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                           THE OUTCAST
                               by
                          Winwood Reade

                             LONDON:

                          WATTS & Co.,

           5 & 6 JOHNSON'S COURT, FLEET STREET, E.C.4

            First published in the Thinkers Library,
                          October, 1933

                          INTRODUCTION

     MANY readers of The Martyrdom of Man must have speculated upon
the character and the fate of the other books written by the same
hand. It seems on the face of it incredible that a work which, on
its first appearance in 1872, won its way to popular favor in spite
of total neglect or unbridled condemnation by the newspapers and
reviews, and in spite of its slashing onslaughts upon accepted
opinions, should stand quite alone. No favorable review of this
disturbing volume appeared until 1906, yet edition after edition
bore witness to a steady demand. Even upon the post-war generation,
to whom the successes of the Victorian age mean less than nothing,
Winwood Reade's vision of the world has cast its spell. Within ten
years fully one hundred thousand copies have passed into
circulation. No shadow of mortality has yet fallen upon its pages.
Is there nothing else among his writings that yet lives?

     If this question had to be answered without qualification in
the negative, an adequate explanation might be given on two
grounds. Winwood Reade died young, at the age of thirty-six -- an
age when, in the comparatively slow-maturing period during which he
lived, achievement might be expected to have only begun. Moreover,
his earlier writings were written in fiction form, to which his
powers were not well adapted. In choosing the vehicle of fiction
Winwood Reade was probably inspired by the example of his famous
uncle, Charles Reade, who was fresh risen to fame at the time when
Winwood was at Oxford. Before he was twenty-one Winwood published
a short novel, 'Charlotte and Myra,' following this a year later
with a three-decker 'Liberty Hall, Oxon,' in which the lives of
undergraduates were portrayed. Both were failures, and the
disappointment over these early ventures may have had something to
do with their author's decision, in 1862, to visit Africa as an
explorer. It was in Africa, during a series of adventurous
journeys, followed by experiences as 'The Times' correspondent
during the Ashanti War, that he gathered much of the material woven
later into 'The Martyrdom of Man.' During 1865 another novel
appeared -- 'See-Saw,' a story dealing with Roman Catholicism in
Italy and Protestantism in England -- but it was no more fortunate
than its predecessors. In his 'African Sketch Book' Reade confessed
that "my books are literary insects, doomed to a trifling and
ephemeral existence, to buzz and hum for a season -- and to die."




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     The books in which he recorded his African adventures were
somewhat more fortunate, though they failed to bring him his due 
recognition as an intrepid explorer. According to Mr. F. Legge,
"the cause which chiefly contributed to the public neglect of his
results was the extraordinary form in which he thought fit to
publish them. They did not appear at all until three years after
his return to England, and then only in the form of a journal kept
while in the bush for the perusal of a lady whom he addresses as
'Dear Margaret,' and for whom he seems to have had a deep and
tender affection." Further, although this work, the 'African Sketch
Book,' contained much solid information on anthropological matters
and several good maps, it "was stuffed with tales of savage life
which are avowedly, like the illustrations with which it abounds,
drawn from the imagination merely."

     Only in 'The Martyrdom of Man,' in an earlier work 'The Veil
of Isis' (1861) recounting the history of the Druids, and in 'The
Story of the Ashanti Campaign,' which amplifies his contributions
to The Times, does Winwood Reade make a definite departure from the
fictional model at which he first tried his hand. It is
significant, therefore, that in his last book, 'The Outcast,' he
returns to this model and uses it as a vehicle for the expression
of his deepest thoughts on the problems of life -- or, rather, the
problem of life.

     'The Outcast' was written during his last illness. His
strength had been undermined during his earlier journeys in Africa,
and the dysentery and fever contracted in the Ashanti campaign
broke down his last defenses. Death was near, and in the nearness
of death he penned his brief and eloquent confession of faith. It
was published in 1875 -- the year of his, death -- and within that
year it had passed into a third edition.

     Since then 'The Outcast' has not, until now, been reprinted.
But it has not been forgotten. Copies have been treasured by their
possessors and passed to trusted and discerning friends. The
passage of time has proved that although the book cannot rival 'The
Martyrdom of Man' in magnitude or brilliance, and although the
treatment recalls the conventions of an age that seems almost
archaic, it has the touch of greatness and the universal appeal
that defy time and change. Each generation as it emerges to the
stage of conscious reflection confronts anew the ancient puzzle of
the existence of evil. Each of us must, in our own way, settle our
account with a universe which involves the martyrdom of man. Here,
through the medium of a story which is really a philosophical
essay, Winwood Reade discusses more than one solution, from the
bankrupt evasion of suicide to the illusory prospect of
compensation in another world where the errors of omniscience shall
be made good. His own solution is finally offered -- a solution
based on the frank acceptance of facts of life, sinister and
cheerful alike, and culminates in the faith that man may, by the
exercise of reason and goodwill, become the master of a happier
destiny. He finds joy and fulfillment in a religion of service: "To
labor and love without hope of requital or reward, what religion
could be more pure and more sublime?"




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     A few days after Winwood Reade's death, Charles Reade wrote
that he had died "heir to considerable estates which he did not
live long enough to inherit, and gifted with genius which he had no
time to mature." While this is a just estimate, we may console
ourselves with the though that during his short span Winwood Reade
lived intensely, thought deeply, and gave expression to his zeal
for intellectual honesty and his fervor for human betterment in two
volumes which still illumine the mind and touch the heart.

                          ****     ****

                            LETTER I

     MY DEAR FRANK, -- I welcome you back to your native land, and
take it for granted that you and Ellen are tired enough of
travelling. Life in a strange country is always artificial -- it
seems to me like being at a play -- and constant change becomes
monotonous after a time. I hear from Ellen that she intends to stop
in London a week before joining you at home; and I shall reserve
till then my latest budget of news about the tenants, and the
harvest, and the pets, and the penny readings, &c. just now I can
think of little else but the tragedy at Dr. Scott's, some account
of which no doubt you have seen in the papers. But I will tell you
the whole story.

     Arthur Elliott was the only son of a wealthy landed
proprietor, one of my nearest neighbors, and a brother magistrate.
Arthur had a most amiable nature, and was tenderly loved, not only
by his parents, but by all who knew him intimately. His attainments
were remarkable, as I can testify; for we read much together. He
was an excellent classical scholar, but his favorite study was that
of metaphysics, from which he was led to the study of natural
science. Religion was the poetry and passion of his life; and,
though of a different belief, it afforded me pleasure to hear him
discourse on the grandeur and benevolence of God. Sometimes when we
were together in a deep green wood on a sultry summer afternoon; or
sometimes walking at night beneath the glorious starlit sky; or
sometimes when reading the dialogues of Plato, some divine thought
rose from the book like an immortal spirit from the grave, and
passed into his soul; then the tears would stream from his eyes,
and falling on his knees he would utter praises or prayers in words
of surpassing eloquence, and with a voice of the sweetest melody.
And often -- how well I remember it now -- often at such times his
gestures grew wild and almost furious, his utterance was choked,
and a strange bubbling sound came from his mouth. Dr. Scott, who
was present on one of these occasions, watched him I thought, with
an air of anxiety; and I heard that he advised the Elliotts to take
away their son from his books and send him abroad with a travelling
tutor. But Arthur disliked the idea of leaving home, and his
parents did not urge him to go, believing that the danger was
imaginary. So he remained, and things went on as before.

     One day he came to me in trouble. He had been reading the
great work of Malthus -- the 'Essay on Population' -- and said that
it made him doubt the goodness of God. I replied with the usual
common-place remarks; he listened to me attentively, then sighed,
shook his head, and went away. A little while afterwards he read 


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'The Origin of Species,' which had just come out, and which proves
that the Law of Population is the chief agent by which Evolution
has been produced. From that time he began to show symptoms of
insanity -- which disease, it is thought, he inherited from one of
his progenitors. He dressed always in black, and said that he was
in mourning for mankind. The works of Malthus and Darwin, bound in
somber covers, were placed on a table in his room; the first was
lettered outside 'The Book of Doubt,' and the second 'The Book of
Despair.' He took long solitary walks in the most secluded parts of
the estate, and was sometimes seen gesticulating to the heavens,
sometimes seated by the wayside plucking grass and casting it from
him with a strange, tremulous movement of the hands. It was in vain
that his good parents and the rector attempted to soothe his
troubled mind with the hopes and consolations of a future life. He
said that a wrong was always a wrong, and that no reward could
atone for unmerited punishment. It was then I thought it right to
express my own opinions on the subject of theology. But, though
Arthur could cease to love and revere, he could not cease to
believe. I have often observed that men of powerful intellect,
especially those of the poetic constitution, find it almost
impossible to shake off the faith which has been taught them in
their childhood. In Arthur's case the boldest spirit of inquiry and
a remorseless power of induction were allied to a rigid habit of
belief. If he could have closed his eyes, in common with so many
inquirers, to the barbarous element in nature, or simply dismissed
it from his mind after a brief period of discomfort, he might have
continued to believe in the God of his imagination and preserved
his happiness. If, on the other hand, unable to escape from
positive fact, he could have given up, or doubted ever so little,
the dogma of a Personal Creator, he would, I believe, have finally
found repose. As it was, he fell into a most deplorable condition.
His God had never been an abstraction, but a Father and a Friend;
and now, by ever brooding on the subject, by ever directing his
thoughts towards this Imaginary Person, he actually felt its
presence, as the hermit in the desert after months of
contemplation, as the cenobite in the solitary cell. With him,
however, it was not love and devotion, it was anger and hatred,
which kindled the dangerous fire in the brain, inspired the vision,
and forced him to commune with the shadow of his mind.

     He spent much of his time with me, and at last I wearied of
his complaints. I told him that it was useless to repine against
the Inexorable; that after all there was more good than evil in the
world if we went the right way to find it; and that if he
sympathized so much with the miseries of men he should try to
mitigate them, instead of pouring forth idle lamentations. He
looked at me sadly, and embraced me, resting his head upon my
shoulder; he never spoke of his troubles again, and I often
repented of my harshness. But not long afterwards we all thought
that he was saved. He became betrothed to a lovely and charming
girl, Miss Lilian Moore, who was visiting at the rectory. She
seemed to possess some tranquillizing power; her eyes, were calm
and deep, and goodness was written in every feature of her face.
She saw that Arthur required occupation, and asked him to compose
some stories to amuse her. He complied, and wrote a number of
tales, in which the trees, and flowers, and rocks, and animals were
his characters and heroes. These stories were fanciful, quaint, and


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humorous; and several being published in the magazines, attracted
notice from the press. Arthur received more than one flattering
offer from London publishing firms, and began to show himself
ambitious of literary fame. He had now quite recovered his health
and happiness; he saw Lilian every day; but ah, Frank, how shall I
tell you, the dear girl caught an infectious fever from nursing a
sick child in the village, and died. Arthur went to the funeral,
but sat a little way off on the tombstone plucking the grass and
casting it from him with the strange movement of the hands I
mentioned before. As the service was ended the clock struck twelve.
He got up and said, "The wedding will be late!" and approached the
grave which had just been filled up. Then he flung himself upon it
with fearful shrieks and curses against the supposed Author of the
world. When people attempted to lead him away he dashed them to the
ground with superhuman strength. Yet even in this fearful attack of
mania he seemed to recognize his father, and only shrank back from
the aged hands carousingly placed upon his arm. He was taken to Dr.
Scott's private asylum, which was but a little way from the church,
and in a few days ceased to be violent, asked for his papers and
books, and, having obtained them studied from morning to night. He
appeared perfectly quiet and contented; but every night, when the
church clock struck twelve, he opened the window of his room, which
was on the ground floor, murmured the name of Lilian, folded his
arms upon his breast, as if he had embraced her, and kissed the
air. Then, with the connivance of his servant, he sprang out of the
window and walked to the churchyard, followed by the man, who at
least never let him go out of his sight. All the while he conversed
(as if with Lilian) in the most animated manner, and, having
reached the grave, made movements with his hands as if covering her
up; after which he said "Good-night" in a cheerful voice and
returned. These promenades were, of course, discovered in time.
Arthur was carefully watched, the servant was dismissed, the
windows were barred. Nothing else could have been done, yet there
is too much reason to fear that this restraint proved injurious.
When the hour of midnight drew near he became uneasy and restless;
and when prevented from going to the window be fell into a state of
dejection. He no longer slept well, and was often troubled with
visions and dreams. One morning, when he awoke, he sat up in bed,
and laughed till the tears ran out of his eyes. He sent for the
doctor, and told him he had "found it all out," and, when asked to
explain what he meant, replied that it was an original idea -- a
most important discovery -- and that he should send it to a
magazine. "If I told you what it was," he continued, "you would
keep me here all my life, and pass off my idea on a deluded public
as your own." The doctor, to humor him, replied that he was
incapable of such malpractice. "Ah, well!" replied Arthur, "at
ordinary times, and in ordinary cases, no doubt you are an honest
man; but here the temptation would be too strong. Still, I don't
mind telling you my title. It's 'A New Thing under the Moon.'" He
then burst out laughing again, and rubbed his hands together with
glee. In the afternoon he became violent, said he should "throw up
his part," and tried to spring out of the window, dashing himself
against the bars. He was placed in a padded room. The next day he
was quiet as usual, and asked for paper and ink; but as the doctor
wished to get him to sleep, of which he stood in much need, this
request was refused. At first he seemed angry, then shrugged his
shoulders and smiled. It was afterwards found that he had a note-


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book and pencil in his pocket. At ten o'clock p.m. he appeared
drowsy, but said that he could not sleep with people in the room;
and Dr. Scott told the attendants to go outside, but to look in
from time to time. In an hour or so he seemed to fall into a sleep,
which was probably assumed, and the vigilance of the watchers was
relaxed. But in the grey hour of the dawn they heard a struggle in
the room and a choked kind of cry. They pushed the door, but it had
been secured from within by a small piece of wood wedged in
underneath. They forced it open at last, and the body of the
unfortunate young man was found hanging from the window bar. Life
was extinct. On the table was a note-book in which he had been
writing. Dr. Scott has just sent it over, and advises me to read
it; so in my next letter I may give you an account of its contents.
Such, dear son-in-law, is the sad history of Arthur Elliott.

                          ****     ****

                            LETTER II

     MY DEAR FRANK, -- I enclose you a copy of Elliott's last
production, written in a state of insanity, just before he
committed suicide. It will reach you, I hope, before. Ellen's
return, as I suppose you would not wish her to see it. You make it
a rule, I know, not to discuss theology with women, and I am much
of your opinion. When Ellen was a girl I carefully attended to the
culture of her mind, and encouraged her to read works of philosophy
and science. But, though I saw that she possessed a vigorous
intellect, I did not dare to carry her beyond the limits of Theism.
I feared that for her my faith would be but a system of cold and
comfortless philosophy, and that if at some future time, in
adversity or suffering, a religion became necessary to her, she
would run no slight risk of falling into Superstition. I saved her
from that danger by teaching her to believe in a God, compared with
whom the God of the Bible is a very indifferent character. But I
need not say that my God, though a nobler conception, is just as
much a creature of fiction as the other. They are both made by
human heads, as idols are made by human hands; only, while the
people of the churches and the chapels worship an idol of brass, I
gave my daughter an idol of gold. I formed her a God of the purest
and noblest ideas, and she still believes it to be real. Of course,
some day or other she may discover the deception; and were she to
read the enclosed manuscript, she would, I think, cease to believe
in the Divine benevolence, and next would begin to suspect that the
Being called God is as much a fabulous creature as Jupiter, Mars,
or Apollo. And then comes the great question, "Would she be able to
accept our religion, which demands such an utter abnegation of
self? Would she even understand it?" I fear that she would lapse
into that state of skepticism and indifference which, in a woman at
least, is more odious and harmful than superstition.

     I therefore advise you not to show her this manuscript. But
read it yourself without delay, for you will be able to enjoy it.
It will not make you tremble in your shoes. You have climbed above
theology, as the Alpine mountaineer above the clouds.





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                   A NEW THING UNDER THE MOON

     The habit of reading in bed is delightful, but the books used
for that purpose should be carefully selected. It was most
imprudent of me to read, and at Dr. Scott's of all places in the
world, the 'Confessions of an Opium-Eater' just after three
chapters of Butler's Analogy. I might have known that it would give
me mental indigestion. Needless to say that I had a dream, and such
a dream! or rather such a series of dreams! Yet, though I spent a
bad night, it is some consolation to reflect it was so ordained for
the good of mankind. I am willing indeed to admit that the system
of Cosmogony set forth in my dream may possibly not be true, and I
shall not claim for it the name of Revelation as other dreamers
have done; I merely assert that my theory of Cause and Creation is
the best that has ever been propounded. It explains all the facts
of history and nature, is in harmony with science, and is supported
by analogy. Above all, it is quite original; nothing like it has
ever been imagined before; and, though Solomon wisely observes that
there is no new thing under the Sun, there may be a new thing under
the Moon; and dreams are exceptions to every rule. However, my
readers shall judge for themselves

     I dreamt, first of all, I was standing, as it seemed to me, in
Space, and I had a curious kind of impression that the Infinite was
not too large, but just the right size for a person of my
dimensions. I observed something in the distance of a dark and
shadowy appearance, in form like a promontory, of which I could
plainly perceive the extremity or point, but not the base and
middle parts, although, as the point was exactly opposite my range
of vision, and was turned away from me, it was clear that the bulk
of the promontory must be situated between me and the extremity in
question. This puzzled me much, and after staring some time I
closed my left eye in order to see more distinctly. Then up shot a
huge wall to the left of my right and still open eye. If you look
at your nose with both eyes open, and then look at it with one eye
shut, you will understand what I mean. I had, in fact, been
surveying the tip of my own nose, which was distant many thousand
miles from the middle of my face. I glanced at my shoulders, but
they extended indefinitely into space; I could not see either of my
hands, they were too far off; and when I lifted one up it seemed
like a huge flesh-colored mountain sailing towards me through the
air, and threatening to crush me if I did not pull it back. Then I
thought what a dreadful thing it was to have such a nose, and a
body which could be measured only by means of a trigonometrical
survey. A cold perspiration broke out on my forehead, and I
calculated that each drop was about the size of the Atlantic Ocean.
This woke me with a start. I sat up in bed, felt my nose, and then,
cursing all opium-eaters, lay down and fell asleep again.

     I next dreamt that I was seated in an amphitheater or circus,
in the midst of a large audience. I was conscious that I had the
same body as before, and that all the persons present were equally
enormous; yet I could see the ends of my shoulders, and my nose did
not seem to be long; the reason of which I suppose to be this --
that in my previous dream I was in a transitional state; my body
had become that of the Demigods, whose kingdom I had entered, while
my eyesight remained in the human condition. But now my vision had 
also been enlarged, and I soon found that it possessed
extraordinary powers.
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     The arena of the circus must have been many millions of miles
in extent, and was a bottomless pit of pure ether, traversed by a
bright shining ball, round which sailed a number of dark little
beads attending its course. Now I fancied I had seen them somewhere
before. I looked at them again more attentively, -- there could be
no doubt at all about the matter, -- it was the Solar System.

     My mind was still that of a mortal; so, instead of looking
down on our little universe with the calm curiosity of a superior
being, I had the injured feeling of an inhabitant, and rose to go,
saying, "It is only an ornery after all."

     However, I observed that the eyes of the spectators were all
turned in the direction of the Earth; so I looked at it too; and
then, oh, wonder of wonders what did I behold!

     I could see the whole globe, and everything upon it, even
worlds of animalcule too minute to be distinguished with the best
microscopes; even the waves of light, invisible to mortals, which
break upon the surface of the Earth like the waves of the sea upon
the shore. I could see every man woman, and child, and study their
actions without effort or confusion. I could view, at the same
time, numberless dramas of domestic life which were being performed
within the dramas of the nations; while these were only parts of
the great drama of the Earth. It is, of course, difficult to
explain how so many different objects could be at the same time
gathered by the eye, transmitted to the brain, and assimilated by
the intellect. It would be difficult to explain to a maggot how the
eye of a man can take in a landscape at a glance. Yet these powers
of vision will not seem excessive when the size of the eye is taken
into consideration. I should say that the pupil of a demigod's eye
is about double the sun's diameter, and no doubt, if dissected,
would be found to contain lenses of extraordinary structure. But I
have merely to record facts and am not called upon to offer
explanations.

     The pleasure I derived at first from looking at the Earth was
soon marred by the fearful tragedies which I saw everywhere
enacted. It was nearly all blood and tears; and, unable to gaze any
longer on the torture of my kind, I rose to leave the theater. At
the same time one of the audience went out, followed by a titter
from the crowd, and I recognized in him the likeness of an
historical personage; or, rather, the historical personage was a
likeness of him. Then I understood that this earth-life of ours is
only a satirical play, that our great men are caricatures of famous
demigods, their vicissitudes and actions, ingenious lampoons. And
is this all? thought I to myself. Are we with our proud aspirations
only as puppets in a show? Are love, ambition, and religious
sentiment -- the tremulous passion, the desire of fame, the divine
yearnings of the soul -- are these but as the jerkings of a wire
cunningly contrived? Are the terrible combats of life as gladiator-
games to make the demigods a holiday? Ah, then it is sad! and yet
do not men as it is often martyr their lives to make a noise in the
world and gain the plaudits of a human audience? And should not we
who aspire to greatness rejoice that we play before the Immortals,
and may hope to achieve celestial fame? Thus I tried to console my
suffering heart; but alas! it was in vain. I had a hope -- one last


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hope -- and now it was destroyed. For I saw that the dead cannot be
united, since we are but as shadows that vanish away. All is lost,
all is done; farewell for ever, Lilian: farewell, my only love, for
evermore.

     I fled into Space. But I found that the senses of hearing and
smell were endowed with powers not less marvelous than those of the
sight. Though now far away, I could smell the Earth, which gave
forth a carrion stench not only from its body but its soul. Each
vice had its horrible odor. It is true that each virtue had its
fragrance as well, and sometimes, though rarely, a breath of
perfume floated through the air. And now strange sounds arose. I
heard the humming of the Earth as it spun, and the roaring of the
fire in its innermost depths. I heard the whispers of conscience
and the chidings of remorse, the sighs of unrequited love, the
cries of many agonies. At the same time I heard the audience
hooting and shouting, Off! off! Shame! Apologize! Where is the Lord
Chamberlain? But in the midst of this turmoil the cries of anguish
were hushed, a sweet balmy smell was diffused through space, the
voices of the earth rose in a strain of enchanting melody, and
thunders of applause seemed to indicate that the drama was
concluded. Then I woke up and found my cheeks all wet with tears
which I had shed.

     My servant, who is very attentive -- perhaps a little over-
attentive -- has taken my lamp away, but there is a splendid moon,
and I am writing near the window by its light. I do not understand
why, the day after my dream, they put me into this room, which is
not so large as my own, and furnished in very bad taste, the walls
being stuffed like a first-class carriage on a railway. Where are
my books? What mean those sentinel footsteps outside, the door
stealthily opened, and the cold grey eyes which search into my
soul? Ha! ha! ha! Look at those little black imps dancing in the
moonlight on the floor! Patter, patter, patter! pit-a-pat, pit-a-
pat! Ah! Lilian, my dear, you should not come out at night in that
thin white shroud, and it's no use your coming here any more. The
windows are barred, and I can't take you home to the quiet
churchyard and put you to bed in your cozy little grave. We can
meet no more by the light of the moon. Besides, it is but a play;
we should only be amusing the people up there. Oh! cruel Author,
why did you kill her? -- in the first act, too; very inartistic. At
least I don't know. As this life is a penny-gaff sort of
performance, it was more effective to do it when she was young, for
if she was old and ugly no one would care. But who could see her
die then with the beauty of girlhood still blushing upon her, and
her death caught nursing the poor sick child; who could see her die
then without being smitten to the heart? It must have brought down
the house. Weep, ye gods, weep your oceanic tears, and wait your
sighs in gentle gales to mourn poor Lilian. And her lover lying on
the grave, digging at the ground with his nails and teeth, seized,
bound hand and foot, and then brought here. Oh, no doubt it was a
fine stroke of art -- most charmingly devised. Well, it's a hard
world, and we cannot all be kings and queens; to one is the part of
the villain -- he is hissed; to another the maiden in distress; and
poor Mad Tom must be played too.

 


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     I kept myself awake, for I feared another dream; but the odors
of the earth lingered in my nostrils, and its horrible cries still
sounded in my ears. After all, I thought it was best to sleep if I
could. Luckily, the last number of the 'Quarterly Review' happened
to be in the room, and I knew that Dr. Scott recommends this
publication in cases of sleeplessness and nervous excitement. The
article I selected was a perfect soporific -- an essay on the
Darwinian Theory, and before I had finished the preamble it had
sent me to sleep. But on that fatal night even the 'Quarterly
Review' could not prevent me from dreaming; and, in fact, I dreamt
of a review, for my third dream took me to a Demigod club where I
found the following critique in a periodical lying on the table. I
wrote it from memory as soon as I awoke.

                           THE REVIEW

     The custom of creating worlds, and of peopling them with
animated beings who reflect the vices or follies of the day, or
offer an example of ideal virtues and moral excellence, has of late
become popular in art; and, though it may be a fashion which, like
others of its kind, will soon pass away, it is in the meantime for
us, who are critics and censors, to pass judgment on all such works
as succeed in obtaining the attention of the public. The anonymous
drama which has just been performed is said to be a first attempt;
and this we should have inferred from internal evidence. For,
though the work is by no means deficient in power, and contains
some original ideas, there is a want of symmetry in form and of
finish in detail, a prodigal waste of raw material, a roughness of
style and execution which bear the stamp of inexperience. However,
as will be shown, it is chiefly on moral grounds that we think this
production ought to be condemned.

     The work is simple in conception and modest in design. We have
not here, as in some ambitious compositions, a number of inhabited
worlds contributing each its part to the story. One system only is
placed upon the stage, and the action is confined to one planet of
that system.

     At first the world was presented to our view as a fiery cloud.
It became compressed to a Sun, which advanced through Space,
rotating on its axis, and cast off certain pieces from itself like
tyres from a wheel. These cooled into planetary bodies, and one of
them, called by its inhabitants 'The Earth,' was the scene of the
drama which we shall now endeavor to describe. We observed with
unmixed pleasure the gradual growth of the planet from a cinder
enveloped in cloud to a globe covered with water; the sun-rays
causing the origin of life; the floating animalcules and one-celled
plants; the rise of the land from the deep, and its naked skin
being clothed with a green mantle of palm and fern vegetation.
Monstrous reptiles and ungainly quadrupeds inhabited the primeval
marshes of the earth; and at night the croaking of enormous frogs
rose like thunder in the air. But as time flowed on the face of the
earth assumed a more gentle and benignant expression; flowers
blossomed in the forest, and the voices of singing birds were
heard; the quadrupeds became less gigantic in size, but more
graceful and varied in their forms; and finally Men appeared upon
the scene, roaming in herds through the forest, clambering the
trees, jabbering semi-articulate sounds. But, as language formed 

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upon their lips, the erect posture was assumed, the fore-foot was
used as a hand, weapons were invented, fire was discovered, caverns
in the rock, burrows in the ground, and platforms on the trees were
exchanged for huts surrounded by gardens. Wild animals were tamed,
the seed-bearing grasses were cultured into grain, canoes glided on
the waters, commerce became the rival of war, which, once
incessant, was now occasional. The tribes were united into nations,
the nations into empires, great cities flourished on the banks of
rivers and by harbors on the sea-shore; classes were divided, the
arts and sciences arose. At first these were kept as state secrets,
and often perished with the state. At first wealth, culture, and
power belonged exclusively to the dominant caste, while the masses
labored in subjection. But by means of useful inventions knowledge
was widely diffused, and the passion for liberty entered the bosom
of the people. One nation after another shook itself free from the
tyranny of kings and the tyranny of priests. When class
restrictions were removed all could hope by honest labor to better
their condition, and all striving for their own ends assisted the
onward movement of the world. At a later period the social equality
of men extinguished personal ambition, and the Welfare of the Race
was the aim of those who labored for distinction. Fame could be
obtained only by adding something to the knowledge or the happiness
of men. Finally war ceased; the malignant forces of Nature were
subdued, vice and disease were eradicated, the earth became a
pleasure garden, and men learnt to bear without repining a painless
death in extreme old age.

     We suppose that the moral purpose of this drama is to teach
the doctrine of Improvement, and to illustrate that tendency to
Progress which pervades the universe. The evolution of mind from
matter, by means of natural law, shows the innate power of that
tendency or force, and the efforts by which Man achieves his own
comparative perfection are no doubt intended as a protest against
that habit of quiescence and content which is perhaps the natural
failing of Immortals. We think that the satire on theology is
wholesome and just. Nothing could be more ludicrous than to see
these ephemeral beings, these creatures of a moment, building
little houses in honor of the First Cause and glibly explaining
mysteries which we do not profess to understand. This may serve as
a warning to certain presumptuous philosophers who fabricate
theories respecting the Supreme; for how can we know that we are
not in the same relative position to beings of a higher race as
those pygmies we create to ourselves? At least it is certain that
our intellects, great as they are, or great as we think them to be,
are unable to explain primary phenomena or to solve the problems of
Cause, Existence, and Futurity. So far then we go with our author;
and in numberless ways he has justly derided the follies of our
race. We can afford to forgive him for creating human reviewers to
parody our profession, the more so as coarse caricature fails of
its effect; but we must object to the introduction of personal
portraits; it was settled long ago as a dogma in art that mere
copies should have no place in a creation. This, however, is not a
defect on which we shall dwell, for, though in itself serious
enough, it is light and trivial when compared with the faults it is
now our duty to expose.




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     In the first place, it is most degrading that these men who
are made in our image, who in their exterior form and mental
faculties partly resemble ourselves, should be suffered to retain
both in body and mind so much of the lower animals. The Creator
may, perhaps, reply that he laid down the law of gradual
transition, and that all traces of the beast in man could not be
expelled except by departing from the law. But since he
transformed, by gradual transition, the muzzle or snout to the lips
of beauty radiant with smiles, the hairy paw to the skilful and
delicate hand, he might surely have found some way to obliterate by
change the instincts and actions of which we complain. No one can
deny that he is ingenious enough when he chooses; the shark's jaw
and the serpent's fang are models of dexterous contrivance, though
we do not envy him these inventions. In any case, the difficulty is
one of his own making, and if he could have devised no other plan
he should have modified his law of evolution. It might have been
less philosophical, but it would have been more decent; and we must
own that we prefer an error in art to an outrage on decorum.

     Secondly, the development of matter to mind, of quadruped to
man, of savage to civilized nations, is laudable enough as an idea;
but how has it been carried out? As regards the first stage of the
progress we have only to praise and admire; but how has progress
been produced in the animated world? We are almost ashamed to
explain a law which, in its recklessness of life and prodigality of
pain, almost amounts to a crime. In cold forethought the Creator so
disposed the forces of nature that more animated beings were born
than could possibly obtain subsistence on the earth. This caused a
struggle for existence, a desperate and universal war; the best and
improved animals were alone able to survive, and so in time
Evolution was produced. We shall not deny that there is a kind of
perverted ingenuity in the composition of this law; but the waste
of life is not less clumsy than it is cruel. By means of this same
struggle for existence, man was raised from the bestial state and
his early discoveries were made. Afterwards, ambition of fame, and
later still more noble motives came into force, but that was
towards the conclusion of the drama. At first, every step in the
human progress was won by conflict, and every invention resulted
from calamity. The most odious vices and crimes were at one time
useful to humanity, while war, tyranny, and superstition assisted
the development of man.

     Evil unhappily exists, and we do not condemn its employment in
art. We are not in favor of those impossible dramas in which only
the virtues are displayed. But we do condemn this confusion of evil
and good, and maintain that nothing can be more immoral than to
make crime the assistant of progress and vice the seed of which
virtue is the fruit.

     Again, Death is a useful and perhaps indispensable appliance
in works of this kind, but so potent a means of exciting sympathy
should be employed with moderation. Now what do we find here? The
law of evolution is the law of death. Massacre is incessant;
flowers, animals, and men die at every moment; the earth is a vast
slaughter-house, and the ocean reddened with blood. Nor, incredible
as it may seem, is that the worst. With a talent for torture which
rouses our wonder only next to our disgust, the Creator has smitten


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the animated world, even to the insects, with numerous painful and
lingering diseases, while the intellect is also afflicted with
maladies peculiar to itself. The affections which at first would
appear to afford some meager consolation in the martyrdom of man
are themselves too often the cause of mental pain and incurable
despair. What can be said for such a world? What kind of defence or
excuse can there be for its Creator? It is true that he made men
himself, but that does not justify his cruelty. The Supreme has
endowed us with the power of producing and destroying animated
forms, but so terrible a gift should not be abused. We should never
forget that though these little creatures live only for a moment,
they are yet sentient beings, and their torments while they last
are real and intense. Who could view that melancholy Earth and
those writhing masses of humanity, who could hear those agonizing
cries without a shudder of pain and a glow of honest indignation
against the Author of such woes and wrongs? Many of the audience
withdrew, while others hooted the Creator, and at one time we
thought his planet would be damned. But, all's well that ends well
is the easy maxim of a pleasure-seeking world, and the public,
fickle and easily impressed, applauded the virtuous finale and
forgot the horrors that had gone before. We were unable to do so,
and declare that it seemed to us a most cruel and immoral
exhibition. That is what we have to say. We know nothing of the
author, but if we should meet him at a future time shall be happy
to hear what he can say to exonerate himself. We do not wish to be
too hard upon a young beginner whose talents cannot be disputed,
and we trust that this critique, which is not unkindly meant in
spite of its severity, will induce him to reform. When next he
produces a world let it be one which we can take our wives and
daughters to see, which will excite in the audience none but the
nobler sentiments, and which also, we must add, will give us a more
favorable impression of the personal character of its Creator.

                           LETTER III

     So, Ellen, you have been into Bluebeard's chamber; you have
read the manuscript; and these ravings of a lunatic have made you
doubt the existence of a Personal God. You suspect that I doubt it
too. My dear, you are wrong; I disbelieve it. There is no doubt in
my mind about the matter.

     Oh, Daughter of Eve, an apple from the Tree of Knowledge was
hidden in a drawer; then came the serpent Curiosity; and now,
having eaten, you are banished from the Eden of belief. You wish me
to tell you the whole truth, or what I believe to be the truth.
Well, it can do you no harm in the present condition of your mind
and may do you good -- though as to that I am not very sanguine.
But I will not merely expound my religious opinions; I will
describe their birth and growth in my mind. I will tell you the
story of my life.

     Ah! the story of my life. ... Apart from all matters of
religion it will deeply, too deeply, interest you. I fear, my
darling, it will give you much pain; yet it is right that you
should hear it; and you will be inclined more than ever, I believe,
to pity and succor the unfortunate when you learn in what misery
your childhood was passed.


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     You tell me that sometimes when you approach anything that is
dead, a strange and horrible scene rises like a picture to your
mind. You see a bare and squalid room -- the walls blackened with
dirt, the broken window-panes stuffed with rags. On the floor a
woman with long yellow hair; beside her a man on his knees dressed
in a ragged black coat; behind him some men and women of coarse and
evil countenance, yet grave and sad, whispering together.

     You shall now learn what was this scene which your memory has
faithfully though fitfully retained. You shall learn how your
father was an outcast, reduced to the extremity of sorrow, to the
brink of despair; how his misfortunes resembled, but exceeded,
those of the unhappy Elliott, and how narrowly he escaped a similar
fate.

                            LETTER IV

     IN the last century an East India nabob named Mordaunt
returned to England with an immense fortune, said to have been
obtained in no very creditable manner from the treasury of a Rajah
in Bengal at whose court he was Resident. My father, his only son,
inherited several landed estates and a large sum of money in the
funds. He was sent to Eton and Christchurch, at which latter place
of education he chiefly distinguished himself as an athlete; he
also rode hard across country, was a noted skittle-player, and had
gained much academic fame by successfully bruising with bargees.
But all this came to an end before he left the university, for he
went to hear a noted field-preacher, intending to create a
disturbance, and was converted on the spot. He gave up his old
habits and companions, read hard for his degree, went into orders,
and took the living of Harborne-in-the-Moors, which was in his own
presentation. Such is the account of his youth, which I received
from the excellent Bishop of T----, who was his contemporary. There
was nothing in my father's appearance to show that he had ever been
inclined to dissipation, or even to innocent pleasure. His features
were inexpressibly severe; his eyes were cold and hard, and
overhung with thick, bushy eyebrows; his lips were thin and Closely
compressed. His strength was great, as I, when a boy, knew to my
cost; and even his hands had a stern aspect, being broad and
powerful, the spaces between the knuckles covered with long, black
hairs. He did not send me to school, but taught me Greek, Latin,
mathematics, and divinity himself; and seldom, I believe, has any
apprentice been more harshly treated by his master. However, I
ought to remind you that I was born in a flogging, cudgelling age,
and that humanity to schoolboys is a virtue of recent growth.
Moreover, my father was not indulgent to himself, and no paid
tutor, however conscientious, would have toiled as he did with me.
His day's work was almost incredible. He rose at daybreak, and read
Hebrew and theology till breakfast: if it was winter, he laid and
lighted his own fire. The forenoon and afternoon he devoted to me,
except at two intervals which I spent in amusement, he in attending
to the duties of his parish. He allowed me to pass the evenings
with my mother while he corrected my exercises, and studied the
lessons of the next day in Homer, Aristotle, Virgil, or Tacitus,
comparing the various readings and referring to the German
commentators and critics as if he were preparing an exhaustive
treatise on the subject. His religion was of the lowest Calvinistic


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type, but at least it was sincere. He allowed himself no pleasures
of any kind, and though less strict with my mother and myself, we
lived in a very frugal manner. After his death I was informed by
the family lawyer that he spent immense sums in anonymous donations
for religious and charitable purposes. My mother died in the belief
that he was a miser and had never done a benevolent action in his
life,, He thought it right to conceal from her this giving of alms,
and perhaps also he loved her more than he allowed her to suppose.
But he did not make her very happy. Ah, what would have been my
life without her! How often she caught me in her arms as I fled
from the chamber of torture and kissed my bruised and bleeding
hands! How often she soothed my wounded spirit with words of the
tenderest love, and persuaded me to endure with patience the trials
of my childish life! I did not then know that she suffered more
than myself. She was ardent and romantic, fond of intellectual
society, and not indifferent to admiration, possessed of remarkable
beauty and many elegant accomplishments. But Harborne was a lone
and sequestered village in the moors, and my father objected to
social pleasures; so we received no visitors.

     She had a heart which pined for affection; and he was a man of
stone. She once told me that my birth had saved her from absolute
despair: thenceforth she had something to live for, something to
love. Often, as she pressed me to her bosom, she would gaze into my
face with a timid, searching, craving look; and when with some cold
words I tried to shake myself free, her deep, dark eyes would fill
with tears. So it was also in your case, dear Ellen, and so no
doubt you have found it with your little girl. Children cannot love
us as we love them; and when they become old enough to return our
affection, they leave us to marry or to make their way in the
world. Happily it is good for us to love as it is good for us to
labor, even when the reward is slight and inadequate.

     My mother was a sad invalid, being afflicted with a pulmonary
complaint which required constant attendance. The parish doctor saw
her nearly every day, and received a fixed fee or salary per annum.
Herbert Chalmers, whose name is yet remembered in science, was a
student of promise and repute who had taken the cure of bodies in
the parish of Harborne, partly for the sake of daily bread, and
partly to study that particular phase of the profession. He had not
been there more than a year when his friends obtained him a
lucrative appointment. He thanked them and declined it, saying he
was not ambitious and preferred living in the country. Now as the
duties of a parish doctor combine in themselves all that is most
unpleasant in the life of an apothecary's apprentice and the
checkered existence of a post-boy, namely the rolling and pinching
of innumerable pills, and long night-rides in the hardest of
weather, his friends thought him out of his wits; but they could
not change his resolution. Some time afterwards a relation died and
left him a fortune. He built a mansion with a laboratory, hot-
houses, and rooms suitable for collections and experiments, engaged
a medical assistant, and devoted his time to scientific researches
on the physiology and chemistry of the vegetable kingdom. But he
still remained the doctor of the parish and attended all difficult
cases himself. He reversed the usual order of things, for when he
left a poor patient he slipped a guinea into his hand: that was the
good doctor's idea of being humorous. His skill and unremitting 
care certainly prolonged my dear mother's life, though it could not
save her from death at the early age of forty-three.

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     I had always been told from my boyhood that I was to be a
clergyman; my father and mother both wished it, and I had no desire
for any other profession. My college life was quite uneventful. I
joined no set, indulged in none of the popular amusements, such as
boating or cricket; and, living for the most part in my rooms, made
neither enemies nor friends. I took a first class in Great Go, and
the Bishop of T----, who ordained me, wrote a most kind letter to
congratulate my father on the good examination I had passed in
divinity. I preached my first sermon in Harborne Church; and though
no one was there but our tenants and servants, my parents and the
doctor, I did not dare raise my eyes from the book, and felt myself
blushing two or three times as I read out some eloquent passages
which I had composed in a state of exaltation, but which now seemed
rather too fine for the occasion. However, my mother was delighted
with this maiden composition, and felt very proud that I was
ordained.

     On Sundays, Dr. Chalmers always dined with us in the middle of
the day; and that same afternoon we were strolling together in the
garden -- my mother, the doctor and I -- when she said, "Well,
doctor, you have not quite wasted your life in this dismal place;
for you have made me live long enough to enjoy one day of perfect
happiness." He made some reply which I do not remember, and then
she said, "But tell me, dear doctor, I do not understand; why do
you stay here when you might go to London and become the intimate
friend of Davy, and Buckland, and the other great men with whom you
correspond?" He answered, "That is my secret; and female curiosity
cannot always be indulged." "Well, then, tell me.something else,"
she said. "Is it true you are going to be married? " He smiled and
shook his head, and replied that it was not true. He was now forty-
six years of age, and his day was gone. "Oh, doctor," she said,
"you mustn't say that. Have you forgotten I am forty-three? Is my
day gone too? " She drew herself up and looked very beautiful. Then
she said, "You are still young enough, why do you not marry? Are
you a woman hater? "Again he smiled, but this time I thought rather
sadly, and said he was far from being that. "And do you not find it
very lonely living in that great house by yourself? "Yes," he said,
"it is very lonely." "And do you not sometimes feel unhappy?" "Yes,
sometimes I feel very unhappy indeed." "And you do not think that
if you were to marry ...?" "I cannot," he replied, "Is it for the
same reason that prevented you from taking that appointment?"
"Yes," he replied in a sharp voice, "it is the same reason." "Will
you not tell me what it is?" (He shook his head.) "Ah, my dear
friend, it would be better. You have something on your mind; will
you not trust it to me? You have saved my life again and again;
will you not let me prove my gratitude? Oh, disburden your heart,
I beseech you. Edward, dear, leave us alone."

     "No, sir," said he with emphasis, "do not go away." My mother
thought that he was angry, and laid her hand upon his arm. I saw 
his lips turn pale, but he said in a firm voice, "Ellen Mordaunt,
I thank you for your sympathy, but I cannot tell you this secret of
my life, it would make you unhappy, and would give me no relief,
but quite the contrary." He then shook hands with us both, and
saying he was wanted at home, walked quickly towards the garden
gate.



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     My mother looked after him, her eyes wide open with
astonishment. I said there was a skeleton in every house. "Oh!" she
cried, "Edward, what do you mean? He cannot have done anything
wrong; that is impossible."

     I did not reply, and we walked up and down the gravel walk. My
mother seemed buried in thought. Suddenly she gave an exclamation
and put her hand to her heart. She turned round and went a few
steps as if to overtake the doctor, who had just reached the gate
and paused there to look at us as he passed through. "Are you in
pain, mother?" said I; "let me run after Dr. Chalmers?" "No," she
cried earnestly, "do not call him back;" and seizing my hand she
pressed it with convulsive force. I remained silent and lost in
wonder, as she had been a moment before.

     Then she said in her own quiet voice, "It was only a passing
spasm, and Dr. Chalmers has other patients to attend. It is getting
rather cold; I think we had better go in."

     We went indoors, and my mother, complaining of a headache,
retired to her room. The next morning I was awoke by the sun-beams
streaming through the window. It was a fine spring morning, the
birds in the garden were singing merrily. I felt in glorious
health; the blood seemed to dance in my veins. Hitherto I had known
no serious cares, and the troubles of childhood were past. A bright
calm life was before me, and as I reflected on my happy condition
my heart was filled with the love of God and with gratitude for his
goodness.

     One of the servants came in, gave me a letter, and hastened
from the room. The letter was from my father. I have it before me
now, yellow and crumpled and stained -- written more than thirty
years ago -- yet still I weep as I read it.

     "My son, I cannot see you to-day. It has pleased the Lord to
chasten us with a heavy and sore affliction. Last night when I went
to bed at a late hour your mother was asleep, but seemed to be
dreaming. She turned from side to side, and was whispering
something under her breath. I stooped down and listened, and heard
her say the doctor's name. Then I feared that she was ill. Still
sleeping, she flung her arms round my neck and awoke. When she saw
me she gave a scream and shrank to the farther side of the bed.
'Wife,' I said, 'you have a fever; your face is flushed, and your
hands are burning hot.; I will send James for the doctor at once.'
I moved towards the bell, but she sprang from the bed and
exclaimed, 'It is nothing, I am quite well, indeed I am; you must
not send for him. Oh, do not send for him!' I saw that she was
delirious, and rang the bell in spite of her feeble efforts to
prevent me. Then she gave a great cry; the blood rushed from her 
lips and she fell to the floor. When I raised her in my arms she
was dead."

                            LETTER V

     I REMAINED three months at home, and my father was very gentle
and kind. One Sunday, as we stood side by side in the churchyard
looking at the grave, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "You


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were a good son to her." I noticed that his sermons were more
humane, his mien and manners less austere; and I heard the coachman
(an old servant) declare that "master was quite a changed man." But
before I left home his old severity seemed to be returning.

     The Bishop of T---- gave me a small living at Stilbroke in
----shire. The rectory being out of repair, I was invited by Mr.
Jameson, apparently the squire, for his letter was dated Stilbroke
Court, to stay at his house until my own was habitable. I accepted
this invitation. A talkative neighbor on the coach told me that Mr.
Jameson was a London tradesman retired from business, who about ten
years ago had bought the manor of Stilbroke and set up as a country
gentleman. "But," added my informant with a grin, and sinking his
voice to a whisper, "the gentry don't call upon him, and he's not
in the commission of the peace." He then went on to inform me that
Mr. Jameson had one son, a lieutenant or captain in the Guards, and
one daughter, who was lady of the house, her mother being dead. He
said, "You'll find the bishop there spending the day; he's come
down to consecrate a church." My companion then proceeded to elicit
from me as much information respecting myself as I felt disposed to
give him, and got down at a village near Stilbroke. I supposed he
was a lawyer, or land agent, or something of that kind. I found
Stilbroke Court a fine specimen of the old English manor-house, and
Mr. Jameson, who came out of doors to welcome me, certainly seemed
at first sight a fine specimen of the old English country
gentleman. He wore a blue coat with brass buttons and a buff-
colored waistcoat, and a snowy neck-cloth swathed round his throat.
He had also a full-blooded, country-looking complexion; but when he
spoke there was beneath a false accent of rusticity, a certain
intonation which savored of the counter. I also observed in our
first interview that he spoke with much hesitation, and made long
stops between every phrase, the reason being, as I was afterwards
able to infer, that on account of the bishop's presence he was
leaving out the expletives with which he usually garnished his
discourse. For when he first came down to Stilbroke, supposing that
every country gentleman swore, he assiduously practiced the habit;
and by the time he had discovered his mistake, the habit was
acquired and could not be shaken off.

     I felt some little trepidation when I found myself in the same
room with the bishop. But Dr. Lambton came forward to meet me, and
shook me warmly by the hand. Mr. Jameson asked me what I would have
to eat, and resting his hands in a peculiar manner on the table,
described the various dainties before him as if they were articles
he wanted to sell. He was ... that is ... very glad to see me.
Hoped I had a pleasant journey. Heard that the roads were ...
extremely bad and heavy after the rain. Then I heard him mutter to 
himself, "Damn the damns, can't keep them down."

     The bishop took me out for a walk in the grounds after lunch.
He talked about my father and his own college days, described
Oxford as it was in the last generation, gave me many practical
hints respecting my parochial duties, and made me promise I would
write to him as a friend if ever I required his advice.





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     He was to go away that afternoon, and we now saw the carriage
driving round the sweep. Bidding me good-bye, he hastened to the 
house, and I walked along the gravel path, darkened by rain, to the
end of the garden, where I found a little iron gate opening into a
wood. But it was not an ordinary wood, being planted with many
foreign trees, and bright with crimson rhododendrons. In other
parts of the wilderness," as it was called, nature was left
undisturbed; tiny little pathlets marked the "runs" of hares, and
in thick patches of bramble were their "forms." The beech-mast of
last year, brown twigs and dry leaves littered the ground, which
was carpeted with moss and ribbed with the roots of trees. One
charming little dell that I discovered was filled with blue-bells,
more beautiful in color, I thought, than the flowers of the
Himalaya shrub.

     Brought up as I had been amidst desolate moors, it gave me an
exquisite pleasure to walk in the shade of trees, to inhale their
delicate fragrance, to view their dark pillar-like trunks and fair
edifice of foliage. I stood on the brink of the dell and gazed down
on the flowers like a blue lake lying in its depths. A few others
of these wild hyacinths were growing singly or in clusters on the
sides of the dell mingled with young ferns of the tenderest green,
and one flower was growing at my feet. I had almost stepped upon
it. A little way off, the sunlight descending through a window in
the leafy roof flowed through the wood like a silvery stream, while
around me the trunks of trees were flecked with patches of light.
I heard a chirrup overhead and saw a squirrel leaping nimbly from
branch to branch, running home to its young in the dusk, Sometimes
the wind rustled faintly in the branches overhead and cast down
raindrops shining like pearls as they fell. I was softened by these
sweet influences. A tender melancholy stole upon me. A memory never
long absent returned to my heart which was its home. Mine eyes
streaming with tears fell on the hyacinth growing at my feet. I
stooped down and caressed it with my hand. "Oh, delicate flower,"
I said, "your life is short enough and I will not pluck it from
you; but if I could plant you in a garden where death and decay
were unknown, then I would gather you at once. Thus God gathers
beautiful souls; he loves them and takes them to himself. Dear
mother, I weep not for you, but for myself; I know that you are
happy, it is I -- it is I who am forlorn."

     I put my hand in my bosom and drew forth a locket, and pressed
it to my lips. Mother, I said, send a ray of your love for me into
some woman's heart that resembles your own, and so brighten my
solitary life.

     Then I lifted up my eyes and saw standing beside me a young
lady of surpassing loveliness. She wore a white muslin dress of the
kind which my mother used to wear; and from under her broad garden
hat, long tresses of golden hair fell upon her shoulders. Her face
had a grave and gentle expression which I know not how to describe,
her complexion was pale, her eyes of a soft and liquid blue. Such
was your mother when I first looked upon her. She was then only
seventeen, the purest, the most affectionate of women, and one of
the most unfortunate.

     I rose and bowed; she shook hands as if we were friends.
"Papa," she said, "sent me to call you."

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     We went towards the house; she made room for me in the narrow
path to walk by her side. I furtively wiped the tears from my eyes.
She blushed and said, "I fear, Mr. Mordaunt, that you are in much
trouble?"

     "My mother is dead," I replied; "and she was my only friend."

     "Your only friend," she said timidly; "and your father?"

     "I cannot love him," I answered, "so much as I wish;" and I
gave a sigh. She sighed too. "Our parents," she said, "are our best
friends, but sometimes ---" Then she checked herself and said,
"Have you a sister?" "Ah, no," I replied, "if I had a sister then
I should be happy, for I would make her live with me here."

     "And what," she said a little more gaily, "what would you make
your sister do -- besides keeping house?"

     "I would make her go with me to visit the poor and the sick --
to tell you the truth, I am rather afraid of them -- and she would
teach me what to do. And then there would be someone who cared for
me. It is hard to be alone in the world."

     She did not reply. Her father took me over the village and
gave me an account of my parish, prosing and swearing dreadfully.
The next morning Miss Jameson came to me in the garden, followed by
a maid carrying a covered basket on her arm. "Would you like," she
said, "to be introduced to some of your parishioners?" I assented,
of course, and enjoyed my second visit to the village more than the
first. Margaret and I soon became intimate friends, and indeed
almost like brother and sister. I stayed a month in the house, and
when I went to live at the rectory our companionship was not
interrupted. We were together all the day; and I almost reproached
myself for being so happy a few months after my mother's death.

     But about the middle of August the house was filled with
guests, and Margaret's time was so taken up that we seldom saw each
other alone. At the end of the month her brother came down with the
Honorable William Fitzclarence, his friend. Captain Jameson was a
sodden-faced dissolute-looking young man, with a carefully
cultivated lisp and a vulgar laugh. He never pronounced the letter
"r" except by inadvertence, and never replied to a question without
screwing an eye-glass into his orbit, and surveying the other
person through it with an air of mild astonishment, as if he had
never seen him before. In short, he had taken the part of the dandy
as his father had taken that of the country gentleman. In each case
the impersonation was clever, which is all that can be said.
Fitzclarence was a character. The heir to a peerage and a vast
fortune, he was what was then called a "Philosophical Radical." He
sat at the feet of James Mill, dined tete-a-tete with the famous
Jeremy, and wrote for the 'Westminster Review.' He was one of the
agitators for Reform, and was also reputed to be a violent hater of
the Bible and the Church, a second Tom Paine. In those days a
Radical aristocrat was almost unknown, and I really think he was
the first of the species. The popular theory was that his head was
turned, and certainly his manners were singular and his language
often extravagant. As soon as he became excited in conversation he 


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wriggled and writhed in his chair, and when he finished what he had
to say, snapped his jaws sharply together like a dog at a fly.
Though he disapproved of the game-laws he had a passion for
shooting, and having quarrelled with all his relations, was induced
by the fame of the Stilbroke turnip-fields to accept young
Jameson's invitation. The other guests were mostly City people, and
among them was an heiress to whom Mr. Jameson anxiously directed
the attention of his son; for he was not enormously rich, and the
captain was enormously extravagant.

     One day when I was dining at the house the conversation turned
at dessert, after the ladies had left the table, upon the recent
discoveries in geology, which revealed the earth's antiquity and
the creation of fish, reptiles, and quadrupeds in epochs separated
by vast intervals of time. Fitzclarence expounded the matter with
much lucidity, and each guest was apparently drawing his own
conclusions for himself when Captain Jameson blurted out:

     "Then the world was not made in six days. after all."

     There was a dead silence, and all eyes were turned upon me. I
said that the geologists must be mistaken if such was their theory,
because it was clearly stated in the Bible that God had made the
world in six days.

     "Well then, Mr. Mordaunt," said Fitzclarence, "you do not
agree with those of your brethren who declare that the six days in
question were not actual days, but geological periods?

     "How can they say that," I replied, "when each day is
described as having an evening and morning, and when it is also
said that God 'blessed the seventh day and sanctified it'?"

     "Nothing," answered Fitzclarence, "could be proved more
completely and concisely. We may, therefore, take it for granted
that the six days of Genesis are not geological periods? "He looked
at me with a questioning air. I bowed and smiled, and was going to
change the conversation, when he said: "But now, if it were proved
as an actual fact, beyond the shadow of a doubt, by the same kind
of evidence as that which proves that the earth revolves round the
sun -- supposing, I say, it could be proved that the world was not
made in six days, but that thousands and thousands of years
intervened between, for example, the fish and birds of the fifth
day, and man who was created on the sixth, what may I ask would you
say then? "

     "My dear sir," I replied, "you might as well ask what I would
say if it could be proved that a circle is square."

     But supposing it could be proved -- please to answer for my
argument's sake -- what then?"

     "Then," I replied, "of course it would be proved that the
Bible was not inspired."

     "Good," said Fitzclarence, rising from the table. "Well now,
I will tell you this. It has been proved," And he walked out of the
room.

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     Mr. Jameson poured forth a volley of oaths at his son for
having set Fitz upon his hobby. The next day Fitzclarence wrote me
a letter apologizing for his rudeness and begging me not to think
of what he had said. The advice was kindly meant, but quite
unnecessary; what he said seemed to me incredible, and it soon
passed away from my mind. Not so, however, with the man. I observed
that he gave up shooting and passed all the day at the house. Mr.
Jameson, who knew my father to be rich, had always encouraged my
visits, but now his manner was changed, and whenever we had any
business to discuss, he was careful to make the appointment at the
rectory. An infallible instinct warned me that Fitzclarence was my
rival, and a gossiping servant confirmed it. My rival, I say, for
now I discovered that I loved Margaret. So long as we were
constantly together I was contented with her friendship; the days
passed happily; I did not attempt to analyze my feelings; I did not
reflect on the future. But, as soon as we were separated, my
affection forced back upon itself became craving and intense.
Unable to see her or speak with her as before, she became the
constant companion of my thoughts. And now came the fear that I
should lose her altogether. From my library window I could see into
the Stilbroke grounds. Every day, at the same hour, they walked
together on the terrarel he speaking with animated gestures, she
listening with attention -- no doubt with admiration. He was a
noted orator, how could she resist his eloquence? Besides, he was
heir to a peerage and her father was a tradesman.

     Soon it was all over the village that they were engaged. A
farmer told me the news, and declared Mr. Jameson himself had
hinted as much to him, saying that before very long they'd hear
wedding bells. Strange as it may seem, from that time I became more
easy in my mind. It was a relief to be out of suspense, and now my
duty lay clear before me; silence, self-conquest, resignation. I
even smiled at the thought that perhaps I might have to marry them.
At this time I read for the first time the 'Imitation of Jesus
Christ,' and became enamored of the spiritual life. I resolved to
place my happiness no more in earthly pleasures and human
affections, but to seek only the divine love by purification of the
soul, and fasting, and prayer, and exclusion of mundane thoughts.
I resolved to banish Margaret from my mind and memory; when her
vision forced itself upon me, I took up the 'Imitation' or the
Bible. In the solitude of the night I found it hard to abstain from
thinking of her, and I kept a taper burning opposite the bed to
remind me of my resolution. I tied myself down in the chair to be
prevented from going to the window at the time when she walked upon
the terrace. In church I forbade myself to glance at the pew where
she sat. My whole time was passed in idle devotion and selfish
cares for the well-being of my soul. I almost ceased to visit my 
parishioners, and yearned to seclude myself wholly from the world.

     A few months more and my ruin would have been complete. I
should have become a mere God-fawning devotee. But this was not to
be. Mr. Jameson called upon me one morning and said: "Come, parson,
I say, you have dropped us. Won't you call over to-day and have a
bit of lunch?"

     I declined. "Ah," said he, "I know what it is. You don't like
that infidel fellow; but he's gone away, and young Hopeful's gone 
with him. They had one day at the pheasants, that's all."

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     "What," said I, "Mr. Fitzclarence gone away! but, I thought
---"

     "Ah, yes, you thought, and so did a good many more. But I'd
never let my girl marry a damned infidel."

     "Oh, please, Mr. Jameson, do not swear," said I.

     "I am not swearing," said he. "I use the word
ecclesiastically, just as you might in the pulpit; though it's
enough to make anybody swear the way those fellows go on with their
cursed atheism. Well, they'll find out their mistake some day. But
you'll come, won't you? Let me tell Margaret you will."

     I looked up at him. His little keen eyes were diving into
mine. "My daughter," he said with emphasis, "will be very glad to
see you; very glad to see you."

     "I will come," said I. He went out, and I heard him chuckle as
he went down stairs. There was little attempt at disguise in his
words or his manner. Margaret was mine! At this thought the blood
rushed from my heart and flamed on my pale ascetic face. I tore the
hair shirt from my bosom. I dashed Thomas a Kempis on the flames.
I knelt down and prayed. I jumped up and danced, exclaiming, "She
is mine! She refused him for me! "As rivers, released from their
bonds of ice, pour down swift torrents from the hills, so the
natural feelings of my heart, so long held down by frozen piety,
coursed swiftly through my frame and made me drunk with excitement
and joy. However, I calmed down, and felt rather foolish as I took
the 'Imitation,' all charred and smoking, from the fire. I
remembered that, after all, nothing was certain as yet; and soon I
became just as anxious as I had before been confident. It wanted an
hour of the time, but I could not wait any longer and went up to
the house. She was in the drawing-room alone. As I entered at the
door I felt a strange faintness and fluttering within me. In a few
minutes my fate would be decided. Her look reassured me, and the
gentle pressure of her hand and the tone in which she said, "It is
so long since I have seen you."

     We conversed for some time. I feared to speak, and yet for my
own peace of mind I knew it must be done that day, and that hour.
At last I said with a bantering air, "Margaret, I hear that you
have had an offer of marriage?" "Yes," she said with a smile, "and
poor papa was so disappointed." "And why did you not marry him?" I
asked. She blushed and turned her head aside. I took her hand in
mine. "Tell me, dear Margaret," I whispered. She looked up, and
told me with her eyes. Then I clasped her in my arms; I strained
her to my breast; I pressed my lips to hers and fondled her long
golden hair. Oh, raptures of a first and innocent love, who can
describe them? What power have words to express the deep inner
feelings of the heart? I can only tell you I was happy -- that is
all.







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                            LETTER VI

     My father approved of the match and promised me a liberal
allowance. The marriage was to take place in a twelvemonth. Captain
Jameson did not deign to give us his blessing, being deeply
offended with his sister for her refusal of Fitzclarence, for he
preferred a brother-in-law with a handle to his name. His father's
sentiments were not dissimilar, but he took the trouble to conceal
them, having come to the conclusion that it would be foolish to
refuse the heir to a large fortune because the heir to a still
larger fortune and a peerage had been lost. So he was always loud
and boisterous with me to show his cordiality. One day, at
luncheon, he winked and said, "The bishop has a good opinion of
you, Master Ned, a deuced good opinion of you."

     I said I was glad to hear that I was so honored. No prelate
was more loved in his diocese or more distinguished on the bench.

     "Cannot you remember what he said, dear papa? asked Margaret,
blushing with pleasure.

     "I should rather think I could," he replied. "'Mr. Jameson,'
said my Lord, 'Mr. Jameson,' said he, 'our young friend did well at
college, damned well, and, by Jove, he'll do the right thing by
your parish.'"

     "Oh, papa!" exclaimed Margaret, "he could not have said that."

     "Well, my dear," said her father, somewhat confused, "I don't
mean to say he used those very words, but that was the general
sense."

     A servant came in with the letters of the afternoon post. Mr.
Jameson's face fell as he examined the blue envelopes. "Ah!"
muttered he, "I know what these are well enough. Reform -- reform
is all the cry. I wish they could pass a bill for reforming
extravagant sons."

     "You know, dearest Edward," said Margaret, as we walked to the
rectory together, "Robert spends a great deal of money -- papa
would send him into the Guards -- and we have heard that he gambles
at Crockford's. And he is so dreadfully conceited; he would not
even look at Miss Brown when she was here. His wife, he says, must
have three things -- birth, beauty, and money (or blunt, as he
calls it). Now, as he has neither of the three to offer in return
---"

     "But your father is rich?" said I. Margaret shook her head.
"Papa," she said, "was in such a hurry to be a country gentleman 
that he gave up his business too soon, and though he is an
excellent manager, and spends very little money on himself, he does
not seem able to refuse Robert anything. The rents of the farms on
the estate just cover our expenses down here, and I fear that
papa's other money is going very fast. When he asked me to marry
Fitzclarence, he said, 'My girl, you must not marry a poor man, for
if at any future time you should want money, God only knows whether
I should be able to assist you.'"


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     Dear Margaret, thought I, as I went up to my library, when we
are married you will not need any money from your father. None of
these sordid cares shall trouble your life.

     I sat down in my arm-chair and abandoned myself to reverie. I
had now found in love -- chaste, secure, requited love -- that calm
of mind which I had sought in monkish devotion. No passion
disturbed me; no disquietude alarmed me; no sad experience made me
doubt my future happiness. I knew not the dangers of life. I
pictured myself the rector of a large parish, and Margaret the
queen of our world, distributing her bounty to the poor,
alleviating their miserable lot. Often we had planned and plotted
together how we could do good. And I saw her seated by my side
after the labors of the day, and rosy-cheeked children clambered on
my knees. And the love of my children unborn filled my heart, and
I revelled in anticipated joys.

     While thus I was wrapped in sweet meditation, I observed lying
on the table before me a large brown-paper parcel which must have
come down by the London coach that afternoon. I found that it
contained Lyell's 'Principles of Geology,' and some other works
upon that science. I supposed these were sent by the disappointed
rival, and with no good intent; and as I turned over the books a
letter dropped out. It was without an envelope, and as follows: --

     DEAR YOUTH, -- Here are the books you ask for, viz. the grand
work of Lyell, and the orthodox attempts at a reply. Why on earth
do you want them? Are you going to study these problems? If so, it
would be better than some of your other occupations. I hear that
you go very often to the top of St. James' Street. Ah, beware!

     "Impossible to accept your invitation. I only go to Reform
dinners nowadays. I talk, think, dream of nothing else. All is
going on well: we are certain to succeed.

     "Lastly, oblige me, once for all, by not writing as you do
about a certain young lady. I admire her, I esteem her, I love her;
it was my fault that she could not love me; but it eases my vanity
to know that there was a prior attachment. -- FITZ."

     It was now evident that the books came from the captain, who
had mislaid the letter in the parcel. I thought I could best
disappoint his benevolent intentions by reading them carefully
through; in fact, I had intended to order from London the latest
works upon geology, as I considered it my duty to study the enemy's
arguments in order to be able to refute them. I began to read the
'Principles' at once, and was soon captivated by the beauty of the
style, the modesty of the author, and the wondrous world he opened
to my view. There was not an allusion to theology in the book,
which I read all through like a novel, with no sensation but that
of enjoyment. But when I remembered afterwards the duration of time
and absence of catastrophe on which it insisted, I was seriously
troubled, and I read it again, now well on my guard, and in a
hostile attitude of mind. But I could discern no flaw in the
reasoning, and could only venture to hope that the facts were not
to be relied on. Having spent a week upon the 'Principles,' taking
many notes, and honestly forcing my brain to receive ideas it did 


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not like (which I found at first very difficult), I took from the
parcel an orthodox work which was then of much repute in the
religious world. This book settled the matter in my mind: it was
not unfairly written, admitted the facts which science had
established, and tried to reconcile them with the Mosaic account of
the creation. It was most ingenious -- a perfect specimen of
special pleading -- but nevertheless could only deceive those who
wished to be deceived: no doubt the author was among that number;
I do not question his sincerity. There was also a pamphlet in the
parcel, written by a clergyman, who allowed that the first chapter
of Genesis could not be accepted as literal truth, but argued that
it was of no consequence, as the Bible was intended to teach us
religion, not to teach us geology. For me it was enough that there
was one mistake in the Bible; that proved it could not have been
written by God.

     The next six months I devoted to biblical studies. I read the
Bible all through, with no commentary but that of common sense, and
the scales fell from my eyes. Never did I more keenly appreciate
the beauties of the book as a literary production; but I found
proofs in every page that it was written by men, and by men
immersed in superstition. I passed many unhappy hours, for old
beliefs are not torn up without a pang; but my chief feeling was
one of burning shame, that I could ever have credited the many
profane and ridiculous fables contained in the Bible. It seemed to
me an awful blasphemy to assert that the great God of heaven
clothed himself in the body of a man, and I prayed him to forgive
me for having believed it. My conception of the Creator was
ennobled, my devotion was increased, a pure and sublime Theism
reconciled me to the loss of some illusions. Thus I did not suffer
as much as might have been anticipated.

     But I was a clergyman. I was the priest of what I now believed
to be a pagan religion, and received money to teach what I knew to
be false. I felt it incumbent upon me at once to leave the Church
and to enter some other profession. Mr. Watson, the rector of the
neighboring parish, frequently visited Stilbroke Court; his wife
was a friend of Margaret's, and he, I knew, was a man of temperate
views, who would patiently hear what I had to say and advise me how
to carry out my resolution.

                           LETTER VII

     MR. WATSON had a large family, as was shown by the number of
small caps and coats hanging up in the hall. I was ushered into an
apartment which, like a desert island, bore no traces of human
habitation. Everything remained as it had come from the hands of
the upholsterer. The atmosphere was damp and cold, as if no fire
had ever been lighted in the polished grate. The chairs and sofas
looked as if they were in a shop-window; the gorgeous books on the
central table had perhaps never been opened, certainly never been
read. All feudal castles contained a dungeon in which malefactors
were cast; and in many old-fashioned houses a desert chamber is set
apart for the reception of guests. I did not like to sit down for
fear I should crease something, and did not dare to walk about for
fear of soiling the carpet; as it was, I could see a bootmark which
the lady of the house would view with no less horror than Robinson 


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Crusoe the footprint in the sand. I therefore remained in a most
uncomfortable attitude, while the door was constantly opened by
small children who peeped in and made faces at me, and then shut it
with a bang and a shout of exultation. At last the rustle of a silk
dress announced that the change of toilet was completed, and Mrs.
Watson came into the room, round which she glanced with an air of
evident pride. She begged me to sit down; but I said I was anxious
to see Mr. Watson at once, so she led the way into his study,
having made me promise that I would take a dish of tea before I
went home. Soon afterwards I heard, not without satisfaction, the
sound of manual punishment, accompanied by shouts which were not of
a gleeful character.

     Mr. Watson was seated in his study, reading Paley's 'Natural
Theology' and smoking a long clay pipe. When I had explained the
object of my visit, he did not seem surprised, but asked me a
number of questions which showed that he was well acquainted with
works of science and philosophy. Having received my replies, he
reflected a little, and then said, laying down his pipe, "I see you
have thought out this matter for yourself and have not taken it at
second-hand. It would be useless for me to try and move you out of
your position. I shall therefore place myself in that position; I
shall admit (for argument's sake, you understand) that you have
found out the truth. We shall, therefore, discuss what is best for
you to do."

     "Surely," I said, "there can be no doubt about that. I ought
to act according to the truth."

     "You think it is your duty to withdraw from the Church?"

     "Most certainly," I answered, "and I have come here to ask
your advice as to how to proceed in this difficult matter. I do not
wish to cause scandal or to give unnecessary pain. But remaining in
the Church is out of the question altogether."

     "Gently, gently," he replied; "allow me to ask you what are
your circumstances? What have you to live upon when you are
married?"

     "I inherit a sum of money from my mother, the interest of
which is 150 pounds a year. That is my own. Besides that, my father
has promised me a liberal allowance, and then there is the money I
shall make."

     "Perhaps your father may refuse to give you an allowance when
he finds that you have left the Church. Is that quite impossible?"

     A little reflection forced me to admit that it was not quite
impossible; but, on the contrary, rather probable than otherwise.
"However," said I, "that matters little; I am young, I will enter
another profession, I will make my way in the world."

     "You are not then aware," said Mr. Watson, that clergymen are
forbidden by law to enter any other profession?" [This law has
since been repealed.] 



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     "Then," said I, nothing daunted, "I will get work from
publishers and editors. I shall easily get on."

     "Excuse me," he replied; "I have lived some years in London
and have written for the press. Hundreds of indigent clergymen,
many of whom are fine scholars, seek in vain for employment of that
kind. The supply far exceeds the demand. No; look at the future
fairly in the face and don't stir up a vague mist of hopes and
illusions. If you leave the Church you cannot marry Margaret."

     I was stupefied. Strange to say, I had never thought of this.

     Mr. Watson did not interrupt my meditations, but quietly
filled another pipe and began to smoke again. I said, "What do you
advise?"

     "I think," said he in a kind voice, "that I can show you are
not bound by the moral law to give up the Church."

     "Ah, sir," said I, "duty speaks to me clearly enough, though
I have not, I feel it, the strength to obey its commands. I cannot
part from Margaret. But I know that I ought."

     "All moralists are agreed," he replied, "that the welfare of
mankind is the test of the Right. The virtues so called are virtues
because they contribute to human happiness. If they become
injurious they cease to be virtues. Now life is so constituted that
no positive dogma, no undeviating rule can be laid down for the
guidance of conduct. In a broad sense, we may say it is for the
welfare of mankind that everyone should speak the truth, but there
are many exceptions to the rule. No one would hesitate to tell a
lie in order to save the life of an innocent man. Here, as often
happens, there is a choice between two evils, and the lesser evil
is selected. It is wrong to tell a lie, but it is more wrong to
participate in murder. Or, if you please, we may put it another
way. Here is a choice between two virtues. It is good to tell the
truth, but far better to save an innocent life from destruction,
while the struggle it costs the good man to lie adds to the
nobleness of the deed.

     "Having thus proved, as, I think you will allow, that there
can be a case in which falsehood is a virtue, I will take a case
which, from what I know of the clergy, happens, I imagine, very
often. A parson with a wife and family of children entirely
dependent upon him ceases to believe in the doctrines of the
Anglican Church. His first impulse is to obey the voice of his
conscience, and to leave the Church, but a little reflection warns
him that if he did so his wife and children would starve. He
chooses the lesser of two evils. He becomes, if you will, a
hypocrite" -- (here the pipe fell and broke into splinters on the
hearth) --" that he may not violate the sacred duties of the
husband and the father.

     "And now, my dear Edward (if you will allow me so to call
you), which, in your case, is the greater evil, and which is the
less? If you were a man living alone and bound by no ties to
another human heart; if your leaving the Church would only involve 


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loss of money and social position, I would say, Be honest, be free!
live on bread and water, work with your hands, break stones upon
the road, rather than be untrue. But you are not alone; a life is
entwined round yours like the ivy round that larch over there on
the lawn. Margaret loves you. And consider how much harm you will
do to others if you proclaim yourself an infidel; consider how much
good you may do if you remain in the Church. You need never preach
a doctrinal sermon; in the New Testament you will find maxims of
the purest morality and precepts of the tenderest love. Let these
be your texts. What does it matter, after all, if your parishioners
believe in some fabulous legends of the East and some Greek
definitions of the Undefinable? These are only intellectual errors.
You are not surely like those theologians who maintain that an
incorrect theory of the Universe involves eternal perdition. You
believe in a life of future rewards and punishments, and it is in
your power, as a clergyman, to convert men and women from a life of
brutality and vice. Outside the Church you could do little; but,
clothed with its authority, how much sin you might destroy, how
much misery you might alleviate! Let this be your atonement, and it
will not be refused -- it will not be refused."

     The good man's eyes were filled with tears, and he said as he
pressed my hand: "Let us not speak of this again unless it is
necessary for you. It is a painful subject for me."

     We are easily won over by arguments to that which we secretly
wish. That same evening I wrote to inform Mr. Watson that I had
determined to take his advice, and, as he desired, would not allude
to the matter again, I read no theological books, increased my
devotional exercises, and spent the greater part of the day with
the sick and the poor. Practicing the strictest economy, I was able
to give away in charity all the money I received from the Church.
Thus I quieted my conscience for a time -- but only for a time. It
was not with me a question of the moral law and of the duty of man
to man. I was deeply, fervidly religious; and when I knelt down by
my bedside at night to confess myself to God, when I reviewed my
conduct of the day, I could not believe that it was pleasing in his
sight. I felt myself a traitor to him -- a coward, who paid outward
allegiance to a false God and worshipped the true God in secret as
if it were a sin. I felt that I was doing wrong. My conscience
spoke in no uncertain voice. I could only sigh and weep, and pray
God to have mercy on my weakness and forgive Me.

     But I knew my own guilt in which I persevered, and I knew that
I did not deserve to be forgiven. And in time there came upon me in
these nightly prayers -- often prolonged till the dawn -- a
conviction that God had turned his face away. For when I offered up
my supplications, no response came back to my heart; that wondrous
feeling of relief and consolation, the reflex action of the soul
which rewards those who pray with intensity and faith, ceased to
exist for me, and I rose from my knees unrefreshed. Yet when I
thought of proclaiming the truth, of parting for ever from my love,
I cried, "It is impossible!"

     Now I began to suffer the most horrible torments. As I lay in
bed unable to sleep, I saw lights dancing in the room and shadows
passing to and fro; I heard groans and sobs, mingled with bursts of
smothered laughter. One night I beheld my mother and Margaret in 

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heaven, whilst I was borne past them by demons, and a voice cried
aloud, "They believed in the false, but they were sincere. To you
the truth was revealed and you hid it in your heart."

     The Sunday I dreaded as a day of doom. The tolling of the bell
seemed to summon me to the tortures of the rack. Often, when I was
reading the lessons, I felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to
throw down the Book and proclaim it a lie. Often, as I was
preaching, voices whispered in my ear all kinds of blasphemous
things, and sometimes I thought that I had repeated them, and,
stopping short, would question the faces of the congregation to see
if it were so. Ah, terrible days! even now it would give me pain to
enter that church. I see it before me as if it were only yesterday
-- the white-washed walls, with texts in many-colored letters --
the plain, open pews, and the people ranged in long rows -- the
window of crimson glass, and the sun-rays lying like blood streaks
on the floor.

     Margaret saw that I was ill and begged me to go to the
seaside. She thought I had overworked myself among the poor; and,
indeed, my labors were prodigious -- but they had been a kind of
relief. I did not take her advice, for I felt that I must make an
end. Mr. Watson's arguments might be perfectly just, but in every
great crisis of the mind it is feeling, not reason, that decides.
Convinced that if I continued my life of falsehood and silence I
should forfeit my eternal happiness, I resolved to seek security --
even at the cost of Margaret. Again and again I sought her to tell
the sad news, but when I came within the charm of her presence, I
felt as if I could suffer anything, even the torments of the
damned, rather than relinquish her love. Then, again, when I
returned to my house, haunted by demons, I cursed my cowardice and
swore that next time should be the last. But my confession was
wrung from me by an accident.

     One evening, Margaret and I strolled out after dinner to the
wilderness. We went to the hyacinth dell; the flowers were as
beautiful as ever; it was the same time of year. We stood on the
spot where then we had met. I told her I thought at first she was
an angel from my mother in heaven; and she said with a blush that
she loved me from the first because I looked so pale and sad; pity
made her take me to her heart. We spoke yet more of the past and
revived tender memories; for a brief space I forgot the troubles 
that menaced our life.

     We saw Margaret's maid tripping down the path which led from
the village to the house. She held a letter in her hand, and said
that as she was passing the post-office a gentleman's groom rode up
and inquired the way to the rectory. When she found that he had a
letter for me she took charge of it, thinking I would like to see
it at once.

     Margaret took the letter from her hand. "Oh, thank you, Jane,"
she said, "it is important indeed!" And she showed me the episcopal
seal. Jane smiled and curtseyed and went on to the house.





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     I opened the letter, and we read it together. The bishop had
heard of my labors, and was glad to say it was now in his power to 
give me a wider field. He offered me a parish in the county town
with a salary of 800 pounds a year.

     Margaret clapped her hands. "Oh," she said, "this is the high-
road to fortune. You will be as great as you are good."

     Then she stopped and looked at me in wonder.

     "I cannot take it," I said; "I am an infidel."

     She started back in horror, clasping her hands. She thought
that I was mad.

     "I have long concealed it from you," I said. "It is all over
now. Dear Margaret, we must part -- for ever."

     She turned ashy pale and trembled all over.

     "O Thou Divine Ruler," I cried, "eternal Spirit of Truth, for
thee I have wounded this heart that I love more than all that is on
earth. Give her strength to bear this affliction."

     She sank on my breast and flung her arms round my neck.
"Edward," she said, as she raised her haggard face towards mine,
"Edward, I cannot give you up. I am still your betrothed. I will be
your wife for better for worse, rich or poor, sinner or saint --
what do I care? Without you I shall die."

     "My child," I said, "the Almighty God has sent us here for a
few short and unhappy years, not to do that which is pleasant, but
that which is good, and to prepare for the life beyond the grave.
You must not disobey your father; and he will never consent to our
marriage. From this day I cease to be a clergyman."

     "You do not love me," she cried.

     "I do not love you, Margaret! Look at these sunken cheeks,
these hollow eyes, these emaciated hands. Love and religion, love
and honor have daily contended within me; see, have I not
suffered?"

     "And love has lost! love has lost!" she cried, and clung to me
with her despairing arms. Not a tear dimmed her eyes, which were
filled with and woe. "Edward," she whispered, "let us be silent;
let us keep this dangerous secret for a time' Ah, I have a way. You
are too ill to take a large parish. You are forced to travel for
your health; but before you go we shall be married. Then we will
live abroad for a long, long time; and then --"

     "O God!" I cried in a loud voice, "preserve me!"

     Her head drooped upon her bosom.

     "Preserve us," I said, "from sin and hypocrisy."



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     She drew back and folded her trembling hands, pallid from
violent emotion. "Command me," she said, "and I obey."

     "Dear love," I said, "let us suffer on earth that we may be
united hereafter, to part no more."

     "Then, life, pass quickly," she said; "and come death, to make
us meet again."

     "As a perishable day," I said, "life will pass, and death will
soon come to herald in the dawn."

     I pressed her to my heart. The shades of evening descended,
and the voices of the wilderness were hushed. The pale moon arose;
the hours passed by. Twice, thrice, the great bell rang from the
house; again and again we said farewell, again and again we flew
back to each other's arms. At length we saw torches gleaming
through the trees. One last kiss and she ran down the path to the
house. I returned to the spot where first we had met, and gathered
some flowers and put them in my breast.

                           LETTER VIII

     WHEN I returned home, I told the servants that particular
business called me to London at once, and that I might perhaps not
return for some little time. The whole night I was engaged in
writing letters: to Margaret a long farewell; to Mr. Jamesod, a
short note explaining my departure. I wrote to my father, gave my
reasons for quitting the Church, and promised to write again as
soon as I had a fixed address. I sent my cheque book to Mr. Watson,
and begged him to pay the tradesmen, servants, &c., and to send my
personal effects to an address which I would afterwards
communicate. I also asked him to permit his curate to take my duty
till someone should be sent by the bishop in my place. Having
packed a small valise, which I carried in my hand, I walked down
into the village a little before day break and posted the letters.
Then I waited for the coach. The grey streaks of dawn were
beginning to flushing into pink, the birds were twitter and to
shake the dew from their plumage, laboring men were going to their
work, when the horn sounded and the horses' hoofs rang sharply on
the road. In a few minutes more I was borne swiftly away, looking
back on a vanishing scene and lamenting the joys that were gone.

     I took lodgings for a week at a market-town twenty miles from
Stilbroke, on the London road. Thence I wrote two letters to the
Bishop of T----; the first was a formal resignation of my living;
in the other, which I marked "Private," I thanked him for his great
kindness, and related at length the process of thought which had
led to the change of my belief.

     He wrote back the kindest letter possible, and told me how he
himself, when at my age, had also passed through a period of
skeptical gloom and had all but given up his profession. However,
his doubts soon passed away and never returned to trouble him
again. He advised me to travel on the Continent for a year, and
before the twelvemonth was ended he had little doubt that I should 
 


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have returned to my belief. In the meantime my interests should not
suffer; he should consider my absence as sick leave; for he was
sure that my brain was over-worked and that this attack of
infidelity resulted from physical disease.

     Return to my belief! As well might a river return to its
source. My reply was respectfully, gratefully expressed; but it was
conclusive.

     This correspondence being ended, and Mr. Watson having sent me
my clothes and books, nothing detained me in the town; and now I
felt a yearning for home. I remembered what Margaret had said, that
"our parents are our best friends." I remembered my father's
kindness when last I was at Harborne, and the promptness with which
he had consented to my marriage. I believed that, in spite of his
cold exterior, he really loved me tenderly; and it was my duty to
consult him before I began my new life. I thought of going to
London; but if he wished me to stay with him I would obey.

     As soon as I had made up my mind to go home, I felt too
impatient to wait for a reply, and wrote word to say that I was
coming by the next day's coach.

     Harborne was not on the coaching road; and I alighted as usual
at a wayside inn, about five miles from the village. The ostler
took down my luggage and greeted me in the accents of the north,
which sounded home-like to my ears. Presently I saw the dog-cart in
the distance, and James drove up to the door. The horse had his
water and hay, James had his beer, and I was just stepping up when
he suddenly said, "Beg pardon, Master Eddard, I nearly forgot this
here; "and he took a handkerchief out of his hat, and a letter out
of the handkerchief. I read it with one foot still upon the step.
It was from my father, who said that he could not receive in his
house a hardened infidel; and that if I came in spite of his
letter, he would turn me out in the presence of the servants.

     I ordered the ostler to take out the luggage and carry it
indoors. James became red in the face. "Bain't you coming home,
sir?" said he. "No, James," said I; "my father and I have a quarrel
it seems; but I daresay we shall make it up by and by." He touched
his hat and slowly drove off. I inquired if a coach would again
pass the house that day. They said that none would pass either way
till the next morning at eight o'clock. I ordered a bed and some
dinner, and then going up to my room locked the door.

     I tried to eat something at dinner, for I knew that I had need
of bodily strength; but it was impossible. The sight of food 
disgusted me. Feeling restless and excited, I went out of doors and
walked quickly along a familiar path. A strong wind was blowing
from the north; and across the moon sailed the clouds, tinged by
its tawny halo and pierced by its cold white rays. Around me lay
the moors like a wide black sea. On, on I walked, wailing aloud. At
length I could give vent to my grief. Nobody could hear me. O
miserable man! two sorrows had stricken me at once. I had lost my
love; I had lost my home. I was an OUTCAST; alone and desolate.
Then my blood boiled and my tears dried up; and I cursed my hard-
hearted father who had put me to shame that day.


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     Lights twinkled in the distance. Harborne was before me. I
skirted the village and climbed a steep hill lying on the left. The
sky was now covered with clouds, and the wind was boisterous. A
storm was coming up.

     The church loomed before me mistily on the summit of the hill.
I found that the gate was not locked, and entered the graveyard.
Above the grass mounds and small stone slabs, a white obelisk rose;
I fell on my knees before it, as before an altar, and prayed to
God. I summoned the spirit of my mother from the past, and she to
my memory vividly returned. Again I saw her face so loving and
resigned; again I heard her sweet sad voice. And as I thought of
the long years she had passed with a loveless man in a lonely
house, and what she must have suffered, and how she had endured, I
repented of my own poor rage and resolved that her life should be
my example, and that never would I cherish an unkind thought
against my father any more. For what pleasure had I left but that
of being good?

     The black night deepened, and still I remained kneeling by the
tomb. But now the storm, which had long been gathering, burst
forth; in a few minutes I was drenched to the skin, and the moist
wind penetrated to my bones. I tried to shelter myself beneath the
yew, but it creaked, and groaned, and swayed to and fro as if about
to be torn from its roots. Then I crouched under the wall and fell
into a stupefied sleep.

     When I awoke, the storm had ceased, the sky had cleared, the
moon, dull and red, was near the horizon. I knew that the dawn must
be near, and that I must go back to the inn. But my limbs were
cramped, I could scarcely stir, and my whole body was racked with
pain. I dragged myself along on my hands and knees, and this
movement partly restored my circulation. But to walk five miles! It
seemed hardly possible. Yet done it must be, somehow or another.

     At that moment I heard the sound of wheels. A man driving a
gig stopped at the churchyard gate, and, having fastened the
horses' reins to the post, walked slowly to my mother's tomb.

     He bared his head and stood with his arms folded on his
breast, gazing intently on the grave. Then he said in a low voice,
Ellen! and turned to go away. I cried out his name and staggered
towards him. He bore me in his arms to the gate, put me beside him
in the gig, and drove at full gallop to his house. Having given me
some brandy, he called two men and made them rub me with flesh-
gloves from head to foot. But the next day I was delirious with
fever.

                            LETTER IX

     AN overworked brain, a troubled heart, days of incessant
anxiety, and nights without sleep were the true elements of my
illness, and exposure to the storm but its proximate cause. Sooner
or later it must have come; and I was fortunate in being cast like
a waif by the winds into the house of Dr. Chalmers. He restored me
to health; but I was in bed some weeks, and my convalescence was
slow, though not tedious. For many it is a happy time, that period 


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which lies between sickness and health. It has its own delicate
enjoyments, such as the singing of a bird, the scent of a flower,
the prospect of the blue sky, the mere sensation of being in the
bright open air. The brain soon becomes weary, but a calm and
soothing sleep at once relieves its fatigue. The selfishness of
suffering is past; gratitude and love, which too often cease with
convalescence, then at least animate even the coldest dispositions.

     I used to sit for hours in an easy-chair watching the doctor
as he performed chemical experiments, or made microscopic
observations. When I had regained my health, I began the study of
physical science; and in six months had made considerable progress,
not only in the literature, but also in the practice, if I may use
the expression, of astronomy, chemistry, botany, geology, and
comparative anatomy.

     But could Dr. Chalmers teach me all this? Was he a universal
genius? The fact is that his house was a College of the Sciences.
Since I had left home he had taken to live with him, besides his
medical assistant, three scientific men whom he called his
Professors. They were an astronomer, a geologist, and a comparative
anatomist -- all men of mature years who, having given up their
lives to pure science, had found it difficult to live. Dr. Chalmers
had plucked them out of poverty and had given them a home, only
stipulating in return that they should work, and regularly publish
the results of their researches. They were all delighted when I was
presented to them as a pupil, and spared no pains to make me a
proficient, each in turn privately assuring me that his science was
the most important and the most interesting. I spent an hour or two
with each of them every day.

     The Anatomist inhabited a room built over the stables. On a
large marble table usually lay some quaint-looking animal which he
was dissecting; and round the room were arranged, in systematic
order, the skeletons of the animal kingdom, culminating in a
chimpanzee and a man, standing side by side, their arms
affectionately interlocked. The Anatomist told me that his parents,
who were poor, had sent him to Guy's Hospital. He had passed a good
examination and had taken his diploma; but a visit to the Museum of
the College of Surgeons sent him out of his senses; from that time
he could think of nothing else but comparative anatomy; and Dr.
Chalmers saved him from starvation.

     The Geologist resided in a fine library, furnished with works
on his science in English, German, and French, and colored maps and
diagrams hung from the walls. He had a large cabinet filled with
specimens of rocks, and of precious minerals in nests of cotton
wool; and promised that when I had mastered these and read up the
text-books he would give me lessons in field geology, and show me
nature at work, and take me where I could study the "dip" of
strata, and "faults," and other phenomena, which could be but
imperfectly learnt from books. The Geologist had once been a
laborer, and had taught himself to read and write. The finding of
some fossils in a quarry "set him on to geology," which he studied
after his day's work was done; and the rector of the parish, having
a taste for the science, obtained him a situation in a small
country museum. There he educated himself and continued his 


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favorite pursuit; and there he was found by Dr. Chalmers, who
offered him bed and board, and all his time to himself, and as much
pocket-money as he might require.

     The Astronomer had been an optician. He studied the sun and
the moon and the stars from a tower at the end of the garden, with
a small chamber at the top almost filled by an enormous telescope.
The roof of the observatory was a dome in which was a fissure or
window-like opening. The telescope being pointed towards that part
of the sky which was to be the field of observation, a crank was
turned, and the dome, which rested on cannon-balls in grooves,
turned round till the window came opposite the telescope. On a
table were papers covered with abstruse mathematical calculations.

     The Professors met at dinner in the evening, and I found their
conversation delightful and instructive. After dinner they went to
the Common-room, as it was called, where they read the papers and
the scientific periodicals. To these they contributed, but each
Professor was also preparing a book, the labor of years, and the
summary of a life's investigations. The Volcanoes of the Moon --
the Natural Arrangement of Fossils -- the Homologies of the Animal
Kingdom, were the titles of these forthcoming works. Dr. Chalmers
had already published a book on the chemistry of plants. He
maintained that it was the duty of every student in science,
history, and all other provinces of knowledge, to place on record
in a permanent and accessible form the result of his research and
experience. To amass knowledge, and to take it to the grave, was to
be a miser of that which was to mankind more precious than gold.
Such a person, however learned he might be, was utterly useless to
his species; and the modesty which shrank from publication was in
most cases an excessive vanity resembling disease.

     He advised me to continue my general studies for some months
more and then to select one science. He had little doubt that I
would fix upon geology, in which case some knowledge of botany and
comparative anatomy would be indispensable; and therefore my
present work would not be thrown away.

     I followed his advice and utilized my opportunities. But you
must not think that Margaret was forgotten. If the virulence of my
grief had abated, the dull aching pain yet remained. I told Dr.
Chalmers how the ardor of the spiritual life had once enabled me to
drive Margaret from my mind, and I asked him if he thought that 
devotion to science would have a similar effect.

     "Why," said he, "do you wish to forget her? I should say,
rather hallow and preserve her memory, place her image on the altar
of your heart; believe that she is the witness and judge of your
actions and your thoughts; then your life will be noble and pure.
Love without hope, then your love will be to you as a religion, for
none so nearly approaches the love that is divine."

     These words, extravagant as they may seem, touched me deeply,
for I knew that he had given up his life to a hopeless love which
he had kept during long years chained down within his breast, as in
a dungeon, and had fed it only with the bread of affliction and the
water of tears.


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     However, I must proceed more quickly with my narrative. It was
tacitly settled between the doctor and myself that I was always to
stay at his house, and he also projected visits to London,
geological excursions, and so forth. One day as I was passing
through a shrubbery near the stable-yard (which overlooked the
road), I heard James, who was in the dog-cart, talking with one of
the doctor's grooms, and as they spoke very loud I soon discovered
that my father was the subject of the conversation. He was like a
mad dog, James said, when he heard that I was living with the
doctor. He had taken the latter to task, James being present, and
"had got as good as he gave, with sommat to spare; and he was that
furious he'd ride over the moors and leap the stone walls rather
than pass the doctor's house." This seemed to afford satisfaction
to the servants, for my father was not universally beloved; but it
was a sad blow for me. I felt that I must go. When I announced this
resolution to my friend, he said I owed my father no duty since he
had cast me off, I replied that still he was my father. He had
brought me up, I had lived upon his bread, he had loved me so far
as was in him to love, he had sacrificed to me many long hours, and
had placed all his hopes in my gaining glory, or at least doing my
duty in the Church. Those hopes I had shattered; the last half of
his life I had embittered. It could not be helped; it was not my
fault; but still so it was, and at least I ought not to cause him
unnecessary pain. It would cost me much to go away, for I was very
happy there; but my conscience left me no choice.

     "Do you love your father?" inquired the doctor.

     I answered without hesitation, "No."

     "I," he said, "made a sacrifice for one whom I loved. But you
can sacrifice yourself for one whom you do not love, and yet you
say you are not a Christian."

     "Because I have ceased to be a Christian," I replied, "that is
to say, because I have ceased to believe in the Divinity of Christ,
is that a reason for me to reject what is good in the teaching of
a good man?"

     Dr. Chalmers was much depressed by this determination; he
loved me for myself, and not only for myself. Often I had observed
his eyes fixed sadly and fondly on my face, in which he saw the
features of one who was no more. However, in a few days something
occurred which gave another channel to his thoughts.

     He received a letter from my father, to the following effect:
It was all over the country, that on the night of my arrival he (my
father) had discovered in a secret drawer a packet of letters from
Dr. Chalmers to my mother. Having read these letters, he showed
them to me, and turned me out of doors; and I, of course, was
adopted by the doctor. My father said that this mischievous tale
would be kept alive so long as I remained where I was; he made no
appeal to me, whom he looked upon as "lost," but if Dr. Chalmers
cared for the reputation of a lady who could no longer defend
herself, he would prove it by sending me away. He must see for
himself that this abominable scandal had arisen wholly and solely
from the fact of my being harbored in his house.


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     Dr. Chalmers at first declared that the story was a trick, but
that I could not allow, for I knew that my father would never tell
a lie. A few inquiries made through a trustworthy servant brought
ample confirmation of the fact. It made a sad impression on the
doctor's mind. "For a quarter of a century," he said, "I have lived
with these people, and there is not one amongst them who has not
received a personal kindness at my hands. She also was good to them
all, and this is how they speak of us. Oh, poor human nature --
poor human nature!"

     He resolved to leave Harborne and never to see it again.
Having placed the establishment under the charge of his housekeeper
till he could make some permanent arrangements for the Professors,
he went with me up to London. He declared that he would travel and
explore the wild countries of the world, and seek in savage life
that gratitude of which civilized men merely possess a shadowy
remnant -- the relic of primitive times. I may as well say at once
that he was not very successful. At Mozambique he bought and set
free a negro slave who stole his gold watch and decamped with a
slave-hunting expedition into the interior. In Patagonia he rescued
a wife from being half-murdered by her giant of a husband -- in
return for which she assisted with a hearty good-will her lord and
master to belabor him. Lastly, he took up his abode in Brazil with
a tribe of Bush Indians, who, having begged from him all that he
had in his possession, stripped him of his clothes and turned him
out of their camp as an idle vagabond who knew nothing of hunting
or fishing and was not able to pay for his keep.

                            LETTER X

     BEFORE Dr. Chalmers left England he saw me embarked in my
new profession -- if such it can be called. He begged me to
accept from him a small annuity, but I said my 150 pounds a year
was almost sufficient for my wants, and the rest I ought to earn
for myself. He then introduced me to his publishers, Jansen and
Haines, in Paternoster Row. This firm, now extinct, was famous in
its day for the publication of the classics; of original
scientific works; of translations from the German; of lexicons,
encyclopedias, annotated catalogues, and so forth. Now, my father
had taught me German, on account of its value in "dogmatik," and
the doctor had made me take it up again on account of its value
in geology. French, and a little Italian, I had learnt from my
mother. I had a general smattering of science, while the prima
classes before my name in the University Calendar incontestably
proved my classical learning and made a profound impression on
the firm. Having first tested my capacity for work, they set me
on their Paternoster Cyclopedia, which was rather out of date, to
correct its errors and insert the latest additions to knowledge.
As change of work is a species of repose, I was also employed to
enlarge and improve a Greek lexicon which they had published for
"the use of colleges and schools." I agreed to produce a stated
quantity of "copy" per week, and they to pay me the sum of 3
pounds for the same. Thus I had now 300 pounds a year and was
perfectly content. I took lodgings near the British Museum, in
the reading-room of which my days were passed. It was not the
magnificent hall I once took you to see -- the paradise of
learned loungers and spectacled flirts -- but a dingy apartment 
frequented by none but genuine students.

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     At first I was obliged to work very hard and had not an hour
to myself; but when I had hit upon a system, and learnt the art
of reference, I was able to complete my appointed task at the
Museum, and could study in the evening for my own pleasure and
improvement. I must own that often I felt my existence lonely and
monotonous. The days followed one another, and all, except
Sundays, were the same. One evening, as I sat by my fire, I said
to myself, "What a poor life is this, drudging from morning to
night just to earn food, and lodgings, and clothes! You have no
one to care for you, no one to converse with, no friend, not even
an acquaintance. You say 'Good morning' to your landlady at the
lodgings, and you make some remark about the weather to the man
who takes charge of your umbrella at the Museum. You go once a
week to Paternoster Row, hand your roll of manuscript across the
counter, and receive three sovereigns in an envelope. Such are
the social pleasures you enjoy; there is no place for you in the
human family; years will pass, and your life will not change, and
at length you will become an old man, and, unloved, unpitied,
will go down with sorrow to the grave."

     Then I felt sick at heart, and the tears rose to my eyes,
and I thought of the happiness I had lost. "Oh! Margaret, dear
Margaret!" I cried, "do you still remember? do you still lament?
Do you weep for me as I weep for you? Does a vision haunt you
sleeping and awake -- by night a dream, by day a memory?

     "Past are the joys of love, the thirsty kisses, and the long
embrace; past are the hours of chaste converse and tender
confidence; past are the hopes that once were all assured. None
but Margaret can be my wife, and she for me is dead and buried in
the grave. I must go through life solitary and alone; no pretty
children will clamber on my knee. Alone -- alone -- alone. O God,
my Father, and my Friend, you have poured love into my heart, and
my nature is affectionate. Must I be lonely and childless? Is
that, indeed, my destiny? Then, I pray you, assist me to bear
life with patience to the end."

     At that moment the servant brought in a copy of Mrs.
Carter's 'Epictetus' which I had ordered at a book-shop that day
as I was coming home. I opened it at hazard and began to read;
and soon, as if by a magic spell, my pains were charmed away, my
mind was filled with serene and elevated thoughts. Ah, what a
divine gift is that which, by scattering some ink drops on paper,
can, after two thousand years, still give solace to hearts in
sickness and adversity! It is said that the ancient Egyptians
placed over their public library this inscription, The medicine
of the soul; and in all such melancholy hours as that I have
described, I used to take up a great writer of the past or
present time, and in half an hour my troubles were forgotten. It
was this antidote to sorrow, and also my discipline of daily
work, which saved me from brooding on my woes. I do not think
that I loved Margaret less than she loved me; but I certainly
suffered less, as I was soon to learn.

     One day I met Mr. Jameson in New Oxford Street. To my
surprise his face brightened up when he saw me, and he said, "Ah,
here you are! I've been looking for you everywhere."


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     "Looking for me, Mr. Jameson," I repeated.

     "Well, no," said he, "not exactly that; but I've been in
London some time (Stilbroke is let), and I've been always
expecting to see you in the theater saloons, or larking about at
the Finish, or some of those places."

     "And pray, sir," I asked, "why should you expect to find me
in such scenes of dissipation?"

     "Why, ain't you an infidel?" he said. "And don't they always
knock about town? But there, I didn't mean to offend you. Why,
you're as red as a turkey-cock! Is there any place handy where we
can have a quiet bit of chat?"

     I took him to my lodgings, which were small but comfortable.
"Well," said he, "this is a snug little crib; and the Governor
ain't cut up rough after all?

     I explained to him what my circumstances were, and said
that, "Thank God, I had as much money as I wanted."

     "Thank God!" said he. "Then you do believe there's a God,
after all?

     "Certainly, I do."

     "Well, then, you believe in the Bible too?

     "No," said I; "not all of it."

     "My dear fellow," he said, "you contradict yourself; for how
can you believe in God and not believe in God's Word? But, then,
never mind -- that's not the point -- that's not the point."

     He walked up and down the room, muttering according to his
wont when excited or disturbed. "Three hundred a year isn't much
-- but it's bread -- it's bread. Will your father disinherit you,
Mr. Edward, do you think?"

     "That, I should say, was certain," I replied.

     He went on, walking backwards and forwards, saying, "Bad,
sir, bad; but it must be done; there's no choice -- no choice."

     I was much puzzled by this strange behavior, and the
questions he asked, and his evident anxiety as he waited for my
answers. Something rose within me, too vague to be called hope; a
kind of expectation. Finally, Mr. Jameson put on his gloves and
said, "I want to see you on particular business; will you call at
----'s Private Hotel in Half-Moon Street, at nine o'clock this
evening."

     I went there at nine o'clock, and was shown into a large,
dimly-lighted drawing-room. A young woman came and advanced
hastily towards me. It was Margaret's maid. "Please to sit down,"
said she, pointing to the sofa near which I was standing. "Jane,"


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I said, "tell me ----" "Sit down, sir," said she. I sat down. "It
is all right," she said with emphasis, "and Miss Margaret will be
down directly." My head swam round and fell back on the pillow of
the sofa. "So I thought," muttered the girl. "No, Jane," I said,
"I have not fainted, but it was very near." "Bear up, sir," she
said, "and be calm. Do not agitate my mistress; she is still very
ill ----"

     "What has happened?" I asked. "What has happened!" she said
bitterly. "Why, what else could have happened! When you ran off
like a thief in the night, Miss Margaret took ill; and since that
day she has never laughed nor cried; and she never said a word,
but just pined and pined away. And then the doctor and Mrs.
Watson told her father that he must find you for her again or she
would die. And he promised he would, and that made her hearten up
a little. Oh! sir, be kind to her, for she's the best young lady
in the world, and she's going to send me away because you can't
afford her a maid; and my old mother's got only my wages to live
on, or I'd serve her gladly for nothing. O dear!

     I put a sovereign into her hand and said, "There, Jane, give
that to your mother, or buy something pretty for yourself; and
you must not mind leaving your mistress, for you will get married
yourself before very long, I dare say."

     This vulgar panacea for the woes of the lower classes seldom
fails of its effect; and Jane wiped her eyes, smiled, dropped me
a curtsey, and saying, "I wish you all happiness, sir, and many
of them," went out of the room.

     I waited. The moments seemed hours, and she did not come.
The lamp burned dimly and cast vague shadows on the ceiling
overhead. The fire crackled in the grate; the furniture creaked;
hasty footsteps passed along the street; Piccadilly murmured in
the distance. Why did she not come? Presentiments assailed me.
Her father had changed his mind; she had fallen ill. A misfortune
had happened. I cast myself in a chair by the fire and resigned
myself to melancholy thoughts. Then suddenly something quivered
through me like a flame. I felt that she was standing by my side.

     But was this my beautiful Margaret? Pale and hollow were her
cheeks, and the dress hung loosely on her wasted form. She looked
at me sadly with her sweet blue eyes. I drew her towards me and
kissed her pale and trembling lips. I took her on my knees and
laid her head upon my breast. Thus she remained -- sometimes
uttering a sigh, sometimes nestling her head more closely to my
bosom, as one who had been long weary and would sleep. Two hours
glided by; the girl came in to take her to bed. I rose and said,
"To-morrow." No other word passed between us in this meeting sad
as a farewell.

                            LETTER XI

     AND this same sadness at first underlay our married life. I
was perfectly content so far as my own lot was concerned; for me
our marriage was all pure gain; I did my work as usual, and then,
instead of the gloomy parlor of my bachelor days, I returned to a
love-bright home. But it pained me to see that my wife was not 

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happy; and yet how could it be otherwise? This was not the life
of which we had spoken in the days of our betrothal; this
lodging-house parlor and bedroom; this solitude and separation, I
at the museum, she in utter loneliness. This it was which
troubled her, not our poverty. She did not care for books, and
was not a musician: she had no intellectual resources, and could
not amuse herself when she was alone. As the wife of a curate she
would have been in her proper sphere. She loved the sick and the
poor, and all old people and children. She loved all who were
helpless and in want, and spent much of her time by cottage
bedsides, and by the arm-chairs of the aged placed out in the
sun. But in London none of these kindly occupations came within
her life; and she had no gossip with female acquaintances, none
of those little gregarious pleasures which women think more of
than men perhaps can understand. Then her health was shattered,
and often I saw her looking mournfully on her thin neck and
emaciated arms. Once only I alluded to her illness. She blushed,
and hid her bead in my breast, and said that "only women knew how
to love." Then she burst into tears. But save on this occasion I
never saw her give way to sadness. I inferred rather than
perceived the sorrow at her heart, for in my presence she was
cheerful and vivacious. I gave up my book-hours, and read only
now and then at odd moments: my evenings belonged to Margaret,
and were spent in playing at chess, draughts, &c., or in
conversation.

     When you were born, my dear child, we found our lodgings
rather small, for a baby takes up a good deal of room. But we
determined not to increase our expenses, for we had no
expectations from my father (who had not answered the letter in
which I informed him of my marriage), nor from hers. The
Guardsman continued his extravagance, till at last Mr. Jameson
summoned up courage to declare that he should not have another
farthing unless he sold out. Captain Jameson asked his father
what a damned tradesman like him meant talking that way to an
officer in Her Majesty's Guards, but finally the matter was
compromised by his exchanging into a cavalry regiment.

     I must now beg you to suppose that four years had elapsed
since our marriage. I was engaged by Jansen and Haines in
compiling notices of the "obscure names" in a Classical
Dictionary, which was intended to supersede Lempriere, at that
time alone in the field. Margaret was also engaged on a work of
education. The arrival of Miss Ellen Mordaunt into our social
circle was a most fortunate event: my dear wife had now all that
she wished for; she was never lonely, being never alone; and was
perfectly happy and contented. She often said if our life had few
pleasures it had also few cares: and that if we were rich we
should always be anxious and fretful about some trifle or
another. And we had one very great pleasure. Every summer we
spent a fortnight at Limmerleigh, on the East Coast. A lawyer
from that little town, with his wife and daughter, once took the
drawing-room floor in the house where we lodged, and we happened
to make their acquaintance. They saw that Margaret was in
delicate health, and suggested a trip to the seaside, and placed
their house at our disposal for a fortnight, saying they should
be glad to have someone there who would take care of the 


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furniture, garden, &c. This same arrangement was repeated the
next year and the next: the Irvines always went away for two or
three weeks in the summer, and then we took our holiday.

     One Sunday, Margaret came to me with her eyes cast down, and
said, blushing a little, that she had a favor to ask: would I go
to church with her that morning? I said that I would go to church
with her as often as she pleased, and we always went together
after that. Dear Margaret! she had secret hopes that I might be
converted, and used to glance anxiously at me when the preacher
alluded to infidelity. She was much perplexed by my long and
fervent devotions in the morning and the evening; for she could
not understand how one could worship God and yet not be a
Christian. But we never discussed matters of religion.

     Well, as I said, we had been four years married, and
Margaret was happy. Then came the great calamity. Captain Jameson
had soon obtained an evil reputation in his regiment. The passion
for gambling of the last generation was already in its decline;
and a man was looked upon with disfavor who carried dice in his
pocket and held out a pack of cards like a pistol to everyone who
called upon him at his quarters. Moreover, ugly stories got
afloat; the colonel warned young cornets against him, and he
withdrew from the Guards' club, not, it was said, without
pressure from within. In fact, Captain Jameson was not only a
thoroughly unscrupulous gambler, but also "tout" or agent to a
famous West-End usurer, into whose toils he decayed many a young
officer, receiving a commission on his ruin. This commission was
so small, and the destruction of future prospects and happiness
so great, that it was really like burning down a friend's house
to roast an apple. But what did he care? He was one of those men
who are quite insensible to the suffering they cause, and are
never troubled with qualms of any kind either before or after an
event. However, his career was suddenly brought to a close, and
he involved others in his fall. A young subaltern was heavily in
debt and wished to raise a large sum of money. His father was
immensely rich, and Jameson having reported the case by letter to
his principal, received his instructions. He told Lieutenant
Smith (as I will call him) that he could have the 8000 pounds
whenever he pleased; his note of hand would be sufficient; but,
as it was pure speculation on the part of the people in London,
it would have to be paid for accordingly. This, of course, the
man of great expectations did not mind in the least, and asked
Captain Jameson to go up to town and arrange the "transaction,"
giving him the note of hand and full authority to act on his
behalf. Captain Jameson obtained the 8000 pounds and his
commission, went to Crockford's to gamble with the latter, and
lost it, and then lost the eight thousand pounds. Lieutenant
Smith wisely wrote to his father, and confessed all, in
consequence of which Captain Jameson shortly afterward wrote to
his father and informed him that unless 8000 pounds were produced
within a few days, the matter would go to the C.C.C. In other
words, he would be charged with felony, arrested, tried, and no
doubt transported for the same.





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     Mr. Jameson's late foreman, and the family lawyer, and
myself held council together. It was found that Stilbroke had 
been sold; that Mr. Jameson no longer possessed eight thousand
pounds, that the sale of his son's commission was not a
sufficient addition, and that to make up that sum it would be
necessary for me to contribute my stock of money in the funds. I
did not hesitate for a moment; my wife's family was mine, and the
sacrifice was made. A few days afterwards, the Jamesons, father
and son, the foreman and I met together at the lawyer's in
Lincoln's Inn Fields. It had been made a stipulation with the
captain that he should emigrate, and measures had been taken to
prevent him from evading this arrangement. The lawyer read out
the accounts. "Then there is nothing left over?" said the
foreman. "Only this twenty-pound note which will pay for Captain
Jameson's passage to Australia and buy him a rope when he gets
there," said the lawyer. "Or perhaps the colony will save him
that expense."

     Captain Jameson took the money and retired. Mr. Jameson
looked from one to another with a bewildered air. "Did you say
there was nothing left, Mr. Lawyer; nothing left of all that
money I earned? I worked hard for it, gentlemen. I was up early
and late. I never wasted an hour. I was honest in all my
dealings. Yes, yes; poor Bob has spent it all." Then he looked
round at us again. "How," said he, "am I to live?"

     I was, of course, prepared with an answer to this question,
and had taken a bedroom for him at home. But the foreman said,
"Come, my dear, kind old master; come and live with me." Then he
turned to me and said, "Excuse me, sir, for taking your place;
but you have done enough." He rose and went out, and my poor
father-in-law tottered after him, holding his hand. He died in a
few months; and Captain Jameson was shot in a gambling-house in
Sydney, soon after his arrival, for something equivalent to what
is called "welching" on the Turf.

     It would have been better, perhaps, to have kept our money
and left him to his fate; and yet, I am sure, we acted on the
right principle. For he might have reformed; he might have become
an honest, hard-working man, and even acquired a fortune. In
novels, the air of australia has a wonderfully restorative effect
on the characters of emigrants; and sometimes, no doubt, it is so
in real life. Margaret said that he had great natural ability,
and he must have had some qualities to make him the friend of
Fitzclarence. But the passion for play quickly depraves a man;
what are the pleasures of society or culture to those who have
sat knee-deep in cards, and played night and day without
intermission? Gambling is the most dangerous of vices, because
its excitements are incomparable, and are followed by no
reaction; it ruins, but it does not satiate.

     We now lived from hand to mouth, but I was not alarmed; and
there seemed no reason for alarm. Thousands of married persons
were in a position not less precarious; it was, in fact, the
ordinary lot. I was earning 150 pounds a year, and knew I could
get copying and translating to do, for such work had been offered
to me by other readers at the Museum. And, in fact, before long I


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was fully employed. But the work was miserably paid and was often
required in haste. My evenings were no longer devoted to
Margaret. I had to write -- write -- write from morning to
midnight, or even to the following dawn. Thus, by immense
efforts, I was able to make two pounds a week. When job-work was
slack I tried my hand at literary composition, and wrote about
twenty essays on social and literary subjects, which I dropped
into Editor's boxes; but none of them ever appeared in print, so
I confined myself to the manual labor of the scribe. We were
still fifty pounds short of our previous income, and Margaret had
to practice the mean little arts of economy, the saving and
hashing the scraps of one meal for another, and so forth. I hate
extravagance and waste; but it seems to me that this kind of
thrift is apt to make the mind sordid and money paramount. "My
dear," said I to her one day, "there are two kinds of poverty.
When we had 300 pounds a year, if we had taken a house, we should
have found it difficult to make both ends meet. But you were
content with these bachelor lodgings and money never troubled us.
In one sense of the word we were poor; but, as a matter of fact,
we lived easily on a small scale. Well, now we are poor; our
regular expenses are too much for our income, and so we have to
scrape and stint in little matters, and think of pennies at every
hour of the day. We have lost 50 pounds a year, and ought to
reduce our expenses by living in a more humble way. At first we
may find it hard to give up those little comforts to which we
have been long accustomed; but habit will soon make us happy
without them, and there will be an end to all this petty trouble
and anxiety."

     Margaret had grown fond of our dingy rooms and was sorry to
leave them. It was there we had spent our honeymoon, and there
you were born. However, she assented at once, as she did to all
that I proposed; but a misfortune postponed our departure, and
then rendered it no longer a question of choice and free-will.
Alas! I had said there were two kinds of poverty. We had soon to
learn by terrible experience that there were other kinds, the
horrors of which may not be, cannot be, fully described. A part
only of the truth I shall unfold.

                           LETTER XII

     As I told you, I read and wrote all day, and the greater
part of the night as well. My night-work was mostly copying, and
I made the mistake of writing on white paper, which is very
trying to the eyes; I was also employed for some time copying
manuscripts in a private library, and this work taxed my eyesight
severely. I found that when I woke up in the morning, my eyelids
were glued together, and a young doctor, whose acquaintance I had
made at the reading-room, observing them to be watery and
bloodshot, advised me to give them rest for a month. But how
could I pass a month without doing any work, unless we could pass
it without eating any food? I hoped for the best and worked on as
before; and the consequences may be imagined. The next time I
caught cold it flew to my eyes, inflammation set in, and a few
days afterwards I was sightless.




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     My employers were exceedingly kind. They sent me ten pounds
on account and begged me not to be anxious. I always did my work
honestly and well, and they would not lose me on any account.
They would find a substitute while I was ill, and as soon as I
had recovered my health, there was my place ready for me.
Unluckily, I twice returned to my work too soon (money was so
needful to us), and twice I relapsed. This caused the firm much
inconvenience and threw my eyes into a bad state. The disease
assumed a chronic form, and a great oculist whom I consulted,
said that time, rest, country air, nourishing food, and attention
to the general health were the only medicines he could recommend.

     Margaret had a good deal of jewellery, chiefly presents from
her father. This we were now forced to sell, and obtained what we
thought a considerable sum. We felt quite confident, that before
it was spent my health would be restored, and went to live near
Hempstead Heath where we found board and lodging at a very
reasonable rate. But my eyes became worse, and, returning to
London, we took a bedroom near the hospital at Charing Cross, for
which I had procured an out-patient's ticket. There my case
received every attention; but, as the oculist had predicted,
medicines did me no good. Our money being now nearly at an end,
we migrated to the neighborhood of Islington, where we took a
garret at four shillings a week. We spent little money, but none
came in; and, slowly, slowly our store decreased, till at last it
was finished altogether. Hitherto, my dearest wife had alleviated
the sorrows of my blindness by reading to me from my favorite
books, but now they had to go too. I got very little for them,
but we lived on the money two weeks.

     "Dear Edward," said my wife, "you must let me write to your
father, or our poor little Elly will starve." I gave my consent,
of course, and she wrote; but no answer was received. We made
inquiries about Dr. Chalmers. He had gone on a canoe voyage up
the Amazon and had not been heard of for a year.

     On my left hand I wore a gold ring, which my mother had made
me promise always to wear in memory of her; but I thought that
our destitution released me from this promise to the dead.
However, I would not sell it; I would only pawn it, and within a 
year's time I should surely be able to redeem it.

     One evening at dusk I went out and walked backwards and
forwards before several pawnbroker's shops; but they were all too
public -- too near the crowded thoroughfare. At last I saw some
way off, down a narrow side-street the three golden balls
branching out from the wall of a house. This I thought was the
place for me; so taking off my green shade, for fear of being
conspicuous, and looking anxiously around me, though I only knew
two or three persons in London, I slipped in at the door, which
was invitingly ajar. I found inside three small doors, which
opened into cells or private boxes with partitions on either
side, so that those who stood before the counter could not see
one another.





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     The shop-man was talking in a jocular manner to a woman in
the box on my left; and having tied up her bundle of linen, put 
it on a shelf, pinned a ticket to it, and handed her the
duplicate, he wished her good-day, and came to me. I handed him
the ring, and he took it to the light, examined it carefully, and
offered to advance me two pounds. I said that would do very well,
as I only wanted the money for a few days. As I made this very
foolish speech a tall thin young man in the box on my right
stretched himself half over the counter and looked round into my
box with a derisive expression on his face. The next evening I
saw him talking to some girls before a public-house, with his
white hat cocked on one side and a cigar in his mouth. There,
thought I is a Captain Jameson of low degree, and perhaps he too
has ruined his relations.

     I learnt before long to go to the pawnbrokers without shame,
and even to bargain with the shop-man. Little by little
everything went -- our boxes, our clothes -- nearly all we had
except what we wore. For the first time we were in debt; we owed
a week's rent. The landlady came to us, and said "she saw we
couldn't pay the rent, and she wouldn't demand it. But she'd got
an old lodger come back who wanted our room, and so out we must
go. There was his portmantle down-stairs, and him waiting in her
parlor, We must foot it at once."

     The little we had was soon made into a bundle, which I tied
to a stick, as I had seen tramps do in the country. Your mother
took you in her arms, and so we went out into the street.

     It was the month of November. A fine drizzly rain filled the
air, and covered the pavement with a layer of damp in which the
gaslights were reflected. We walked eastward, keeping close to
the houses on the right-hand side, for the street was thronged
with men going home from the City. What a heartless crowd it
seemed to us poor exiles of happiness, outcasts from humanity.
There was scarcely a woman among them. They had pale resolute
faces, and walked as fast as they were able, looking neither to
the right nor to the left. Weary of being jolted and pushed, we
sank under a doorway and watched them go by. An elderly man,
poorly but neatly dressed, noticed us as he passed; he went on a
few steps, paused, hesitated, then returned, put a penny in my
hand, and went quickly away. We bought a roll, which we divided
into three equal parts. It was the first time we had eaten that
day.

     The street grew empty, as it seemed, of a sudden, and we
continued our journey. We made you walk a little now and then,
and carried you by turns. Margaret insisted on this, though
scarcely able to bear your weight. For a long time past she had
been in failing health, and I knew she must be feeling very ill;
but she said not a word in complaint. Sometimes she gently
pressed my hand; sometimes I put my arm round her waist and gave
her a kiss. Our love was greater than our misery.

     We were now in the heart of the City, and it resembled a
city of the dead. The streets that in day teemed with human
beings were silent and deserted.


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     In the midst of these vast solitudes we felt like travellers
lost in a wilderness of stone. We sat down and rested for a
while. Then Margaret said, "Dear Edward, my courage faints. Will
you pray with me?"

     "No, Margaret," I answered, "I pray no more, God is hard-
hearted."

     "Edward! Edward!" she cried with a gesture of affright, "do
not put such thoughts into my heart; they come there often, and I
drive them away. Oh! my dear husband, make me good; help me to
place my trust in God, and to love him, and to ---

     Her words ended in sobs.

     I embraced her and knelt on the cold stones. But I did it
only of my love for her. I was sullen and rebellious. She knelt
also, and prayed aloud with the sleeping child in her arms.

     A policeman came up while thus we were engaged and told us
to move on. I laughed a mocking laugh to myself. Yet my wife, was
cheered by this hasty prayer and her eyes brightened up. When we
had gone a little way she stopped and said, "Edward, it is
useless to walk about like this; we can sleep in the workhouse,
and that is better than being out of doors."

     I had thought of this and feared to propose it, but it was
no time for sentiment and pride. I saw a man coming towards us,
and when he drew near it was plain that he belonged to the class
who could give poor vagrants information and advice. He wore a
fur cap on his head and a white comforter round his throat; he
slouched along with his hands in the pockets of his corduroy
trousers and was whistling a tune. I asked him if he could direct
us to the nearest workhouse, where we might sleep. "Well," said
he, "you won't get much sleep in them institutions. Why won't you
go to a model lodging-house? It's only a penny a night, and every
luxury of the season." I replied that we had not so much as a
penny. "God strike me dead!" said he, catching up my hand, and
feeling the tips of my fingers; "you're gentlefolk, too, by your
hand". "We were," said I, "a long time ago." "I dare say now,"
said he in a coaxing voice, "as you were a clerk or something of
that?" "Yes," said I, "not exactly a clerk, but doing the same
kind of work." "And when your eyes went bad," he said, glancing
at my green shade, "they gave you the sack?" I nodded. "And then
you spouted all you'd got, except what's there in your bundle, 
and I don't think it's much, and you got behind hand with your
rent, and they turned you out into the streets?"

     I told him he had guessed right.

     "Guessed I" said this man learned in misery, "it ain't
guessing at all. Can't I see it before me just as plain as a
play-bill on the wall? Now come along with me, and I'll give you
a night's lodging and a bit of hot supper into the bargain. I'm
flush, for I've just done a good bit of work. Don't trouble, sir;
I'll carry the young'un."



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     "I suppose," said I, "that you are a skilled working-man."

     Yes," he replied, "there ain't a skilleder man than me in my
own line -- bar one. I began life as a policeman, but I saw the
error of my ways, and left off making war on my fellow-creatures
what never done me any harm."

     I asked several other questions, and he returned answers
which I did not always understand, and which seemed intended
chiefly for his own amusement, as he chuckled to himself after he
had made them. He took us beyond the Bank, into a part of London
where I had never been before. I saw to my astonishment a great
wide street lined on both sides of the way with innumerable trays
or trucks of fruit, fish, and other edibles, each truck being
lighted by a candle in a glass shade. The pavement was crowded
with people, all of the lower class, and the bustle was
extraordinary. Our companion told us that this was the
Whitechapel Road, and seeing that Margaret and I were both very
weak, he bought us a penny cup of coffee. This gave us new
strength, and we were able to keep up with him, though he walked
very quickly, glancing from side to side and sometimes looking
back over his shoulder. He said that it was against his
principles, as a respectable working man, to dawdle in the
streets; then he had such a large acquaintance in the Force, he
feared he might perhaps be detained if he met any of them.

     "Lor' bless you," said he, "they wouldn't let me go. I might
tell 'em I'd got particular business, or that my old mother was
anxious if I stopped out late, or that I was taking home friends
to supper -- they wouldn't listen to a word. They're so wary
pressing in their invitations, are my old pals, they won't take
no refusal, not at any price whatever." He now left the
Whitechapel Road, and, turning to the right, plunged us into a
perfect labyrinth of by-streets and alleys. Some of these streets
were deserted like those in the City, and we passed two large
buildings, each of which perfumed the air for a considerable
distance; the first was a sugar bakery, the second a brewery,
which last our guide sniffed with much satisfaction. One street
we entered was devoted to festivity. Nearly every house was
brilliantly lighted, and from half-open doors proceeded the
sounds of harp and fiddle and thumping of feet; or laughter,
clamor, and song. Women without any bonnets strolled to and fro,
and half-drunken sailors rollicked merrily along. Not far from
this street we came to another, in which the houses were all more
or less dilapidated, and most of them seemed to be empty. The man
told us we were "nearly there," and, giving a long shrill
whistle, stopped to listen as if for a reply. Two whistles
responded from the bottom of the street. He then pushed quickly
on, passed under an arch into a small court, and, knocking at the
door of a house within, called for a light. An old woman opened
the door with a farthing dip in her hand, and the man having
chucked her under the chin, and asked her if she felt pretty
bobbish, led us up to a room on the second floor. It was a poor
bare room enough, the walls blackened with dirt, the broken
window-panes stuffed with rags; but it was a sweet refuge to us
that night after our weary wanderings. Our host told us the old
woman was his mother, and we mustn't mind her being cross, she 


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being a real good sort all the same. He went out and talked with
her some time. At first her voice sounded keen and shrill, but it
softened down, and she came in with a mattress and blanket, which
she laid on the floor, then served us some sausages, with
potatoes backed in their skins.

     After we had supped, our host came in and sat with us,
smoking a short clay pipe. I was now able to study his
appearance. On his right hand was a fresh red scar which he tried
to keep covered with his left. It seemed like the bite of a dog.
The expression of his face was not prepossessing. His look was
kind, but it was askant, and there was something cunning in his
smile. When he paid us little acts of attention, such as
arranging the mattress, or making up the fire, it was done, so I
thought, in an underhanded kind of way. However, I stopped myself
in the midst of these reflections, which were not very grateful,
and thanked him warmly for having saved us from the miseries of
the street. He mumbled something about a workhouse being no place
for her -- pointing at my wife with his thumb.

     I observed a heap of tools in the Corner of the room, and
made some remark about them. He at once became vivacious and
talkative as he was in the street, and his eyes twinkled in a
most singular manner as he spoke. "You see," said he, "I'm in the
patent lock and key line. Now, here is a little inwention of my
own." He showed me a leaden hammer capped with leather. "What
d'ye think it's for? I'll tell you. Gentlemen often loses the
keys of their patent safes, and then they send to the shop and
ask for a man to open 'em. Of course they don't send the safe,
'cos it's full of gold and bank-notes. Well, it's no good trying
to pick a patent lock; so the safe has to be opened by force with
a wedge and a hammer. Now, I needn't tell you, gentlemen don't
like a noise being made in their house like a blacksmith's shop;
it wakes up the baby, sets the dogs barking, and alarms the
neighborhood. So I inments this leather cap hammer, and it drives
the wedge in without making any noise."

     "I suppose you have taken out a patent?" said I.

     "Well, no," said he, "I ain't done that -- not ex-act-ly.
But it's been the means of putting money in my pocket all the
same. There's Jem Black what works with me, he goes to the Hall
of Science and cultiwates his mind; and he says to me, 'Thomas,
that's a beautiful inwention; Thomas, I'm proud of you; Thomas,
you're a benefactor of our specie."'

     He now left us to ourselves, taking the tools with him, and
in the morning gave us a breakfast of tea, and bacon, and eggs.
In the midst of the meal a man rushed into the room and whispered
something in his ear. I heard the word "peached." Our host sprang
up, wrung me by the hand, and hastened out followed by his
friend. In the afternoon the old woman came in. She was crying.
She said, "We should never see her son any more." I asked her
why. She only shook her head and covered her face with her apron,
and rocked herself to and fro. After a time she went out.




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     A sergeant of police came in with two constables and
searched the room. I now began to understand, and asked if the
man who lived there had been taken up. The sergeant looked at me
with some surprise and said, "Yes; burglary with violence."

     The old woman left the house, and no one disturbed us in our
occupation of the room. We lived chiefly on dry bread, which I
begged from servants and at bakers' shops. I never begged for
money, at Margaret's earnest request. Thus we were kept from
actual starvation; but my poor wife became weaker and weaker
every day. Then came a hard frost. We had no fire, and when I
felt the keen air streaming in at the window, I knew that it
would kill her. She lay with her eyes fixed upon me, trembling
and shivering, yet pressing you to her bosom, chafing your hands
and bare feet, while you cried in a weak, plaintive voice, "Poor
Elly! so hungry, so cold!

     Oh, Edward," she said, "if I could only have some tea; I
think it would save me."

     I went first to a large coal-yard, and picked up the pieces
which were lying in the street near the gate, and put them in a
cloth I had brought with me for that purpose. A gentleman who was
coming out of the yard stopped and said, "Are you so poor that
you can't afford to buy coals this terrible weather?"

     "I cannot even buy food," I answered; "and my wife is
dying."

     "You have a gentleman's voice," said he.

     "I was once a clergyman."

     "I have known many cases of this kind," he replied, "and
excuse my saying so; the cause has been always the same --
drink."

     "In my case," said I, "it was something you may think worse
-- Infidelity. Then followed sickness from overwork, doubtless a
judgment you would call it. These eyes failed me, and they fail
me still, or I should be at work."

     "Well," said he, "I dare say I can find you something to do
which won't try your eyes. Meet me here to-morrow at the same 
hour, and in the meantime take this for immediate necessities."
He gave me a five-pound note and stepped into a brougham, which
was out of sight before I had recovered from my astonishment. It
causes me a pang even now when I think of that broken
appointment. Why it was broken he never could know, and must have
supposed I was drinking the money. Perhaps (who can tell?) it may
have set him against being charitable any more.

     I went to a grocer's and changed the note. I almost feared
he would say it was a bad one, for the luck seemed too great to
be true. I bought some tea and some coals and wood, and borrowed
a tea-pot and mug from the people in the house. Margaret seemed
to be asleep. I would not wake her till the tea was quite ready; 


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then I would put the mattress close down by the fire; and when
she had finished her tea, I would go to the cook-shop and buy her
some good strong soup.

     Her eyes opened; I sat down beside her on the floor, and
told her the good news. She smiled; then her face changed in a
curious manner; she put up her lips to be kissed like a child
before it goes to sleep, and expired.

     I sat there without moving. The dusky shadows were falling
on the floor when a hand was placed upon my shoulder. I looked
round. It was a City Missionary whom I had often seen passing
from house to house; but he had never been to my room before. "My
brother," he said, "you are in affliction."

     I started to my feet. "There has been murder done here," I
cried.

     "What," said he, turning pale, "do you suspect ----"

     "God has murdered her," I said. "The God who made her, the
God whom she loved and faithfully obeyed."

     He looked softly into my furious eyes and said, Do you
think, then, that she is dead? No, dear friend, she is but
released from this poor tenement of clay, and now lives with God
in paradise."

     "And could not," I cried, "could not this benevolent God
make her happy in another world without inflicting these horrible
tortures upon her? Look at that body, once so beautiful, battered
and beaten by its maker. And it is not only her body he has
wounded. If her soul could be made visible, it would show the
marks of many a cruel and savage blow."

     "Oh, silence these angry thoughts," he said, "and be
resigned to the will of God. For he is our sovereign and our
Lord; it is he who has made us and not we ourselves; we are his
people, and the sheep of his pasture. My friend, let me implore
you to humble your heart and kneel with me before the throne."

     "What," I cried, with anger redoubled, "pray to that
monster, that demon, that fiend! Think you that I, like a
grovelling hound, will lick the hand that strikes without mercy
and without provocation? Think you I am as the base Oriental
slave, who presses the bowstring to his lips and to his brow?
Think you that I fear his malignant rage? Hear me, bloodthirsty
tyrant of the skies, you have power, and can rack me with
everlasting pains. But I curse you, I defy you ... murderer ...
fiend ... "

     The foam fell from my mouth on my hands. I saw the
missionary running from the room. Then I swooned and fell
senseless to the ground.





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     When I came to myself I was still alone. I went to the
window and looked out. Snow was failing heavily, and already the 
roofs of the houses were white. I listened to the roar of the
streets. I pondered on my misery; and I thought of the black
river which I had once crossed on such a night. The bridge was
lonely I remembered. Few people passed by, and their footsteps
could be heard from afar. But again fierce wrath rose within me;
and I cried with a loud voice, "God, you shall not conquer me; I
will fight out my life to its natural end."

     Then a tiny little hand was put into mine, and a little
voice said in a pleading tone, "Papa, why do you talk so angry
and loud? you will wake up mamma. And you never look at Elly
to-day. Poor Elly! so hungry, so cold!"

     Then I was stricken with shame and self-disgust. I had let
my poor child starve whilst I was ranting idly at the clouds.

     I took out a handful of coins. "O thou vile dross!" I cried,
"thou canst not give true happiness, yet without thee is misery
and death. See, Elly, here is some money to play with, and I will
go out and buy you something nice."

     Your eyes sparkled -- we all love money by instinct -- and
you took the silver in your lap. I knelt down beside the
inanimate body, and asked it in a whisper to forgive me, for I
felt that with my foolish rage I had profaned the presence of the
dead. Presently you ran to me with a frightened face and pushed
the money into my hands.

     A number of men and women were standing behind me, looking
sadly on the corpse. Then they led me away to another room.
Thieves and prostitutes did the last offices of love for the body
of my poor Margaret.

                           LETTER XIII

     WHEN I awoke from sleep -- a sleep, as I thought, of many
dreams -- I was in the room where Margaret had died. But her body
was not there. The sun was shining brightly, the window was open,
and the air that came in was balmy and warm. I sat up and looked
out; there was no snow on the ground; flowers were blooming in a
box on the sill, and a lark was singing in a cage fastened to the
wall outside.

     This I could not understand; besides, I was lying in a bed
placed under the window. How had it come there? I glanced round
the room. It was furnished. There was a plain deal table and
several rush-bottomed chairs, and cups and saucers, dishes and
plates in shelves, and a kitchen dresser; and signs of cooking in
the grate. I lay back in bed and tried to collect my thoughts.

     The door opened, and two young women came in.

     "If you please," said I.

     "Hark, Sal, he speaks!" said one of them. "Lord!
I feel 'most afraid."

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     "Oh, you fool! said the other; and coming towards me she
drew a chair up to the bedside. Well, sir?" she cried.

     "Where is the -- Where is Margaret?" I asked.

     "She was buried long ago," said the girl.

     "Long ago! it was only last night that it happened. How can
you talk to me like that?

     "Hush, hush," she said, in a soft soothing voice; "listen to
me while I tell you. That was three months gone by, and all that
time you've been very ill. Then it was winter -- cold, snowy
winter. Don't you remember? And now it is the spring. Feel the
warm air coming in at the window; hear the lark singing, smell
the sweet flowers, see the blue sky.,)

     Then those were not dreams after all, those days and nights
that had followed one another, those faces I had seen, those
voices I had heard.

     "Where is she buried?" I asked.

     She held up her finger. "You must not speak of that or your
illness will come back."

     "Tell me then, who are you?" I said, "and who is that girl
over there?"

     "We belong to him as brought you here. She is my sister, and
we live in this and in another room. But now you're well you
shall have this one to yourself."

     "I believe," said I, "that you have saved my life." Her eyes
became full of tenderness. "Yes," she said, "I have saved your
life." Then she put her hand in her pocket. "The parson gave me
this for you as soon as you got well."

     It was a New Testament. "But I cannot read," said I. "Try
it," said she, smiling. I opened and read without difficulty; my
sight was restored! One malady had destroyed the other. I uttered
an exclamation of delight. At the same moment the other girl who
had gone out of the room a few moments before, brought you in,
very nicely dressed, and your golden hair carefully combed out.
"Kiss your papa, Elly," said the girl named Sarah, "he knows you
now." Then, as she turned to go, she said, "If you think you owe
me anything, please do not fret yourself ill, and ask me no
questions about myself or my sister."

     In a few days I was able to walk about, and tried to obtain
some employment. But my appearance did not recommend me, for I
was in rags, and my toes protruded from my boots. However, I
called upon a law-stationer who was attracted rather than
repelled by my evident poverty. This worthy man, as his shopman
afterwards informed me, employed by preference persons in a state
of utter destitution, as he usually found them not only grateful
for his kindness, but also willing to work on very moderate 


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terms. Having inspected my calligraphy (I had learned to write
clerk's hand), he feared it would not do, but just as I was going
from the shop, called me back and offered to pay me so much a
folio -- half the regulation price -- which I accepted gladly
enough. I wrote to Jansen and Haines, and said that my eyesight
being now perfectly restored, I hoped they would allow me to
resume my connection with the firm. I gave the law-stationer's as
an address, and the publishers replied by return of post, that
they had made arrangements with another gentleman in respect to
the Classical Dictionary, but as soon as they had an opportunity,
they would gladly avail themselves of my valuable services, and
would lose no time in communicating with me.

     No one would tell me where Margaret was buried, for they
feared it might cause a relapse if I went to her grave. And I
never found it out, for we changed our name when we went to live
at the thief's house. Margaret was buried under the name we had
assumed, and I could not remember it after my illness. On the day
of my recovery, I told Sarah that my name was Mordaunt, and this
trifling circumstance shaped out my future destiny by giving a
clue to those who were in search.

     I will tell you a strange thing. My illness caused by the
passion of grief had swallowed up and absorbed that grief to
itself. I did not mourn for Margaret, and almost rejoiced that
she was taken from a life so full of suffering and pain. Now, the
object of my life was to save you from such trials as she had
undergone. I would work hard, and restore you to that position in
which your parents had been born.

     The day after I received the letter from Jansen and Haines,
as I was standing near the door of the house, three whistles
sounded, or rather shrieked, in the street outside. At once there
was great commotion in the court. Several men dashed into their
houses, and then emerging through the skylights, ran nimbly over
the roofs. Those who were not frightened were inquisitive, and
crowded to the windows and doors. The cause of all this stir was
a middle-aged man with a fresh-colored face and yellowish
whiskers streaked with grey. As he came into the court an old man
(who had probably retired from business) went up to him and said,
"Is anybody wanted?

     "No," said the other; "private inquiry." Then be glanced at
my face, and gave me a letter addressed Edward Mordaunt, Esq. 
"That is for you, sir, I think," said he.

     This letter was from my father's lawyer, who informed me
that Mr. Mordaunt was travelling abroad when my wife's letter was
written: he replied to it when he came back, and as we had
changed our address, his reply was returned by the Dead Letter
Post Office. Mr. Mordaunt had then instructed him (the lawyer) to
find out where I was, but all inquiries had failed, till at last
a detective had heard of a person named Mordaunt living in the
thieves' quarter, Whitechapel, and ascertained that the person in
question was a gentleman by birth and answered to my description.
Mr. Mordaunt, on receiving this information, was grieved, but not
surprised to find that my infidel opinions had led me to adopt a 


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career of crime, and that, having defied the laws of God, I
should now set myself in opposition to the laws of man. In order
to save a soul from perdition he was willing to adopt his
grandchild, on the understanding that I made no attempt to see
her again; and so long as I adhered to this condition be would
pay me an annuity equal to that which I had squandered.

     I said that I would consider the matter, and send a reply in
a few days. I felt it was my duty to think of nothing else but
your own welfare and happiness. I should endeavor to silence my
affection for you since that affection would be a vice if it
persuaded me to sacrifice your future. In my hands was your fate;
what a terrible responsibility! If I could earn for myself a
respectable position you would, I thought, have a happier
childhood, and grow up a better woman than if educated by that
austere old man. But was it in my power to escape from this
kennel of crime? That morning the state of my eyes had given me
cause for alarm, and in my weak state of health overwork might
soon set them wrong again. Breathing a pestiferous air, living on
insufficient food, it was not likely that I should regain my full
strength, and without it I was doomed to remain in my prison-
house. Before I went free I had debts to pay -- debts which would
never be claimed and could never be forgotten. After much thought
I came to this determination. The next morning I would call upon
the publishers, and tell them how I was situated, and ask them
for pity's sake to give me a helping hand, not in the way of
charity, but of employment. If they refused, then you should go;
and though I feared your life would not be a happy one, at least
you would not be brought up in a den of thieves.

     I obtained on hire a suit of black clothes, which, though
threadbare and worm-eaten, were better than the rags I usually
wore.

     As I stooped down to kiss you before I left the house, I
could not refrain from tears. "Oh, my beloved child," I said,
"they will take you from me and I shall never see you again. They
will tell you that I am a wicked man, and teach you to hate and
despise me. My darling, it is hard to give you up; but I must --
I must -- if it is for your good."

     The tears rolled down my cheeks, and you took out your
little handkerchief and wiped them away. I put on my hat. Then
you said you would go too, and without waiting for an answer put
on your things and thrust your hand into mine. "And why," thought
I, "should I not take her? It may be our last day together." So
off we went, through alleys and by-ways, into the Whitechapel
Road, and past the Bank towards St. Paul's. It was a bright sunny
morning, and the streets, I thought, were even more crowded than
usual. Many a hard-featured man of business turned back to look
at the pretty child perched upon my arm, her blue eyes bright
with excitement, her hair shining like gold in the sun. I entered
the well-known shop in Paternoster Row, and said I wished to see
Mr. Haines on particular business. The clerk gave a start of
recognition, then coldly said he feared Mr. Haines was out, but
would go and see. My heart sank. Perhaps I might not be able to
obtain an interview.


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     At that moment I saw the Bishop of T--- at the other end of
the shop, turning over the pages of a new book. I felt my lips
quiver. You observed it, and said in a clear shrill voice, "Do
not cry again, dear papa, do not cry again." The bishop looked up
from his book, and then bending over the counter asked a question
of the clerk. I heard the words, "poor scholar ... used to do
work for the firm." The bishop came towards me with a face full
of benevolence and compassion. When our eyes met he cried, "What!
Do I see Mr. Mordaunt?"

     "Yes, my lord," I replied, "I am that unfortunate man."

     He took me by the hand, and, pressing it kindly in his, led
me to the chair where he had been seated; but the clerk, with an
obsequious bow, showed us into an office like an old-fashioned
pew; a kind of box with wooden sides and a railing round the top;
inside, a desk and two stools. I told the good bishop all that
had happened since I left Stilbroke. He listened attentively to
my narrative, and said, "Wait here a little while, and I will see
Mr. Haines: I am sure he will give you something to do." Then,
having paused for a moment, he said, "Understand, Mr. Mordaunt, I
do not sympathies with your opinions; they are most hateful to
me; but your distress ----" He put his hand to his heart, and
said, "it has gone in here." He stooped down and kissed you, and
hurried from the office. That was the last time we met, for in
after-days he always avoided me, and I did not force myself upon
him; but often I have gone to the House of Lords to have the
pleasure of looking on the face of my dear benefactor.

     In a quarter of an hour I was called up to Mr. Haines' room.
He appeared rather confused, but I did not think him to blame for
his answer to my last letter. A publisher's is a house of
business, not a charitable institution. "Mr. Mordaunt," he said,
his Lordship has just asked me to provide you with some literary
work, and I am happy to say that it is in my power to do so. We
have been commissioned by a client of ours, who is something of a
connoisseur in the classics, to bring out an edition of
Thucydides, with critical notes. He wishes it put into good
hands, and the bishop assures us that you have the requisite
scholarship; besides, we know that you took a first-class at
Oxford, a fact which speaks for itself. The editor is to receive
three hundred pounds, and here" (handing me a cheque) "is a
hundred in advance. But we make this stipulation, that you go
into the country for the full space of three months and take a
complete rest, that your system may recover its tone. It is easy
to see that you are still far from being well, and if you begin
work too soon we shall have the old trouble over again. So we
make this condition on behalf of the ---, of our client. At the
end of three months we shall expect you to return and prepare the
work for the following book-season. And now I wish you a pleasant
holiday, and shall be glad to hear how you are getting on
whenever you are able to write me a line."

     It was, of course, easy enough to understand whence came
this shower of gold; but I did not trouble the bishop with a
letter of thanks. I thought that the best way of showing my
gratitude was to follow his instructions, and to edit the work in
such a manner as to give him satisfaction.

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     Having cashed the cheque, I went back with you to the court
in Whitechapel. Sarah was seated by the fire in my room cooking
our dinner. I told her I was going, and had come back with Ellen
to wish her good-bye. At the same time I gave her some money to
repay her for what she had spent during my illness, and also
wrote down an address to which she could apply whenever she was
in need of any more. She took the notes with an air of
indifference and thrust them into the bosom of her dress.

     "Sarah," said I, "you saved me from death, and now I can
save you from something as bad. Will you come with me and take
care of Elly, and be a good girl?"

     Her eyes brightened for a moment. Then she turned to the
fire. "No," said she, "I mustn't leave Jem; it's only me keeps
him from the drink."

     She would not speak another word or even shake hands; and
when you kissed her she turned her head impatiently aside.

     Ah! who can understand a woman's heart? Who could tell by
that cold set face what feelings were surging in her bosom? I
have not said much about this girl, for there was bad in her as
well as good, as many a robbed, half-murdered sailor had
discovered to his cost; and I knew that any attempt to reclaim
her would probably fail. But I also knew she would never do you
any harm; that I could judge of from the past.

     I have not described her character in full; nor have I
described in full the horrible life of that White-chapel court.
But I have shown -- for it was my duty in justice and gratitude
to show -- that even in that sink of iniquity, even amongst those
degraded and ferocious beings there were hearts full of
compassion and eager to soccer the distressed.

     That same afternoon I bought from the clothes-man a suit of
the most gentlemanly garments he possessed; they had rather a
marine aspect, but that did not so much matter, as we were going
to the seaside. I redeemed my mother's ring and some trifles that
had belonged to Margaret, and bought back some of my books (dear
old companions and friends) which had not been disposed of I also
had you dressed out like a fine little lady, and started for
Limmerleigh that same afternoon.

              Thus ended the days of my adversity.

                           LETTER XIV

     MY first month at Limmerleigh was spent in a state of
unalloyed delight. To see innocent faces, to breathe the fresh
air, was pleasure enough for one who had been imprisoned so long
in a den of crime, a dungeon of disease. My strength was rapidly
restored, and new blood flowed through my veins, as sap in dry
trees when the winter is past. But my brain having recovered its
vigor, forced me to remember and reflect. I was in the midst of
scenes hallowed and endeared by the memory of Margaret. I thought
of all her virtues, her piety, and love. I had never known her to


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be angry or cold, and she bore the most terrible calamities with
cheerfulness and courage. When I came home to our hideous garret
in Whitechapel, I found the same affectionate welcome as in the
days of our prosperity; and when I gave her the scraps of dry
bread which I had begged, she took them joyfully and jestingly,
as if it were a feast. She once said that she thought Jesus and
his disciples must have lived like ourselves, because it was in
the Lord's Prayer, "Give us this day our daily bread;" and this
fancy invested for her with a halo of romance our miserable
lives. Her trust in God seldom wavered, but seemed to be
strengthened by affliction, and the more she suffered the more
she loved. My nature was not so submissive, and though now the
spirit of foolish and impotent wrath had passed away -- though
now the old habit of devotion was knocking at the door of my
heart -- though now I longed to worship God, it was necessary
first I should be able to revere him. I considered that if he
were omnipotent, the death of Margaret was a crime; but from this
painful conclusion I took refuge in a theory I had seen somewhere
suggested, that God was perfectly benevolent, and had made the
world as well as he was able, but that his power was contracted
and controlled by the evil nature of the material with which he
had to deal. This gave me comfort for a time, but I soon saw
through the fallacy. For since men have been upon the earth they
have made it better; and therefore, before they came upon the
earth, God could have made it better had he pleased. If not, man
is more powerful than God, which is contrary to reason.

     But the opposite theory brought me to an equally ludicrous
dilemma. For no man, if endowed with miraculous power, his moral
nature being left unchanged, would be guilty of making a world in
which murder is as the mainspring to a watch. Therefore man is
more good than God, which again is absurd.

     I now began to suspect that our conception of God was
entirely erroneous. For what is the definition of God? A Perfect
Mind. And what is Mind? It is a product of the earth, a created
thing, existing within the lower animals in a rudimentary
condition, and in truth not less human than the body. Mind cannot
create, it can only arrange and dispose, as Shelley remarked long
ago. Even a perfect mind could not create a grain of sand. We
suppose that God is a mind, or has a mind, because mind is the
highest species of force with which we are acquainted; and if we
must define God, it is the best definition of which the human
intellect is capable. But is it for man to define God? Is it
probable that we who are but as animalcules crawling on a speck
of matter floating in space -- an infinitesimal fraction of the
Universe -- is it probable that we should be able to form from
our minds a correct image of the Creator?

     At this time I happened to read the well-known passage in
Bacon's 'Advancement of Learning' -- " Certain it is that God
worketh nothing in nature except by second causes"; and this set
me thinking on all that I had read in scientific works about
natural law governing physical phenomena; and thence I was taken
on to the conclusion that all moral phenomena and events are also
subject to fixed and invariable law; that God has no personal
relations with the earth; and that his entity or being is higher 


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than a perfect mind, and far beyond human comprehension. But
perhaps some clue might be obtained to the intentions of God in
regard to ourselves by a careful study of the natural laws which
govern the earth, as these laws, which for brevity's sake I shall
sometimes call Nature, may fairly be considered the expression of
his Will.

     My friends, the Irvines, had left Limmerleigh, and their
villa was for sale. One day I entered the garden, where I had
passed so many delightful hours. It was now quite neglected. The
lawn was strewed with brown and yellow leaves; the shrubberies
were ragged and wild; weeds covered the gravel paths and the
well-known flower-beds, which once were splendid with color and
delicious with perfume. Everything bore the impress of decay. I
went to Margaret's favorite rose-bush; it was dead! Alas! thought
I, the same cruel law pervades the whole animated kingdom. Trees
and flowers, insects and birds, the fish of the sea, the beasts
of the earth -- all must die, as men die, after a life of combat
and pain.

     Then I considered this fact from another point of view. Was
it not strange that Man, who is God's "noblest work," should be
subject to the same law as the lower animals, to the same law
even as the flower? Was it not strange that Nature should treat
the greatest men with the same unconcern as the meanest creatures
of the soil, slaying wit a breath of pestilence a genius over his
noble work, as she sweeps away with a breath of wind a spider
spinning in its web? The injustice of this law, and its
imperfection, troubled me exceedingly. After much thought I found
the solution of the problem; but it was a sad discovery.

     We are not sent upon the earth to pass through an ordeal,
and to be rewarded or punished in another world, after death,
according to our actions. We are sent upon the earth for the sake
of the earth. In common with the atoms of water and air, we are
part of the material with which the Creator, through secondary
laws, carries out his scheme, whatever it may be. Those laws are
evil and imperfect to us as they are to the insects and the
flowers, but they were not arranged for our approval and
convenience, and are no doubt perfect as regards the purpose for
which they were designed.

     This made me very sad. I reasoned with myself that it was
but a theory; yet I felt it was the truth, and it forced itself
upon me in spite of the aversion it provoked. I was humbled and
mortified. So then we were merely as slaves, merely as lower
animals, merely as potters' clay! And where now was the hope of a
life beyond the grave? It is the best argument in favor of a
future life that man deserves compensation for unmerited
suffering; but if man is only raw material that hope falls to the
ground. Then again the spirit of science spoke within me. "It is
probable that in death the mind is decomposed (nothing is ever
destroyed), and that its elements are recombined into other forms
of mental life, so that though the individual intellect perishes,
nothing is lost to the race. If this supposition be correct,
great men bequeath not only their works but their minds to
Humanity."


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     One soft June night I went out and sat on a cliff
overhanging the seashore. The voices of the hay-reapers working
by moonlight mingled with the sound of the waves breaking on the
beach. On the west, dark pine woods lined the horizon; on the
east lay the grey ocean; above was a cloudless sky, shining with
innumerable stars, each Star a sun, the center and sovereign of a
system. My head swam as, gazing upwards, I beheld worlds lying as
thickly together as leaves in a forest -- at least so it seemed;
we know that in reality vast distances divide them. Oh,
prodigious universe! I sighed. And oh, poor, vain, ignorant man,
that could believe all these were made for him. Low indeed is our
true condition in this wondrous galaxy of worlds. We call
ourselves God's "noblest work," but perhaps there are in those
distant orbs, or rather in the planets by which they are
attended, beings who would look upon us as we look upon the ants
and the bees; to whom our highest efforts of mind would seem but
as curious instincts or faint gleams of rudimentary intelligence.

     At that moment a gun was fired from the sea; the reapers
came running to the brink of the cliff; and a great ship passed,
gliding through the waters against wind and tide, its chimney of
flame casting sparks into the air. It was the first steamer I had
seen, and I rejoiced at this triumph of Art over Nature. Ha! ha!
thought I, if man is small in relation to the Universe, he is
great in relation to the Earth. He abbreviates distance and time,
and brings the nations together. He covers the wilderness with
cities, and cornfields, and gardens. He modifies climate and
dispels disease. In every generation he makes the world happier
and better than it was before.

     I sprang to my feet and walked quickly to and fro. My brain
was in a whirl. I saw the light again, the blessed light of hope
and joy. "If we," I exclaimed, "are fellow-slaves with the
humblest creatures of the earth, and even with the elements, we
are also fellow-workers with God, and assistants of his
inscrutable designs. For it is plain that one part of the Divine
Scheme is the progress of the earth from a lair of wild beasts
and savages to a paradise of happiness and virtue, and that Man
has been selected to represent the good, to extinguish the evil;
to be the Ormuzd that shall conquer Ahriman; to master by the
powers of his intellect those laws of which he is now the subject
and the slave."

     And I believed that when Man fully understood and realized
his mission, a new religion would animate his life. It would be a
religious duty to battle with the evil in Nature and to labor for
the glory of the planet, since for that purpose men were placed
by God upon the earth. The intellect would be carefully trained;
idleness and ignorance would be stigmatized as sins. The social
affections would be developed to the fullest extent, and all men
would abandon the hopes of personal immortality as a selfish
craving at variance with the general welfare of the race. Having
cast aside these personal desires, they would labor for
posterity, and look forward with chivalrous delight to the bliss
that others would enjoy.




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     Then I cast aside all thought for the future fate of my own
soul. To labor and love without hope of requital or reward, what
religion could be more pure and more sublime? Hitherto I had
looked on the Earth as a strange country, and life as the journey
of a traveller. But now the Earth became my fatherland, and all
mankind my fellow-countrymen. I kissed the grass and flowers
growing on the brink of the cliff; I sang to the waters, and the
winds, and the beasts, and the birds, saying, "Together we
accomplish the work of the Creator." And then -- smile at me
Ellen if you will -- I felt a rapture of love for the whole human
race. I resolved to preach the New Gospel far and wide, and
proclaim the glorious mission of mankind.

     This dream of prophecy did not last beyond the night.
However, I had discovered a religion for myself; never since have
I been distressed by the problems of existence; and I then laid
down a rule of life to which I have always rigidly adhered.

     My time at Limmerleigh being now at an end, I returned to
London and worked at the Thucydides, which was received with much
favor at both Universities. Henceforth I was a known man, and Mr.
Haines, who was alone in the firm, and advanced in years, offered
me a situation, with a fair prospect of becoming junior partner.
Then Dr. Chalmers returned from the uttermost ends of the earth,
took up his abode in town, and made me live with him. He
published his notes on the Flora of the countries he had visited,
and was made a Fellow of the Royal Society. He gave Sunday
evening receptions, at which I had the pleasure of meeting nearly
all the great men of science, and many distinguished authors and
artists. All urged him to prepare his Narrative for publication;
but he had begun to travel too late in life; the book was beyond
his strength; and the dear noble-hearted man died in my arms only
three years after his return.

     Shortly afterwards my father also died. He left the bulk of
his fortune to various Christian missions for the conversion of
India, as some compensation to the natives of that country for
the exactions and oppressions of his father, the Nabob, when
Resident at the court of Goruckpore. My name was not mentioned in
the will; but the Hollywood estate was entailed, and therefore
came into my hands. Had I known this, Margaret's life would have
been saved; but I did not even know that there was such an estate
in existence. I was informed by James, whom I now took into my
service (or rather I gave him a pension), that my father's
health, in spite of his iron constitution, had quite broken down
of late years. Something seemed to be preying on his mind, and
ten years before his death he left Harborne altogether. I believe
that he loved me in his heart, and suffered like another Brutus.
But what else could he have done? He acted rightly according to
his barbarous Calvinistic creed. In his eyes I was a servant of
Satan; and he refused me admission to his house, as he believed
that God would refuse me admission to heaven when I died. Such is
Faith! It is not only opposed to Reason, but to Charity; and with
an unnatural piety can tear the fibers of a father's heart and
leave him wounded to languish and to die. It was the perfection
of his belief that led to so much misery.



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     If I were a young man endowed with literary powers, and
about to begin my career, I should adopt as the work of my life
the Diffusion of Doubt; for doubt dissipates superstition and
softens the rancor of religious life. Without doubt there can be
no tolerance, and the history of tolerance is the history of
doubt. The skepticism spread by Voltaire humanized the dogmas of
the Roman Church; and we ourselves are passing through a silent,
gradual, but momentous doubting revolution. What is it that has
made the clergymen of all denominations in these later days so
temperate in their views, so considerate for the opinions of
others? It is Doubt arising from discoveries in science, and from
numberless works in which religious topics have been treated with
freedom of spirit. Certainly there has been a wonderful change
within the last twenty years. When I lived with Dr. Chalmers in
London, men spoke of these matters under their breath, but now
ladies discuss them freely enough: and I have heard a clergyman
of the Church of England say things in the pulpit which in my
younger days very few laymen would have dared to say at a dinner-
party. Yet in spite of all this progress much religious
persecution goes on, and bigotry abounds. The diffusion of Doubt
is the only remedy for these evils; and though the hacking and
hewing of old beliefs must cause much suffering, it is better
that a thousand should suffer rather than that one crime of
intolerance should be committed.

     I now withdrew from the firm and adopted the pleasant life
of the country gentleman, retaining, however, the habits of the
scholar. I had determined when I left Limmerleigh never to pass a
day without doing a kind action; and also to contribute something
every day to the general knowledge of mankind. Having no special
talents, I was at first puzzled what to do. However, I thought it
might be of use if I translated into popular English some of the
great writers of antiquity. This, as you know, has been my daily
task for many years, and the works already published attest my
industry.

     And now a last word about my religion. It has been with me
very many years. We are no longer strangers to each other. It has
given me peace. It has made me content. It has taught me to value
and enjoy life, yet not to dread annihilation.

     I believe in God the Incomprehensible, whose nature man can
never ascertain. To adore this extraordinary power would be
irrational; nor do I allow myself to speculate upon the mystery;
for it is wrong to waste the powers of the brain, which might
otherwise be usefully employed, in reflecting on problems which
cannot be solved.

     I continue to gather knowledge, and shall do so to my last
hour. I endeavor to be good, and rigidly watch my temper and my
thoughts. I seek the happiness of others. I will own that often
in these twenty-five years I have sighed for my old belief, when
to me God was semi-human and man was semi-divine; and after
death, life began, and happiness never ceased; and my mother, my
Margaret, would be joined to me again. And also sometimes my
heart has rebelled against the fate of the human race, doomed to
work like the coral insects of the sea. But I learnt how to 


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stifle such repinings and regrets; and now I have attained the
perfection of unselfishness as regards the disposition of my
soul. Last year, when I was given up by the doctors and expected
to die every hour, I had no desire whatever to begin a new state
of existence; and it even seemed ludicrous to me, the idea of my
feeble imperfect mind being transplanted to another world. It
was, I thought, just and natural that I should go back to the
Earth whence I came.

     I have little more to say. I think you will admit, my dear
Ellen, that one may cease to believe in a Personal God and in the
Immortality of the Soul, and yet not cease to be a good and even
a religious man; indeed, I think I have proved something more --
namely, that this Religion of Unselfishness, for those who are
able to embrace it, is far more ennobling than any religion which
holds out the hope of celestial rewards. It may be that precisely
on account of its unselfishness and purity it can make but few
converts in the present condition of the human mind; and
certainly long ages must elapse before it can become the Religion
of the World. But I believe that year by year the power of this
religion will increase, and that more and more, as time goes on,
it will give rest to troubled hearts, as it did to mine at
Limmerleigh.

     Lastly, there is one thing you ought to understand. I
disbelieve in a future life; and this disbelief amounts to a
positive conviction. But I may be mistaken, It is impossible to
know. The doctrine or theory of a future life is not contrary to
reason like that of a Personal Creator. We can show it to be most
improbable; but on the other hand we must allow that it is a
possible contingency.

     Well now, you might say, "Suppose that a good man, converted
by your arguments, gave, up the belief in his own immortality,
loved others, labored for others, strove to purify his heart, but
took no heed for his own soul, and died believing in annihilation
and there should be a future life after all -- what then? "Why,
then he would be perfectly prepared for the life which he did not
anticipate. For this is a beautiful quality of our religion. We
disbelieve in future rewards, and so eradicate all selfish
longings from our hearts; but if, contrary to our expectations,
there should be a future life with rewards, none will be able to
rank with ourselves. For what life is so highly deserving of
reward as that which is spent in doing good without the hope or 
desire of reward?
                          ****     ****

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