1845 Iv.....l 1853 \. 'J' R': - CE PU J (' , L I 2, A . Y E - S ""T" r-, L ''-''',.J " D 1 - 72 thO 10\1.::': t:i L Ii \!d r-', ,..- '" . f r- r " r; SS r\ V V t"\ c.i . v t. , t/ d-\ · d t6 "The Story of onr Lives from Year to Ye(tr.' -SHA.XESPB.lRB. ALL THE YEAR ROUND. 1l fficck1n .3JoutmtL CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICICENS. WITH WHICH IS INCORPORATED HOUSEHOLD 'VORDS NE'lV SERIES_ VOLU fE XIV. FROM APRIL 3, 1875, TO SEPTEMBER 25, 187.5. Incll cling No. 331 to No. 306. LONDON: PUBLISHED AT NO. 26, 'VELLIXGTON STREET; A D BY :MESSRS. CHAP:MA & HALL, 103, PICCADILLY. 1875. 9j CllARLES DICKENS L...D EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS. Ib PAGB A CHARMING Fellow. A Serial Story, by Frances Eleanor Trollope. . . . . 1 25,49,73, 97, 121, 145, 169, 193, 217, 241,286,307,332, 857, 380,402,427, 53. 74, 50!, 524, 54ï, 573, 596, 617 A Silent Witness. A Serial Story, by Edmund Yate8 . 19 43, 67, 91, 115, 140, 164, 188, 212 Actors of Othello. . . . 269 Actors. The Tiring-Room . 367 Adventurers. Cagliostro . 281, 293 Adventurers. Casanova. . 323 343, 373, 397, 423 Adventurers. The Count Saint- Germain. . . . . 228 Adventures of a Travelled Moor 103 Advertise!"s . .. 484 Aldershot, A Visit to . 391 America, Servants in . 3"" Among the Advertisers 485 Amsterdam . . 534 Ancient Conjurers .. 105 Ancient Moorish Traveller. 103 Ancient Servants . . . 318 Anglelles, Marquis: Artificial Leg. . . " 46-1 Animal and Vegetable World 29 Arctic Travellers, Early 173 Army at Aldershot . 391 Army, Strength of the 391 Army. The Recruiting Quell- tion. . . . . . 437 Arthur, Prince: Tomb at Wor- cester . .. 154 Artillery, The English. 391 Artillery. Naval Volunteers . 297 Art-Needlework, The School of. 419 Auctions. Chril!ltie's. 125 Auctions. TattersaU's. 207 Auctions. Fur and Feather . 515 Auctions. Frankincense and Myrrh . . . . . 5.U Auctions. Foreign and Colonial Produce. . .. 564 Auctions. Tooth and Nail: Manders's Menagerie 606 BAMIIOO Tree . 31 Barber Surgeons. 496 Barbers' Hall . " 496 Barentz and Heemskerck . 1 ï3 Bartholomew Fair 184 Bath Abbey. . 224 Bath Cathedral. .. 222 Bath, The Warm Springs of 223 Bean Hash . 227 Beaver Skins . . . . 516 Birds. The Trade in Feathers. 518 Births, Remarkahle 329,354 J3ishops of Lincoln 77 Bow China . 38 Bristol China .. 42 Burrisaul, The Gnn!! of 378 By Green Cove Spring. AStory. 2ï5 CA.GLIOSTBO. . . . 2S1, 293 Cannon, Muzzle and Breech- loading . . . . . 392 Cape Frontier, A Story of the . 441 CONTENTS. -- PAGE Cape Police, A Story of the . 349 Carriers, Old London . . . 250 Casanova ... 323 343,373, 397, 403 Cathedrafs . ... 77 150, 222, 413 Cats' Skins. Trade in . . . 517 Cavalry of England. . . 392 Charming Fellow. A Serial Story I, 25, 49, 73. 97, 121, 145, 169, 193, 217, 2.U, 286, 307,332,357, 3S0, 402, 427,453, 4H, 501, 524, M7, 573, 596, Glï Chase of the Major. A Story . 441 Chelsea China . . . 15, 41 Children. Remarkable BirthB. 329 354 China, Old. History, Trade- Marks. ltc.. . 11, 38, 62 Chinese Porcelain .. 62 Christie's Auction-Rooms . 125 Cinchona Tree . 31 Coal, The Welsh . 52 Coffees, Sale of . 564 College of Surgeons . 496 Colliers of South Wales 52 Concerning the Noee . 58 Conjuring, Old Aeiatic 105 Cordelia on the Garonne 88 Count Saint-Germain . 22"1 Cow Tree, Milk of the. 31 Cranborne Chase, A Story of 302 Cromwell at Worcester . . 155 Culinary Art, Some Secrets of. 114 Curious Customs at Easter . 16 Curious old China . . 11, 38, 62 Cyclone, Signs of a. 247,449 DEAD Cities of the Zuiderzee . 533 Delany's, Dr., House 445, 467 Delville . .. 445, 467 Double-Brained People . 138 Dramatic Poetry. . 201 Dresùen China. . . 40, 64 Dress of Theatrical Characters. 367 Drug Sales. .. 541 Dutch Ancient Cities . . . 533 Dutch Expedition to the North. 175 Dwarfe and Fairies 185 EARLY Arctic Travellers . Early Eastern Travellers: A 'fravelled Moor. . Barentz and Heemskerck Arctic Expedition!! . Eastertide in Germany Ely, Bishops of . Ely Cathedral . Ely Honse, Holborn English Army, The English Cathedral!!! : Bath. Ely . Lincoln . 'V orcester. . . . Enlisting, ReMon!! Against Eugene Aram's Head . F AlBS in India. . . Fairs, WonderflÙ Sights at PAGB Fairy Children . 186 Farinaceous Food .. 31 Fal!lhion, Some Victims of. 519 Feathers, Trade in 518 Few Odd Pleas, A 537 Folk Lore. .. 8S Food. Vegetable Kinds 30 Forgotten Nook, A . 583 Frankincense and Myrrh . 541 Fruit, The Constituents of. 30 Fur and Feather Trade 515 GARRICK'S Hamlet . . . Geological Changes of the Earth Germany, Eastertide in Ghost Story, A. . Great Tom of Lincoln . Green Cove Spring. A Story . Groethode's Leather Breeches Gums. . . . Guns of Burrisaul, The 6 30 16 157 77 275 3-19 542 . 378 HALVES. A Serial Story, by James payn . . . . 265 289, 313, 337, 361, 385, 309,433,457, 481, 505, 529, 553. 577, 601 Hair (Human), The Trade in . 519 Hamlet and the Playwrights. 5 Harbingers of War. A Legend. 593 Holland. Dead Cities of the Zuiderzee. " 533 Horses, Some Famous . . 211 Hostess of the Raven. A Story 234 256 Hushes of Holwych, The. 157 Hysterical Fair . 395 IN Chase of the Major. A Story 441 In Mid Air. A Story.. 491 In the Wild West. A Story 611 India. Hysterical Fair 395 India. Lying for Luck. 473 India. Strange Phenomenon . 380 India. The Guns of Burrisaul. 378 Indian Housekeeping. . 321 Ireland. Delville 445, 467 173 JAPANESE Ware . Jews in Lincoln. . . Jonathan Wild, Skeleton of Judy. A Story. . . Juggling, Old Wonders of. 67 77 . 499 32 . 105 . 103 173 173 16 415 413 415 392 KING John's Grave. . . 151 Krescenz : An Idyl on the Moselle 561 LAW of Storms.. 246 Left-Handed People. . . 136 Legs : Wooden and Otherwise 463 Lincoln Cathedral 77 Lincoln, History of . 77 Little Paris Restaurant 113 London Carriers . . . . 250 London Commercial Sale Rooms 615 5101, 564 . 513 . 473 222 413 77 150 437 499 Loet Painter, The Lying for Luck . 395 IS.J. MAHOGANY Majolica . 32 11,40 9j ìP iv CONTEKTS. r GE Manders's Menagerie, Sale of . G(17 :Many Arrows in the Quiyer 329, 354 :M ecca, A Pilg-rimage to . 103 Michel, 'fhe Painter. . . 510 :Mincin -lltne Sale Rooms . . õl5 fi-n, 561- 318 516 187 :n 499 543 . 569 542 Modern Servants . Monkey Skins, Sale of Monsters . . Moss, The Swedish. . . Museum, College of Surgeons' . Musk, . . My Little Dears , Myrrh . NATURE, Some Curiosities of . 185 Katnre. Hirth Extraordinary 329, 354 Naval Artillery Volunteers . 297 Keedlework, 'fhe School of . 419 N elson, Lord, at Worcester China Works . . . . . 42 Newspaper Allvertisements . 485 Nook, A Forgotten . 583 North Pole, Early Expeditions to 175 Nose, Concerning the 58 Notes on :K oses . 58 OIL Nut Tree .. 31 01(1 Asiatic Conjurers . . 105 Old China. . . . 11,33,62 Old Löndon Carriers and their Houses of Call . . Old Plymouth China . Old St. Panems. . Opium Sale in London . . Orange Days : Wonderful Sights Oriental Porcelain . . Ostrich Feathers, Trade in Othello and the Players . Owen Gorton, The Story of 2'\0 42 583 564 184 62 . 618 269 . 83 108, 133 PAINTER: Georges Michel 510 Palissy Ware .. 40 Palm Tree. . .. 31 Paris. A I,ittle Restaurant 113 Paris. A Low Restaurant. 253 Physiology of Vegetation. . 29 Piccolo. A Story . . lï9,203 Pictures, Ancient and Modern. 129 Pictures, Old and Modern: Pnces 129 Pilgrimage to Mecca . 103 Plants, Carnivorous, &c. 570 Playgoers. .. 197 Playwrights and Hamlet 5 Pleas, A Few Odd. 537 Polar Expeditions, Early , 175 Porcelain and China. 11,38 Prices of old China. 43, 65 Puritans at Worcester , 155 QUINIYB RECRUITING Question. . 437 Remarka hie Adventurers: Count Saint-Germain . 223 Cagliostro . . . 281, 293 CaSanova 323, 343, 373, 397, 423 PAGE Rpc;taurant, A Very Low. 2':;3 Restaura t in Paris . 113 Rhuharb . . ., 5-U Ro.ral CoUego of Surgeons. . 40ü Royal Naval Artillery Volun- teers . . . . . . 297 Royal School of Art-Ncedlework 419 SUB Rooms in Mincing-Iano . 515 5n,5ß-J. Saffron. . . .' 5-13 School of Art-Needlework . 411) Scientific W orId, The .. 51':17 Seeds and Drugs, Sale of . 543 Seeds of Plants. . . . 30 Servants, Ancient and Modern. 318 Servants, Tips to 556 Serving-men 318 S vres. . . . . . 40 Shakespeare and the Playwrights 5 Shows, Old Sights at . . . 185 Silent Witnees: A Serial Story, by Edmund Yates. , . 19 43, 67, 91, 115, 140, 164, 18S, 212 Skins, Sale of . . . . 516 Sneezing, Superstition Concern- ing. . .. 61 South Wales Colliers . 62 Statues in China.. 38 Stephen, King, at Lincoln 78 Stories: By Green Cove Spring. 275 Cranborne Chase . . . 302 Groethode's Leather Breeches 3-19 Hostess of The Raven 23i, 256 In Chase of the Major . 441 In Mid Air .. . 491 In the Wild West . 611 Judy. .. .. 32 Owen Gorton. . 83, 108, 133 Piccolo . . . . 179, 203 The Hushes of Holwych . . 156 Tyrolese Mountain Legend . 520 Storm Laws. . . . 246, 449 Story of Cranborne Chase. . 303 Story of Owen Gorton 83, 108, 133 Strnwberry HID, Collection of China at . 65 St. Oswald . 153 Surgeons, The Royal College of . . 496 Swedish Moss 31 31, 546 TATTEUSALL'S . . . . 207 Tea Pots, A Large Collection of 39 Teas, Sale of , . . . 56'!' Tempests . . . . 247, 44.9 Thames Traffic in Olden Times. 250 'l'heatre: Old Audiences. 198 Theatrical SketcheS', &c. : Hamlet and the Playwrights, Othello and the Players . . Playgoers. . . . Tiring-Room, The. . Vizard Masks at Theatres Theatrical Wardrobes Tips and Vails Tiring-Room . . . Travellers, Early Eastern . PAGB Trees yielding Food,. 31 'frees, Some Remarkahle . . 31 Typhoons and Whirlwinds 248, 449 Tyrol, Easter in the. . . 17 Tyrolese Mountaill Legend, A. 620 UNDER the Hammer: Christie's . . 125 Tattersall's . 207 Fur and Feather .. 515 Frankincense and Myrrh . 541 Foreign and Colonial Pro- duce . . 56-1 Tooth and Nail. 606 VEGETABLB Food. .. 30 Vegetation, Physiology of . . 29 Very Low Restaurant 1Il Paris. 253 Vizard Masks, Fashion on,Vear- ing..... .202 Volunteers, The Naval Artillery 297 63 485 . 693 . 367 223 250 449 39 62 17 30 611 210 W.A-L1tS, The Church in 'V ants in the Papers. War, Harbingers of . .Wardrobes, 1'heatrical Warm Spring at Bath Water Poet . Waterspouts . .Wedgwood Ware. Welsh Colliers . , Westphalia, Easter in Wheat and Rice as Food Wild West, In the Wilks, the Actor. . . . Wonderful Sights in the Orange Day.. . . , . . Wooden Legs . , Worcester Cathedral . Worcester China . . World, The Scientific, 18i 463 150 41 587 5 269 197 367 197 367 556 . 367 103, 173 YOUTHFUL Playgoers. 197 ZUID:KRZEII, Dead Cities of the 533 POETRY. Boats, The . Dream-Roses . . Fisherman's Funeral. Gilly Flowers Good-Bye Haunted . Heliotrope. . Highland Dawn, A Hope. . Hour-Glass. . I'll Die at Home . Iris . Lavender . Lilac-Blossom Mad Luce . lignonette . Pansy. . Two SongB . 275 301 419 45 38 83 202 587 132 323 22S 5G4. 515 . 156 611 396 373 490 9j if -- . - - \ - '''rHE'S'.l:OR OE'Oll j.1VES' OM:ýiÅR'TOÛA .. .'.6 ... _ - - "'- 7-, ;I. \ Û ' 4.A - \ . .! ;-:'1 .. _; "ß ,:) )t4F ): f\ 0- ; ,J I. ; c:J(,\\J'U -")Jj G ;I t i \vlj1fv "' ((\ð...._ . ) c ftt>S ÐtcaJ;tS "": WITH WHICH IS l",coI\PO TED JIOÚSEHOLD WOI\D.S" t' 1 SATURDAY, APRIL 3, 1875. Pmcr. TWOPENCE. I' A CHAR IING FELLOW. BY FRANCES ELEANOR TROLLOPE. AUTHOR OJ' co AUNT MARO....RET'S TROUBLE," co :MABEL'S PROGRESS," &C., &c. CRAPTER VII. PARLIAMENT was to meet early in Feb- ruary. It seemed st.range that that fact should have any interest for Rhod:a. :Maxfield; nevertbples , so it was. Alger- non was to go to Lrmdou, but it was no use to be there unless Lord Seely, "our cousin," were there also; and my lord our cousin would not be in town before the meeting of parliament. Thus the assem- bling of thp ppers and commons of this realm at WestminAter, was an event on which poor Rhoda's thoughts were bent pretty often, in the course of the twenty- four hour:3. Mrs. Errington announced to the whole :Maxfield family that Algernon was going away from Whitford, and accompanied the announcement wit.h florid descriptions of the glory that awaited her son, in the \ higheRt Ancram sty Ie of embellishment. "'V ell," said o1d Max, after listening ! awhile, "and will this lord get Mr. Alger- non a place? " Mrs. Errington could not answer this question very definitely. 'fhe future was I vague, though plendid. But of course Algy would diRtingui h himself. That was a matter of ('ourse. Perhaps be might begin a Lord Seely's private secretary. " A 8pkketary! Humph! I don't think much 0' that! " grunted :Mr. Maxfield. "My dear llwn, you don't underst.and theRe tbings. How flhould you? :Many noblemen's sons would only be too de- lighted to get the position of private secretary to Lord Seely. A man of such j 'íìi VOL. XIV. distinction! Hand and glove with the sovereign! " Maxfield did not altogether di!'like to hear his lodger hold forth in tbis fasbion. He had a certain pleasure in contempla- ting the future grandeur of :Mr. Algernon, whose ears he bad boxed years ago, on the occasion of finding him enacting the bat.tle of Waterloo, with a couple of school- fellows, in the warebousB behind the shop, and attacking a Hougoumont of tea-chests and flour-barrels, so briskly, as to threaten their entire demolition. Maxfield was weaving speculations in connection with the young man. of so , wild and fanciful a nature aR wonld have astonished his most familiar friends. could I they have peeped into the brain inside his I grizzled old head. . But this rose-coloured condition of thiugs did not last. . One afternoon, :Mrs. Errington looked into his little sitting-room, on her way upstairs, and finding him with an account book, in which he was, not making, but reading entries, she stepped in, and began to chat; if any speech so laborionsly con- descending as bers to Mr. Maxfit'ld may be thus designated. Her theme. of course, ". was her son, and her son's proRppctS. "That'll be an very fine for Mr. Alger- I non, to be sure," said OJd Max, slowly, after some time, "but-it'Jl cost money." " Not so much as you think for. Low persons who feel themselves in a false position, no doubt find it npceAsRry to make a show. But a real gentleman can afford to be simple." "But I take it he'll have to afford other thing's besides being simple! He'll have to afford clothes, and lodging, and maybe food. You aren't rich." :Mrs. Errington admitted the fact. . ' <. 331 r1 2 [Al>TÍI3, 18ï6.] [Conducted by ALL THE YEAR ROUND. U Algernon ought to find a wife wit a bit 0' money," said the old man, lookmg straight and hard into the lady's eyes. ThoRe round orbs sustained the gaze, as unflinchingly as if they had been made of blue china. "It i:> not at nIl a bad idea," :Mrs. Errington said, graciously. c, But then he wouldn't just take the first ugly woman as had a fort'n." " Oh dear no ! " " No; nor yet an old 'un." " Good gracious, man! of course not! " "Young, prett.y, good, and a bit 0' money. 'l'hat's about his mark, eh?" Mrs. Errington shook her head patheti- cally. "She ought to have birth, too," she said. "But the woman takes her husband's rank; unless," she added, correcting her- self, and with much emphasis, "unless she happens to be the better born of the two." " 011, she does, eh ? The woman takes her husband's rank? Ah! well that's Bcript'raI. I have never troubled my head about these vain worldly distinctions; but that is script'ral." :Mrs. EITington was not there to discuss her Itlndlord's opinions or to listen to them; but he served as well as another to be the rec'ipient of her talk about Alger- non, which accordingly she resumed, and indulged in ever-higher flights of boasting. Her mendacity, like George Wither's muse, As it made wing, 80 it made power. "The fact is, there is more than one young lady on whom my connections in London have cast their eye for Algoy. :Miss Pickleham, only daughter of the great drysaltel', who ia such an eminent memher of Parliament; Blanche Fitz- snowdon. Judge Whitelamb's lovely niece; one of Major-General Indigo's charming girls, all of them perfect specimens of the Ea tern Rty Ie of beauty-their mother was an Indian princess, and enormously wealthy. But I am in no hurry for my boy to biud himself in an engagement: it hamper a young man's career." U Career!" broke out old Iax, who had listened to all this, and much more, with an incl'easinglydismayed and lowering expression of countenance. "'Vhy, what's his career to be? He's been brought up to do nothing! It'ud be his only chance to get hold of a wife with a bit 0' money. Then he might act the gentleman at his ense; and maybe his fine friends 'ud help him when they found he didn't want it. cr:u tp nut as for career-it's my opinion as he'll never earn his salt!" And with that the old man marcbed across the passage into the shop, taking no further notice of hiB lodger; and she heard him slam the little half-door, giving access to the store-house, with such force as to set the jingling bell on it tinkling for full five minutes. ]')irs. Errington was so surprised by this sally, that she stood staring after him for some time before she was able to collect herself sufficiently to walk majestically upstairs. "Maxfield's temper becomes more and more extraordinary," she said to her son, with an air of great solemnity. " T he man really forgets himself altogether. Do you suppose that he drinks, Algy? or is he, do you think, a little touched?" She put her finger to her forehead. " Really, I should not wonder. There has been a great deal of preaching and screeching lately, since this Powell came; and, you know, they do S8Y that these Ranters and Methodists sometimes go raving mad at their field-meetings and love-feasts. You need not laugh, my dear boy; I have often heard your father say that nothing was more contagious than that sort of hysterical excitement. And your father was a physician; and certainly knew his profession if he didn't know thc world, poor man! " " Was Old Max hystcrical, ma'am?" asked Algernon, his whole face lighting up with mischievous amusement. And the notion so tickled him, that he burst out laughing at intervals, as it recurred to him, all the rest of the day. Betty Grimshaw, and Sarah, the servant- maid, and James, helping his father to serve in the shop, and the customers who came to buy, all suffered from the unusual exacerbation of :Maxfield's temper, for some time after that conversation of his with Mrs. Errington. It increased, also, the resentful feeling which had been growing in his mind towards David Powell. The young man's tone of rebuke, in speaking of Rhoda's associating with the Erringtons, had taken l\laxfield by surprise at the time; and he had not, he afterwards thou ht, been sufficiently trenchant in his manner of putting down the presumptuous reprover. He blew up his wrath until it burned hot within him; and, the more so, inasmuch as he could give no vent to it in direct terms. To question and admonish was en tb [April 3, 1875.] 3 A CHAR ,nNG :E'ELLOW. ('h..rlcs Dickens.) th(> acknowledged duty of a Methodist preacher. CoTtference made no exceptions in favour even of so select a vessel as Jonatlmn Maxfield. But Maxfield thought, nevC'rthele:-'A, that Powell ought to have had modesty and discernment to make the excf'ption himself. N 0 inqui itor-no priest, sitting like a mysterious Eastern idol in the inviolate shrine of t.he confessional-e....er exercised a more tremendous power over the human consciencp, th'tn was laid in the hands of a Mf'thodist preacher or leader according to 'Vesley's original conception of his functions. But besides the essential dif- ference between the Romish and Methodist system , that the latter could bring no physical force to bear on the refractory, there was this important point to be noted: namely, that t.he inquisitor might be f;ubjected to inquisition by his flock. The priest might be made to come forth from the confessional-box, and answer to a pre sing catechism before all the con- gregation. In the band-meetings and select societie , each individual bound himself to answer the most searching questions "con- cerning his state, sins, and temptations." It was a mutual inquisition to which, of course, those who took part in it volun- tarily submitted themselves. But the spiritual power wielded by the cniefs was very great, as their own sub- ordination to the conference was very complete. Its pernicious effects were, how- ever, greatly kept in check by the system of itinerancy, which required the preachers to move frequently from place to place. There are few human virtues or weak- nesses to which, on one side or the other, Methodism in it primitive manifestations did not appt'a1. Benevolence, self-sacrifice, fervent piety, temperance, charity, were aU called into play by its teachings. But so also were spiritual pride, narrow- mindedness, fanaticism, gloom, and pha- risaical self-righteousness. Only to the slothful, and such as loved their ease above aU thingA, early Methodism had no Bed nctions to offer. Jonathan :Maxfield's father and grand- father had been disciples of John W csIey. The grandfather was born in 1710, seven years b .fore Wesley, and had been among the great preacher's earliest adherents in Bristol. 1'radi.tions of John \Vesley's sayings and domgs were cherished and handed down in the family. They claimed kindred with Thomas Maxfield, ",r esley's first preacher, find conveniçntly forgot or ig- nored-as greater families have done- those parts of their kinsman's cftreer which ran counter to t.he present course of their creed and conduct. For Thomas Maxfield seceded from ",r esley, but the grandfather and father of Jonathan con- tinued true to Methodism all their lives. They married within the "society" (as was strictly enjoined at the first conference), and assisted the spread of its tenets throughout their part of the West of England. In the third generation, however, t1?-e original fire of Methodism had nearly burnt itself out, and a few charred sticks remained to attest the brightness that had bpen. Never, perhaps, in the case of the lvlaxfields-a cramp-natured, harsh breed -had the fire become a hearth-glow to warm their homes with. It had rather been like the cmckling of thorns under a pot. The driest and sharpest will flare for awhile. Old Max, nevertheless, looked upon him- self as an exemplary Methodist. He made no mental analyses of himself or of his neighbours. He merely took cognisance of facts as they appeared to him through the distorting medium of his prejudices, temper, ig-nornnce, and the habits of a lifetime. 'Vhen he did or said disagreeable things, he prided himself on doing his duty. And his self-approval was never troubled by the reflection that he did not altoO'ether dislike a little bitter flavour in his daily life, as some persons prefer their wine rough. But to do and say disagreeable things because it is your duty, is a very different matter from accepti.ng, or listening to, dis- agreeable things, because it is somebody else's duty to do and say them! It was not to be expected that Jonathan l\Iaxfield should meekly endure rebuke from a young man like David Powell. And now crept in the exasperating suspicion that the young man might have been right in his warning! Maxfield watched his daughter with more anxiety than he had ever felt about her ire his life, looking to see symptoms of dejection nt Algernon's approaching departure. He did not know that she had been aware of it before it was announced to himself. One day her father said to her ahruptly, " Rhoda, you're looking very pale and out 0' sorts. Your eyes are heavy" (they were swollen with crying), "and your face is the colour of a turnip. ] think I shall !!lend you off to Duckwell for a bit of a change." Duckwell Farm was owned by Seth, Maxfield's eldest Bon. 9j ì:? 4 [April 3, 18ï5.) [ConduL'"ted by ALL 'l'HE YEAR ROUND. "I don't want a change, indeed, father," said the girl, loôking up quickly and eal!erly. "I had a headache this morn- ing, but it is quite gone now. That's what made me look so pale." :From that time forward she exerted herself to appear cheerful, and to shake off the dull pain at the heart which weiO'hed bel' down, until her father began to rsuade himself that he had been mis- taken, and over-anxious. She always declared herself to be quite well and free from care. "And I know f'he would not tell me a lie," thought the old man. Alas, she had learned to lie in her words and her manner. She had, for the first time in her life, a motive for concealment, and she used the natural armour of the weak-duplicity. Rhoda had been "good" hitherto, because her nature was gentle, and her impulses affectionate. She had no strong religious fervour, but she lived blame- lesRly, and prayed reverently, and was docile and humble-minded. She had never professed to have attained that sudden and complete regeneration of spirit which is the prime glory of :Methodism. But t.hen many good per- sons lived and died without attaining "assurance." 'Vhenever Rhoda thought on the subject-which, to say the truth, was not often, for her nature, though sweet and pure, was not capable of much spiritual aspiration, and was altogether incapable of fervent self-searching, and fiery enthusiasm-she hoped with simple faith that she should be saved if she did nothing wicked. Her father and David Powell would have pointed out to her, that her "doing," or leaving undone, could have no influence on the matter. But their words bore small fruit in her mind. Her father's religious teaching had the dryness of an accustomed formality to her ears. It had been poured into them before she had sense to com- prehend it, and had grown to be neady meaningless, like the every-day salutation we exchange a hundred times, without exp('cting or thinking of the answer. David Powell was certainly neither dry nor formal, but he frightened her. She shut her understanding against the dis- turbing influence of his words, as she would have pressed her fingers into her pretty ears to keep out the thunder. And then her dream of love had come and filled her life. In most of UB it wonderfully alters the focus of the miud's eye with itH glrtmour, that drcam. To Rhoda it seemed the one thing beautiful a11d desirable. And-to say all the truth-the pain of mind which she felt, other than that connected with her lover's going away, and whil"h she attributed to remorse for tbë lit.tle de- ceptions and concealments she practised, was occasioned almost entirely by the latent dread, lest the time should come when she should sit lonely, looking at the cold ashes of Algy's burnt-out love. For she did mist.rust bis constancy, although no power would havo forced the confession from her. This blind, obstinate cliuging to the beloved, was, perhaps, t.he only form in which self-esteem ever strongly mani- fested itself in that soft, timid nature. There was one person who watched Rhoda more understandingly than her father did, and who had more sf'rious apprehensions on her account.. Da.vid Powell knew, as did nearly all Whitford, by this time, that young "Errington was going away; and he clearly saw that. the change in Rhoda wa.q connected with that departure. He marked her pallor, her absence of mind, her fits of silence, broken by forced bursts of assumed cheerfulness. Her feigning did not deceive him. Albeit of almostequall.vnarrow education with Jonathan Max6eld, Powell had gained, in his frequent changes of place and contact with many strange people, a wider know- ledge of the world than the 'Vhitford tradesman possessed. He perceived how unlikely it was, that people like the Erring- t.ons should seriously contemplate allying- themselves by marria.ge with" old Max; " but that was not the worst. To the preacher's mind, the girl's position was, in the highest degree, perilous; for he con- ceived that what would be accounted by the world the happiest posRible solution to such a love as Rhoda's, would involve nothing less than the putting in jeopardy her eternal welfare. He could not look forward with any hope to a union between Rhoda and such a one as Algernon Errington. " The son is a shallow-hearted, fickle youth, with the vanity of a hoy and t.he selfishness of a man; the mother, a mere worldling, living in decent godlessness." Such was David Powell's judgment. He reflected long and earnestly. What was his calling-his business in life? To save souls. He had no concern with any- thing else. He must Beek out and help, not only those who needed him, but those who most needed him. J=1 }b ChArles Dickenø.] HA ILET. [April 3, 1875.] 5 All conventional rules of conduct, all restraining considerations of a merely social or worldly kind, were as threads of gossamer to this man whensoever they opposed the higher commands which he believed to have been laid upon him. Jonathan Maxfield was falling away from godliness. He, too evidently, was willing to give up his daughter into the tents of the heathen. The pomps and vanities of this wicked world had taken hold of the old man. Satan had ensnared and bribed him with the bait of worldly ambition. From Jonathan there was no real help to be expected. In the little garret-chamber, where he lodged in the house of a widow-one of the most devout of the Methodist congre- gation-the preacher rose from his knees one midnight, and took from his breast the little, worn, pocket-Bible, which he always carried. A bright, cold moon shone in at the uncurtained window, but its beams did not suffice to enable him to read the small print of his Bible. He had no candle; but he struck a light with a match, and, by its brief flare, read these words, on which his finger had fallen as he opened the book- "How hast thou counselled him that hath no wisdom? And how hast thou plentifully declared the thing as it is ? "To whom hast thou uttered words? and whose spirit came from tbee ? " He had drawn a lot, and this was the answer. The leading was cle r. He would speak openly with Rhoda himself. He would pray and wrestle; he would argue and exhort. Ho would awaken her spirit, lulled to sleep by the sweet voice of the tempter. It would truly be little less than a miracle, should he succeed by the mere force of his earnest eloquence, in per- suading a young girl like Rhoda to renounce her first love. But, then, Da.vid Powell believed III miracles. HAMLET AND THE PLAY\YRIGHTS. SIIAKE PEÅRE was long regardeù, 1y a very large public, much in the lightof a coat that could not be made to fit without very considerable altering and mending. Here curtailment was held to be necessary, and much valuable matter was accordingly shorn away; there new-shaping was COU11- selled, involvillg serious sacrifice of original form and symmetry; and, now and again, tho old garment was patched with new 91 cloth of very different substance and value. 'Vhen upon the re-opening of the theatres at the Restoration, the plays of Shakespeare stole back one by one to the staO'e, it was with so changed an aspect that they were hardly to be recognised: the adapters had dealt with them SO strangely. There can be little doubt that Nahum Tate's judgment to the effect that the writings of Shakespeare were as "a heap of jewels unstrung and unpolished," met with very general support. In the first instance the tragedy of Hamlet escaped the misfortunes that fell t.o the lot of the other plays. The h-'ading character was nobly sustained by the great :Mr. Betterton, and no charge could be brought against the represen- tation, except upon the Rcore of injudicious abbreviation. Some compression was of course expedient, if only on account of the question of time; the work is of un- usual length, find if performed from the first line to the last, would have occupied the stage for at least four hours. It may be questioned, indeed, whether the tragedy was ever presented in its entirety, even to the playgoers of the Elizabethan period; in any case, theatrical perform- ancf'S were then usually limited to some two hours, as appearò by the prologue to King Henry the Eighth, and the Induction to the Alchemist. Nevertheless, certain of t.he omissions from the acting edition of Betterton's time were quite unwarrant. able. For instance, twelve important lines were expunged from the impressive speech bpginning, "AngelR and ministers of grace òt'fend us;" and it is doubtful whether [r. Betterton did not excise altogether the famous address to the players St.iIl the form of the work had not been meddled with; the poet's text had been retrenched, but it as yet remained undis- figur d by interpolation; this forbearance being probably due less to reverence for Sh:ikef'peare, than to a perception of the difficulties attending any remodelling of hi work. Then came Voltaire, strong in his adherence to tho forms of the classic stagG of Greece and Rome, loud and lofty in his scorn of the rOlliv.ntic drama of England. It is true that he preached one thing and practi8ed another: fettering himself with regard for" the unities" only so long as suited his convenience; and slipping loose agaiu just whenevt-'r he chose. His tragedies of Brutus, Zaire, l\Iérope, Tancrède, Semiramis, all outrage more or less those laws of dr?matic compo- i? a:r G [ApIi18. 1875.] [Conducted by ALL THE YEAR ROUND. " Ii -=t1 s ti()n he had proclaimed in his profes ed devotion to the pre8criptiolls of the classical stage. In short, he has been juótly described as "a writer, who, while strenu- ously maintaining certain theories, know- ingly and wilfully evaùes them, trusting to the general stupidity of the public not to find him out." But he lifted up his voice and denounced in very violent terms the barbarous cOJldition of the British drama, and especially the numberless errors and incongruities of which England's greatest poet had been guilty. 'Ve will follow Murphy's translation of the dis- . course concerning Shakespeare, which is prefixed to the tragedy of Semiramis: "I do not mean," writes V oItai1'e, " to justify the tragedy of Hamlet in every particular; it is, in fact, a barbarous piece, abounding with such gross absurdities, that it would not be tolt:rated by the vulgar of France and Italy. l l he hero of the play runs mad in the second act, and his miótress meets with the same misfortune in the third. The Prince takes Ophelia's father for a rat, and kills him: in despair she throws herself into a river. Her grave is dug on the stage; the Gravedigger, with a skull in his hand, amuses himself with a string of miserable jests, and the Prince answers them in language equally disgusting. Hamlet, his mother, and father-in-law, drink together on the stage. They divert themsel vcs with bottle songs (chansons à boire), they quarrel, they fight, they kill. One would imagine this play the pl'O- duction of a drunken savage. And yet, among these absurdities, which render the English drama absolutely barbarous, there are some strokes in Hamlet W01'thy of the most exalted genius. This has always been matter of astonishment to me; it looks as if nature, in pure sport, di,'erted herself with mixing in Shakespeare's head everything sublime and great, with aU that can be conceived, low, mean and detestable." :Murphy, in his Gray's Inn Journal (No. 41, July 28th, 1753), published a reply to this extraordinary effort of criticism. "' Is it thus," he demands, "the elegant and sensible Y oltaire sl)eaks of Shakebpeare? I would ao:òk yourself, sir, is this criticism candid r Is it a fair analysis, a tl"Ue account of tùe tragedy in qucl::ition? . . . Haml,;t, sir, does not run mad; if he did, King Lear has proved what a beautiful di:::.tress might arise from it. Hamlet counterfeits madness, for his own private end. r,"obody ever imagined that he thinks he i8 killing a rat when he slays Polonius. If J ou will be pleased to recollect the passage, you wiU find that he takes him for his better, meaning the KinO', and the r.1L is only mentioned to save appearance." Thi8, we may note, is but a prosaic exp1a- nation. Hamlet's explanation is not to be understood literally, but is rather referable to that fantastic hUlllour distinguishing many of his utterances, and forming a curious constituent of a very complex character. "Ophelia does undoubteùly run mad," :Uurphy proceeds; "the desola- tion of her mind arises from filial piety: her virtue and her mi fortunes make her reðpectable. Give me leave to add her di::;tress is, perhaps, the most pathetic upon any stage. It is true she sings in misery, and that is not usual in grave and serious tragedy; but it occurs in nature, and what Shakespeare saw in nature, he transplanted into his drama. He knew of no rules to restrain him, and if he did, he scorned the restraint. . . . '!'hat Ophelia's grave is dug upon the stage, cannot be denied; but that very indecorum produces a string of beautiful reflections, and such a vtJin of morality as cannot be paralleled by the scene .Française. I cannot recollect that Harulet ever shocked me with miser- aLle jests upon this occasion; nor do I remember that any of the personages are such honest bottle companions, as to carouse and sing merry catches on the stage, &c., &c." Garrick's alteration of Hamlet was probably due, in part., to his regard for the judgment of Voltaire, and, in part, to the civilities received at his hallds. For Voltaire had invited him to }'erney, renewing, at the same time, his scoffs at Shakespeare. GalTlck had replied rather servilely: "Could I have been the means of bringing our Shakespeare into some favour with :11. de V oltaire, I should have been happy indeed." But, in truth, Garrick had little real reverence tor Shakespeare. Otherwise, he would surely have refrained from meddling with Ham- let, and have left unsoiled by his finger- marks" the rubbish of the fifth act," as heahad the audacity to call it. For thirty years he had been content to adhere to the original text. His alterations were fir8t exhihited upon the stage in 1í72. He was careful not to print his 1 evised edition. Rumoul' alkged, indeed, that he grew ashamed cf his handiwork, anù that the original C0 py of his adaptation was, by his eÀprcss direction, buried with him in fP d Charles Dickens.] HAMLET. [April 3, 187f1.] 7 II I Westminster Abbey. TIut some account of this amended Hamlet has been pre- served by the actor's biographer, ".rom Davies, in his Dramatic Miscellanies. The first act, which he held to be immoderately long, he divided into two-the first ending with Hamlet's determined resolution to watch, with Horatio and :Marccllus, in expeetation of seeing tbe Ghost. In con- seq uence of this arrangement, the original third act now became the fourth, and the later scenes of the play underwent violent change. Laertes was rendered a more estimable personage, his plot with the King being entirely altered. Hamlet, having escaped from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, returns, firmly resolved upon revenge. The Gravediggers and Osric are omitted from the list of dra- matis personæ. No information is fur- nished touching the fate of Ophelia, who quietly disappears from the scene. The Quef'n, instead of being poisoned upon the stage, is led away in a state of insanity, due to remorse. Hamlet rushes upon the King, who draws his sword and defends -himself, but is slain in the combat. Hamlet and Laertes die of their wounds. It sbould be stated that the public did not object to the amended Hamlet. The omission of the Gravediggers would, it was apprehended, greatly disappoint the gallery; but the performance passed off tranquilly, if it roused no enthusiasm. And even after Garrick's retirement, his version continued in po:ssession of the stage. It was not until 1780 that the origiIJal text was revived, and Garrick's alteration banished from the theatre for ever. On Garrick's behalf, it is to be said that he was encouraged by many of the best critics of the time: by Stevens, for instance, who accounted the alteration "a circumstance in favour of the poet," such as he had been longing for; and held that, aftf>r the third Hct of tbe tragedy, the genius of Shakespeare "retires, or only plays bo- peep through the rest of the piece; " by Dr. Hoadly, who thought too little, rather than too TImch, had becn altered, and pro- posed various other deviations from the text; and by Murphy, who, although he profeFsed to cemmre the revised edition of the play, W3H quite prepared to concede that the original fencing-scene was "a wretched expedient," and that., if Garrick hnrl there plied the pruning-knife and addecl, "from bis own invention, something (if real importance to bring about a noble catastrophe, he would have shown his Jr' judgment." Altogether, we may conclude that if Garrick was, in this respect, no wiser than his generation, he was, at any rate, just as wise. Tate 'Vilkinson, as a provincial manager, bethought him of introducing tbe altered Hamlet to the playgoers of the country, and applied to Beujamin Victor, the treasurer of Drury Lane, on the subject. " It is not in my power," wrote Victor in reply, "to send you the corrections lately made in Hamlet; no such favour can be granted to anyone. I presume the play will never be printed with the alterationR, as they are far from being universaUy liked; nfJY, tlley are greatly disliked by the million, who love Shakespeare with aU his glorious absurditie8, and will not suffer a bold in- truder to cut him up." But tbis was a mere flourish on Mr. Victor's part j the million cared little 3.bout the matter, and Mr. Victor's love for Shakespeare was in truth very inconsiderable; at any rate, it had not hindered him from himself cutting up the Two Gentlemen of Verona, altering and adding to the comedy, treat- ing it very freely indeed, to render it, as he believed, more effective in pf'l'Íormance. Tate 'Vilkinson was not to be beaten, how- ever. Failing Garrick's version, lIe re- solved upon revising the play himself, and he has ventured to print his" jumble," as he jm;tly caUs it, in the first volume of hig Wandering Patentee. It is professedly on the plan of Cibber's alteration of Richard the rrhird; made up, for the mOf't part, of extracts from the other plays. "The reader will meet," says Wilkinson, "several obso- lete passages from Shakespeare that to one not very familiar with that author's wonderful productions, may afford .some entertainment." In this precious edition of tha tragedy, the first act ends with the line, "Though all the earth o'erwbelms them to men's eyes; " the second with the lim', "That ever I was born to set it right." The third and fourth acts are the second and third of the original. Wilkinson's fifth act begins with" Tbere's matter in these sigh:s," and goes on regularly to Laertcs' speech, "1'00 much water ha t thou p or Ophelia; " then t1e catastrophe is suddenly brought about. l'he Grave- diggers and the funeral of Ophelia, Osric, and the formal fencing ficene, are an dis- pensed with. Hamlet returns and accusing- the King of murder, "they fight round," so runs the stage direction, '" hi1e the Queen" rushes out shrieking." The King falls, and dying" makes no sign j " a liberal ? r!l 8 [April 3, 18i5.] [Conducted by ALL THE YEAR ROUND. extract beinO' bere introduced from the scene of the death of Cardinal Beaufort in the second part of King Henry the Sixth. Laertes entering, fiercely attacks Hamlet, crying, "This for my Kinp.' and sister; This for my father's death!" Cries Horatio: " My Prince in danger! Let me bare my breast!" and, according to the stage direction, he rushe3 between; Hamlet re- cei ves a first then a second wound, and falls into Horatio's arms. Captain and guards enter. Hamlet. Rash youth, thou'st slain thy King, na.y, more, thy friend. The 10IOs of life afRicts me not, Laertes; My blood is due for thy dear father's death, A fated unknown victim! POOl' Ophelia.! For her my agonising heart weeps faster Than all the crimson drops thy 6worù has drawn. Horatio. It may be yet within the power of art- Hamlet. Dream not of art, nor stir in my last moments; I feel Dcath's arm, nor shrink within his grasp. Laertes. I'm lo::t. Thy ways, a Heaven! are intricate; If I bave errpd, impute it not- Hamlet. When thou hast learntthe mystery from Horatio, Thou'lt pity and forgive. All I request is, Comfort my haplesd mother-ease her sorrows- Relieve my country from di:5tractin broils. I could disclose; but, oh! I die. Horatio, Thou livest-report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied. and so on to the end. "This," says ",Vil- kinson, " was acted at all my theatres, and well received, whether with any degree of desert I will not presume to say." Of another extraordinary edition of Hamlet, Boaden gives some account in his Life of John Kemble. The biographer had found the book in the actor's library, and h:u;tily assumed it to be "the very copy of the play upon which Garrick's alterations had been made," conjecturing, further, that Kemble had received it as a curiosit.y from :Mrs. Garriek, when she had presented him with "the cane with which Mr. Garrick walked abroad." There is no evidence of this, however; and in the two editions there are many varia- tions - the mangling has been done "with a difference." In this version the voyage to England, the execution of Rosellcrantz and Guildenstern, the funeral of Ophelia; "all the wisdom of t he Prince and the rude jocularity of the Gl'aveòiggers" are omitted. Hamlet bursts in upon the King and his court, and Laertes reproache3 him with the deaths of Polonius and Ophelia. The exasperation of both i:3 at ih height, when the King inter- poses: he bad commanded Hamlet to depart for England, and he declares tbat he will no longer endure such rebellious conduct, but that his wrath shall at length faU heavy upon the Prince. U First, feel you mine!" cries Hamlet; and he in- stantly stabs Claudius. The Queen rushes out, imploring the attendants to s:'\ve her from her son's violence. Laertes, behold- ing treason and murder before him, and desirous of avenging his father, his sister, and the King, fiercely attacks Hamlet, who falls mortally wounded. Horatio is about to cross swords with Laertes, when Hamlet commands him to desist, assuring him that it was the hand of Heaven which administered, by Laertes, "that precious balm for all his wounds." The audience are then informed that the miserable mother had dropped in a trance ere she could reach her chamber-door. Hamlet implores for her" an hour of penitence ere madness end her." He then joins the hands of Laertes and Horatio, and commands tham to unite their virtues and form a sort of coalition ministry, "to calm the troubled land;" the play concluding with the original lines as to taking up the bodies. The alterations were written in "a mean and trashy, commonplace manner;" and, as Boaden held, sullied the page of Shakes- peare not less than they di:;;gl'aced the taste and judgment of :.Mr. Garrick. 'Ve will now turn to certain operations n pon the tragedy performed by continental surgeons. Hamlet was first translated and equipped for representation upon the French stage, at a time when the Théâtre Français was absolutely governed by con- ventionalism, was devout in its reverence for "the unities," and for the antique forms of dramatic composition. As yet war had not been declared between the classicists and the romanticists, if indeed the latter can be said to have yet existed in France, as an organised and represen- tative faction. Hamlet was taken in hand by M. Ducis, and duly placed upon the Procrustean bed of classical prescription. The tragedy was to be shaped anew, to suit the traditions of the FraIJçais. The adapter cut and carved, lopped and topped, with his eyes upon the examples of Racine, Corneiile, Voltaire, and other of the great contributors to the fltrict re- pertoryof :French tragedy. The Ghost was struck from the list of dramatis personæ. "Buried Denmark," though often dis- cussed, is never visible to the audience; it waR feared that a French pit would not tolerate the f'pectre. Had there not been scoffing at the ghost in SL'miramis? Claudius was made to descend from the :ß:3 a c:P tk. Charles Dickens.) HAML ET. [April 3, 1875.) 9 throne: he wa no more a monarch, but appeared in the reduced form of a common- place cnJJi:;pirator, who ltad been concerned in murdering tbe hte king. Ophelia's parentage underwent change; Ahe was converted into the daughter of Claudius, Pnlonius being otherwise dqn'ived of all importance in the play. Laertcs was omitted altogether, while Horatio was renamed Norcestes. Osric and the Gravc- diggers Rharcd the fate of IJaertes, and were forbiddpll a share in the representa- tion. The conduct of the play was, indeed, altogether altered. The hero does not make hi, appearance until the second act. The royal p%tlace of Denmark is through- out the scene of action. Says a critic of fifty year ago-" There is nothing finer on the stage than the entrée of the French Hamlet." A group of courtiers express general alarm at the violent conduct of Hamlt:'t, who, uttering frightful outcries, is rushing through tbe palace, fancying himself pursued hy the ghost of his father. "In an instant you hear his frantic and broken exclamations, and he rc.ns on the stage, which he courses with terrific wild- ness, productive of the Illest wonderful effect. rrhe entrance and powerful acting of Talma, in this scene, drew down thunders of applause, loud and long con- tinued, as ever shook the walls of a theatre." The introduction of an urn of c1a sical pattern, supposed to conbtÏn the ashes of the dead king, forms the leading incident of the fourth act. Ophelia is not drowned, nor is Polonius st;} bbed. Hamlet iH left alive at the end. Claudius, with due regard for classical propriety, is quietly di posed of behind the scenes. The Quecn perisbes by her own d gger at the close of the play. Talma's Hamlet wa!':, from all accounts, nobly supported by t.he Queen of the great tragic act.ress }'ladllc. Du('hesuoi . As Hamlet, Talma wore robes of white and black, "simply but beautifully compo ed," and altogether un- like "the highly improper costume which has obtained such illt'gitimate authority for itself, upon the English stage. The era of Hamlet was that of :Macbeth, and of our own Edward the Confessor, at whose court the Royal Dane was received. o Ill' own inexcusabie dress-mongera attire him precisely in the finery of the French Henry the 'ourth, or the English James the .First. Can anyone invent an apology for the sad and blundering infatuation that continues to us, at such a period as the present, a1'1 error, merely because It is presf'riptive, which any schoolbrlY miz11t he supposed capable of pointing out?" It will be observed that there was not wanting an a<1vocate for correctness in the matter of st3ge costumc, even so far back as 18l( . By way of further note upon the Hamlf't of Dücis and its interpretation by Talmn, we may quote from the Diary f)f Haydon, t.he painter, who, with his friend David \Vilkie, viEiited Prance in 1814, during the hrief peace that followed upon Bona- parte's exile to Elba. "At Versailles we Raw Duci adaptation of Hamlet to the French flt.age. rrhe innocence and Yleak- nu;s of Ophelia were lo t, and Hamlet was a hlubbering- boy. But wht:'ll Hamlet was talking to his mother, find fancied, for a momel1t,110 saw his father's ghost, Talma was terrific-it really shook my ortho- doxy. The Ghost was not seen. There was really a cause for thi!"! stupor, and his t lking, as if he only saw what we did not, frigh tened us all. '" In the next scene, H.tmlet brings in an urn with his father's a hes -this was thoronghly Freuch; yet, when he made his mother swear on the urn that she knew nothing of the murder, and touch the ashes, there was nn awful silence thro-ugbout the house. Ducis has entirely lost that feeling of 'grief which passeth show '-his Hamlet's grief ig aU show." A later adaptation of Hamlet to the Prench stage dealt with the play, less with a view of forcing it into a cb.Rsical mould, than with a desire of converting it, as much as possible, to melodramatic uses. The adapters were Alexandre Dumas and Paul Meurice. 'his was in 1848, when Dumas had opened his own Théfttre His- torique, in rivalry of the Porte St. Martin. Le Chevalier de Maison Rouge having run its course, Hamlet was produced. The alterations were considerable; the play lost very much of its original complexion. Now, there was borrowing from the stiff artifice, the pompous demeanour and de- clamation of conventional French tragedy; now, there was ranting and raving, after the latest fashion of highly-seasoned boule- vard melodrama. It is scarcely worth while to examine the Dumas version scene by fcene; we will turn to the last act, and note the new turn given to the catastrophe. Hamlet, it will be se-en, is not slain by the poisoned rapier of Laertes ; and the Ghost reappears, to speak the "tag," and con- clude the performance. Claudius is killed by the difficult process of compelling him tt-' 10 [llJ)l'iI3,1875.] lConducted by ALL THE YEAR ROUND. to drain the poisoned cup, from which Gertrude has already sipped death. Laertes dies, indeed, the victim of politeness. He acquiesces in a change of weapons, and is then wounded by his 0", n "un bated n.nd envenomed 1>> foil. He has failed to hit Hamlet, however, who thus escapes alto. getht:r uninjured. As the reader will bear in mind, the original stage direction in re- gard to the final fencing-bout runs thus:- " Laertes wounds Hamlet, then, in scufHing, they chs.nge rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes.1>> But this, in the yersion of MM. Dumas and }'leurice, is altered to:- "Hamlet strikes up the foil of Laertes. It faUs: Hamlet picks it up and offers, instead of it, his own, to his adversary." Laedes. Your pardon, but this foil Is yours, Dot ruine. Hamlet (courteously.) A chan;J'e of arms. Laertes (aside.) I'm sped! 0 [Tiu'y play. The text is then followed prettyaccu- rately up to the moment of the Queen's drinking from the poisoned cup. But from this catastrophe the tragedy assumes a new form, the concludin incidents and sp eches being the distinct invention and sole pro- perty of the :French playwrights. Our translation, we may note, is borrowed from the Athenæum of January 22nd, 1848, when, in a printed form, the new French Hamlet was submitted to the examination of an English reviewer. JI..lIalet (Jo,.cing the King to drink.) Incestuous murderer! Thou shalt drain the cup. Ah, ctlrst one! Findest there thy pearl? [The GHOST appears, 'L'isible to HAMLET only. The Ghost! The Ghost! Comest thou to see thy slayers slain, dark shade? [To the COURTIERS, on the GHOST makin ( sign to him. FortJ] with ye! Lea.-e us. . . He who steps this way Shall make DO second step. What! I am King, King of your lives, King of their aO'onies. Betwut ns five we must play out oOur play. Go! [E.t'eltnt COURTIERS slotrly. Turn! Behold ye aught, ye dying ones? Laertes. Heaven's mercy! The dead King! The King. My Brother! The Queen. ry Lord! Laertes (to the GHOST.) :M:ercy! The Ghost. Thy hot blood urged thee towards the abyss, Laertes! Heaven hath stricken thee l)y thy crime' But thou wilt find, whore every heart is known, , Its ientence less severe! l'ray thou, and die! [LAERTES dies. The Queen. Pity! 0 pity! The Ghost. Thy sin was all of love. Too feeble one! IIeavenluveth those who love. Go! tears have washed the stain from off thy soul. Here woman! Queen in Heaven! Hope thou rind die! rThc QlJEEN dies. The Kin'). l")ardon! L The Ghost. Yile murderer! Pard.on? K ol1e for thee! For thy foul crimes; within its Luming rounù, crJ Hell's cruellest torments are too mild rewarù; Incestuous trditor, go! Despair and dip! . r'l'lte KIXG dÙ-,. lta,l1let. And I ? Must I remain, sad orphlln! hf'rc To breathe Earth's air impre nate with such ,,,oe? Actor, whom God did in his wrath st'l<,ct, If I ill-read my part, ill-played my play, Scared by my task-weary, ere yet 'twas tried- In place of one-I havo dono four to dea.th, Sa.y, will Heaven lean its heavy hand upon mc ? What chastisement awaits me ? The Ghost. THOU SHALT L1VE! [THE CURTAI" F.\LLS.] This new way of ending an old play is certainly surprising. It is diffieuIt to un- dersbmd how the Ghost, merely upon Hamlet's bidding, is able to become sud- denly visible to the King, Queen, and Laertes, who bad previously been un- conscious of the spectre's presence. Nor are the playwright's views upon the sub- jeet of poetic justice particularly intelli- gible. Hamlet is sentenced to live by way of punishment-not for having com- pelled Claudius to drink poison-but in that his dilatoriness in killing the King is supposed to have brought about the deaths of four others-Ophelia, Polonius, Laertes, and the Queen. Prayer and death, hope and death, and despair and death, are the respective dooms allotted to Laertes, Ger- trude, and Claudius. But :1HL Dumas and }'ieuricc did not, perhap , affect any great regard for the designs of their author; they aimed chiefly at bringing the curtain down upon an effective catas- trophe. And it should be said they con- tented their public. The new ver ion of Hamlet was relished all the more for the new French method of dressing and serving it up; crowJs flocked to the Thé.ltre Historique, and 111. :Melingue's melo- dramatic interpretat.ion of the leading part won for him extraordinary applause. Nor can Englishmen, after all, with any sense of fairness or decency, censure this GaUic treatment of their poct. Hamlet had been grossly tinkered and tampered with, as"'Wo haye shown, by Garrick and Tate Wilkinson; and yet the outrage had not moved the Briti:;h lion one jot. In truth our playgoers had long tolerated, anù in such wil:öe connived at, a systematic maltreat- ment of Shakespeare by adapters of all kinds. Pew had been found to object, at any rate no hissing was heard, when Romeo and Juliet, a.nd King Lear, were provided with comfortable, in lieu of tragical, conclusions-the Capulets and Montagues became fast friends, Lear was restored to reason, and lived happily ever afterwarJs, his daughter Cordelia Imving become the fond wife of his faithful sub- tp d1 Cl:arles Dickellll.] CURIOUS OLD CHINA. [Aplil , 1875] 11 ject, Edgar; Iacbeth had been permitted a last dying speech and confession; the Tempest had been re-fashioned by Dryden; the Taming of the Shrew cut down to Do farce; the Midsummer Night's Dream converted into an opera; and, to make an end of enumeration, Richard the Third altered out of all recognition by Cibber. All this cutting and wounding of the poet had, indeed, met rather with the apprm al tlmn the reprehension of the public. Nor, while blaming the doings of the past, have we altogether cause for self-congratulation, upon the proceedings of to-day. :For even now, when Richard the Third occupies the stage, it is the tragedy according to Cibber's text, and not Shakespeare's, that is presented to the public. CURIOUS OLD CHINA. IN TIIREE PARTS. PART I. LIKE other mild forms of insanity, chinamania has its peculiar phases, and attacks different individuals in very dif- ferent ways. Chinamaniacs of a broad catholic turn of mind, collect largely, and purchase crockery of every kind, while born specialists confine themselves to a particular school, and care for nothing beyond it. One harmless creature abandons itself to majolica, and another to early English china; one values the peculiar character of the paste, or the glaze, and raves about lustre, marzacotto and Bristol spiral; another, afHicted with Chaffers on the brain, labours to commit to memory the works of that enthusiastic guide, and is thoroughly prepared to discuss for hours the vexed question, whether the famous Bow figures and Bee pots were made at Bow or at Chelsea. Othcrs- but these are weaker vessels-really care whether the things are pretty or not, -and, like shallow pretenders, allow artistic feeling to influence their purchases. I hardly know whether these people de- serve the name of Chinamaniacs at all, any more than those who collect only such pieces as possess a certain historie interest, and I may premise that it is to this latter class that my present remarks are mainly addressed. It may perhaps be objected that many of the f1pecimens mentioned by me hardly come under the denomination of china, but leaving for the moment all fine dis- tinctions as to what is and is not china, the comparat,ivf'> merits of Oriental and European porcelain, the virtues of hard i.J paste and soft paste, and the proper dis- tinction between pottery and porcelain, I will at once proceed to descant npon those curious examples of the fictile art, on which the cunning hand of the pott.er has impressed the tastes and fashion , the popular sentiments, and the political passions of his time. The finest specimens of majolica are adorned with paintings of scriptural, my- thological, or allegorical subjects, and are therefore devoid of positive historical value; but the minor efforts of the Italian potters are full of interest. Presents of majolica were frequently interchanged amona' the nobles of the sixteenth century, and i these cases the plates and dishes were adorned with the arms and portrait of the donor or the recipient, and some- times with the arms of both. One class of these presents is peculiarly interesting. Plates, jugs, or deep saucers, called "amatorii," were offered by a caTalier to his ladye-Iove, painted with her portrait, and inscribed with her name, with the complimentary addition, DIV A or BELLA - as CECILIA BELLA- GIULIA DIVA. 'These portraits at the present moment are less interesting as memorials of dead and gone loves and vows, fragile as the material upon which they are recorded, than as exact records of the costume of the day. Wide latitude seems to have prevailed. One young lady, MINERVA BELLA, at the bottom of a plate, has her hair in multitudinous plaits, and wears a handsome dress with a " low body;" while the beautiful CECILIA, smiling on a ju , wears her wealth of yellow hair in a few ringlets, looking like a ,: front," and rolled up in an enormous mass behind, as big as the head altogether, and confined by a green ribbon. This young lady, by no means unlovely, is also dressed in a "low body," from which springs the mysterious covering known in America as an "illusion waiRt.," sur- mounted by a lace ruff, closing round the throat. The lady's name is generally written on a scroll, often oddly disposed. At the South Kensington Muséum will be found at the bottom of a dark blue and yellow plateau, a picture of a. lady who is clearly endeavouring to read hel" own name on the curly scroll before her. The contract.ion adapted by the artist has evidently puzzled the fair Susanna, who is trying to hunt up the wandering letters, SV A NA BELLA.. Another lady, on a plate of ruby and gold lustre, is looking 12 [Aplil 3, 18;5.] [Conducted by ALL THE YEAR ROUND. rat.her gloomily at the motto inscribed on 3. ribbon, curling about in front of her. " Ht> who steers his bark well is al wavs in port," 111::1Y 1)(' a sententious maxim, but it has little of the dash of the amorous ca\rftlier. Somf'times, in place of the lady's portrait., was adopted a humbler decoration, somewhat after what I may call the "Valentine" style of art-such as two hands clasped over 3. fire, and above them a heart., pierced with dart . A beaut.iful Fpecimen of this kind of amatory dish is at South Kensington. The male hand is adorned with a thumb ring, the female with two rings on the second and two on the fourth finger. The beart above them is in ruby lustre, trans- fixed with three arrows (why three?) and nnderne:1th the hands is a fire, the flames in yellow lustre. The border is of rays in golden lustre, bet,wcen which are fioweri'! in ruby on a white ground, with pale greyish blue outlines and shading. This may have been an engagement or betrothal plate. At the British .Museum are several of these amatories. On one of these Cupid is riding on a stick, on another the god is mounted on a bird-the first is a fine I'pecimen of Gubbio ware, of which middle-Dged chinamaniacs will recollect a large quantity was bought for the Museum, at the sale of the Bernal collection. Very much after St. Y ulentine is a design mentioned by :Marryat, "a heart tmnsfixed with a sword and an arrow, over a burning flame, bedewed by tears falling from two eyes placed above," also these, "a greyhound with a heart in its mouth," and the two following, men- tioned by Passeri. One of these is signed by the famous Maestro Giorgio Audrt-'oli-a fem:lle head, having beneath, DANIELLA DIVA, and ahove a wounded heart, with " Oimè "! These dishes were not presented empty, but filled with fruit or flown's. Now that a fashion has sprung up for costly valentines, perhaps we may live to see this pretty old Italian custom revi,ed. It would at least afford the artists of the nineteenth century an opportunity of doing something original, if only in the 'Way of amatory designs. 1Vhile the finer majolica was enlisted in the service of love, the coarser kinds of pottery were frequently employed to cari- cature, as well as to celebrate, pubìic men. The brown stoneware jugs made in Ger- many, and now generally called "grey- beards," were in England christened " Bellarm ines," in derision of Cardinal Bellarmim" and in compliment to that Scottish Solomon, King JHmes, who had produced a rejoinder to the celebrated letter in which the cardinal Rought to detach Engli:;h Roman Catholics from their allegiance. As the art. of potting advanced in England, the humour of the people frequently found vent in quaint pocket- pistols of brown eart.hen wa l'e topped by the heads of political celebrit.ieFl, such as Lord Brougham and Daniel O'Connell. In France, the Nevers ware of the later and coarser period formed an excellent vehicle for the expression of popular sen- timents. It may be denounced as vulgar, both in paste and in mottoes; but, on the Macaulay principle of sompt.imes reading history by the light of a street ballad, it is none the less valuable on that Rccount. During the eighteenth century, the Nevers faïence reproduced all the popular songs and sayingR, and the bouts rimés, which in our day are confined to deRsert crackers. Persons setting-up house had their china made for them at Nevers; pieces were presented to the parish priest; and ma.ny more borf' designs of a bacchanalian cha- racter. It was on the pedestal of a water- jug, consisting of a figure of Bacchus astride on a barrel, that Victor Hugo scribbled these lines in pencil :- J C sui$ fort triste, quoiqu' as is sur un tonneau, D'être de sac à "in ùevcnu pot à l'eau. I. Champfleury has collected a whole series of plates and salad-bowls, by the help of which may be followed the suc- cessive movements of the popular mind, fr('ID the approach of the revolution of 1789 to the year 1831. Odòly enough, at the time when the tricolour waved triumphantly, and inspired public and patriotic legends, no such colour as red existed on the palette of the potters of Nevers, so that it had to be replaced on crockery by yellow; the tricolour consist- ing, therefore, of white, blue, and yellow. In the beginning the king appeared, according to this crockery chronology, to be popular enough. 'Ve find the crown supported on either hand by the helmet and the mitre, and lilies were still a favourite decoration. At about the same time we find K ecker i mmortalised on a milk jug, with the motto-" The hope and stay of France." 1Vith the faU of the Bastile all was changed. The hated prison figured on hundreds of plates, and displayed from the topmost turret, "Livo free or die." Mirabeau's death was made the occasion dJ fb Charles Dlckenø.] [ApnI3,1876.] 13 CURIOUS OLD CIII A. of n. violent crockery demonstration of g-rief. Sarcasm found vent in plates, on which is a peasant supporting the whole weight of the crown, the eword, and the crosier. 1'his design appears to have been a great favourite, and underwent many variation . Sometimes Jacques Bonhomme is bent double under a sword and a cross, and leaning on his spade exclaims, " I am tirwl of carrying them." In 1792 came a notable chann'e. Crowns and lilies dis- nppcar, and popular crockery displays a spade supported by cannon. Onafavouriteinkstand of ilLChampfleury is the motto I. Live free or die." Another, of very uncompromising character, pro- claims on one side "Death to Tyrants," and on the other side has the device, attri- buted to Chamfort, "\V ar to the castle, peace to the cot." Plates are painted with tl'ees of liberty, and the motto, "Liberty or death," and are dedicated to "The l,Iountain." "-VÏ\ e Ie Roy" was now supplanted by cc Vive In. Nation," the constitution (of the time being, 1í 12) duly celebrated; and finally appeared a plate painted with rustic implements, spades, hoes, rakes, &c., and the motto, "Vive l'Agriculture." By degrees the Phrygiau bonnet and the tree of liberty replaced the spade and plough. At the bottom of a salad bowl children dance round a tree of liberty crying, " Let us dance the Carmagnole. Hurrah for the sound of the cannon." Fiercer grow the designs of 1793. Patriotic potters produce trophies of trees of liberty, flags, drums, and cannon-motto, "Ça ira." Under the Directory and the Consulate the pottery of Nevers became intensely military; great events, such as the taking of Mantua, being limned on soup plates and salad bowls. Also an undoubted spirit of reaction is shown in the plate representing n. weary traveller walking towards the Hôtel de la Paix-saying, .. I wish I could get there," nnd in another inscribed "Libertv without Licence." Under the Empire the potters of the Nivernais pro- duced little beyond eagles sprawling over their wares,and the restoration of theßour- bons was only celebrated by a solitary potter, who proclaimed that "Tho lilies bring back peace." But the Revolution of July revived for a moment t.he enthu- siasm of the potter, soon, however, ùestined to die out in a last feeble effort represent- ing the crowned Gallic cock surrounded by tricolourflags above the motto, "Liberty, Order." The intensely aristocratic prettiness of Sèvres renders it singul:trly barren of historic m tter, unless, indeed, the rt'cord of the curious succession of marks and monograms employed under the various governments which havo affiicted France for the last hundred years can be ca Hed history. Nevertheless, France produced a pair of notable vases in the porcelain of Sèvres, celebrating the battle of Fon- tenoy, made long after date of battle- a handsome but stale trophy, not struck off in a moment of national enthusiasm, but carefully elabora.ted "de par Ie roi." The vases are estt-'emed good specimens of pâte tendre, with a rose ground work, veined with gold and blue, decorated with green palms and triumphal crowns -painted, morèover, by Genest, after Morin, with military scenes on two large escutcheons; here the French troops carry the works defended by artillery, and spike the guns; there they drive back the enemy into the orchards a little way out of tho village of Fontenoy. As a general rule, however, snch interest as attaches to the pâte tendre is entirely that of association. For instance, a mag- nificent-to some tastes over-splendid- service in the possession of Sir Richard 'Vallace, and by him liberally exhibited with hundreds of pieces of the best period of Sèvres at Bethnal Green, is interest- ing from having been the gift of Louis the Fifteenth to Catherine the Second of Russia. Scattered about in various collections are numerous pieces said to have belonged to Marie Antoinette, and often painted with her monogram. It is well, however, to warn sentimental col- lectors that the soft paste of Sèvres is sus- ceptible of a falsification which cannot bo practised upon old Chelsea. .illr. Marryat tells us that" at the conclusion of the long war, the old stocks in the royal manu- factory of Sèvres were put up to auction, and bought by certain individuals, who also collected all the soft ware they could find in the possession of other persons. 1'he object of this proceeding for a long time remaincd a mystery, but at length the secret transpired that the parties had dií'covered a process which consisted in rubbing off the original pattern and glaze, and then colouring the ground with tur- quoise or any other colour, and adding paintings or medallions in the style of the old 'pâte tendre,' thus enhancing a hun- dredfold the value of the pieces. 'Vith any other description of porcelain the ( - d{ 1 Lt [April 3, 1875 ] [Conducted by ALL THE YEAR ROUND. adoption of this process would havc been impracticable without discovery, but the soft paste was found to have absorbed in the first firing such an excess of glaze, that the second application of heat had the effect of bringing out a fresh portion, sufficient to cover the surface where the original glaze had been filed away, and thus giving the appearance of tbe original process. The turquoise was found to suc- ceed tbe best, and, therefore, more revivals of this colour exist than of any other." It is said that die wbite Derby soft paste is now used for this process of conversion, the supply of Sèvres being exhausted. The fraud is so exceedingly difficult of detection, even by connoisseurs, that a deceased cbina dealer owed to it tbe im- mense fortune whicb he left behind him. Want of vividness in the colour, a want of evenness on the surface of the glaze, and now and then the marks of a second firing may betray the fraud, when the operation bas been unskilfully performed; but good conversions defy tbe most practical eyp, unless it be backed by a brain stored with the forms and styles made at Sèvres at every date. The following is an amusing instance of the impudence begotten by im- punity. A certain person, having care- fully " doctored " a breakfast service with portraits of Louis the Fourteenth and the principal ladies of his court, actually offered it to Louis the Eighteenth, in 1816, as having belonged to his grandfather, Louis the Fifteenth. It was sent to Sèvres to ascertain its authenticity. The irregularity of the marks, added to the anomaly of the forms, particularly that of the plateau which was of one not invented until1í88, furnished easy proof of the fraud; and the service, being of no further interest to the king, was placed in the Museum of Sèvres as a 8pecimen of fraudulent imitation. Facts of this kind should render pur- chasers extremely cautious respecting all presumed relics of Marie Antoinette ; indeed the name of that unhappy queen should act rather as a beacon to warn, than a focus to attract. In the kindred matter of old lace, it is well known tbat the only difficulty is to find a fine piece that has not belonged to the wife of the royal locksmith. The illustrious monarch, whose deeds have been superbly portrayed by Mr. Car- lyle, and to whom Hogarth dedicated his 1!Iarch to Finchley, as "the King of Prusia (sic), a patron of the arts and sciences," to revenge himself on the little, peppery George, '" ho "hated boets and Ltf bainters," was greatly interested in china. About 1751, the manufacture of hard-paste porcelain was established at Berlin by Wilhelm Gaspar W egeley, and was carried on for about eight years by the founder, who, as is usually the ca e, lost his money; and, becoming disgusted with the venture, abandoned it in 17tH, when Gottskowski, the banker, purchased it, and, investing considerable capital, brought the manufacture to great perfec- tion. In 1763, it was bought by Frederick the Great, and became a royal manufac- tory. In order to stimulate his modellers to the highest efforts, he made presents of superb services of Berlin china to several German princes, in 1766. When he occu- pied Dresden, during the Seven Years' War, he shipped off many of the best modellers and painters to Meissen, to form hi royal manufactory, among whom were Meyer, Klipsel, and Böhme; and also transported a large quantity of clay and part of the collection. Moreover, in order to secure the commercial success of an enterprise employing five hundred persons, he restricted the Jews residing in any part of his dominions from entering into the marriage state until each man had obtained a certificate from himself, which was only granted on the production of a voucher, from the direetor of the manu- factory, that porcelain to a given amount had been purchased, and that there was reasonable C3,use for grauting the indul- gence. As might have been expected, the Jews more readily disposed of their pur- chases than the general dealers; and this bit of paternal legislation was attended with complete success. Magnificent work was produced at Berlin, equal in quality and finish to anything produced at Meissen. In 1776, seven hundred men were con- stantly employed, and three thousand pieces of porcelain were turned out daily. Lithophanie-white biscuit plaques, with a design produced by the graduated thick- nesses of the paste, which, when placed against a window, form transparent pic- tures-was invented at Berlin, as was Lithogeognosie, or transfer printing, on porcelain, by Pott, who published an illus- trated book on this system as early as ] 753. A magnificent service was presented, by Frederick, to the Emperor Joseph the Second, on his coronat.ion, adorned with highly-finished portraits; and, at a later date, the Berlin manufactory achieved a signal triumph in the magnificent service p cl1 CbMle. Di.::ken.s.] CURIOUS OLD CITIXA. [April 3, 1876.] 15 pr('sellt('d, by tho King' of Prussia, in 1818, to the Duke of , VeIling ton. To the last, old Fritz took a keen interest in hi china, and. was very anxious that his work should equal that of Dresden; and e.en went so far fiS to choose a so mew hat similar tradem'trk. Im,te3.d of the Saxon crossed swords, he adopted two crossed sceptres; but some- times only one sCf'ptre-a very sword-like one-was used, concerning which the Prince de Li ne recounts a pleasant anecdote of his vbit to the King of Prussia, in 1780. " One dH,y, I had turned a plate, to see of what porcelain it was." (Prince evidently himstlf a. cbinamaniac.) ,. 'Vhere do you think it comé from?" 8aid the king. " I thought it was Saxon; but, instead of two swords, I Ree only one, which is well worth both of them." "It is a Bceptre," said the king. "I beg your majesty's p'trdon," replied the prince; "but it is so much like a sword, that it might easily be mistaken for one." This sally met with a doubtful reception, for t.he prince adds, " I don't quite know whether he was in- finitely pleased with my litt.le allegory." The" Protestant Hero" not only owned a porcelrtin manufactory himself, but was immortalised in English crockery. In the collection of Lady Charlotte Schreiber is a teapot, made at Bow, adorned with a. portrait of the Great Prederick, holding a marshal's bâton, Fame heralding, and Victory crowning him. It is dedicated to the PRUSSIA.N HERO. Curious fictile memorials of Fritz are also to be found in the Museum of Practical Geology. Among the specimens of salt-glazed ware- a crcam-coloured fabric, nearly approach- ing to porcelain in quality, shapod by pressing the moist paste into metal moulds, and thus securing a. sharp relief-is a cir- cular plate, with a pressed border, in com- partments, containing in relief a military trophy, the Prussian eagle, a portrait of Frederick, and the motto, " SGCCESS TO TilE KIXG OF PRUSSIA AXD HIS FORCES." The chief glory, however, of the admirable col- lection in J erm yn-street is the 'V orceater jug, dedicated to ::H'rederick, and printed by "transfer" over the glaze. The jug is curious in itself; but its value has been increased a thousand-fold by the following passagf', which occurs in :Mr. Thomas Car- lyle's History of Friedrich the Second, called Frederick the Great :- "A Pottery-Apotheosis of Friodrich.- 'There stands on this mantelpiece,' says one of my correspondents (the Rmiabl Smelfungus, in short, whom readers are acquainted with), 'a small China :Mug, not of bad shape, declaring itself, in one obscure corner, to be mHde at 'V orcester, " R. I., "\Vorcester, 1757" (late in the season, I presume, demand being brisk); which exhibits, all round it, a diligent Potter's- Apotheosis of :Friedrich, hastily got up to meet tho general enthusiasm of English mankind. 'V orth, while it lasts unbroken, a moment's inspection from yon in hnrry- ing along. .Frontside, when yon take. our :Mug by the handle for drinking from it, offers a well-meant China Portrait, labelled, KING OF PRUSSIA: copy of Friedrich's portrait., by Pesnp, twenty years too young for the time, smiling out nobly upon you; upon whom there descends, with rapidity, a small Genius (more liko a Cupid who had hastily forgotten his bow, and goes, heaùforemost, on another errand) to drop a wreath on this deserving head-wreath far too small for ever getting on (owing to diAtance, let us hope) though the art- less Painter makes no sign; and, indeed, both Genius and wreath, as he gives them, look almost like a big insect, which the king will be apt to treat harshly, if he notice it. On the opposite side, again, separated from Friedrich's back by the handle, is an enormous image of Fame, with wings filling half the :Mug, with two trumpets going at once (a bass, probably, and a treble), who flies with great ease; and between her eager face and the unexpectant one of Friedrich (who is 180 Q off, and knows nothing of it) stands a circular Trophy or Imbroglio of drums, pikeR, muskets, cannons, field-flags, and the like, very slightly tied together; the knot, if there is one, being hidden by some fantastic bit of scroll or escutcheon, with a Fame and one trumpet scratched on it; and high out of the Imbroglio rise threo standards inscribed with Names, which we perceive are intended to be Names of Friedrich's Victories-standards notable at this day with Names which I will punctually give you. ", Standard first, which flies to the west- ward or leftward, has "Reisberg" (no such place on this distracted globe; meaning Bevern's Reichenberg, perhaps), "Reis- berg," "Prague," "Collin." .Middle stan- dard curves beautifully round its staff, and gives us to read "\V elham" (non- extant, too; may mean IVelnz.ina or Lobo- sitz), "Rossbach" (very good), "Breslan" (poor Bevern's, thought a 'l."idury in ,V 01'- ce.ster at this time I). Standard third, tp d{ 16 [April 3, 1876.] [Conducted by ALL THE YEAR ROUND. wllich flies to eastward or right hand, luts "Neumflrk" (that is, J.leurrwrkt and the Austrian Bread-ovens, 4t.h Dt'cemher); .. Li8 a" (not yet Lc'uflzcn in English nomenclature), and ., Bresln,u" again, which meallS t.he capture of Er'eslau rify this time, mId is a real success, 7th-1Hth Dt"'cember, giving us the approximate date, Christmas, 1757, to this hasty Mug. A :Mug' got up for temporflry English f'nthusiasm, and the accident,al instruction of posterity. It is of tolerable China; holds a good pint" To the Protestant Hero. with all the honours," and offers in Jitt.le a curious eyt;hole into the then England, with its then lights and notions, which is now so deep hidden from us, under volcanic ashe , French revolutions, and tbe wrecks of a Hundred very decadent Years.' " EASTERTIDE IN GERMANY. IN the old German heathen reEgion, each great Christian feast found its cor- re ponding festival. In December, the sun was supposed to be born anew to the world, aft,er having completed his annual course. Early or later in spring, according to the situation of tbe country, the festival of tbe goddess Ostara was celebrated; and, at t.he seRson of 'Vhitsuntide, the German tribes were wont to symbolise in various ways the victory of summer over winter. Pope Gregory the Great acted on the principle of adapting the Christian festivals to these seasons, partly tbat Christianity might be more readily accepted by the worshippers of 'tV odan and Donar, and p rtly to give a sacred cha.racter to those rites from which the people could not be ea ily detached. It is curious that, in Germany, both Christmas and Easter should have ret.ained their pagan names. At the beginning of the :Middle Ages, the priests did tbeir utmost to subst.Ït.llte " Christ.messen" for the ancient" 'Veih- nacht" or "Holy Night," and" Paschen" inst.:'ad of "O,;;tern," which showed too plainly its heathen origin. But tbeir efforts were unsuccessful; and it is only in the Lower Rhine dialect that Easter is known by the name of "Paschen." Even Luther, in his translation of the New Testament, speaks of the Passover as " O:,tern." The name is derived froUl the goddess o. tarn, and probably our own word Easter comes from the same source. Not much is known about Oo3tara, save that she WAS tl10 goiJd('ss of f;pring :md the ret.urning sunshine, nnd t.hat Rne was peculiar to the 'l'entonic ra('c; hut her anciput importau('e is testifipd hy tne fact of the great Christian fpstival bt.ing allowed to bear her name. The month of April was alf"o known as "O:;ter l\Ionat," or "Easter month." In her hODonr the Easter bonfirt:s blaze to this day, despite all endeavours, secular and c1crÚ'ul, to do a" ay with the custom. As early flS 7 5 , when the first Church Synod was held at Rcgenshurg, S. Boniface condemncd the Eastpr fires as a IlCatheni h practice. :K cvertbeless, the Church ad(\rted the original signification in the J f1.tpr ('RudIe und Easter lamp, which burn throughout the year. According to an old tr Hiit.ion, they mnst be extinguished before ]i Hster, and relighted from virgin firp, kindled by flint and steel, not from any 81re:-ldy burn- ing. From tbis sacred flame the whole parish used, in fOrTller days, to fetch a light for their hearth; but, t.his custom is now almost forgotten. On Enstu l ve the fire was kindled in the clmr('hyard accord- ing to the above-mentioned mannèr, and the old holy oil was burnt; afkr which the candles were lighted. Formerly the baptismal water Wf'S also consecrated at tbis t.ime, tbp ppas nts fetching it on Easter morning t.o pr'inkle their houses and AtabIes. Tbp legend says that on Easter Eve, like ChriRtmas } ve, all t.he water in the wells becomes wine, and likewise possesses supernaturally heal- ing powe.rs. vVhoever batJlPs his face with running watpr on } a!'ter Eve will not sufter from his eyes or become sun- burnt during tho ensuing year; mid if he take some home to drink, he will be BUC- cessful in love, but perfect f'ilence and solitude are always requisite. Ea t('r water is also given to horses and poultry to drink. In Roman Cat.bo]ic dist.ricts, ar- ticles of food, especially eggs, flrt' conse- crated in church on }1 ster Day. Generally, a snow-white Pascbal lamh, formt'd of butter, and holding a tiny red flag, crowns the breaò, cakes, bacon, anò ot IJPl' contents of the artisticaUy-arranged hu;ket. The Easter :Fire is not a universal cus- tom. Its chief home appears to be in North and Middle Germany, but it also takes place in Tyrol and Bavaria. In some places the 'l'yrolese peasants call it Burning Judas. '1'he ashps :md charred logs are taken home and buried under t.he stable door to keep the cows in good health and to drive aWßY witelles: thr-y û =====tf' n:. Charles Dickens.] [Apnl3, 1875.] 17 EASTERTIDE IN GER IANY. also serve to make the fields fruitful. There are no fires ill S\-\abia at Easter, but bonfires Ilre lighted on the first Sunday in L('nt., which therefore goes by the name of Fnnken-Sonut.ag, or Spark Sunday. I n parts of VV'l'stphalia, a resurrection hymn is sung' whilst the fla.mes rise, and the peoplo walk round in solemn pro- cession, bmring torches of birchwood. The practice of having bonfires was now hero more general than in the Harz Mountains. In 1853, fifteen were seen blazing on the mnuntain crags in the neighbonrhood of O;:>terode. The pre- paratiom begin six weeks before Baster, and everyone contributes either wood or else money to buy it. In the Halberstadt district, brooms (on which the witches are supposed to ride to the Brocken) and tar- barrels are preferred for the purpose. At Obtt'rodo everybody tries finally to snatch a bra,lld from the embers, and then leaps about with it; the longer it burns, the better omen it is. Au old woman at O terhal2'en declared that anyone who gnzed at the sun t.hrough a black silk handkprchi(.f on Easter Day could behold the Paschal lamb dancing. 'In 'Yestphalia and Swabia, the lamb is said to be reflected in a p 1.l1 of water. The belief tha.t the sun dances on Easter morning appears to be very general. Some sixt,y year ago, the 'Vestphalian peasants were wont to ascend the highest mountain iu the nei{!hbourhood at sunrise to behold thi 8pecta le, and a similar custom existed in Swabia. At Langenei, in "\Vestphalia, pancakes were ba.ked on Easter Day; after which the egog-shells were filled with holy water, and carried to the fields to protect the crops from being injured by storms. Con- secrated pnlms are still'set solemnly in the meadows at E Lster for the same reason. On Ea....ter Day it was customary for the inhabitants of Velmeda, on the Ruhr, to visit a eavern which is situated above the town. The maidens then called down the almo t perpendicular descent to the ca.ve, "Velleda, gib mir ein Mann!" ("Velleda, give HIe a husband!") To which tbe echo respond d. "Hân!" ("Shalt have !") The peasant also inspected the interior of the cave, which contained wells, for the height of the watm' forf:told whether the ensuinO' year would hp fruitful or the reverse. I Hes e the vill::lgo yout.h perform a like pilgrima!{í', with the addition of placing a bunch of spring flowers on the waters of tho small pool within the cavern. They also drink of the water, and take some home. This custom evidently refers to former sacrifices to Ostara. We now come to the universal custom of Easter eggs, which exists all over Germany. In Swabia and Hesse tho Baster Hare is popularly supposed to lay them, and the Swabian mothers, when they prepare the eggi'l for their children, generally place a stuffed hare on the nest. The Carinthian peasantry say that the church bells go to Rome on Maunday Thursday to fetch them. It is generally considered the duty of sponsors to provide their god-children with the brightly- coloured eggs. Red is the favourite hue, a prefereuce derived from heathenism, as red was sacred to Donar, and the Easter eggs are always, if possible, taken from those laid on 1tlaunday Thursday. It is known that eggs were employed as a sacrifice at the ancient Spring Festivals, and this is very likely the reason why so much magical power has always been ascribed to them. The writers of the Middle Ages, such as Cesarius von Reis- terbach, relate numerous stories of be- witched eggs; they were said to fly towards .he sun of their own accord, they moved, and on being opened were found to contain toads, snakes, or lizards, which were the well-known transforma- tions of the heathen deities. Moreover, there was tho celebrated egg laid by a seven years old cock, which, when hatched, produced a basilisk. A curious sig-nifica- tion is attached to eggs in "\Vestphalia, when a young peasant comes wooing. If he is regaled with coffee or porridge, it is reckoned a friendly, honourable reception, but he thereby understands that he is only admitted as a friend and not as a suitor Should turnips or other vegetables be set before him, they signify that he is totally unacceptable; but an omelette with green herbs, or eggs alone, is a sure token of welcome, and he need then fear no refusal. Easter eggs are believed to have peculiar properties. and a maiden can awaken love in a man's heart by sending him an egg which she has boiled on Easter Eve. 'l'he Tyrolese peasant casts an eg , laid on Holy Thursday and consecrated on Easter Day, over his roof-tree. He then buries it where it falls, and this will presen-e his house from fire aud lightning. There are also E-tster games, caUed Eierklauben. or Gathering' the Eggs. They exist in North and South Germany, but they are held on tho grandcst scale in (f cll 18 [April 3, 1875.] [Conducled by 3 ALL THE YEAR ROUND. Tyrol. The following account is from an Illnsbruck paper of 18.56. The Eierkla,uben ta,kes place either on Easter Tuesday or the White Sunday, as the first Sunday after Easter is called. Two youths go round to all the peasants' houses beforehand to ask for eggs, and, as the game is very popular, they obtain a con- siderable quantity. The young men as- semble on the appointed day and choose two noted runners from their number. From a hundred and seventy to a hundred and seventy-five eggs are then laid along the road with an interval of five feet between each, every tenth egg being a coloured one. When afternoon service is over, the youths appear, clad in various costumes. Some represent legendary beings, such as Fanggas and witches, while others are arrayed in the garb of gipsies, Turks, or :1100rs. 0 f course there is an immense concourse of spectators from all parts. Preliminaries having been settled, the two runners, adorned with flowers and ribbons, step forward and begin their race. One hastens to the eggs, each of which he must pick np singly and carry to tho b:1sket which 8tands by the fiest egg. In the Swabian game he is allowed to break a certain number of eggs, but if he exceeds it, he is declared the loser. This, how- ever, is not the case in Tyrol. 1Vhilst the egg collector is thus engaged, his rival must run over the Zamser Inn Bridge to Lötz, Perjen, over the Purschler Bridge to Landeck, and thence back again to the basket of eggs at Zams. Whoever fir8t completes his task is hailed with thunders of applause from the crowd. The Landeck runner is generally the victor, for, although he has a long distance to traverse, still it is not such a tedious business as placing a hundred alid seventy-five eggsin the basket. When the race is over, a sort of Carnival commences. The Sultan, surrounded by Turks and .Moora, advances, followed by the rest of the masqueraders. Then the Sultan demands, "Tell me what news is there in Ztms, L:1ndeck, Fliess,. Grins, Stanz, and Schönwies?" Thereupon one youth after another comes before the MUBsulman and mukes his report of un- known love affairs, tricks, &c. After this the whole company repair to the inn, where a huge omelette is made of the eggs, of which all partake. The performance con- cludes with dancing, which sometimes lasts till the following morning. The same newspaper gives an account of another Easter game, which is, however, I. not so harmless, so far as its victims aro concerned. It takes place on Easter l'rlonday, and appears to be peculiar to Tyrol, unlike the Eierklauben. '1' he Os tereierfahren , or Easbr eggs driving, is neither more nor less than a practical joke, and consists in every article, on which the village youths can lay their hands, being put in its wrong place. In spite of all precautions, taught by previous experience, the Bauer awakes, on Easter Tuesday, to find his manure-heap care- fully laden on a cart, and hoi ted on to his roof, along with ploughs, fhâls, harrows, and othor farming utensils. The milkmaid seeks her pails in vain, for they are lying in the trough of the village-pump, witk the churn to keep t.hem company. The church is completely barricaded with waggons, benches, doors, faggots, &c. l\Iich'l misses his new pipe, and neigh- bour Jos'l, his brindled cow; but the latter's absence is easily accounted for, when the priest's good old housekeeper goes into the garden to water the lettuces. 8he might have saved herself the trouble, for the brindled cow has made short work with the vegetables. It may easily be conceived that the sufferers are not choice in their language towards the perpetrators of the mischief; but there the matter rests. No harm is done, and the missing goods and chattels are soon recovered by their rightful owners. The Tyrolese peasantry believe that supernatural powers may be acquired by him who dares to go where four cross roads meet on Easter Eve. He .will be- hold all manner of a.pparitions, comical and horrible, but he must keep stl'ict silence, and neither laugh, nor weep, nor pray. At last the devil himself appears in the form of a huntsman, and endows the bold adventurer with the qualities of being always successful in games of chance, being victorious in wrestling matches, being bullet proof, being "frozen," or having the power of making himself and others rigid, and becoming invisible. Not many years ago a solemn procession used to be held in the Stanz Valley at Easter, with either a plough or an Easter Lamb. In the Hungerbrnnnen ThaI in Swabia, there is a spot which was formerly marked out with boundary stones, and was looked on in the li ht of a sanctuary. A small fair and a dauce were held here at Easter, in olden times. Even now the young p oplo go there on Palm Sunday, and buy tf d Charlcø Dicltonø.] [April 3. 1875.] I!> A SILENT WITNESS. Prctzeln, from the bakers, who set up a booth for the occasion. The youths give the Pretzeln to their sweethearts, and on :ßaster Day the pilgrimage is repeated, when the maiùens return the present with an egg. After a tlhort stay, all go home singing. A èUlStom still existed about forty years back in the Bavarian Highlands, Cc:"1.11ed the "Otjter bock." r.I.'his ram was carried down to church on Easter Day, and after- wards dislributkd among tbe peasants, who each had a right from time imme- morial to a particular piece. The ram, all ready cut up and roasted, was laid on a halld barrow, which was covered with fI"csh motos, and decked with garlands and fir branches; its horns were richly gilt, and the head was wreathed with flowers; but it required considerable art to combine the joints of the animal in such a malilier as to give it a natural appearance, and to divide them judgmatically, every house- hold in the parish being entitled to a part. The Oster bock was provided by each Bauernhof, in turn, and it was a matter of great rivalry which should produce the finest specimen. After service, a pro- cession conveyed the ram, amid strains of music, to the grass plot in front of the village inn, wherc the Bäuerin herself disptmsed the meat. The head, with its gilded horns, was always the landlord's portion, but he was not suffered to take it away in peace. On receiving his booty, he was obliged to perform a dance, all by himself, holding. the head in his hand, whibt the music played a merry jig, and the spectators shouting and singing formed a circle round him until he succeeded in breaking through the ring. Dancing then became general. Here we can plailJly trace a reminiscence of the rams which were formerly slaughtered in honour of Ostara. But this ceremony is now only a vngue tradition and no longer occurs. A SILE:XT WITNESS. BY EDMUSD YATES. Át:TUOB OF .. BLA<'K SHEEP," "CA&TA\\..ð.T," II THE YELLOW 'LAO," &c. &c. - BOOh. III. CllArTER lIT. A FATAL 'IE T. TIlE earlier portion of the journey was passed in ordinary conversation. Uemem- Lering how Aune had always shrunk from any allusion to l\lr. Heath, Grace made but the slightest occasional mention of that gentleman, and amused herself Ly recounting to her companion the principal incidents of her life since they had parted, and the most interesting epÍl:;odes in her London career. Amused herself, and, at the SRme time, did exactly what .Anne would most have wished; for she could sit by and listen, throwing in here and there an ejaculation of surprise, which con- tented the narrator, while all the time she was turning over in her own mind the manner in which she could bring about the revelation which sooner or later must be made. But, even in all her preoccupation, Anne W8.B sufficiently attentive to notice the undoubted improvement in Grace's mental faculties; the childish ways had gone, and in their place there was a mix- ture of dignity and firmness which argued ill for the success of anyone endeavouring to turn the heiress from her settled deter- mination, or to interfere with the exercise of her will. It was evident, too, that Grace had a thorough appreciation of Mrs. Crutch- ley, and of the various members of the \Vaddledot family; and of them and their machinations she spoke with such genuine sarcastic humour, that Anne was, from time to time, roused from her reverie to give more than usual attention to what her friend was saying, and pay her the tribute of a smile. It was at Brussels, their first halting- place, that Anne detcrmined to teU her friend as much as was necessary of what had transpired, to explain to her the deception she had practised upon her, and the imperative necessit,y that exi8ted of her having been brought away from Lon- don. She knew the difficulties that lay before her, the danger she incurred of being misunderstood, the possibility of Grace, ill an access of rage at having been played upon, declining t.o ackno"\\ledgc the servicc which had been renùered her, and, determining to be governed soldy by her own thoughts, wishcs, and impulses; but Anne knew abo that she had acted rightly in electing to discharge the duties she had prescribed to herself, even though it might have a baneful effect on her future, which ",as even then not too hopef ul. _ 'They arrived at Brussels in the after- noon, and put up at the Hôtcl de :Flandre, securing two rooms at the back of the hotel, tar from the noisy trouble of the Place R{.yale, and looking on to the pabcí', at that soason of the year silent and deserted, with its blinds drawn down, and a couple of sentries sleepily sauntering on tho krrace walk. 'fhero VI ould be [Conducted by ALL THE YEAR ROUND. 20 [April a, 1875.] disturbance later on In the mews im- mediately underlying the hotel windows, when the carriages came back from 'Vnterloo, and the other excursions on which they had t.aken the English tourists, wbpn the big Flemish horses would be pI unging about the paved YaJ.>d, and un- willingly submitting themselves to the washing and cleaning preparatory to tbeir short rest. But at tbat moment all was silenc and tranquillity; the hot air was filled with fragrance from the flowers of tbe royal garden, and a delightful sense of nothing-doing pervaded the place. N ot- witbsta.nding this, however, and the fatigue consequent upon her journey, Grace found it impm;;sible to secure tbe sleep upon which sbe had been reckoning. "It is of no use," she said, arising from the couch on which sbe had thrown h r- self, in her white peignoir, after having nnbound her hair, and let it fall over her shoulders. "I am uncomfortable and restless, and sleep seems impossible to me. And yon too, Anne, you are working away ft.8 though you had only just risen, instead of having been cramped up for hours in that dreadful rail way carriage, and that worse than dreadful steamer." "I am only patching up a rent made in my gown, in getting out of that 'worse tbn.n dreadful steamer,' as you call it," said Anne, with a smile. Then changing her tone, she added, "I am glad, however, dear, to find that you are not disposed to sleep just now, as I have something of great importance to say to you." "More sometbings of great importance," said Gracp, petulantly; "when shall we have done with them and get a little peace? " " 'Vhat I have to say to you now," said Anne, "will probably try your patience and self-command, will require the exercise of that love for me, which I know you ha ve, and your belief in that clearness of thought and common sense for which you used to give me credit, of your apprecia tion of my devotion to you, and your interests." "Tell me, quickly, what it is," said Grace. "I have lost the habit of guessing riddles since I have been in London, and I am anxious to know what this important news can be." "I will tell you, then, plainly," said Anne, after a moment's pause. "I have done evil, that good might come of it. I have deceived you." " Deceived me!" cried Grace, with already flushing cheeks. ''In what way?" " I have brought you away from London because I knew it to ùe a matter of the deepest possible importance to you that you should come; but I have used a false pretext to beguile you here. Your aunt, :Madame Sturm, tbough very ill, is not worse than when I last wrote you." ":Madame Sturm not worse-not dying! " cried Grace. "All that story about her desiring to see me an invention? What is the reason that you have brought me away with you?" "To save you from inevitable destruc- tion," said Anne; "to prevent your mar- riage with a man who would have rendered your life a burden and a disgrace." " What?" cried Grace, springing to her feet. " You have taken this step with the idea of preventing my marriage; Y011 have dared to impose upon me with a falsehood, in the hope of interposing between me and the man I love ? " "It was my only chance of getting you to come," said Anne. " It was impossible for me to give yon the real reason while you were in London." "And do you think that absence can make any difference? " asked Grace, with a sneer. "Do you think that I am more likely to give him up in Brussels than I sbould have been in Eaton-place? Do you think that he will be more willing to sur- render me, beCc:'tuse he is asked to do so in a letter posted abroad ? " "There is no question of your giving him up," said Anne, calmly; "and as to Mr. Heath, he has already expressed his intentions on tbe subject." " George-expressed his intentions! To whom ?-where ?" asked Grace, breath- lessly. "To yon, in this note," said Anne, handing to her friend the ldter which Heath had written in the bank parlour. Grace seized it and read it eagerly. " I cannot understand it," sbe said, after run- ning through it a second time. " What does it mean? He says that it is impos- sible for him to fulfil his engagement; that you have reminded him that he is not free, and tbat he leaves any further explanation to you." Anne bowed her head in silence. " What does that mean? " cried Grace, fiercely: "how did you know that George Heatb was not free to marry anyone he chose? how did you know anything about him? and what do you know?" Her eyes were filled with teurs of rage and disappointment, her voice shook, and CharI 'A ntckenø.] [ApnI3, 1876.] 21 A SILE T WITNESS. hc'r lip , tightly fiR he endeavoured to comprt'ss t}wm, quivert.d: her tone and actiun w{'re alike ßgg-rCf'!sive and defiant. Anrw, wit.h a dead weight at her heart, but with her t'nse clear anù her outward a pcl't, cltlrn. mar'ked an this; she saw in an iwüant t,hat what Rhe had long dreaded had comp to P:-lf;S, that the long- existent frieT1fh..hip between her amI (frace had meltf'd Eke wax in the blaze of Grace's wrath at the loss of hor lover, that she had applipd the one test. to her friend's ft'clings which they would not bear, and tbat further conecalment beyond a certain point waS uselt's8. She was silent while she was revolving' this in her mind, and waA rpcalled to herself hy Grace's angry voice r('w'ating, "'Vhat is it you know about him?" "Milch." Raid Anne, sorrowfully; "more than I f'ver dareù trust myself to think about. more tha.n I should have ever dared to think of repeating, had not the force of circum!"tanct's brought out this explana- tion. You have never said anything; fur you were too kind and tender-hearted to do so; but you ('annot fail to have noticed, aftcr We et again in Paris, that I was wholly reticent about all that had occurred during' thA inu>rval (If our separation." "I did notice it," said Grace, "and thought it At.range; bnt I forbore to ask you nhout it, as you say, because I imaginpd the subject was disagreeable to you, but if what happened then had nothing to òo with your recent act, it is your rlllt.y, aR it should be your wish, to make a complete disclosure." "It ih my duty, and it shall be done," said Anne, gravely. " You must know then, thftt during that interval I was thrown into constant communication with 1tIr. Ht'at.h; he and my father were old acquainhHH'es. they were mixed up together in R. thouEland schemes of what they called busln/-'sR. I had already had to confess to you t hat my father was a bad and wicked man. anti wllPn you learn that Ir. Heath was his con1-ta.nt associate-his prompter rat.her. as bt'ing- by far the cleverer of the two-you will be able to form some opiniol\ of him, from whom--" h Ke/-'p to your story, please," inter- rnph.rl Grace, fiercely. "My opinions are not lihly to be warped or moulded by your comments." " The result of this constant communi- cntion was that I was engaged to be marriprl to Mr. Heath." "'Vha-t!" cried Grace, in a considerably softened tone, "you, my poor Anne, were png-nged to be marrif'd to George, and he ùesf'rted vou for me ? " " Not q nitp so," said Anne, Rhaking her head; "1 will do him no in' u<1tice. Before I ca.me to Paris-long before you left Bonn for England, the engagement between us was hroken." " Ry him? " asked Grace, quickly. " Yes," said Anne, aftpr a moment's hesitation and reflection, "by him; by the force of circumstances, upon which it is not necessary for me to dilate, we were parted, and he was, a" I believe, unaware of my existence, until I felt it to be my duty to assert my claim on him as the only means of preventing you from falling into a snare, and marrying one utterly unworthy of you." " Mr. Heath must have been very deeply in love with you at the time when you were engaged," observed Grace. with a sneer; "since your influence over him even now is so great? " "It was sufficient to obtain my purpose," said Anne, pointing to the letter which Grace still held in her hand. That was a terrible moment in Grace Middleham's life. Torn by conflicting emotions, she remained dazerl and silent; her love, her pride, her confidence had each and an been ontraged by the revelation which she had just heard, from the lips of one whom she had been accustomed to look npon as her dearest friend. When Anne first mentioned the fact of her enga.gement with Heath, the fierce rage with which Grace's heart was filled had disappeared for an instant, under the idea that she her- self had been unconsciously enacting a disloyal part in robbing Anne of the affections of the man she loved. Bitt when she saw, as she could not fl:l.il to do by every inflection in Anne's voice, hy her every gesture, that Heath was aQborrent to her, Grace felt it was she herself who had been betraypd, and that Anne, by her recent intermeddling-, had deprived hpr of the one love of her life, had alienated from her the only man for whom she had ever felt anything to be dignified by the name of a passion. Oh, it was too crnel! The bitter tears of rage stood in her eyes as she reflectec1 that, notwithstanding all her wealth, and in spite of tbe pORition which she held, and which she had lat.t'ly bet'n taught to prize so highly, she could do nothing to help herself in her pref'ent Atrait, nothing to rescue herself from the degm- dation into which she had been plunged, tp fb 22 [April 3, 1875.] [Conducted hy ALL THE YEAR ROUND. by what looked like the treacher.y, but what, at its best, would be the officious interference of one to ,,-hom she had proved so true a benefactress. Anne saw Grace's tears, saw her working lips, her arms up- lifted over her head, and her hands claspeù together in her great agony, and, with her own heart breaking, longed to clasp her friend to he:r: bosom, to unsay what had been said, and speak to her words of com- fort. She knew, however, that that W&S impossible; all she could do was to turn away and avoid witnessing the mental torture of her whom she loved so dearly. When her convulsion of rage had some- what subsided, Grace said, " Your plea for your conduct in this matter is, as I under- stand, that yon have been entirely guided by your regard for me, by your desire that I should be rescued from contracting a marriage with one so utterly unworthy of me. Is that so ? " Anne bowed a silent assent. "Will you then be good enough to ex- plain in what Mr. Heath's unworthiness consists. All the charges you have hitherto brought against him have been vague and unsatisfactory; in the merest spirit of fairness something definite should be ad- vanced. " Anne saw 3.t once the dilemma in which she was placed. It was impossible for her to bring forward any charges of weight against Heath, withont going into the his- tory of his crimes, and that, of conrse, was not to be thought of for an instant- there were too many interests involved, too many persons concerned. Anne did not know whether her father was alive or dead, but in any case her own horror at the remembrance of the scenes she had wit- nessed would prevent her referring to them. Grace marked her friend's hesitation. " You are apparently at a loss for an answer," she Baid. "Those who bring vague charges frequently find themselves in that position, I believe, when pressed home. " " I told you often," said Anne, "in the happy bygone days, that you were dearer to me than myself. This man had broken his plighted faith to me, he would not scruple to break it to you. The humilia- tion which I suffered did not matter-I was unknown and nncared for-but it would have been different in your case, and I was determined that yon should be spared from the risk of undergoing it." It has been said that Grace's perceptive 9i faculties had greatly increased of late. As she listened to the hesitating manner in which this answer was given-so diüerent from Anne's usual frank, nutspoken way- she saw at once the attempt at e':'38;on, but did not trace it to its proper sourcp. She remembered that Anne, though admit- ting her fathpr's general wickedne::;s, bad invariably refm:ed to be betrayed into any special revelations, and had done her best to screen him by always turning the subject; and Grace 1'.fiddleham's instant suspicion was that the mot.ive for Heath's conduct., in regard to Anne, was to be looked for in tlIe character and the actions of Captain Studley. There was an evident mystery, and that was the only clue to it, which presented itself to Grace's mind. The answer which Anne had given to Grace's Eitrongly urged demand, that she sbould prove Heath's unworthiness, was wholly v:>gue and unsatisfactory, and was evidently not the reply which Anne would have made, had she been free from the prc>ssnre of circumstances. That preRsure WitS to be looked for in the intimate relations at one time existing between Heath and Captain Stndley, in regard to which Anne's mouth was sealed. Anne must have 80me reason, Grace thought. Changed as she might be, warped by those fatal connections, she could not be b'lse enough to bring misery upon her best friend, by causing a rupture with her lover, merely for the sake of revenge for wounded vanity. The expla- nation lay in the intim cy of :Ur. Heath and Anne's father-Grace felt certain of that.. But what was she to do? She could not declare her bplief to Aune- there was a coolness between tllCm which would have entirely prevented such an admission; and, guarded as she was now, Anne was not likely to C0rro borate her friend's idea. Nor could Grace act practi- cally upon this conviction, though she was firm in it, by making any advance t.o J\Jr. Heath. That letter which Anne had handed to her placed such an irlea out of the question; she was not, of course, aware of the circum,:;tances under which it was written; but, taken by itself, it was wholly conclusive. In it Mr. Heath plainly renounced all claim to the fulfilment of her promise; renounced it so plainly and 80 positively as to render it impossible for Grace to sacrifice her dignit.y and self- respect, by ever entering into communica- tion with him again. Grace felt that there was no one now to iP Cbar1ea Dickens. J A SILENT WITNESS. [April 3, 18:5.J 2 whom she could refer for advice or assist- ance in her distress. Her pride revoltpd 0.1; the thought of appealing to her uncle's old fl'iend , who had been left as trustees of his affairs; and even had she done RO, her experience of 1\11'. Bence and Mr. Palmer t.old her th re was but little to be hoped for from them. Selfish, worldly men, engrossed in their own pursuits, they h;tcl been only too well pleased to rid themsel ves of their responsibility as soon as it was leg-ally po sible, and it was not likely that either of them would be willing or able to undertake the delicate functions of an ad viser in such a matter as that under consideration. N or was there any- thing to be hoped for from an opreal to the lawyers, Messrs. Bilman and Hicks; both they and the. trustees had, as Grace knew, the highest opinion, not merely of Mr. Heath's commercial shrewdness, but of his honourable and straightforward character, and all would be alike persuaded that whatever he had done in the matter, had been actuated on his part by motives of the highest order. 'Vhat was to be done? There was not the slightest use in returning to London. Grace felt, as therp her only acquaintances were members of :Mrs. Crutchley's family, or persons who had been brought around her through Mrs. Crutchley's influence; and thongh nothing had ever been said by anyone-least of all by herself-Grace could not help inwardly acknowledging that, to Mrs. Crutchley's skilful manipula- tion, she owed the fact of her engagement with Heath. 'fhat estimable lady had prepared the way for him, had sung his praises, decorously, indeed, and without any undue exultation, but with sufficient strength and perseverance to compel Grace's attention; had arranged those meetings on the quiet off-evenings, which lk1.d been so delightful; and had lost no opportunity of forwarding his suit. Lon- don, then, to Grace Middlcham, meant Mrs. Crutchley. To attempt to enter into communication with her wonld be as lowering to Grace's dignity as if she were to write to Hl'ath himself, and thf'refore her return to London was at present im- possible. She must go home to Germany, leaving behind her all the gaiety which she had so mnch enjoyed, the incense of adulation, which had been so freely offered to her, and must recommence the old, dreary lift'-listening- to the fretful mur- murs of :Madame Stnrm, with the profes- sor's piano as her only source of relaxation. The æsthetic teas and the musical evenings, with the long-haired students and the solemn old doctors in attendance, must h('nceforth be the substitutes for the bril- liant balls at which she, as the heiress of Loddonford, had been sin led out for special admiration. Innumerable other girls, with- out half her wealth or pretensions to beauty, had happier lives j for, at least, they were living in civilised society, and had the opportunity of winning husbands for them- selves, a chance which Grace looked upon as wholly denied to her. Not among the Eckharts and the Fischers would she deign to look for the future partner of her life; indeed, as she had often said to Anne -there was another misery! 'Vhat she had said to Anne she could say no more; all confidence between them was suspended; it seemed impossible that their former relations could e,er be renewed. Grace scarcely knew which to be most angry with - Anne's past silence or present confession; both seemed equally inoppor- tune. She could not help avowing to herself that the mystery about :Mr. HC'ath must be something very dreadful, or Anne, with her clear, calm sense, would never have taken so decided a step as to interfere between them. Ber pride forbad her to acknowledge the existenco of this feeling to ner friend, her wounded van it.y pre- vented her from appealing to Anne by recounting all the old memories of their passed companionship, to tell her unhesi- tatingly the truth, and to solve the horrible doubt which then possessed her. She could do nothing of this, she could only give vent to her anger, her humiliation and di:.mppointment in a flood of bitter tears. This resource she availed herself of, throw- ing herself upon her bed and sobbing as if her heart would break, while Anne, who longed to comfort her, felt that any offer of attention would be either unwelcome or misunderstood, and consequently wandered out into the Pare, and strolled up and down there until she was tired out, an obj:.et of great admiration to the tight-waisted little brave Belges, who, in ogling and flirtlition, as well as in other matters, fashion thpm- selves on the model of their Parisian brethren. The next morning they continued their journey to Bonn, and though neither of them took the other in to confidence, both were secretly comparing the enor- mous difference between their prt'sent dreary silent pilgrimage, and the bright and happy trip they had made throngh 24 [April 3, 1875.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. almost the Rame country on their way from Paris, but a few months previously. No resting now among the old Belgian cities, picture-seeing find memorial-visit- ing; no delightful talk of their experi- ences, no happy interchange of hopes and aspirations. Then Grace saw every- thing before her in bright colour8; her coming of age was imminent, and that meant Romething pleasurable and novel. Now, that was a thing of the pa.st; the one man whom she had learned to love was separated from her, and her future was hazy and indistinct. And Anne's reflec- tions, too, were of a sufficiently dishearten- ing character. The last time she had travelled that road she had begun to feel, in all her trouble and misery, a blessed sense of repose, the fir8t foreshadowings of that state of peace which characterised her sojourn at Bonn; but her present forebodillga were of a very different kind. Then she knew-for she had just had direct experience of t.he fact-that she was all in all to Grace Middleham, who, at her first appeal, had flown to her, succourf'd and nurtured her, with a more than sisterly affection. Now all that was changed; Grace, as was natural enough, had formed other ide'1,s and 3sRociations, and she who from chiLdhood had been her chosen com- panion had now lost all place in her heart, because she had dared to interfere between her friend and certain destruction. It was quite true that Anne had the satisfaction of knowing that she had done her duty; but this, notwithstanding all that the momlllits may say, is not always a sufficient cousolation for a great deal of mental miSf'ry and bodily discomfort. The difference was most felt on their arrival at Bonn. They had not let the professor know at what time they might be expected, so that there was no one there to meet them. Both the girls thought- Gr"ace carelessly, but Anne with a touch of tenderness-of their fir",t meeting with the stUflents at the station, of Fischer's boyish romance and Eckhart's blunt but hearty kindness. Eckh!1rt would have been there then, Anne thought, had he known she was coming; but she learned afterwards that he had some time since quitted Bonn, had sold the paternal brewery, and was pursuing his artistic career in Rome. They drove in the lumb >ring old drosky - for Bonn still rpmains iufl'rior, even to the rest of GermJlny, as regards its public vehicles -to the Poppelsdorff'r Allee, where they found persons and things pretty much in the same condition as when they had left them. The professor himself seemed very little surprised at their return, but received them both with equal cordiality, for his gentle nature had learned to appreciate the goodness of "V aBare," as he persisted in calling Anne, and was delighted with the opportunity of talking with Grace over the wonders of London, a subject which had wholly occupied his every leisure moment, according to his wife's account, since his return thence. Madame Sturm, a little weaker perhaps than when Grace had left Bonn, was unfeignedly pleased to see her niece. Most fortunately no hint of the intended marriage with Heath had ever been conveyed to the worthy lady, who was therefore unable to wound Grace's sus- ceptibilities, as otherwise with the best intentions she undoubtedly would have done, but she prattled away, inveighing against the English climate and the frivolities of the London season, which, she said, had robbed her niece of her healthy colour, and declaring that the plain fare, early hours, and bright atmo- sphere of Rheinland were necessary to set her up again. "And as for you, Waller," continued the old lady, who had not been in such high spirits for months, "I declare it is like a gleam of sunshine to see you coming into the house again. N ow, I shall know what it is to be nursed and attended to properly. I cannot tell you what I have suffered at the hands of these clumsy creatures not one of them could remember at what time my tonic should be brought to me; and, as for rubbing in a lotion, they were worse than nothing at all." But it is doubtful whether Madame Sturm would have been so joyous, had she been aware of the resolution which had, for some time, been forming itself in Anne's mind, and which she determined to carry out immediately. The Right oj Translating Articles from, ALL THE YEAR ROUND is ,'ese1'red by the Authors. û tf Published a the Office, 26, Wellington St., Strand. Printed by CIURLES DICK.BN6 & EVA1(s, Crystal Palaee )..- - ----,.- .1------ -.; .. '. ._ - IIE'S"IO .01Jf\:.J..NJ;SfR.9M :Û;.f .... ."4 A ..' \; "" . flJ.'*IJF " tAl .r, ,t,: . , , ' 1"$ . \rr,'<',' :- ? J1<