were

repeated. At half-past six we had another head-bath. Immediately

after it there was supper, which was a fac simile of breakfast.

Then, more sauntering in the fading twilight, and at half-past Bine

we paced the long corridor leading to our chamber, and speedily

were sound asleep. No midnight tossings, no troubled dreams; one

long deep slumber till William appeared next morning at five, to

begin the round again.

Such was our life at the Water Cure: a contrast as complete as

might be to the life which preceded and followed it. Speaking for

ourselves, we should say that there is a great deal of exaggeration

in the accounts we have sometimes read of the restorative influence of

the system. It wrought no miracle in our case. A couple of months

at the sea-side would probably have produced much the same effect.

We did not experience that extreme exhilaration of spirits which

Mr. Lane speaks of. Perhaps the soft summer climate of Surrey,

in a district rather over-wooded, wanted something of the bracing

quality which dwells in the keener air of the Malvern hills. Yet

the system strung us up wonderfully, and sent us home with much

improved strength and heart. And since that time, few mornings have

dawned on which we have not tumbled into the cold bath on first

rising, and, following the process by a vigorous rubbing with

towels of extreme roughness, experienced the bracing influence of

cold water alike on the body and the mind.

We must give some account of certain other baths, which have

not come within our course latterly, though we have at different

times tried them all. We have mentioned the sitz-bath; here is its

nature:--

It is not disagreeable, but very odd: and exhibits the patient in

by no means an elegant or dignified attitude. For this bath it is

not necessary to undress, the coat only being taken off, and the

shirt gathered under the waistcoat, which is buttoned upon it; and

when seated in the water, which rises to the waist, a blanket is

drawn round and over the shoulders. Having remained ten minutes in

this condition, we dried and rubbed ourselves with coarse towels, and

after tea minutes' walk, proceeded to supper with a good appetite.

The soothing and tranquillizing effect of the sitz is described as

extraordinary:--

In sultry weather, when indolence seems the only resource, a sitz

of ten minutes at noon will suffice to protect against the enervating

effect of heat, and to rouse from listlessness and inactivity.

If two or three hours have been occupied by anxious conversation,

by many visitors, or by any of the perplexities of daily occurrence,

a sitz will effectually relieve the throbbing head, anil fit one

for a return (if it must be so) to the turmoil and bustle.

If an anxious letter is to be mentally weighed, or an important

letter to be answered, the matter and the manner can he under

no circumstances so adequately pondered as in the sitz. How this

quickening of the faculties is engendered, and by what immediate

action it is produced, I cannot explain, and invite others to test

it by practice.

I have in my own experience proved the sitz to be cogitatory,

consolatory, quiescent, refrigeratory, revivificatory, or all these

together.

Thus far Mr. Lane. The Brause-bad is thus described by our old

military friend:--

At eleven o'clock I went to the Brause-bad. This is too delightful:

it requires a day or two of practice to enable the patient to enjoy

it thoroughly. The water at Marienberg is all very cold, and one

must never stand still for above a few seconds at a time, and must

be ever employed in rubbing the parts of the body which are exposed

to the silvery element. The bath is a square room, eight feet by

six. The shower above consists of a treble row of holes, drilled in

a metal vessel, about one foot long, and at an elevation of eight

feet from the floor. There is, besides, a lateral gush of water, in

bulk about equal to three ordinary pumps, which bathes the middle

man. When I entered the bath, I held my hands over my head, to break

the force of the water; and having thus seasoned my knowledge-box,

I allowed the water to fall on my back and breast alternately,

rubbing most vigorously with both hands: the allotted time for

this aquatic sport is four minutes, but I frequently begged the

bademeister to allow me a minute or two more. At my sortie, the

bademeister threw over me the dry sheet, and he and his assistants

rubbed me dry to the bone, and left me in full scarlet uniform.

After this bath I took at least three glasses of water, and a most

vigorous walk.

One of the least agreeable processes in the water system is being

sweated. Mr. Lane describes his sensations as follows:--

At five o'clock in walked the executioner who was to initiate me into

the sweating process. There was nothing awful in the commencement.

Two dry blankets were spread upon the mattress, and I was enveloped

in them as in the wet sheet, being well and closely tucked in

round the neck, and the head raised on two pillows. Then came my

old friend the down bed, and a counterpane.

At first I felt very comfortable, but in ten minutes the irritation

of the blanket was disagreeable, and endurance was nly only resource;

thought upon other subjects out of the question. In half-an-hour

I wondered when it would begin to act. At six, in came Bardon to

give me water to drink. Another hour, and I was getting into a state.

I had for ten minutes followed Bardon's directions by slightly

moving my hands and legs, and the profuse perspiration was a relief;

besides, I knew that I should be soon fit to be bathed, and what a

tenfold treat! He gave me more water; and in a quarter of an hour

he returned, when. I stepped, in a precious condition, into the

cold bath, Bardon using more water on my head and shoulders than

usual, more rubbing and spunging, and afterwards more vigorous dry

rubbing. I was more than pink, and hastened to get out and compare

notes with Sterling.

By the sweating process, the twenty-eight miles of tubing which

exist in the pores of the skin are effectually relieved; and--in

Dr. Wilson's words--'you lose a little water, and put yourself

in a state to make flesh.' The sweating process is known at water

establishments as the 'blanket-pack.'

We believe we have mentioned every hydropathic appliance that is

in common use, with the exception of what is called the 'rub in a

wet sheet.' This consists in having a sheet, dripping wet, thrown

round one, and in being vehemently rubbed by the bath-man, the

patient assisting. The effect is very bracing and exhilarating on a

sultry summer day; and this treatment has the recommendation that

it is applied and done with in the course of a few minutes; nor

does it need any preliminary process. It is just the thing to get

the bath-man to administer to a friend who has come down to visit

one, as a slight taste of the quality of the Water Cure.

One pleasing result of the treatment is, that the skin is made

beautifully soft and white. Another less pleasing circumstance

is, that when there is any impurity lurking in the constitution, a

fortnight's treatment brings on what is called a crisis, in which

the evil is driven off in the form of an eruption all over the

body. This result never follows unless where the patient has been

in a most unhealthy state. People who merely need a little bracing

up need not have the least fear of it. Our own two months of water

never produced the faintest appearance of such a thing.

Let us sum up the characteristics of the entire system. In the

words of Sir E. B. Lytton:--

The first point which impressed me was the extreme and utter

innocence of the water-cure in skilful hands--in any hands, indeed,

not thoroughly new to the system.

The next thing that struck me was the extraordinary ease with

which, under this system, good habits are acquired and bad habits

are relinquished.

That which, thirdly, impressed me, was no less contrary to all my

preconceived opinions. I had fancied that, whether good or bad,

the system must be one of great hardship, extremely repugnant and

disagreeable. I wondered at myself to find how soon it became so

associated with pleasurable and grateful feelings as to dwell upon

the mind as one of the happiest passages of existence.

We have left ourselves no space to say anything of the effect of

the Water Cure in acute disease. It is said to work wonders in the

case of gout, and all rheumatic complaints: the severe suffering

occasioned by the former vexatious malady is immediately subdued,

and the necessity of colchicum and other deleterious drugs is

obviated. Fever and inflammation, too, are drawn off by constant

packing, without being allowed to run their usual course. Our readers

may find remarkable cures of heart arid other diseases recorded at

pages 24, 72, 114, and 172, of the Month at Malvern. We quote the

account of one case:--

I was introduced to a lady, that I might receive her own report

of her cure. She had been for nine years paralysed, from the waist

downwards; pale and emaciated; and coming to Malvern, she had no

idea of recovering the use of her limbs, but merely bodily health.

In five months she became ruddy, and then her perseverance in being

packed twice every day was rewarded. The returning muscular power

was advanced to perfect recovery of the free use of her limits.

She grew stout and strong, and now walks ten miles daily.

We confess we should like to have this story confirmed by some

competent authority. It appears to verge on the impossible: unless,

indeed, the fact was that the lady was some nervous, fanciful

person, who took up a hypochondriac idea that she was paralysed,

and got rid of the notion by having her constitution braced up.

We have already said a good deal of the enjoyable nature of the

water system; we make a final quotation from our military friend:--

I have given some account of my daily baths, and on reading over

what I have written, I feel quite ashamed of the coldness of the

recital of all my delight, the recollection of which makes my mouth

water. The reader will observe that I am a Scotchman (proverbially

a matter-of-fact race), an old fellow, my enemy would say a slow

coach. I might enlarge on my ecstatic delight in my baths, my healthy

glow, my light-heartedness, my feelings of elasticity, which made

me fancy I could trip along the sward like a patent Vestris. I might

go much farther, I might indulge in poetic rapture--most unbecoming

my mature age--and after all, fall far short of the reality. The

reader will do well to allow a large percentage of omitted ecstatic

delineation in consequence of want of ardour on the part of the

writer. This is in fact due to justice.

See how old patients describe the Water Cure! This is, at all events,

a different strain from that of people who have been victimized by

ordinary quacks and quack medicines, and who bestow their imprecations

on the credulity which has at once ruined their constitutions and

emptied their pockets.

We trust we have succeeded in persuading those who have glanced

over these pages, that the Water Cure is by no means the violent

thing which they have in all probability been accustomed to consider

it. There is no need for being nervous about going to it. There

is nothing about it that is half such a shock to the system as are

blue pill and mercury, purgatives and drastics, leeches and the

lancet. Almost every appliance within its range is a source of

positive enjoyment; the time spent under it is a cheerful holiday

to body and mind. We take it to be quackery and absurdity to maintain

that all possible diseases can be cured by the cold water system;

but, from our own experience, we believe that the system and its

concomitants do tend powerfully to brace and re-invigorate, when

mental exertion has told upon the system, and even threatened to

break it down. But really it is no new discovery that fresh air

and water, simple food and abundant exercise, change of scene and

intermission of toil and excitement, tend to brace the nerves and

give fresh vigour to the limbs. In the only respect in which we

have any confidence in the Water Cure, it is truly no new system

at all. We did not need Priessnitz to tell us that the fair element

which, in a hundred forms, makes so great a part of Creation's

beauty--trembling, crystal-clear, upon the rosebud; gleaming in the

sunset river; spreading, as we see it to-day, in the bright blue

summer sea; fleecy-white in the silent clouds, and gay in the

evening rainbow,--is the true elixir of health and life, the most

exhilarating draught, the most soothing anodyne; the secret of

physical enjoyment, and mental buoyancy and vigour.

CHAPTER XI

CONCERNING FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.

[Footnote: Friends in Council: a Series of Readings and Discourse

thereon. A. New Series. Two Volumes. London: John W. Parker and

Son, West Strand, 1859.]

There is a peculiar pleasure in paying a visit to a friend whom you

never saw in his own house before. Let it not be believed that in

this world there is much difficulty in finding a new sensation. The

genial, unaffected, hard-wrought man, who does not think it fine

to appear to care nothing for anything, will find a new sensation

in many quiet places, and in many simple ways. There is something

fresh and pleasant in arriving at an entirely new railway station,

in getting out upon a platform on which you never before stood;

in finding your friend standing there looking quite at home in a

place quite strange to you; in taking in at a glance the expression

of the porter who takes your luggage and the clerk who receives

your ticket, and reading there something of their character and

their life; in going outside, and seeing for the first time your

friend's carriage, whether the stately drag or the humbler dog-cart,

and beholding horses you never saw before, caparisoned in harness

heretofore unseen; in taking your seat upon cushions hitherto

impressed by you, in seeing your friend take the reins, and then

in rolling away over a new road, under new trees, over new bridges,

beside new hedges, looking upon new landscapes stretching far away,

and breaking in upon that latent idea common to all people who have

seen very little, that they have seen almost all the world. Then

there is something fresh and pleasant in driving for the first time

up the avenue, in catching the first view of the dwelling which is

to your friend the centre of all the world, in walking up for the

first time to your chamber (you ought always to arrive at a country

house for a visit about three quarters of an hour before dinner),

and then in coming down and finding yourself in the heart of

his belongings; seeing his wife and children, never seen before;

finding out his favourite books, and coming to know something of

his friends, horses, dogs, pigs, and general way of life; and then

after ten days, in going away, feeling that you have occupied a new

place and seen a new phase of life, henceforward to be a possession

for ever.

But it is pleasanter by a great deal to go and pay a visit to a

friend visited several times (not too frequently) before: to arrive

at the old railway station, quiet and country-like, with trees

growing out of the very platform on which you step; to see your

friend's old face not seen for two years; to go out and discern

the old drag standing just where you remember it, and to smooth

down the horses' noses as an old acquaintance; to discover a look

of recognition on the man-servant's impassive face, which at your

greeting expands into a pleased smile; to drive away along the

old road, recognizing cottages and trees; to come in sight of the

house again, your friend's conversation and the entire aspect of

things bringing up many little remembrances of the past; to look

out of your chamber window before dinner and to recognize a large

beech or oak which you had often remembered when you were far away,

and the field beyond, and the hills in the distance, and to know

again even the pattern of the carpet and the bed curtains; to go

down to dinner, and meet the old greeting; to recognize the taste

of the claret; to find the children a little bigger, a little shy

at first, but gradually acknowledging an old acquaintance; and then,

when your friend and you are left by yourselves, to draw round the

fire (such visits are generally in September), and enjoy the warm,

hearty look of the crimson curtains hanging in the self-same folds

as twenty-four months since, and talk over many old things.

We feel, in opening the new volumes of Friends in Council, as we

should in going to pay a visit to an old friend living in the same

pleasant home, and at the same pleasant autumnal season in which

we visited him before. We know what to expect. We know that there

may be little variations from what we have already found, little

changes wrought by time; but, barring great accident or disappointment,

we know what kind of thing the visit will be. And we believe that

to many who have read with delight the previous volumes of this

work, there can hardly be any pleasanter anticipation than that

of more of the same wise, kindly, interesting material which they

remember. A good many years have passed since the first volume of

Friends in Council was published; a good many years even since the

second: for, the essays and discourses now given to the public form

the third published portion of the work. Continuations of successful

works have proverbially proved failures; the author was his own

too successful rival; and intelligent readers, trained to expect

much, have generally declared that the new production was, if not

inferior to its predecessor, at all events inferior to what its

predecessor had taught them to look for. But there is no falling off

here. The writing of essays and conversations, set in a framework

of scenery and incident, and delineating character admirably though

only incidentally, is the field of literature in which the author

stands without a rival. No one in modern days can discuss a grave

subject in a style so attractive; no one can convey so much wisdom

with so much playfulness and kindliness; no one can evince so much

earnestness unalloyed by the least tinge of exaggeration. The order

of thought which is contained in Friends in Council, is quarried

from its authors best vein. Here, he has come upon what gold-diggers

call a pocket: and he appears to work it with little effort. However

difficult it might be for others to write an essay and discourse

on it in the fashion of this book, we should judge that its author

does so quite easily. It is no task for suns to shine. And it will

bring back many pleasant remembrances to the minds of many readers,

to open these new volumes, and find themselves at once in the same

kindly atmosphere as ever; to find that the old spring is flowing

yet. The new series of Friends in Council is precisely what the

intelligent reader must have expected. A thoroughly good writer

can never surprise us. A writer whom we have studied, mused over,

sympathized with, can surprise us only by doing something eccentric,

affected, unworthy of himself. The more thoroughly we have

sympathized with him; the more closely we have marked not only the

strong characteristics which are already present in what he writes,

but those little matters which may be the germs of possible new

characteristics; the less likely is it that we shall be surprised

by anything he does or says. It is so with the author of Friends

in Council. We know precisely what to expect from him. We should

feel aggrieved if he gave us anything else. Of course there will

be much wisdom and depth of insight; much strong practical sense:

there will be playfulness, pensiveness, pathos; great fairness and

justice; much kindness of heart; something of the romantic element;

and as for Style, there will be language always free from the

least trace of affectation; always clear and comprehensible; never

slovenly; sometimes remarkable for a certain simple felicity;

sometimes rising into force and eloquence of a very high order:

a style, in short, not to be parodied, not to be caricatured, not

to be imitated except by writing as well. The author cannot sink

below our expectations; cannot rise above them. He has already

written so much, and so many thoughtful readers have so carefully

studied what he has written, that we know the exact length of his

tether, and he can say nothing for which we are not prepared. You

know exactly what to expect in this new work. You could not, indeed,

produce it; you could not describe it, you could not say beforehand

what it will be; but when you come upon it, you will feel that it

is just what you were sure it would be. You were sure, as you are

sure what will be the flavour of the fruit on your pet apple-tree,

which you have tasted a hundred times. The tree is quite certain

to produce that fruit which you remember and like so well; it is

its nature to do so. And the analogy holds further. For, as little

variations in weather or in the treatment of the tree--a dry season,

or some special application to the roots--may somewhat alter the

fruit, though all within narrow limits; so may change of circumstances

a little affect an author's writings, but only within a certain

range. The apple-tree may produce a somewhat different apple; but

it will never producn an orange, neither will it yield a crab.

So here we are again among our old friends. We should have good

reason to complain had Dunsford, Ellesmere, or Milverton been absent;

and here they are again just as before. Possibly they are even

less changed than they'should have been after thirteen or fourteen

years, considering what their age was at our first introduction to

them. Dunsford, the elderly country parson, once fellow and tutor

of his college, still reports the conversations of the friends;

Milverton and Ellesmere are, in their own way, as fond of one

another as ever; Dunsford is still judicious, kind, good, somewhat

slow, as country parsons not unnaturally become; Ellesmere is

still sarcastic, keen, clever, with much real worldly wisdom and

much affected cynicism overlying a kind and honest heart. As for

Milverton, we should judge that in him the author of the work has

unconsciously shown us himself; for assuredly the great characteristics

of the author of Friends in Council must be that he is laborious,

thoughtful, generous, well-read, much in earnest, eager for

the welfare of his fellow-men, deeply interested in politics and

in history, impatient of puritanical restraints, convinced of the

substantial importance of amusement. Milverton, we gather, still

lives at his country-seat in Hampshire, and takes some interest

in rustic concerns. Ellesmere continues to rise at the bar; since

we last met him has been Solicitor-General, and is now Sir John,

a member of the House of Commons, and in the fair way to a Chief

Justiceship. The clergyman's quiet life is going on as before. But

in addition to our three old friends we find an elderly man, one

Mr. Midhurst, whose days have been spent in diplomacy, who is of a

melancholy disposition, and takes gloomy views of life, but who is

much skilled in cookery, very fat, and very fond of a good dinner.

Also Mildred and Blanche, Milverton's cousins, two sisters, have

grown up into young women of very different character: and they

take some share in the conversations, and, as we shall hereafter

see, a still more important part in the action of the story.

We feel that we are in the midst of a real group of actual human

beings:--just what third-rate historians fail to make us feel when

telling us of men and women who have actually lived. The time and

place are very varied; hut through the greater portion of the book

the party are travelling over the Continent. A further variation

from the plan of the former volumes, besides the introduction of new

characters, is, that while all the essays in the preceding series

were written by Milverton, we have now one by Ellesmere, one by

Dunsford, and one by Mr. Midhurst, each being in theme and manner

very characteristic of its author. But, as heretofore, the writer

of the book holds to his principle of the impolicy of 'jading anything

too far,' and thinks with Bacon that 'it is good, in discourse

and speech of conversation, to vary and intermingle speech of the

present occasion with arguments, tales with reasons, asking of

questions with telling of opinions, and jest with earnest.' The

writer likewise holds by that system which his own practice has done

so much to recommend--of giving locality and time to all abstract

thought, and thus securing in the case of the majority of readers

an interest and a reality in no other way to be attained. Admirable

as are the essays contained in the work, but for their setting in

something of a story, and their vivification by being ascribed to

various characters, and described as read and discussed in various

scenes, they would interest a very much smaller class of readers

than now they do. No doubt much of the skill of tho dramatist is

needed to secure this souce of interest. It can be secured only

where we feel that the characters are living men and women, and the

attempt to secure it has often proved a miserable failure. But it

is here that the author of Friends in Council succeeds so well. Not

only do we know precisely what Dunsford, Milverton, and Ellesmere

are like; we know exactly what they ought and what they ought not

to say. The author ran a risk in reproducing those old friends. We

had a right to expect in each of them a certain idiosyncrasy; and

it is not easy to maintain an individuality which does not dwell

in mere caricature and exaggeration, but in the truthful traits of

actual life. We feel we have a vested interest in the characters of

the three friends: not even their author has the right essentially

to alter them; we should feel it an injury if he did. But he has

done what he intended. Here we have the selfsame men. Not a word

is said by one of them that ought to have been said by another.

And here it may be remarked, that any one who is well read in the

author's writings, will not fail here and there to come upon what

will appear familiar to him. Various thoughts, views, and even

expressions, occur which the author has borrowed from himself. It

is easy to be seen that in all this there is no conscious repetition,

but that veins of thought and feeling long entertained have cropped

out to the surface again.

We do not know whether or not the readers of Friends in Council

will be startled at finding that these volumes show us the grave

Milverton and the sarcastic Ellesmere in the capacity of lovers,

and leave them in the near prospect of being married--Ellesmere to

the bold and dashing Mildred; Milverton to the quiet Blanche. The

gradual tending of things to this conclusion forms the main action

of the book. The incidents are of the simplest character: there

is a plan but no plot, except as regards these marriages. Wearied

and jaded with work at home, the three friends of the former

volumes resolve on going abroad for awhile. Midhurst and the girls

accompany them: and the story is simply that at various places to

which they came, one friend read an essay or uttered a discourse

(for sometimes the essays are supposed to have been given extempore),

and the others talked about it. But the gradual progress of matters

towards the weddings (it may be supposed that the happy couples are

this September on their wedding tours) is traced with much skill

and much knowledge of the fashion in which such things go; and it

supplies a peculiar interest to the work, which will probably tide

many young ladies over essays on such grave subjects as Government

and Despotism. Still, we confess that we had hardly regarded Ellesmere

and Milverton as marrying men. We had set them down as too old,

grave, and wise, for at least the preliminary stages. We have not

forgotten that Dunsford told us [Footnote: Friends in Council,

Introduction to Book II.] that in the summer of 1847 he supposed

no one but himself would speak of Milverton and Ellesmere as young

men; and now of course they are twelve years older, and yet about

to be married to girls whom we should judge to be about two or three

and twenty. And although it is not an unnatural thing that Ellesmere

should have got over his affection for the German Gretchen, whose

story is so exquisitely told in the Companions of my Solitude, we

find it harder to reconcile Milverton's marriage with our previous

impression of him. Yet perhaps all this is truthful to life. It is

not an unnatural thing that a man who for years has settled down

into the belief that he has faded, and that for him the romantic

interest has gone from life, should upon some fresh stimulus gather

himself up from that idea, and think that life is not so far gone

after all. Who has not on a beautiful September day sometimes chidden

himself for having given in to the impression that the season was

so far advanced, and clung to the belief that it is almost summer

still?

In a preliminary Address to the Reader, the author explains that

the essay on War, which occupies a considerable portion of the

first volume, was written some time ago, and intends no allusion

to recent events in Europe. The Address contains an earnest protest

against the maintenance of large standing armies; it is eloquent

and forcible, and it affords additional proof how much the author

has thought upon the subject of war, and how deeply he feels upon

it. Then comes the Introduction proper, written, of course, by

Dunsford. It sets out with the praise of conversation, and then it

sums up what the 'Friends' have learned in their longer experience

of life:--

We 'Friends in Council' are of course somewhat older men than when

we first began to meet in friendly conclave; and I have observed as

men go on in life they are less and less inclined to be didactic.

They have found out that nothing is, didactically speaking, true.

They long for exceptions, modifications, allowances. A boy is clear,

sharp, decisive in his talk. He would have this. He would do that.

He hates this; he loves that: and his loves or his hatreds admit

of no exception. He is sure that the one thing is quite right, and

the other quite wrong. He is not troubled with doubts. He knows.

I see now why, as men go on in life, they delight, in anecdotes.

These tell so much, and argue, or pronounce directly, so little.

The three friends were sauntering one day in Milverton's garden,

all feeling much overwrought and very stupid. Ellesmere proposed

that for a little recreation they should go abroad. Milverton pleads

his old horror of picture-galleries, and declares himself content

with the unpainted pictures he has in his mind:--

It is curious, but I have been painting two companion pictures

ever since we have been walking about in the garden. One consists

of some dilapidated garden architecture, with overgrown foliage of

all kinds, not forest foliage, but that of rare trees such as the

Sumach and Japan-cedar, which should have been neglected for thirty

years. Here and there, instead of the exquisite parterre, there

should be some miserable patches of potatoes and beans, and some

squalid clothes hung out to dry. Two ill-dressed children, but of

delicate features, should be playing about an ugly neglected pool

that had once been the basin to the fountain. But the foliage

should be the chief thing, gaunt, grotesque, rare, beautiful, like

an unkempt, uncared-for, lovely mountain girl. Underneath this

picture:--'Property in the country, in chancery.'

The companion picture, of course, should be:--'Property in town,

in chancery.' It should consist of two orthree hideous, sordid,

window-broken, rat-deserted, paintless, blackened houses, that

should look as if they had once been too good company for the

neighbourhood, and had met with a fall in life, not deplored by any

one. At the opposite corner should be a flaunting new gin-palace.

I do not know whether I should have the heart to bring any children

there, but I would if I could.

The reader will discern that the author of Friends in Council has

lost nothing of his power of picturesque description, and nothing

of his horror of the abuses and cruelties of the law. And the

passage may serve to remind of the touching, graphic account of

the country residence of a reduced family in the Companions of my

Solitude. [Footnote: Chap. iv.] Ellesmere assures Milverton that

he shall not be asked to see a single picture; and that if Milverton

will bring Blanche and Mildred with him, he will himself go and see

seven of the chief sewers in seven of the chief towns. The appeal

to the sanitarian's feelings is successful; the bargain is struck;

and we next find the entire party sauntering, after an early German

dinner, on the terrace of some small town on the Rhine,--Dunsford

forgets which. Milverton, Ellesmere, and Mr. Midhurst arc smoking,

and we commend their conversation on the soothing power of tobacco

to the attention of the Dean of Carlisle. Dean Close, by a bold

figure, calls tobacco a 'gorging fiend.' Milverton holds that smoking

is perhaps the greatest blessing that we owe to the discovery of

America. He regards its value as abiding in its power to soothe

under the vexations and troubles of life. While smoking, you cease

to live almost wholly in the future, which miserable men for the

most part do. The question arises, whether the sorrows of the old

or the young are the most acute? It is admitted that the sorrows

of children are very overwhelming for the time, but they are not

of that varied, perplexed, and bewildering nature which derives

much consolation from smoke. Ellesmere suggests, very truthfully,

that the feeling of shame for having done anything wrong, or even

ridiculous, causes most acute misery to the young. And, indeed,

who does not know, from personal experience, that the sufferings of

children of even four or five years old are often quite as dreadful

as those which come as the sad heritage of after years? We look

back on them now, and smile at them as we think how small were

their causes. Well, they were great to us. We were little creatures

then, and little things were relatively very great. 'The sports of

childhood satisfy the child:' the sorrows of childhood overwhelm

the poor little thing. We think a sympathetic reader would hardly

read without a tear as well as a smile, an incident in the early

life of Patrick Fraser Tytler, recorded in his recently published

biography. When five years old he got hold of the gun of an elder

brother, and broke the spring of its lock. What anguish the little

boy must have endured, what a crushing sense of having caused an

irremediable evil, before he sat down and printed in great letters

the following epistle to his brother, the owner of the gun--'Oh,

Jamie, think no more of guns, for the main-spring of that is broken,

and my heart is broken!' Doubtless the poor little fellow fancied

that for all the remainder of his life he would never feel as

he had felt before he touched the unlucky weapon. Doubtless the

little heart was just as full of anguish as it could hold. Looking

back over many years, most of us can remember a child crushed and

overwhelmed by some sorrow which it thought could never be got

over, and can feel for our early self as though sympathizing with

another personality.

The upshot of the talk which began with tobacco was, that Milverton

was prevailed upon to write an essay on a subject of universal interest

to all civilized beings, an essay on Worry. He felt, indeed, that

he. should be writing it at a disadvantage; for an essay on worry

can be written with full effect only by a thoroughly worried man.

There was no worry at all in that quiet little town on the Rhine;

they had come there to rest, and there was no intruding duty that

demanded that it should be attended to. And probably there is no

respect in which that great law of the association of ideas, that

like suggests like, holds more strikingly true than in the power of

a present state of mind, or a present state of outward circumstances,

to bring up vividly before us all such states in our past history.

We are depressed, we are worried: and when we look back, all our

departed days of worry and depression appear to start up and press

themselves upon our view to the exclusion of anything else, so

that we are ready to think that we have never been otherwise than

depressed and worried all our life. But when more cheerful times

come, they suggest only such times of cheerfulness, and no effort

will bring back the worry vividly as when we felt it. It is not

selfishness or heartlessness; it is the result of an inevitable

law of mind that people in happy circumstances should resolutely

believe that it is a happy world after all; for looking back, and

looking around, the mind refuses to take distinct note of anything

that is not somewhat akin to its present state. Milverton wrote an

excellent essay on Worry on the evening of that day; but he might

possibly have written a better one at Worth-Ashton on the evening

of a day on which he had discovered that his coachman was stealing

the corn provided for the carriage horses, or galloping these

animals about the country at the dead of night to see his friends.

We must have a score of little annoyances stinging us at once

to have the undiluted sense of being worried. And probably a not

wealthy man, residing in the country, and farming a few acres of

ground by means of somewhat unfaithful and neglectful servants, may

occasionally find so many things going wrong at once, and so many

little things demanding to be attended to at once, that he shall

experience worry in as high a degree as it can be felt by mortal.

Thus truthfully does Milverton's essay begin:--

The great characteristic of modern life is Worry.

If the Pagan religion still prevailed, the new goddess, in whose

honour temples would be raised and to whom statues would be erected in

all the capitals of the world, would he the goddess Worry. London

would be the chief seat and centre of her sway. A gorgeous statue,

painted and enriched after the manner of the ancients (for there

is no doubt that they adopted this practice, however barbarous it

may seem to us), would he set up to the goddess in the West-end of

the town: another at Temple Bar, of less ample dimensions and less

elaborate decoration, would receive the devout homage of worshippers

who came to attend their lawyers in that quarter of the town: while

a statue, on which the cunning sculptor should have impressed the

marks of haste, anxiety, and agitation, would be sharply glanced

up at, with as much veneration as they could afford to give to it,

by the eager men of business in the City.

The goddess Worry, however, would be no local deity, worshipped

merely in some great town, like Diana of the Ephesians; but, in the

market-places of small rural communities, her statue, made somewhat

like a vane, and shitting with every turn of the wind, would be

regarded with stolid awe by anxious votaries belonging to what is

called the farming interest. Familiar too and household would be

her worship: and in many a snug home, where she might be imagined

to have little potency, small and ugly images of her would be found

as household gods--the Lares and Penates--near to the threshold,

and ensconced above the glowing hearth.

The poet, always somewhat inclined to fable, speaks of Love as

ruling

The court, the camp, the grove,

And men below, and heaven above;

but the dominion of Love, as compared with that of Worry, would

be found, in the number of subjects, as the Macedonian to the

Persian--in extent of territory, as the county of Rutland to the

empire of Russia.

Not verbally accurate is the quotation from the Lay of the Last

Minstrel, we may remark; but we may take it for granted that no

reader who has exceeded the age of twenty-five will fail to recognize

in this half-playful and half-earnest passage the statement of a

sorrowful fact. And the essay goes on to set forth many of the causes

of modern worry with all the knowledge and earnestness of a man

who has seen much of life, and thought much upon what he has seen.

The author's sympathies are not so much with the grand trials of

historical personages, such as Charles V., Columbus, and Napoleon,

as with the lesser trials and cares of ordinary men; and in the

following paragraph we discern at once the conviction of a clear

head and the feeling of a kind heart:--

And the ordinary citizen, even of a well-settled state, who, with

narrow means, increasing taxation, approaching age, failing health,

and augmenting cares, goes plodding about his daily work thickly

bestrewed with trouble and worry (all the while, perhaps, the thought

of a sick child at home being in the background of his mind), may

also, like any hero of renown in the midst of his world-wide and

world-attracting fortune, be a beautiful object for our sympathy.

There is indeed no more common error, than to estimate the extent

of suffering by the greatness of the causes which have produced

it; we mean their greatness as regards the amount of notice which

they attract. The anguish of an emperor who has lost his empire,

is probably not one whit greater than that of a poor lady who loses

her little means in a swindling Bank, and is obliged to take away

her daughter from school and to move into an inferior dwelling.

Nor is it unworthy of remark, in thinking of sympathy with human

beings in suffering, that scrubby-looking little men, with weak hair

and awkward demeanour, and not in the least degree gentleman-like,

may through domestic worry and bereavement undergo distress quite

as great as heroic individuals six feet four inches in height, with

a large quantity of raven hair, and with eyes of remarkable depth

of expression. It is probable, too, that in the lot of ordinary

men a ceaseless and countless succession of little worries does

a great deal more to fret away the happiness of life than is done

by the few great and overwhelming misfortunes which happen at long

intervals. You lose your child, and your sorrow is overwhelming;

but it is a sorrow on which before many months you look back with

a sad yet pleasing interest, and it is a sorrow which you know

you are the better for having felt. But petty unfaithfulness,

carelessness, and stupidity on the part of your servants; little

vexations and cross-accidents in your daily life; the ceaseless

cares of managing a household and family, and possibly of making

an effort to maintain appearances with very inadequate means;--all

those little annoying things which are not misfortune but worry,

effectually blister away the enjoyment of life while they last,

and serve no good end in respect to mental and moral discipline.

'Much tribulation,' deep and dignified sorrow, may prepare men for

'the kingdom of God;' but ceaseless worry, for the most part, does

but sour the temper, jaundice the views, and embitter and harden

the heart.

'The grand source of worry,' says our author, 'compared with which

perhaps all others are trivial, lies in the complexity of human

affairs, especially in such an era of civilization as our own.'

There can be no doubt of it. In these modern days, we are encumbered

and weighed down with the appliances, physical and moral, which

have come to be regarded as essential to the carry lag forward of

our life. We forget how many thousands of separate items and articles

were counted up, as having been used, some time within the last

few years, by a dinner-party of eighteen persons, at a single

entertainment. What incalculable worry in the procuring, the keeping

in order, the using, the damage, the storing up, of that enormous

complication of china, glass, silver, and steel! We can well imagine

how a man of simple tastes arid quiet disposition, worried even

to death by his large house, his numerous servants and horses, his

quantities of furniture and domestic appliances, all of a perishable

nature, and all constantly wearing out and going wrong in various

degrees, might sigh a wearied sigh for the simplicity of a hermit's

cave and a hermit's fare, and for 'one perennial suit of leather.'

Such a man as the Duke of Buccleuch, possessing enormous estates,

oppressed by a deep feeling of responsibility, and struggling to

maintain a personal supervision of all his intricate and multitudinous

belongings, must day by day undergo an amount of worry which the

philosopher would probably regard as poorly compensated by a dukedom

and three hundred thousand a year. He would be a noble benefactor

of the human race who should teach men how to combine the simplicity

of the savage life with the refinement and the cleanliness of the

civilized. We fear it must be accepted as an unquestionable fact,

that the many advantages of civilization are to be obtained only

at the price of countless and ceaseless worry. Of course, we must

all sometimes sigh for the woods and the wigwam; but the feeling

is as vain as that of the psalmist's wearied aspiration, 'Oh that

I had wings like a dove: then would I flee away and be at rest!'

Our author says,

The great Von Humboldt went into the cottages of South American

Indiana, and, amongst an unwrinkled people, could with difficulty

discern who was the father and who was the son, when he saw the

family assembled together.

And how plainly the smooth, cheerful face of the savage testified to

the healthfulness, in a physical sense; of a life devoid of worry!

If you would see the reverse of the medal, look at the anxious

faces, the knit brows, and the bald heads, of the twenty or thirty

greatest merchants whom you will see on the Exchange of Glasgow or

of Manchester. Or you may find more touching proof of the ageing

effect of worry, in the careworn face of the man of thirty with

a growing family and an uncertain income; or the thin figure and

bloodless cheek which testify to the dull weight ever resting on

the heart of the poor widow who goes out washing, and leaves her

little children in her poor garret under the care of one of eight

years old. But still, the cottages of Humboldt's 'unwrinkled

people' were, we have little doubt, much infested with vermin, and

possessed a pestilential atmosphere; and the people's freedom from

care did but testify to their ignorance, and to their lack of moral

sensibility. We must take worry, it is to be feared, along with

civilization. As you go down in the scale of civilization, you

throw off worry by throwing off the things to which it can adhere.

And in these days, in which no man would seriously think of preferring

the savage life, with its dirt, its stupidity, its listlessness,

its cruelty, the good we may derive from that life, or any life

approximating to it, is mainly that of a sort of moral alterative

and tonic. The thing itself would not suit us, and would do us no

good; but we may be the better for musing upon it. It is like a

refreshing shower-bath, it is like breathing a cool breeze after the

atmosphere of a hot-house, to dwell for a little, with half-closed

eyes, upon pictures which show us all the good of the unworried

life, and which say nothing of all the evil. We know the thing is

vain: we know it is but an idle fancy; but still it is pleasant

and refreshful to think of such a life as Byron has sketched as

the life of Daniel Boone. Not in misanthropy, but from the strong

preference of a forest life, did the Kentucky backwoodsman keep

many scores of miles ahead of the current of European population

setting onwards to the West. We shall feel much indebted to any

reader who will tell us where to find anything more delightful than

the following stanzas, to read after an essay on modern worry:--

He was not all alone: around him grew

A sylvan tribe of children of the chase;

Whose young, unwakened world was ever new,

Nor sin, nor sorrow, yet had left a trace

On her unwrinkled brow; nor could you view

A frown on Nature's or on human face:

The free-born forest found and kept them free,

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.

And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they,

Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions:

Because their thoughts had never been the prey

Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions.

No sinking spirits told them they grew grey,

No fashion made them apes of her distortions;

Simple they were, not savage, and their rifles,

Though very true, were yet not used for trifles.

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers,

And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil:

Nor yet too many, nor too few their numbers,

Corruption could not make their hearts her soil:

The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers,

With the free foresters divide no spoil:

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes,

Of this unsighing people of the woods.

The essay on Worry is followed by an interesting conversation on

the same subject, at the close of which we are heartily obliged to

Blanche for suggesting one pleasant thought; to wit, that children

for the most part escape that sad infliction; it is the special

heritage of comparatively mature years. And Milverton replies:--

Yes; I have never been more struck with that than when observing

a family in the middle class of life going to the sea-side. There

is the anxious mother wondering how they shall manage to stow away

all the children when they get down. Visions of damp sheets oppress

her. The cares of packing sit upon her soul. Doubts of what will

become of the house when it is left, are a constant drawback from

her thoughts of enjoyment; and she confides to the partner of her

cares how willingly, if it were not for the dear children, she

would stay at tome. He, poor man, has not an easy time of it. He

is meditating over the expense, and how it is to be provided for.

He knows, if he has any knowledge of the world, that the said

expense will somehow or other exceed any estimate he and his wife

have made of it. He is studying the route of the journey, and is

perplexed by the various modes of going. This one would be less

expensive, but would take more time; and then time always turns

into expense on a journey. In a word, the old birds are as full

of care and trouble as a hen with ducklings; but the young birds!

Some of them have never seen the sea before, and visions of unspeakable

delight fill their souls--visions that will almost be fulfilled.

The journey, and the cramped accommodation, and the packing, and

the everything out of place, are matters of pure fun and anticipated

joy to them.

We have lingered all this while upon the first chapter of the

work: the second contains an essay and conversation on War. Of this

chapter we shall say no more than that it is earnest and sound in

its views, and especially worthy of attentive consideration at the

present time. The third chapter is one which will probably be turned

to with interest by many readers; it bears the taking title of A

Love Story. Dunsford, a keen though quiet observer, has discovered

that Ellesmere has grown fond of Mildred, though the lawyer was

not likely to disclose his love. Dunsford suspects that Mildred's

affections are get on Milverton, as he has little doubt those

of Blanche are. Both girls are very loving to Dunsford, whom they

call their uncle, though he is no relation, and the old clergyman

determines to have an explanation with Mildred. He manages to walk

alone with her through the unguarded orchards which lie along the

Rhine; and there, somewhat abruptly, he begins to moralize on the

grand passion. Mildred remarks what a happy woman she would have

been whom Dunsford had loved; when the lucky thought strikes him

that he would tell her his own story, never yet told to any one.

And then he tells it, very simply and very touchingly. Like most

true stories of the kind, it has little incident; but it constituted

the romance, not yet outlived, of the old--gentleman's existence.

He and a certain Alice were brought up together. Like many of the

most successful students, Dunsford hated study, and was devoted to

music and poetry, to nature and art. But he knew his only chance

of winning Alice was to obtain some success in life, and he devoted

himself to study. Who does not feel for the old man recalling the

past, and, as he remembered those laborious days, saying to the

girl by his side, "Always reverence a scholar, my dear; if not for

the scholarship, at least for the suffering and the self-denial

which have been endured to gain the scholar's proficiency." His

only pleasure was in correspondence with Alice. He succeeded at

last. He took his degree, being nearly the first man of his year

in both of the great subjects of examination; and he might now come

home with some hope of having made a beginning of fortune. A gay

young fellow, a cousin of Alice, came to spend a few days; and of

course this lively, thoughtless youth, without an effort, carried

off the prize of all poor Dunsford's toils. You never win the thing

on which your heart is set and your life staked; it falls to some

one else who cares very little about it. It is poor compensation

that you get something you care little for which would have made

the happiness of another man. Dunsford discovers one evening, in

a walk with Alice, the frustration of all his hopes:--

Alice and I were alone again, and we walked out together in the

evening. We spoke of my future hopes and prospects. I remember that

I was emboldened to press her arm. She returned the pressure, and

for a moment there never was, perhaps, a happier man. Had I known

more of love, I should have known that this evident return of

affection was anything but a good sign; "and," continued she, in

the unconnected manner that you women sometimes speak, "I am so

glad that you love dear Henry. Oh, if we could but come and live

near you when you get a curacy, how happy we should all be." This

short sentence was sufficient. There was no need of more explanation.

I knew all that had happened, and felt as if I no longer trod upon

the firm earth, for it seemed a quicksand under me.

The agony of that dull evening, the misery of that long night! I

have sometimes thought that unsuccessful love is almost too great

a burden to be put upnn such a poor creature as man. But He knows

best; and it must have been intended, for it is so common.

The next day I remember I borrowed Henry's horse, and rode madly

about, bounding through woods (I who had long forgotten to ride)

and galloping over open downs. If the animal had not been wiser

and more sane than I was, we should have been dashed to pieces many

times. And so by sheer exhaustion of body I deadened the misery

of my mind, and looked upon their happy state with a kind of

stupefaction. In a few days I found a pretext for quitting my home,

and I never saw your mother again, for it was your mother, Mildred,

and you are not like her, but like your father, and still I love

you. But the great wound has never been healed. It is a foolish

thing, perhaps, that any man should so doat upon a woman, that

he should never afterwards care for any other, but so it has been

with me; and you cannot wonder that a sort of terror should come

over me when I see anybody in love, and when I think that his or

her love is not likely to be returned.

Who would have thought that Dunsford, with his gaiters, lying on the

grass listening cheerfully to the lively talk of his two friends,

or sitting among his bees repeating Virgil to himself, or going

about among his parishioners, the ideal of prosaic content and

usefulness, had still in him this store of old romance? In asking

the question, all we mean is to remark an apparent inconsistency:

we have no doubt at all of the philosophic truth of the representation.

Probably it is only in the finer natures that such early fancies

linger with appreciable effect. We do not forget the perpetually

repeated declarations of Mr. Thackeray; we did not read Mr. Gilfits

Love Story for nothing; we remember the very absurd incident

which is told of Dr. Chalmers, who in his last years testified

his remembrance of an early sweet-heart by sticking his card with

two wafers behind a wretched little silhouette of her. And it is

conceivable that the tenderest and most beautiful reminiscences of

a love of departed days may linger with a man who has grown grey,

fat, and even snuffy. But it is only in the case of remarkably

tidy, neat, and clever old gentlemen that such feelings are likely

to attract much sympathy from their juniors. Possibly this world

has more of such lingering romance than is generally credited.

Possibly with all but very stolid and narrow natures, no very strong

feeling goes without leaving some trace.

Pain and grief

Are transitory things no less than joy;

And though they leave us not the men we were,

Yet they do leave us.

Possibly it is not without some little stir of heart that most

thoughtful aged persons can revisit certain spots, or see certain

days return. And the affection which would have worn itself

down into dull common-place in success, by being disappointed and

frustrated, lives on in memory with diminished vividness but with

increasing beauty, which the test of actual fact can never make

prosaic. Dunsford tells Mildred what was his great inducement to

make this continental tour. Not the Rhine; not the essays nor the

conversations of his friends. At the Palace of the Luxemburg there

is a fine picture, called Les illusions perdues. It is one of the

most affecting pictures Dunsford ever saw. But that is not its

peculiar merit. One girl in the picture is the image of what Alice

was.

The chief thing I had to look forward to in this journey we are

making was, thsit we might return by way of Paris, and that I might

see that picture again. You must contrive that we do return that

way. Ellesmere will do anything to please you, and Milverton is

always perfectly indifferent as to where he goes, so that he is not

asked to see works of art, or to accompany a party of sight-seers

to a cathedral. We will go and see this picture together once; and

once I must see it alone.

And a very touching sight it would be to one who knew the story,

the grey-haired old clergyman looking, for a long while, at that

young face. It would be indeed a contrast, the aged man, and the

youthful figure in the picture. Dunsford never saw Alice again after

his early disappointment: he never saw her as she grew matronly

and then old; and so, though now in her grave, she remained in his

memory the same young thing forever. The years which had made him

grow old, had wrought not the slightest change upon her. And Alice,

old and dead, was the same on the canvas still.

Dunsford's purpose in telling his love-story, was to caution Mildred

against falling in love with Milverton. She told him there was no

danger. Once, she frankly said, she had long struggled with her

feelings, not only from natural pride, but for the sake of Blanche,

who loved Milverton better and would be less able to control

her love. But she had quite got over the struggle; and though now

intensely sympathizing with her cousin, she felt she never could

resolve to marry him. So the conversation ended satisfactorily;

and then a short sentence shows us a scene, beautiful, vivid, and

complete:--

We walked home silently amidst the mellow orchards glowing ruddily

in the rays of the setting sun.

The next chapter contains an Essay and conversation on Criticism:

but its commencement shows us Dunsford still employed in the interests

of his friends. He tells Milverton that Blanche is growing fond of

him. We can hardly give Milverton credit for sincerity or judgment

in being "greatly distressed and vexed." For once, he was shamming. All

middle-aged men are much flattered and pleased with the admiration

of young girls. Milverton declared that the thing must be put a

stop to; that "the idea of a young and beautiful girl throwing her

affections away upon a faded widower like himself, was absurd."

However, as the days went on, Milverton began to be extremely

attentive to Blanche; asked her opinion about things quite beyond

her comprehension; took long walks with her, and assured Dunsford

privately that "Blanche had a great deal more in her than most

people supposed, and that she was becoming an excellent companion."

Who does not recognize the process by which clever men persuade

themselves into the belief that they are doing a judicious thing

in marrying stupid women?

The chapter which follows that on Criticism, contains a conversation

on Biography, full of interesting suggestions which our space renders

it impossible for us to quote; but we cannot forego the pleasure

of extracting the following paragraphs. It is Milverton who speaks:--

During Walter's last holidays, one morning after breakfast he took

a walk with me. I saw something was on the boy's mind. At last he

suddenly asked me, "Do sons often write the lives of fathers?"--"Often,"

I replied, "but I do not think they are the best kind of biographers,

for you see, Walter, sons cannot well tell the faults and weaknesses

of their fathers, and so filial biographies are often rather insipid

performances."--"I don't know about that," he said, "I think I could

write yours. I have made it already into chapters." "Now then, my

boy," I said, "begin it: let us have the outline at least." Walter

then commenced his biography.

"The first chapter," he said, "should be you and I and Henry walking

amongst the trees and settling which should be cut down, and which

should be transplanted." "A very pretty chapter," I said, "and a

great deal might be made of it." "The second chapter," he continued,

"should be your going to the farm, and talking to the pigs." "Also

a very good chapter, my dear." "The third chapter," he said, after

a little thought, "should be your friends. I would describe them

all, and what they could do." There, you see, Ellesmere, you would

come in largely, especially as to what you could do. "An excellent

chapter," I exclaimed, and then of course I broke out into some

paternal admonition about the choice of friends, which I know will

have no effect whatever, but still one cannot help uttering these

paternal admonitions.

"Now then," I said, "for chapter four." Here Walter paused, and

looked about him vaguely for a minute or two. At length he seemed

to have got hold of the right idea, for he burst out with the words,

"My going back to school;" and that, it seemed, was to be the end

of the biography.

Now, was there ever so honest a biographer? His going hack to

school was the "be-all and end-all here" with him, and he resolved

it should be the same with his hero, and with everybody concerned

in the story.

Then see what a pleasant biographer the boy is! He does not drag

his hero down through the vale of life, amidst declining fortune,

breaking health, dwindling away of friends, and the usual dreariness

of the last few stages. Neither does the biography end with the

death of his hero; and by the way, it is not very pleasant to have

one's children contemplating one's death, even for the sake of

writing one's life; but the biographer brings the adventures of his

hero to an end by his own going back to school. How delightful it

would be if most biographers planned their works after Walter's

fashion: just gave a picture of their hero at his farm, or

his business; then at his pleasure, as Walter brought me amongst

my trees; then, to show what manner of man he was, gave some

description of his friends; and concluded by giving an account of

their own going back to school--a conclusion that is greatly to be

desired for many of them.

When we begin to copy a passage from this work, we find it very

difficult to stop. But the thoughtful reader will not need to have

it pointed out to him how much sound wisdom is conveyed in that

playful form. And here is excellent advice as to the fashion in

which men may hope to get through great intellectual labour: says

Ellesmere,--

I can tell you in a--very few words how all work is done. Getting

up early, eating vigorously, saying "No" to intruders resolutely,

doing one thing at a time, thinking over difficulties at odd times,

that is, when stupid people are talking in the House of Commons,

or speaking at the Bar, not indulging too much in affections of

any kind which waste the time and energies, carefully changing the

current of your thoughts before you go to bed, planning the work of

the day in the quarter of an hour before you get up, playing with

children occasionally, and avoiding fools as much as possible: that

is the way to do a great deal of work.

Milverton remarks, with justice, that some practical advices as

to the way in which a working man might succeed in avoiding fools

were very much to be desired, inasmuch as that brief direction

contains the whole art of life; and suggests with equal justice

that the taking of a daily bath should be added to Ellesmere's

catalogue of appliances which aid in working.

We cannot linger upon the remaining pages which treat of Biography,

nor upon two interesting chapters concerning Proverbs. It may be

noticed, however, that Ellesmere insists that the best proverb in

the world is the familiar English, one, 'Nobody knows where the

shoe pinches hut the wearer;' while Milverton tells us that the

Spanish language is far richer in proverbs than that of any other

nation. But we hasten to an essay which will be extremely fresh and

interesting to all readers. We have had many essays by Milverton:

here is one by Ellesmere. He had announced some time before his

purpose of writing an essay on The Arts of Self-Advancement, and

Mildred, whom Ellesmere took a pleasure in annoying by making a

parade of mean, selfish, and cynical views, discerned at once that

in such an essay he would have an opportunity of bringing together

a crowd of these, and declared before Ellesmere began to write

it that it would be a nauseous essay.' The essay is finished at

length. The friends are now at Salzburg; and on a very warm day

they assembled in a sequestered spot whence they could see the

snowy peaks of the Tyrolese Alps. Ellesmere begins by deprecating

criticism of his style, declaring that anything inaccurate or

ungrammatical is put in on purpose. Then he begins to read:--

In the first place, it is desirable to be born north of the Tweed

(I like to begin at the beginning of things); and if that cannot be

managed, you must at least contrive to be born in a moderately-sized

town--somewhere. You thus get the advantage of being favoured by

a small community without losing any individual force. If I had

been born in Affpuddle--Milverton in Tolpuddle--and Dunsford in

Tollerporcorum (there are such places, at least I saw them once

arranged together in a petition to the House of Commons), the men

of Affpuddle, Tolpuddle, and Tollerporcorum would have been proud

of us, would have been true to us, and would have helped to push

our fortunes. I see, with my mind's eye, a statue of Dunsford raised

in Tollerporcorum. You smile, I observe; but it is the smile of

ignorance, for let me tell you, it is of the first importance not

to be born vaguely, as in London, or in some remote country-house.

If you cannot, however, be born properly, contrive at least to be

connected with some small sect or community, who may consider your

renown as part of their renown, and be always ready to favour and

defend you.

After this promising introduction Ellesmere goes on to propound

views which in an extraordinary way combine real good sense and

sharp worldly wisdom with a parade of all sorts of mean shifts and

contemptible tricks where-by to take advantage of the weakness,

folly, and wickedness of human nature. Very characteristically he

delights in thinking how he is shocking and disgusting poor Mildred:

of course Dunsford and Milverton understand him. And the style is

as characteristic as the thought. It is unquestionably Ellesmere

to whose essay we are listening; Milverton could not and would

not have produced such a discourse. We remember to have read in

a review, published several years since, of the former series of

Friends in Council, that it was judicious in the author of that

work, though introducing several friends as talking together, to

represent all the essays as written by one individual; because,

although he could keep up the individuality of the speakers through

a conversation, it was doubtful whether he could have succeeded in

doing so through essays purporting to. be written by each of them.

We do not know whether the author ever saw the challenge thus thrown

down to him: but it is certain that in the present series he has

boldly attempted the thing, and thoroughly succeeded. And it may be

remarked that not one of Ellesmere's propositions can be regarded

as mere vagaries--every one of them contains truth, though truth

put carefully in the most disagreeable and degrading way. Who does

not know how great an element of success it is to belong to a sect

or class which regard your reputation as identified with their own,

and cry you up accordingly? It is to be admitted that there is the

preliminary difficulty of so far overcoming individual envies and

jealousies as to get your class to accept you as their representative;

but once that end is accomplished the thing is done. As to being

born north of the Tweed, a Scotch Lord Chancellor and a Scotch Bishop

of London are instructive instances. And however much Scotchmen may

abuse one another at home, it cannot be denied that all Scotchmen

feel it a sacred duty to stand up for every Scotchman who has

attained to eminence oeyond the boundaries of his native land.

Scotland, indeed, in the sense in which Ellesmere uses the phrase,

is a small community; and a community of very energetic, self-denying,

laborious, and determined men, with very many feelings in common

which they have in common only with their countrymen, and with an

invincible tendency in all times of trouble to remember the old

cry of Highlandmen, shoulder to shoulder! Let the ambitious reader

muse on what follows:--

Let your position be commonplace, whatever you are yourself. If you

are a genius, and contrive to conceal the fact, you really deserve

to get on in the world, and you will do so, if only you keep on

the level road. Remember always that the world is a place where

second-rate people mostly succeed: not fools, nor first-rate people.

Cynically put, no doubt, but admirably true. A great blockhead will

never be made an archbishop; but in ordinary times a great genius

stands next to him in the badness of his chance. After all, good

sense and sound judgment are the essentially needful things in all

but very exceptional situations in life--and for these commend us

to the safe, steady-going, commonplace man. It cannot be denied

that the great mass of mankind stand in doubt and fear of people who

are wonderfully clever. What an amount of stolid, self-complacent,

ignorant, stupid, conceited respectability, is wrapped up in

the declaration concerning any person, that he is "too clever by

half!" How plainly it teaches that the general belief is that too

ingenious machinery will break down in practical working, and that

most men will do wrong who have the power to do it!

The following propositions are true in very large communities, but

they will not hold good in the country or in little towns:--

Remember always that what is real and substantive ultimately has

its way in this world.

You make good bricks for instance: it is in vain that your enemies

prove that you are a heretic in morals, politics, and religion;

insinuate that you beat your wife; and dwell loudly on the fact that

you failed in making picture-frames. In so far as you are a good

brick-maker, you have all the power that depends on good brick-making;

and the world will mainly look to j-our positive qualities as a

brick-maker.

After having gone on with a number of maxims of a very base, selfish,

and suspicious nature, to the increasing horror of the girls who

are listening, Ellesmere passes from the consideration of modes of

action to a much more important matter:--

Those who wish for self-advancement should remember, that the art

in life is not so much to do a thing well, as to get a thing that

has been moderately well done largely talked about. Some foolish

people, who should have belonged to another planet, give all their

minds to doing their work well. This is an entire mistake. This is

a grievous loss of power. Such a method of proceeding may be very

well in Jupiter, Mars, or Saturn, but is totally out of place in

this puffing, advertising, bill-sticking part of creation. To rush

into the battle of life without an abundance of kettle-drums and

trumpets is a weak and ill-advised adventure, however well-armed

and well-accoutred you may be. As I hate vague maxims, I will at

once lay down the proportions in which force of any kind should be

used in this world. Suppose you have a force which may be represented

by the number one hundred: seventy-three parts at least of that

force should be given to the trumpet; the remaining twenty-seven

parts may not disadvantageously be spent in doing the thing which

is to be trumpeted. This is a rule unlike some rules in grammar,

which are entangled and controlled by a multitude of vexatious

exceptions; but it applies equally to the conduct of all matters

upon earth, whether social, moral, artistic, literary, political,

or religious.

Ellesmere goes on to sum up the personal qualities needful to

success; and having sketched out the character of a mean, crafty,

sharp, energetic rascal, he concludes by saying that such a one will

not fail to succeed in any department of life--provided always he

keeps for the most part to one department, and does not attempt

to conquer in many directions at once. I only hope that, having

protited by this wisdom of mine, he will give me a share of the

spoil.

Thus the essay ends; and then the discourse thereon begins--

MILVERTON. Well, of all the intolerable wretches and black-guards--'

MR. MIDHURST. A conceited prig, too!

UUNSFORD. A wicked, designing villain!

ELLESMERE. Any more: any more? Pray go on, gentlemen; and have

you, ladies, nothing to say against the wise man of the world that

I have depicted?

And yet the upshot of the conversation was, that though given in

a highly disagreeable and obtrusively base form, there was much

truth in what Ellesmere had said. It is to be remembered that he

did not pretend to describe a good man, but only a successful one.

And it is to be remembered likewise that prudence verges toward

baseness: and that the difference between the suggestions of each

lies very much in the fashion in which these suggestions are put

and enforced. As to the use of the trumpet, how many advertising

tailors and pill-makers could testify to the soundness of Ellesmere's

principle? And beyond the Atlantic it finds special favor. When

Barnum exhibited his mermaid, and stuck up outside his show-room

a picture of three beautiful mermaids, of human size, with flowing

hair, basking upon a summer sea, while inside the show-room he had

the hideous little contorted figure made of a monkey with a fish's

tail attached to it, probably the proportion of the trumpet to the

thing trumpeted was even greater than seventy-three to twenty-seven.

Dunsford suggests, for the comfort of those who will not stoop to

unworthy means for obtaining success, the beautiful saying, that

"Heaven is probably a place for those who have failed on earth."

And Ellesmere, adhering to his expressed views, declares--

If you had attended to them earlier in life, Dunsford would now be

Mr. Dean; Milverton would be the Right Honorable Leonard Milverton,

and the leader of a party; Mr. Midhurst would be chief cook

to the Emperor Napoleon; the bull-dog would have been promoted to

the parlor; I, but no man is wise for himself, should have been

Lord Chancellor; Walter would be at the head of his class without

having any more knowledge than he has at present; and as for you

two girls, one. would be a Maid of Honor to the Queen, and the

other would have married the richest man in the county.

We have not space to tell how Ellesmere planned to get Mr. Midhurst

to write an essay on the Miseries of Human Life; nor how at Treves,

upon a lowering day, the party, seated in the ancient amphitheatre,

heard it read; nor how fully, eloquently, and not unfairly, the

gloomy man, not without a certain solemn enjoyment, summed up his

sad catalogue of the ills that flesh is heir to; nor how Milverton

agreed in the evening to speak an answer to the essay, and show

that life was not so miserable after all; nor how Ellesmere, eager

to have it answered effectively, determined that Milverton should

have the little accessories in his favor, the red curtains drawn,

a blazing wood-fire, and plenty of light; nor how before the answer

began, he brought Milverton a glass of wine to cheer him; nor how

Milverton endeavored to show that in the present system misery was

not quite predominant, and that much good in many ways came out

of ill. Then we have some talk about Pleasantness; and Dunsford is

persuaded to write and read an essay on that subject, which he read

one morning, 'while we were sitting in the balcony of an hotel, in

one of the small towns that overlook the Moselle, which was flowing

beneath in a reddish turbid stream.' In the conversation which

follows Milverton says,

It is a fault certainly to which writers are liable, that of

exaggerating the claims of their subject.

And how truly is that said! Indeed we can quite imagine a very

earnest man feeling afraid to think too much and long about any

existing evil, for fear it should greaten on his view into a thing

so large and pernicious, that he should be constrained to give all

his life to the wrestling with that one thing; and attach to it an

importance which would make his neighbors think him a monomaniac.

If you think long and deeply upon any subject, it grows in magnitude

and weight: if you think of it too long, it may grow big enough

to exclude the thought of all things beside. If it be an existing

and prevalent evil you are thinking of, you may come to fancy that

if that one thing could be done away, it would be well with the

human race,--all evil would go with it. We can sympathize deeply

with that man who died a short while since, who wrote volume after

volume to prove that if men would only leave off stooping, and learn

to hold themselves upright, it would be the grandest blessing that

ever came to humanity. We can quite conceive the process by which

a man might come to think so, without admitting mania as a cause.

We confess, for ourselves, that so deeply do we feel the force of

the law Milverton mentions, there are certain evils of which we are

afraid to think much, for fear we should come to be able to think

of nothing else, and of nothing more.

Then a pleasant chapter, entitled Lovers' Quarrels, tells us how

matters are progressing with the two pairs. Milverton and Blanche

are going on most satisfactorily; but Ellesmere and Mildred are

wayward and hard to keep right. Ellesmere sadly disappointed Mildred

by the sordid views he advanced in his essay, and kept advancing

in his talk; and like a proud and shy man of middle age when in

love, he was ever watching for distant slight indications of how his

suit might be received, and rendered fractious by the uncertainty

of Mildred's conduct and bearing. And probably women have little

notion by what slight and hardly thought-of sayings and doings

they may have repressed the declaration and the offer which might

perhaps have made them happy. Day by day Dunsfbrd was vexed by

the growing estrangement between two persons who were really much

attached; and this unhappy state of matters might have ended in a

final separation but for the happy incident recorded in the chapter

called Rowing down the River Moselle. The party had rowed down the

river, talking as usual of many things:--

It was just at this point of the conversation that we pulled in

nearer to the land, as Walter had made signs that he wished now to

get into the boat. It was a weedy rushy part of the river that we

entered. Fixer saw a rat or some other creature, which he was wild

to get at. Eliesmere excited him to do so, and the dog sprang out

of the boat. In a minute or two Fixer became entangled in the weeds,

and seemed to be in danger of sinking. Ellesmere, without thinking

what he was about, made a hasty effort to save the dog, seized

hold of him, but lost his own balance and fell out of the boat. In

another moment Mildred gave me the end of her shawl to hold, which

she had wound round herself, and sprang out too. The sensible

diplomatist lost no time in throwing his weighty person to the other

side of the boat. The two boatmen did the same. But for this move,

the boat would, in all probability, have capsized, and we should

all have been lost. Mildred was successful in clutching hold

of Ellesmere; and Milverton and I managed to haul them close to

the boat and to pull them in. Ellesmere had uot relinquished hold

of Fixer. All this happened, as such accidents do, in almost less

time than it takes to describe them. And now came another dripping

creature splashing into the boat; for Master Walter, who can swim

like a duck, had plunged in directly he saw the accident, but too

late to be of any assistance.

Things are now all right; and Ellesmere next day announces to his

friends that Mildred and he are engaged. Two chapters, on Government

and Despotism respectively, give us the last thoughts of the Friends

abroad; then we have a pleasant picture of them all in Milverton's

farmyard, under a great sycamore, discoursing cheerfully of country

cares. The closing chapter of the book is on The Need for Tolerance.

It contains a host of thoughts which we should be glad to extract;

but we must be content with a wise saying of Milverton's:--

For a man who has been rigidly good to be supremely tolerant,

would require an amount of insight which seems to belong only to

the greatest genius.

For we hardly sympathize with that which we have not in some

measure experienced; and the great thing, after all, which makes

us tolerant of the errors of other men, is the feeling that under

like circumstances we should have ourselves erred in like manner;

or, at all events, the being able to see the error in such a light

as to feel that there is that within ourselves which enables us at

least to understand how men should in such a way have erred. The

sins on which we are most severe are those concerning which our

feeling is, that we cannot conceive how any man could possibly have

done them. And probably such would be the feeling of a rigidly

good man concerning every sin.

So we part, for the present, from our Friends, not without the hope

of again meeting them. We have been listening to the conversation

of living men; and, in parting, we feel the regret that we should

feel in quitting a kind friend's house after a pleasant visit,

not, perhaps, to be renewed for many a day. And this is a changing

world. We have been breathing the old atmosphere, and listening

to the old voices talking in the old way. We have had new thought

and new truth, but presented in the fashion we have known and enjoyed

for years. Happily we can repeat our visit as often as we please,

without the fear of worrying or wearying; for we may open the book

at will. And we shall hope for new visits likewise. Milverton will

be as earnest and more hopeful, Ellesmere will retain all that

is good, and that which is provoking will now be softened down.

No doubt by this time they are married. Where have they gone? The

continent is unsettled, and they have often already been there.

Perhaps they have gone to Scotland? No doubt they have. And perhaps

before the leaves are sere we may find them out among the sea lochs

of the beautiful Frith of Clyde, or under the shadow of Ben Nevis.

CHAPTER XII.

CONCERNING THE PULPIT IN SCOTLAND.

Nearly forty years since, Dr. Chalmers, one of the parish ministers

of Glasgow, preached several times in London. He was then in the

zenith of his popularity as a pulpit orator. Canning and Wilberforce

went together to hear him upon one occasion; and after sitting

spell-bound under his eloquence, Canning said to Wilberforce when

the sermon was done, 'The tarlan beats us; we have no preaching

like that in England.'

In October 1855, the Rev. John Caird, incumbent of the parish of

Errol, in Perthshire, preached before the Queen and Court at the

church of Crathie. Her Majesty was so impressed by the discourse

that she commanded its publication; and the Prince Consort, no mean

authority, expressed his admiration of the ability of the preacher,

saying that 'he had not heard a preacher like him for ssven years,

and did not expect to enjoy a like pleasure for as long a period to

come.' So, at all events, says a paragraph in The Times of December

12th, 1855.

It is somewhat startling to find men of cultivated taste, who are

familiar with the highest class preaching of the English Church,

expressing their sense of the superior effect of pulpit oratory

of a very different kind. No doubt Caird and Chalmers are the best

of their class; and the overwhelming effect which they and a few

other Scotch preachers have often produced, is in a great degree

owing to the individual genius of the men, and not to the school

of preaching they belong to. Yet both are representatives of what

may be called the Scotch school of preaching: and with all their

genius, they never could have carried away their audience as they

have done, had they been trammelled by those canons of taste to

which English preachers almost invariably conform. Their manner

is just the regular Scotch manner, vivified into tenfold effect

by their own peculiar genius. Preaching in Scotland is a totally

different thing from what it is in England. In the former country

it is generally characterized by an amount of excitement in delivery

and matter, which in England is only found among the most fanatical

Dissenters, and is practically unknown in the pulpits of the national

church. No doubt English and Scotch preaching differ in substance to

a certain 'extent.' Scotch sermons are generally longer, averaging

from forty minutes to an hour in the delivery. There is a more

prominent and constant pressing of what is called evangelical

doctrine. The treatment of the subject is more formal. There is an

introduction; two or three heads of discourse, formally announced;

and a practical conclusion; and generally the entire Calvinistic

system is set forth in every sermon. But the main difference

lies in the manner in which the discourses of the two schools are

delivered. While English sermons are generally read with quiet

dignity, in Scotland they are very commonly repeated from memory,

and given with great vehemence and oratorical effect, and abundant

gesticulation. Nor is it to be supposed that when we say the

difference is main ly in manner, we think it a small one. There

is only one account given by all who have heard the most striking

Scotch preachers, as to the proportion which their manner bears

in the effect produced. Lockhart, late of The Quarterly, says of

Chalmers, 'Never did the world possess any orator whose minutest

peculiarities of gesture and voice have more power in increasing

the effect of what he says; whose delivery, in other words, is the

first, and the second, and the third excellence in his oratory,

more truly than is that of Dr. Chalmers.' The same words might be

repeated of Caird, who has succeeded to Chalmers's fame. A hundred

little circumstances of voice and manner--even of appearance and

dress--combine to give his oratory its overwhelming power. And where

manner is everything, difference in manner is a total difference.

Nor does manner affect only the less educated and intelligent class

of hearers. It cannot be doubted that the unparalleled impression

produced, even on such men as Wilberforce, Canning, Lockhart,

Lord Jeffrey, and Prince Albert, was mainly the result of manner.

In point of substance and style, many English preachers are quite

superior to the best of the Scotch. In these respects, there are no

preachers in Scotland who come near the mark of Melvill, Manning,

Arnold, or Bishop Wilberforce. Lockhart says of Chalmers,

I have heard many men deliver sermons far better arranged in point

of argument; and I have heard very many deliver sermons far more

uniform in elegance, both of conception and of style; but most

unquestionably, I have never heard, either in England or Scotland,

or in any other country, a preacher whose eloquence is capable of

producing an effect so strong and irresistible as his.

[Footnote: Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk, vol. iii. p. 267.]

The best proof how much Chalmers owed to his manner, is, that in

his latter days, when he was no longer able to give them with his

wonted animation and feeling, the very same discourses fell quite

flat on his congregation.

It is long since Sydney Smith expressed his views as to the chilliness

which is the general characteristic of the Anglican pulpit. In the

preface to his published sermons, he says:

The English, generally remarkable for doing very good things in a

very bad manner, seem to have reserved the maturity and plenitude

of their awkwardness for the pulpit. A clergyman clings to his

velvet cushion with either hand, keeps his eye rivetted on his

book, speaks of the ecstacies of joy and fear with a voice and a

face which indicates neither; and pinions his body and soul into

the same attitude of limb and thought, for fear of being thought

theatrical and affected. The most intrepid veteran of us all

dares no more than wipe his face with his cambric sudarium; if by

mischance his hand slip from its orthodox gripe of the velvet, he

draws it back as from liquid brimstone, and atones for the indecorum

by fresh inflexibility and more rigorous sameness. Is it wonder,

then, that every semi-delirious sectary who pours forth his animated

nonsense with the genuine look and voice of passion, should

gesticulate away the congregation of the most profound and learned

divine of the established church, and in two Sundays preach him

bare to the very sexton? Why are we natural everywhere but in the

pulpit? No man expresses warm and animated feelings anywhere else,

with his mouth only, but with his whole body; he articulates with

every limb, and talks from head to foot with a thousand voices.

Why this holoplexia on sacred occasions only? Why call in the aid

of paralysis to piety? Is sin to be taken from men, as Eve was from

Adam, by casting them into a deep slumber? Or from what possible

perversion of common sense are we all to look like field preachers

in Zembla, holy lumps of ice, numbed into quiescence and stagnation

and mumbling?