We were all at breakfast this morning--all, at least, but Sir John Ellesmere and Mr. Mauleverer, who had gone for a walk. It was a dull, sombre, autumn day, with a low mist in the valley, and hardly a breath of air moving. Our conversation, too, in the absence of Sir John, was not particularly lively. Mr. Milverton was telling Mr. Cranmer that, after a recent battle, there was a continuous line, ten miles long, of wagons and carriages carrying the wounded; and Mr. Cranmer was making calculations as to how many wounded persons there must have been. Sir Arthur was reciting, aside, some passages from “Paracelsus” to Lady Ellesmere, to convince her that it was a great poem. I overheard some of the passages, and looked at them afterwards.

“The rabbit has his shade to frighten him, The fawn a rustling bough, mortals their cares, And higher natures yet would slight and laugh At these entangling fantasies, as you At trammels of a weaker mind; but judge _Your_ mind’s dimension by the shade it casts!”

And then this one--

“And from the East Day, like a mighty river, flowing in; But clouded, wintry, desolate, and cold.”

And this--

“Are there not, dear Michal, Two points in the adventure of the diver: One--when a beggar he prepares to plunge? One--when a prince he rises with his pearl? Festus, I plunge!”

Even the cleverest men, I find, make great mistakes sometimes. It does not do to talk humanity, or quote poetry, at breakfast time. It is too early, and people are neither humane nor romantic at this immature and “uncooked” period of the day. Besides, I could see that Lady Ellesmere was only thinking about her husband, and wondering why he was not at breakfast; and so Browning’s beautiful lines received merely a polite attention from her. Presently we heard the noise and bustle which usually announce Sir John Ellesmere’s approach, and he burst into the room.

_Ellesmere._ Oh! I am so glad to see you all again!

_Lady Ellesmere._ Why? What? Has anything happened? Have you met with any accident, John?

_Ellesmere._ Don’t be so fussy, my dear. If anything had happened, if I had tumbled down a precipice, it would be a mark of ill-breeding to make a fuss about it, especially at breakfast. But here I am, safe and sound; and as for His Vastness (Sir John often called Mr. Mauleverer “His Vastness,” or “His Amplitude”), he is about half a mile away, at the bottom of the hill. I ran off, saying I wished to warm myself, but in reality to make my escape from him. He has been awful this morning. What a clever man he is, though!

You see the kind of day it is--not superabundantly cheerful. Well, we went to walk under “the beeches.” I am not a man particularly subject to mournful fancies; but if ever they succeed in oppressing me, it is when I am walking upon damp, rotting, autumn leaves. There is a passage in Alfred de Vigny’s celebrated novel of “Cinq-Mars,” in which, previously to the hero’s downfall, the royal cavalcade of heavy carriages goes crunching through the dead leaves of the forest, on just such a day as this, and everybody feels a foreshadowing of some calamity. That passage made a great impression upon me when I was a boy. Mauleverer saw that I had not my usual life and spirits this morning, and shamefully abused his opportunity. Of course he preached upon his never-failing text, the misery of human life.

He told me that fees were a mistake. I did not see that, looking at the question from a recipient’s point of view.

He told me that Lady Ellesmere was more of a plague than a pleasure. That I denied, maintaining that in this particular case the plague and the pleasure were about equally balanced.

_Lady Ellesmere._ Thank you, John, for your noble defence of your poor wife.

_Ellesmere._ He then mentioned that virtue was dull, and vice despicable, disgusting, and dyspeptic. You must have noticed how fond he is of alliteration. Meanwhile I kept singing a song of Beranger’s--

“Aimons vite, Pensons vite; Toute invite A vivre vite. Aimons vite, Pensons vite. Au galop Monde falot!”

But nothing would stop him.

_Lady Ellesmere._ John singing! Ye Powers of Time and Tune, what ye endure!

If he should have the misfortune to survive me, instead of the usual things that men say in epitaphs of their dear wives, he need only inscribe this line--

“She did not mind her husband’s singing much.”

And, indeed, I rather like it, for, though it is murderous in the way of music, John is always in an especial good humour when he sings, as he calls it; but the autumn leaves and Mr. Mauleverer were evidently too much for him this morning.

_Ellesmere._ You are very witty; but you waste precious time, my dear. I have lots to tell you before he comes.

Well, then, he deviated into a discussion about the minor miseries of human life, and here he made a simile which I think you will say is one of the strangest you ever heard. He compared these miseries to the crumbs in the bed of a sick man, who is too ill to rise for his meals. The poor wretch, he said, does what he can to brush them away; thinks, after great labour, and many painful twistings and turnings, for he can hardly move, that he has accomplished it; but when he settles down once more, he is sure to find some of those detestable crumbs molesting him again, and he never gets rid of them till he is taken out of bed--perhaps for the last time. It is one of the homeliest of similes; possibly the homeliest that was ever made; but it is really a very tolerable one, and it certainly cannot be said to be far-fetched.

You should have heard him dilate upon it in his grandiloquent way. “The man who lives but on applause finds ever, in his hard couch, the crumbs of an unsatisfied vanity molesting him. The jealous, sensitive man may brush away at these unpleasant fragments ever so diligently, but some of them (the hard little daily annoyances caused by an over-craving affection, or by a nature ‘misunderstood,’ as he is pleased to called it) remain to plague him. And to every man these relics of his incomplete and misspent life return to torment him, let him be nursed ever so sedulously.” Now, did you ever hear such a simile as that? Sometimes, of course, one did not make out which were the physical, and which the metaphysical, crumbs; but that sort of confusion is indulged in by all simile-mongers.

_Sir Arthur._ I should have thought, Sir John, that you would not have----

_Ellesmere._ Yes, I know; you think, because you see me now so boisterously well, that I am never ill, and cannot appreciate this crumb-misery; but I suffer from a fit of sciatica about once every other year. The domestic persecution I undergo on those occasions!--but there is no time to tell you about that now. I have a good deal more to say: and His Vastness, though he moves but slowly, never stops, if you observe. “He will be here anon,” as they say in plays.

Now I have something very serious to tell you. You would all be utterly oppressed by that stout gentleman--I know you would--if it were not for me. The women would go over to his side at once. They like a melancholy man; and then he is so charmingly polite. Sandy, too, would go over to his side: the Scotch have rather a turn for melancholy. As for Cranmer, His Amplitude would soon win him. He would do it by simple syllogism. Thus--

All men who do not pay their taxes cheerfully are wicked and miserable;

Nobody does pay his taxes cheerfully;

Therefore, everybody is wicked and miserable.

Cranmer could not resist that piece of close reasoning; and would go over to the other side of the House--that is, to the side of dumps and dolorousness.

I believe if I were to go away for three days, and come back again here, this is the state of things I should come upon. I should find Mauleverer at dinner alone. I should ask for the rest of you. With a smile of serene satisfaction, he would conduct me to the trees which are your especial favourites in the garden, and there I should find each of you pendent from your favourite tree. I can see the air of polite contempt with which, having persuaded you to get safely away from the miseries of life by hanging yourselves, he would offer you your choice of a tree. His contempt would be for human beings having any likings or dislikings in such an insignificant matter as hanging themselves.

Mark you, he is the soul of honour. Without joking, there is a touch of real grandeur in that man’s character, and I am beginning to like him very much. But he is the dreariest mortal that ever lived. I’ll bet that the story of his life, if we could ever worm it out of him, is very remarkable.

Well, as I was saying, he is the soul of honour; and he would not have persuaded you to do a thing which he would not do himself. He also would have been an interesting pendent from a tree; but is there any branch of any tree in Hampshire that could sustain his weight? Of course he would have come to the ground at once, only half-hanged. Then he would think that he would have one more dinner--a dinner that he could order for himself without Mrs. Milverton’s well-meant but half-instructed interference; and there I should find him enjoying one of his favourite dishes, at the production of which he would have assisted.

But stay, one thing I have forgotten. I have shown how he would win over the ladies, and Cranmer, and Sandy, but there still remain Sir Arthur and Milverton. They would make something of a fight. But they have no sound basis of animal spirits to go upon; and melancholy, steadily applied, conquers everything but animal spirits. I am the only _pièce de resistance_, to use one of his own favourite phrases, which would not be devoured by him. Take care of me--I am your safeguard against him. He is in immense force to-day. I am sure something very unfortunate for the human race must have happened somewhere, and that he has a mesmeric consciousness of it. But hush! Don’t you perceive the room shake a little? His Ponderosity has entered the hall, and here he comes.

[_Enter Mr. Mauleverer._]

_Mauleverer._ I am sorry, Mrs. Milverton, to be so late.

_Mrs. Milverton._ I have kept these warm for you at the fire, Mr. Mauleverer.

_Lady Ellesmere._ And so, Mr. Mauleverer, you have been telling my husband that I am more of a plague than a pleasure to him.

_Mauleverer._ I, Lady Ellesmere? I never said anything of the kind. Something, I believe, I did say about women in general; but every woman I know is an especial exception to the rule I laid down. How can you be so treacherous, Sir John, as to repeat sayings intended only for your own discreet ears?

_Sir Arthur._ Do not ask Mauleverer any more questions, Lady Ellesmere. Do let the poor man have his breakfast in peace.

I want to ask Ellesmere something about his illnesses. I cannot picture him to myself as a sick man.

_Lady Ellesmere._ He will tell terrible things about me, I know.

_Ellesmere._ There I am, in bed, unable to move, and Lady Ellesmere comes and talks to me in this fashion by way of comforting me. “I told you it would be so, John; you never take an umbrella, never change your damp boots, you will always walk home from the House, and you would go out to dinner the day before yesterday with that under-secretary, who gives such exquisite dinners that you are dissatisfied with mine for a month afterwards; and this is the result.” Now I call that comforting. There is a consoler for you.

_Milverton._ Of course, Mildred, I don’t believe one tithe of what he says. I have no doubt you are an excellent nurse; but that kind of talk which he describes is much affected by our nurses, and certainly it is not very consolatory.

I have often wondered that there is not, in any language that I know of, an especial word to designate the person who always goes back from the present to dwell upon the mistakes and errors of the past. We have not even any great personage in history or fiction to whom we can compare such a person. Now, when we want to describe a person who is always prophesying evil, we liken him, or her, to Cassandra; but when we want to describe the other thing, namely, the person who always goes back to the evil of the past, saying this was wrong, and that was mistaken, and that everything would have been very different if everybody had acted differently, and had foreseen the event, we have nobody to whom to liken him. I suppose, mathematically speaking, we must say Cassandra with a _minus_ sign.

_Sir Arthur._ Well done, Milverton! You have really pointed out a great want in language. Suppose we call him a “backwardiser,” and the process “backwardising?”

_Ellesmere._ These are not very pretty words, Sir Arthur. I would rather say an “afterteller” and “aftertelling,” just as we say foreteller and foretelling. But I was going to discourse to you more about illness--I think I know a great deal about it, and what I can say would be worth a Jew’s ransom if people would only attend to it.

You hear of people dying of this disease, or of that disease, but what they really do die of is of questions. I believe I have a pretty strong will--some people would say it amounts to wilfulness; but when I am unwell I lose all strength of will, and cannot bear to be bothered with questions. “Will you have your gruel made of grits or barley? Will you have your vapor bath now? When will you take your medicine?” These weighty questions--and they are weighty to the poor sick man--thoroughly overcome me.

Now I am quite serious. An invalid ought to be treated mentally and morally as he is physically; namely, with gentleness, yet with perfect firmness. Don’t give him any choice about anything: don’t burden his mind with decision: remove from him all responsibility, which is so fatiguing a thing. I have no doubt that the excellent Miss Nightingale has said all this in her way, but I venture to say it in mine. A person in health can hardly have a conception of the helpless irritability of a real invalid. The most difficult case does not disturb my equanimity when I am well; but when I am ill, the question of grits or barley is an overpowering one, and raises the pulse seven beats at least.

_Lady Ellesmere._ You may imagine what a monster of impatience he must be when he is ill.

_Sir Arthur._ His words, though, are the words of wisdom, Lady Ellesmere. I have no doubt that a judicious moral treatment of the sick has saved many a life.

By this time, Mr. Mauleverer had finished his breakfast, the ladies rose, and our conversation this morning was ended.

* * * * *

Sir Robert Walpole said that every man has his price. My small experience of the world does not enable me to confirm, or to contradict, this maxim; but I begin to suspect that every author has his vanity. I did think that my master was free from this foible. He never cares to hear what is said about his writings, except for business purposes--that is, to meet an objection or to remedy an error, or to explain something that he finds is not understood; he would give away to anybody his most cherished ideas--ideas he had toiled over to bring into shape; and he even dislikes to have his name connected with anything he has done. To-day, however, or rather this evening, I could see that the author’s vanity was not extinct in him, and that he was thoroughly pleased and flattered by a person not much given to please and flatter,--namely, Sir John Ellesmere.

This circumstance is what gives the following conversation especial interest to me, though perhaps in itself it was not the least interesting we have had.

Mr. Mauleverer, who has studied astronomy very carefully, expressed a wish that, in the evening, we should come out upon the lake that has been before described, whence we could look at the stars, and see something which he was anxious to point out to us. We agreed to dine very early; to go and see what Mr. Mauleverer was to show us; and then to return for our reading of Realmah.

Oddly enough, after we had got into the boat, the conversation did not at first turn upon any grand or elevating subject, but was merely a continuation of a conversation that had commenced at dinner, upon a very common place subject; namely, hospitality. I cannot give all the conversation in detail; but I remember the main points.

Mr. Cranmer maintained that the mode of reception of a guest was the most important thing. Mr. Milverton said that the chief point for a host to think of was, that his guests were not at home--that they were, to use a French expression, _desorientés_, whereas he was perfectly aware of the points of the compass. He (Mr. Milverton) therefore maintained that the host must attend to all manner of little things connected with the comfort of his guests; take an interest in their comings and goings; and especially watch that they are well attended to when they ring their bells. He maintained that dinner was, comparatively, an unimportant thing, that we were always too well-fed everywhere; from which proposition Mr. Mauleverer expressed, in the most emphatic manner, his entire dissent.

Sir Arthur said that the Prime Minister[16] was a perfect host, because he attended to these little things which Mr. Milverton had spoken of; would even, in the midst of his arduous duties, study Bradshaw for the benefit of his guests, carefully provide the means of transit for them, take care to have early breakfasts for them if they were going anywhere at an irrational time in the morning; and, in short, be even a little fussy in looking after all manner of comforts and conveniences for them. But how one valued this thoughtful kindness from such a man!

Footnote 16:

It was Lord Palmerston.

From this point I remember how the conversation went:--

_Sir Arthur._ Some time ago I went into a part of the country which is celebrated for its romantic scenery. Our friend J----,--whom we used to know and to like at college, Milverton,--invited me to his place, and I accepted the invitation. The morning after I arrived at his house I felt very unwell. Now the first thing when you are unwell is to get a fire made in your room. I rang the bell early: it was answered by a rather clownish, but not unintelligent-looking young fellow.

“Light me a fire, please.”

“A fire?” said he, and looked despondingly at me, and then at the fireplace.

“Yes; I must have a fire: I don’t feel well.”

Then he set to work to light the fire, taking great pains with his work.

In a few moments the fire began to smoke furiously.

I jumped up in bed, and remarked, not in the mildest terms, “that it smoked.”

“Yes, I knowed she ’ud: she almost allus does. She’s smoked this twenty year, as I’ve heerd say.”

The door was put open; but “she” was one of those vicious chimneys which do not care a bit whether doors are open or not.

“Have you got such a thing as a pair of bellows?”

“No, we han’t got such a thing as bellusses.” And then the good-natured youth lay down on the floor, and performed the part of a bellows with a goodwill and a vigour that it was astonishing to behold.

By the way, I may remark that our friend J---- is not a poor man. He has a magnificent collection of gems and medals; and household gods of every variety of strange hideousness adorned every disposable corner of his dwelling. I really mean “household gods”--Roman, Chinese, Peruvian, Mexican, Japanese. These quaint little monsters (J---- has no children) were doted upon by himself and Mrs. J----.

The boy went on puffing and blowing.

“Goethe was quite wrong,” I remarked, thinking aloud for myself.

“Were he, sir? I dare say he were,” replied the youth, looking up for a moment. “Master’s allus complaining of them people at the Bald-faced Stag.” This was the inn I had taken horses from to come on to J----’s.

“Yes,” I continued; “he said, ‘_Always take care of the Beautiful, for the Useful will take care of itself._’ I would say, ‘_Always take care of the Useful; for the Beautiful will take care of itself._’”

_Mauleverer._ And it does not much matter whether it does or not.

_Sir Arthur._ And the youth said, “Eh, dear, the gentleman didn’t know no better, I suppose.” But whether my puffing friend understood the question, and really sided with me, or whether he agreed with me from complaisance, I am to this day in doubt.

_Milverton._ Goethe is as right as possible.

_Ellesmere._ Sir Arthur is certainly very unjust in this instance. It is not the Beautiful but the Curious and the Grotesque that J---- cared for.

_Milverton._ Of course.

_Ellesmere._ And Sir Arthur’s error was in visiting a collector. Collectors are a race of men by themselves. They are the most dangerous form of misers--I mean dangerous to live with. They are very useful fellows, I admit. But my reply to any invitation on their part would run as follows:--“Sir John Ellesmere presents his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Collector, and regrets that a previous engagement prevents his having the pleasure of accepting their kind invitation.”

_Mauleverer._ You have both set upon Sir Arthur, and have treated him very hardly, I think. His remark was one of general application; and, just because he happened to mention that this J---- was a collector of little household monsters, you have directed your attack upon this point--ignoring the fact, as I say, that Sir Arthur’s remark was of a most general character. I think the story a very valuable one. Bellows absent, gems present; smoky chimney suffered to exist; comfort of guests utterly neglected, but “household gods” affronting you everywhere. That is the way to put it.

_Ellesmere._ I maintain that the great duty of a host is not to be a bore, and not to show people anything which he may fancy they _might_ like to see. Indeed I have come to the conclusion that the host, to be a perfect host, should be blind and a cripple--I even think it would be better that this perfect host should have an impediment in his speech, and be slightly paralytic.

[No one would agree with this inhuman proposition.]

_Ellesmere._ Oh! you think me a monster!

We are all to tell our sad experiences of what is fondly called hospitality; so hear one of mine.

I was once invited by a host whom I thought to be perfection. He was very learned: he was very witty: he was partially blind: and always either in a fit of the gout, or threatened with a fit of it. “Here is the man for me,” I said. “I will accept his invitation. We shall only see him at dinner, when he will be most agreeable.” I went to his house. The next morning after my arrival, to my utter amazement, he ordered horses for all of us, and took us to see some drainage works on his estate. There were 27 degrees of frost that day. As we sat on our horses, surveying the common process of draining,--about which I thought I knew something, and did not want to know any more,--we were nearly statuefied. As the old women say, you might have knocked me down with a feather; for hands, arms, feet, and legs were entirely without life. As we rode back, I could not help saying, “My dear sir, don’t take me indoors, I am entirely frozen; just throw me into your ice-house. I shall be very useful there next June.” I don’t believe he felt the reproof.

Now look at Milverton: perhaps he is the best host in this kingdom. I have never met with his equal. He complains of fatigue if he walks with you more than 200 yards: he is ever anxious to be back at his work again; he will “almost allus” leave you alone, if you will leave him alone. Considered as a host, he is a beautiful creature--unrivalled. But I would not trust even him.

I maintain my first proposition, that a man to be a perfect host should have nothing to show you, or, if he has, he should be too ill to be able to show it.

Mr. Cranmer then astonished us all by maintaining that the one great thing to ensure happiness in any assemblage of people was, that they should like one another (that one uncongenial person could neutralize ten congenial people), and that all social happiness consisted in the amount of affection and esteem that pervaded the society--that you did not care what rude things a man said to you of whose regard you were really sure, and so conversation might be free, frank, bold, and yet not offensive. It was the main point in hospitality to bring congenial people together.

After this the conversation changed, and Mr. Mauleverer pointed out to us the phenomena in the aspect of the heavens that he had wished us to come and see. I cannot give an account of what he said, for I did not understand it.

_Sir Arthur._ What an awful thing it would be to behold the conflagration of a star! Such a thing has occurred recently, has it not, Mauleverer?

_Mr. Mauleverer._ Yes.

_Milverton._ There are two things that appal me whenever I consider them. One is, the immense amount of complicated misery which any one human soul can endure without going mad.

_Ellesmere._ And the second is?

_Milverton._ The idea of illimitable space that is to be derived from the contemplation of these innumerable worlds around us.

I don’t know whether you remember a theory I once propounded to some of you, that the stars are as close to one another (relatively speaking) as the ultimate atoms of the wood in this boat; and that to the vision that could embrace such a scene, the heavenly bodies would appear to be solid bodies, or, perhaps, one solid body.

_Ellesmere._ That is an idea in respect to which I would rather not pledge myself to say anything.

_Milverton._ Well, then, I imagine that all matter is in motion; that the motion is analogous to that of the heavenly bodies; and that chemical combination is merely a disturbance and re-formation of the orbits of the ultimate atoms of matter.

_Mauleverer._ In fact, that all chemistry is but astronomy?

_Ellesmere._ I hope your theories may be true for this reason: that we should then only have to learn one science instead of two, which would be a great convenience to half-educated persons, such as I am.

_Sir Arthur._ I like to dwell upon the moral aspect of such a scene as this. The contemplation of these innumerable worlds really ought to make us a little less fussy and tiresome about our own small affairs.

If I had to comfort a disappointed man, or to soothe an angry man, or to console a bereaved man, I should like to have him in the open air to talk to, on a starry moonlit night.

I think I should have far more chance of prevailing with him if I could direct his attention occasionally to the stars. I wonder more use has not been made of this situation in the drama, and in fiction generally.

_Ellesmere._ Well, you see, in these northern climes, when one has any great business to transact,--a murder to plan, a ministry to upset, a rival in love to circumvent, a large sum of money to get,--one likes to be in a comfortable, warm room, if possible with a fire, and not to be amongst gnats and insects, (how they do plague one now!) staring up at these heavenly bodies about which we know next to nothing, and the contemplation of which does not make us practical and business-like.

_Mr. Mauleverer._ As we drove down here, we passed the telegraph wires. I saw a sparrow comfortably perched upon one of these wires; and I said to myself, “_As much as that sparrow knows of the urgent haste, and the sorrow, and the suffering which are expressed in the messages that are passing under its claws, which do not perceive the slightest tremulousness as the messages speed on, so much does the poor human being know of what is being transacted in this universe, and of what it all means._” And while I was thinking this thought, Mr. Sparrow chirped an affectionate little chirp, and Mrs. Sparrow came and perched beside him; and they doubtless thought that they were the masters of the situation, and the lord and lady of the whole scene.

_Ellesmere._ Just as Mrs. Milverton believes that the wild theories that Milverton has just put forward, are in exact accordance with scientific truth and wisdom.

It would be an amusing thing (if one dared to think of amusement in a future state) to imagine how most of the greatest thinkers will prove to have been utterly wrong.

But let us quit these dangerous themes for those which are humbler and safer.

You said some time ago, Sir Arthur, that stars have not been made enough use of in the drama and in fiction generally. Have you ever read Alexander Smith’s works? They are really very good, and he makes immense use of the stars. But there is an obscure author, a friend of mine, who is also very fond of making good use of the sun and the stars.

The next thing to being a poet is being a person who can remember poetry; and I am not sure but that the man who takes the trouble to learn by heart large quantities of poetry has not a more poetical soul in him than the poet.

I know it is so in the present case.

_Milverton._ Ellesmere’s memory for poetry is extraordinary. He can quote you 70 lines at a time from Pope or Dryden.

_Sir Arthur._ Nothing would be more appropriate, Sir John, than that, amidst this beautiful scene, you should quote poetry largely to us. We are coming near the swans’ nest too, which would make such quotation more suitable.

_Ellesmere._ Well, it is from a drama that I am going to quote. There are two lovers (of course there are. When shall we ever have a good story without these tiresome lovers?). The hero tells of his travels: he comes to the South:--

“The joyous, noisy South, where the perfume Of orange-groves pervades the charmèd air, And overcomes the incense in the temples; And where the yellow rocks uprise from out A tideless sea that purples as you gaze, And seems like th’ unreal waters of enchantment You read of in a magic tale--that might, Some potent word pronounced, vanish away.”

Then he describes a thing I once saw myself somewhere on the Mediterranean, a part of the shore where the sand is wholly black:--

“Like crumbled memories of a life All spent in sorrow ... On which the calm blue ripple, like a lizard Up a dark wall, stole softly: then, to Africa We sailed, and in the desert drew that breath So full, so deep, that ever afterwards There is a sense of stifling in grand palaces, When we recall our sojourn midst the sand, And see again brown camels moored about Our tent, and watch the all-pervading sunset-- One fiery dome--the north, the east, the south, Reddening alike, nor leaving to the west Alone the duty-task of shining out In regal pomp--when the fierce king of day Takes leave of all the courtly hemisphere At once--a sunset wholly inconceivable To those who dwell in pallid Russia.”

Then, of course, the lady says:--

“Oh, would that I had been with you in that tent!”

Then comes the starry bit, for the gentleman exclaims:--

“And how at the big stars we gazed, and wondered That men could e’er be cruel to each other, Having that sky to look upon, and all That it may mean to interpret.”

Then he gives a description of the ruins of some provincial amphitheatre, saying that of all he saw, that was the thing which haunted his memory most closely:--

“Like some fierce, wicked face, seen once in a crowd, That will obtrude its unblest recollection, And will not bide dismissal; it is this: Amidst the hills there lies an oval valley, Not shaped by nature, but man’s work--all man’s. From base to summit curving lines ascend Of granite steps.”

Then there is a description of some of the arrangements for the spectators, especially for the ladies:--

“That great provincial dames might sit in comfort, Four arched and barred recesses, treasure caves, Contained the hoarded mass of human misery And bestial suffering chosen to delight The pampered multitude pining for blood.

* * * * *

See! the Proconsul comes.... The hushed spectators draw a lower breath, And wait, with palpitating joy, the rush Of beasts which are to tear their fellow-men; Or, peevish at some wearisome delay, Denounce the meanness of patricians nowadays, And moralize upon the scarcity Of lions, praising much the good old times, When gladiators died more freely.”

Then I suppose there is some stupid love-making; but I forget. At any rate the gentleman resolves to go on with his story, and he does so in these words:--

“And now, departed all, Proconsuls, lions, gladiators, slaves,-- A wooden stage, and painted daubs hung out Of dancing girls, such as attract the boors At festivals, betray the conquering march Of a new creed that makes account of men.”

I suppose it is Verona that the dramatist alludes to, where you see a modern boarded theatre occupying some portion of the old amphitheatre.

By the way, when I saw Verona, I was in company with another friend of mine, named Leonard Milverton, and I never saw a man so entranced with a picture as he was with one of those said “daubs.” You could not arouse him from his contemplation of it. Now I could always get him away from a Titian. I so soon become tired of pictures. That reminds me of an omission in our talk about hospitality. Should it not be set down as one of the greatest breaches of hospitality when a man _will_ show you his pictures? And there are fiend-like hosts who absolutely insist upon showing you books of prints, and making you go right through them; but such men never have my company more than once.

Well, but I left Milverton contemplating this daub. You never saw a man so fascinated by a work of art. So, quoth I, “What can you see in that thing, Milverton? It is only a magnified representation of the pictures ‘fast’ men at college in our time (I suppose there are no such things now) used to have in their rooms of favourite dancers.”

“No,” he said, grasping my arm, and looking at me with a fierce seriousness, “it is perhaps the greatest stride that Christianity has ever made--from gladiators to dancing maidens.”

Let me give you another passage from my drama; it is my favourite, and it will delight Mauleverer. In fact, I think he will send a 10_l._ note anonymously to the author, as a proof of his entire satisfaction. I think he will give me what the vulgar call a “fiver,” for having quoted it. This is the passage:--

“We shall succeed. This one injustice may be remedied. But then the things that _have_ been--why they come Upon me now I wot not: hideous deeds Long numbered with the past. The earth may smile, And deck herself each May, vain thing! with flowers, And seem forgetful of the cruelties Enacted on her ever-changing stage, Till every spot upon the storied surface Is rank with tragic memories.”

Then he dilates upon the horrors that have been perpetrated on this earth.

“The earth may smile, I say, But, like a new-made widow’s mirth, it shocks one. And she, the earth, should never quit her weeds; And should there come a happier race upon her, Ever there’ll be a sighing of the wind, A moaning of the sea, to hint to that More favoured race what we poor men have suffered. There must have been a history, they’ll say, To be interpreted by all these sighs And moans.”

Not bad lines, are they, Mrs. Milverton?

_Mrs. Milverton._ _I_ think they are beautiful, Sir John.

_Sir Arthur_ (who had evidently an inkling of the authorship). They certainly are, Mrs. Milverton. Where is this poem to be found?

_Ellesmere._ Trunks or butter, Sir Arthur. The linings of old trunks, or the wrappages of butter, are to be examined carefully if you would recover this charming work.

_Milverton._ My dear John, you must have had a great liking for the author, or you never would have cumbered your memory to such an extent with his rubbish.

_Ellesmere._ Well, honestly, I did not think it was rubbish, though it was written by a friend. (Here Ellesmere put his hand for a moment on Milverton’s; and I certainly never saw Mr. Milverton look more pleased.) Moreover, the tyrant of an author laid hold of me, and made me copy out some of the drama for the printers; and that is how I came to know so much of it by heart.

How about the ten pounds, Mauleverer, which you were to send to the poor author?

_Mauleverer._ You do not quite understand me, any of you. I am not disposed to indulge in the munificence which Sir John has kindly suggested for me, and I shall not send that anonymous author ten pounds, or give Ellesmere five, because the author merely dwells upon cruelties and horrors of all kinds committed by men, whereas I should have liked him to have dwelt upon their littleness and their baseness.

_Ellesmere._ My dear Mauleverer, do you really think that a poem should be something like the proceedings of the Central Criminal Court?

_Sir Arthur._ Mauleverer thinks that poetic description ennobles, and so disguises, human suffering.

_Cranmer._ Prose is the proper thing. There is nothing of any importance that can be described adequately, except in prose.

_Ellesmere._ A noble sentiment!

_Mauleverer._ I am very much obliged to Sir Arthur for explaining what he thinks I mean; but I decline to accept my kind commentator’s version of my meaning.

The poet, as quoted by Ellesmere, has just told his story to show the sufferings of mankind. I could tell you one to show its ineradicable baseness. You think that you learned and imaginative men, Sir Arthur, are the only persons whose nymphs inform them of strange stories; but I have my story, too.

_Ellesmere._ Pray let us have it. Do not be modest, Mauleverer: modesty would not sit well upon you.

_Mauleverer._ Well, then, you _shall_ have it.

To a planet, not very far from us, but which I shall not mention, because one ought to be confidential as regards the doings in neighbouring planets, the souls of capitalists, men of business, and well-to-do people are transferred. Now the law in this planet is that these people shall be endowed with certain portions of their dear money, according to the use, judicious or injudicious, which they have made of it in this world. The form of the endowment is this--

They all have to pass, one by one, in front of a colossal statue. It would tax the utmost powers of any mortal to describe this statue. I have ever loved statues beyond all other works of art, and therefore may be permitted to attempt a description of it. There have been great statues made even in this world. Who has not heard and thought of the magnificent Memnon with his unseen lyre trembling into music at the rising of the sun? Who, that has seen it, has not been awed by the Sphinx, cruellest of maidens, daughter of Chimæra, propounding riddles harder to understand than her own mixed nature of lioness and woman? Need I dwell upon the god-like grandeur of Michael Angelo’s Jupiter? And, to come down to the statues of ordinary life; who that at night, alone, has paced up and down long galleries enriched with statues, has not felt that these statues have spoken awful words to his soul? Perhaps there has been a row of mighty wicked Roman emperors; and Neros, Caligulas, and Domitians have frankly acknowledged their colossal wickednesses to the horror-stricken mortal contemplating them.

But all these, the works of men, sink into insignificance when compared with the statue which, with humility and fear, I venture to describe.

It was golden: not that it was of gold, but that it produced in your mind the idea of gold. Its robes were of jasper, onyx, and opal: not that these earthly materials were there, but that it produced the ideas of them in your mind. But the transcendent quality about this statue was this--that you were fully conscious that it was alive, and yet that it was a statue. Its face was downcast; its attitude bending: it held its clasped hands in front of it, the elbows resting on its curule chair. Not anger nor pity, nor joy, nor sorrow, was imprinted on its countenance, but only intense thought. It did not give you the idea of a Being petrified into a statue, nor as if any hands had wrought at it and fashioned it. It seemed as if only supreme thought and judgment had taken form.

One by one those who had been mortal defiled before it, and its ministers awarded gifts according to the dread thoughts of the Statue, which they alone could interpret. I need hardly say how different its judgments were from those which Fortune had pronounced in this world. The struggling man who had hardly known how to keep soul and body together here, but who had a great heart that might be trusted, found himself, to use a French phrase, “at the head of” large revenues; while he who had been a millionaire here, found himself condemned to live upon the merest pittance. Not that it was always so, for envy had dwarfed the just receptiveness of some poor men for money, while there were men who had been rich in this world, and remained rich in my planet too, because they had been great in soul, as well as abounding in substance.

The curious thing was that all went away, if not satisfied, at least unmurmuring, and supremely convinced of the absolute justice of the Statue’s awards. I noticed one man who had possessed three millions of money while he was on earth, of which sum it could not be said he had used one hundred wisely or usefully, and he went away, not joyfully, but unmurmuringly, when he was awarded by the ministers of the Statue one ducat per week.

But now comes the strangest thing. I could not help watching this man, whom I had known in life, to ascertain what would be his social state in his new sphere. Strange to say, other men were willing to partake their fortunes with him, though there were many more deserving than he. _But men liked to be seen walking and talking with this man, for they said, “He was once so rich--so very rich--in the other world; and it is still a credit and an honour to be acquainted with him.” Such is the ineffable, ineradicable baseness of mankind._

_Ellesmere._ Has not the air suddenly become chilly, or is it that Mauleverer talks chilliness into our blood?

It does not seem to have entered into Mauleverer’s head that man might naturally feel some pity for this quondam rich man; but, upon the whole, the story has a very pretty moral to it--very superior, Sir Arthur, to what can be found in Milverton’s fables or mine, or even in yours.

The boat was now rowed to the shore; we took a last look at the beautiful reflection of the moon and stars in the still water, and were then driven home to Worth-Ashton.

In the course of the evening the reading commenced, and was as follows:--

The Story of Realmah.